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Authors: Tina Gabrielle

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“Please wait in the library. There's more we need to discuss and I prefer privacy without your maid's presence.”
Chapter 36
Jack escorted her to the library before leaving to change. Evelyn strolled the perimeter of the well-appointed room, noting its rich mahogany bookshelves lined with legal volumes, statutes, and priceless rare books. A massive desk with stacks of papers beneath polished stone paperweights was situated before a large bay window. She breathed in the familiar scents of leather-bound volumes and old books.
It was a masculine room, clearly designed as his working office away from chambers, and she pictured Jack bent over the desk in deep concentration.
She sighed and sat in one of the two hammerhead leather chairs arranged before a stone fireplace.
Less than fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door and Jack entered. He had washed and changed to another white shirt with lace cuffs. He wore black Hessians and buckskin trousers that hugged his muscular legs. He hadn't bothered with a cravat or jacket, and the top button of his shirt was undone, revealing the corded muscles of his bronzed throat.
He sat in the chair beside her and crossed his long legs before him. He appeared quite serious and she wondered what other legal conclusions he had in mind.
“Your father wants us to marry,” he said.
“What?” Her mind skidded to a halt. Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not
that.
“After much consideration, I do believe it is the proper course of action.”
“You do?”
“Yes, although Lord Lyndale is unaware of the extent of our relations, my behavior warrants honorable intentions.”
“Your behavior?”
“Yes, that and the fact that we were caught alone by your father sneaking into his home well past midnight.”
She straightened in her seat. “I had hoped to marry for love, not because my father made a decision.”
“We're too old to subscribe to such nonsense,” he said, his tone arrogantly dismissive.
Her mood veered sharply from disbelief to anger. “Too old? You may be past thirty, sir, but I am not.”
“I apologize. It is the expedient thing to do.”
“Expedient?” Her temper rose hotter and hotter.
“Are you going to keep repeating everything I say?”
“Since it is completely ludicrous, then yes.”
“Evie, I don't understand. You said yourself that you no longer wish to marry Randolph. I know you admired me as a girl, and you are now free to marry with your father's blessing.”
She stood. “You are a jackanapes, Jack Harding.”
He rose, his brow furrowed. “What is wrong with you? Do you require me to go down on one knee?”
“I told you what I require. I expect any future husband to love me,” she said, bristling with indignation.
Please tell me you love me like I have loved you forever.
The bitter thought crossed her mind that as a young girl, she would have jumped up and down with joy at the thought of Jack Harding proposing marriage.
But this was different. Jack was proposing out of obligation because his mentor had advised him to do so. Because he believed it honorable to do so.
He stepped close and trailed his finger down her cheek to her lower lip. Despite her anger, she shivered at his touch.
His eyes smoldered. “We desire each other. That's much more than most couples ever hope to achieve.”
Pain squeezed her heart, and she stepped away. “Lust and obligation are not enough for me. The answer is no, Jack.”
 
 
Early Monday morning, Jack drove his curricle to the Bow Street magistrate's office. He was in a foul mood and not fit company to meet with other clients at chambers.
Evelyn's refusal of his marriage proposal had infuriated and aroused him.
She had stood before him, her blue eyes flashing, her magnificent breasts heaving in indignation, her voice firm and final. He had to hold himself back from jerking her into his arms and kissing her senseless. He had fantasized of throwing her on his desk, spreading her golden hair across the surface, lifting her skirts, and mounting her right then and there. He may have done just that if her uptight chaperone hadn't been sipping tea two doors down.
He had been certain that she would have preferred a logical proposal. After all, she prized reason above all else.
But she had surprised him.
She wanted love. What had possessed her?
As if intellectual compatibility and hot lust weren't more than sufficient grounds for a healthy marriage. Many couples lacked the slightest spark, not to mention mental communion.
He clenched his jaw. He should have told her he loved her. He was an accomplished actor in the courtroom. He had only to step before a jury and the persuasive words flowed freely from his lips. But the truth was he had no intention of permitting himself to fall further under Evelyn's spell. It was disturbing enough that she was never far from his thoughts.
He needed to maintain his wits, to keep a safe emotional distance and retain the sharp focus he'd always had in the courtroom. He refused to beg or compose sonnets or write lovesick poetry. She'd have to accept what he offered.
Jack stopped the curricle at the corner and jumped down.
A strong gust of wind blew between the buildings and Jack tightened his grip on the papers in his hand. Distracted by the task, he collided into a tall man leaving the magistrate's office.
“Jack!”
Jack looked up into Brent Stone's cobalt eyes.
Damn.
Brent was the last person he wanted to run into.
“Jack, what are you doing here?” Brent asked.
“I'm here to see a client. Why are you here? You handle letters patent, a far cry from criminal matters.”
“I'm handling a
pro se
case. Petty thief.”
Ah, yes. Brent's volunteer matters for the London Legal Aid Society. Brent should be canonized, yet there was something sinister about Brent Stone that Jack never could put his finger on.
There was more to the man than the handsome, upstanding, and respectable barrister. No one in chambers knew his past and whenever the subject arose, Brent clammed up. But his inquisitiveness, his shrewdness, told more of a story than that of a barrister ensconced in chambers drafting patent applications all day long.
Jack's voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Don't waste too much time on the fellow. Petty theft makes for a hard defense before a jury.”
He attempted to pass by, but Brent clasped a heavy hand on his shoulder. Piercing blue eyes probed his soul.
“Why are you in such a foul mood? Pray tell me, does it have anything to do with Lady Evelyn?”
“Sod off, Brent.”
Brent's lips twisted wryly. “So the smooth-talking Jack Harding failed to charm a woman?”
“She'll only marry for love.”
“Don't be a fool, Jack. A woman like Evelyn Darlington only comes once in a man's life. She's the perfect match for you.”
Jack shoved off Brent's hand. “What would you know of women or love? You're celibate, for Christ's sake.”
Brent stilled. “I was married once.”
Jack was momentarily speechless in surprise. “No one knew.”
“It was years ago. She died. It was my fault.”
Brent delivered the words matter-of-factly, but Jack was not fooled. There was anguish there, just beneath the surface, and for the first time Jack understood why Brent Stone preferred to bury himself in his boring patents day after day.
“I'm sorry,” Jack said, at a loss for further words.
“I'd appreciate if you kept this in confidence. There's no sense Stevens or Devlin should learn of my past.”
Jack nodded. “Why tell me, man?”
Brent's earnest eyes sought his. “Because life is too short. Tell her you love her, Jack.”
 
 
After Brent departed the magistrate's office, Jack went in search of the constable who had returned Randolph to London.
Floyd Birmingham was an ordinary-looking man of medium height and build with brown eyes and dishwater brown hair. His unmemorable appearance aided him as a constable who walked the streets at night.
Jack found Floyd in the first office down the hall.
“How's Randolph Sheldon faring?” Jack asked him.
“His health has improved even though he's in Newgate awaiting trial. I'm glad you're here, Mr. Harding. If there are any witnesses who can testify as to his whereabouts the day of Bess Whitfield's death, then find them quickly. The magistrate is under public pressure for a conviction and he is pushing for a speedy trial.”
Jack understood. After the grand jury indictment, a trial could begin immediately thereafter. Bess Whitfield had been a highly popular actress and the public would demand quick justice. It was one of the reasons Jack had not protested when Randolph had gone into hiding. Jack knew it would take time to investigate Bess's murder and build Randolph a successful defense.
“Do what you can to look after him. He's a university student and unaccustomed to harsh living,” Jack said.
“He's lucky he has you on his side, Mr. Harding,” Floyd said. “You know I owe you, and I'll do what I can for the man.”
Jack had represented Floyd's brother, Brian Birmingham, also known as Burn Birmingham on the streets for his fascination with starting fires. Burn had set fire to a brothel two years ago, which had resulted in the destruction of the building. All six prostitutes had escaped with their lives, but a patron that had died in the fire was one of the six Commissioners of the Treasury.
The magistrate had only been slightly concerned by the survival of the women or the property loss, but the death of the public official had been a different issue. It did not matter that the commissioner had been a regular abuser of the women. Swift justice had been demanded by the Crown's prosecution, and Jack had managed to obtain a prison sentence for Burn rather than the death sentence.
In short, Jack had saved the man's life, and Floyd Birmingham was eternally grateful.
Jack shook Floyd's hand. “I appreciate your assistance.”
Just then, the front doors of the entrance slammed against the wall and fierce shouting followed. Jack and Floyd rushed toward the clamor.
Two constables dragged a man between them. The prisoner violently struggled, thrashing his limbs from side to side. The sounds of his shoes scraping on the hardwood floor reverberated through the sparsely furnished entry. Strands of dirty hair hung limply over his face, and he cursed incoherently.
“Who is he?” Jack asked.
At the sound of Jack's voice, the man's head whipped upward; his hair parted to reveal his face.
Shock flew through Jack at the sight of the Earl of Newland.
Newland smelled of earth and perspiration. He was covered in dirt, with smudges on his face, hands, clothing and even his hair. His spectacles were twisted and askew on his face. His clothing was disheveled, his dark eyes fevered and wild.
“What's going on here?” Floyd asked the two constables restraining the earl.
The men came to a stop, yanking Newland upright between them.
“We caught this bugger digging up a grave in broad daylight. If he's a grave digger, then he's crazed if you ask me,” said the constable on Newland's right.
“That's no grave digger. He's Earl Newland,” Jack said.
The constables exchanged looks of disbelief.
“An earl? Are you certain?” Floyd asked.
Jack stepped close and looked Newland in the eye. “Tell them, my lord. Tell them who you are.”
“Aye, I'm a bloody earl,” Newland hissed.
“Whose grave was he digging?” Jack asked.
“Bess Whitfield, the murdered actress. Dead for a while now. The stench would have been terrible,” the short constable said.
Jack grasped Newland's shoulder. “Why? What was Bess Whitfield to you?”
Newland's eyes narrowed to slits. “She was to be my wife. I sought to move her to my family plot so that after I die we can be buried together.”
Jack recalled the old man had advanced consumption. And Bess Whitfield had told this rich, old earl she would marry him?
It made sense. She knew he was dying. Why not marry, produce an heir, and take his fortune? The likelihood was that Newland was Bess Whitfield's longtime lover and benefactor.
Jack grasped Newland's shirtfront. “Did you kill her?”

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