One Night in London (4 page)

The clerk, Mr. Napier, stood across the room, his back to her, and was scribbling furiously in the notebook he held as Wittiers spoke rapidly to him, raising his finger to interrupt with a question from time to time. Another clerk was flipping through a large file, pulling out pages. Her heart leaped at the sight of such purposeful activity. She couldn’t make out what Wittiers or his clerk was saying, but Wittiers had the look of a general ordering his troops into battle, and the confidence emanating from him was hard to mistake. Francesca eased the door closed, not wanting to be caught spying, and returned to her seat feeling positively joyful.

It was over a quarter of an hour before the door opened again. She looked up to see Mr. Napier. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “Mr. Wittiers has been called away on an urgent matter. He bade me express his deepest regret, but he won’t be able to take your case after all.”

“O-Oh,” she stammered, completely thrown. “But—no, we just spoke and he was quite intrigued by it. Will the emergency pass? Shall I return tomorrow? I can afford to wait a day or so . . .”

The clerk wet his lips. “Mr. Wittiers is most apologetic, Lady Gordon, but it appears very likely he won’t be able to take any new cases for some time.” She gaped at him, and he gently added, “He must recommend you seek other counsel.”

“Other counsel?” she echoed numbly. No. No. She
had
sought other counsel, and found it all wanting. Mr. Wittiers was the best—and he had agreed her cause had merit. To have that hope, that confidence, stripped away now was unthinkable. “I don’t understand,” she said, her fingernails biting into her palms even through her gloves as she clung hard to her poise. “Why did he lead me to believe he would accept if he is now unable even to consider taking my case?”

“An urgent matter arose,” he replied. “Unexpectedly.”

“For another client?”

“I cannot say, madam. Mr. Wittiers is truly sorry he cannot help you.” The clerk’s face creased in polite sympathy. “May I bring you a cup of tea? I am dreadfully sorry, Lady Gordon.”

Francesca felt the door slam shut in her face—again. “No,” she said faintly. “No, thank you. If I could just have a moment . . .”

He nodded. “Of course.” Quietly, he left, drawing the door closed behind him.

Francesca pressed a hand to her forehead. What was she to do now? Which other solicitors had been recommended to her? A spark of bitterness flared in her chest that she had waited so long to see Wittiers, that she had been so sure of his abilities, that he had
agreed
, the blighter, and then refused. Perhaps she was well-shot of him if he couldn’t even keep his word for half an hour, but went rushing off on a moment’s notice. She tried to calm herself, reasoning that if she
had
become his client, she would have wished for just this sort of immediate response from him in her time of need. But it stung, to be summarily rejected mere minutes after being accepted, after he had allowed hope to sprout and surge forth within her. And now she would probably have to return to one of the other solicitors who had been doubtful or downright pessimistic about her case. Her chances of rescuing Georgina suddenly looked rather grim, and for a moment a film of tears blurred her vision. She dashed them away at once. There was no time to waste on tears.

She put on her bonnet and gathered up her reticule and shawl, then left the room. The outer office was a flurry of activity, as Wittiers’s clerks rushed back and forth in response to the directives being called from the office at the end of the hall. As Francesca made her way out, two clerks were bent down searching a tall bookcase.

“Make sure you find my treatise on the Commissary Court,” called Wittiers from his office. “And hurry!”

“What the bloody hell is this case?” one clerk asked the other. “Parish records, parliamentary procedure, now commissary law?”

“I don’t know,” muttered the other clerk, taking down a large box of documents and rifling through them. “I never even heard the name. But it must be the case of the decade, to set Wittiers off like this.”

Francesca’s steps slowed. She fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief, then dropped the reticule as she dabbed the handkerchief first to one eye, then the other, eavesdropping shamelessly. Unaware, the clerks continued speaking behind her.

“I haven’t seen this much fuss since the Cowley case, and there was a barony at stake then.”

“There was a crest on the seal,” the other clerk said. “I wouldn’t doubt we’ve an even more important client now. Wittiers is to wait on him in an hour.”

The first clerk rose with a stack of books in his arms, and noticed Francesca lingering just inside the door. He gave his companion a look, then set down his books and came toward her. “May I help you, Lady Gordon? You look rather pale.”

“I— Yes,” she said, stooping to pick up her reticule to hide her expression. It wasn’t illness but anger that had sent the blood rushing from her head. Wittiers had thrown her over for another, more prestigious, new client. An emergency, indeed—only if one considered power and wealth a cause for urgent action. “I do feel a trifle unwell all of a sudden. Would you be so kind as to summon my carriage?”

“Of course, madam.” He went out and returned a few moments later, saying her driver was waiting. Francesca gave him a look of wan gratitude, and he helped her into the carriage with great solicitude.

But as soon as he had gone back into the offices, Francesca told her coachman to circle around and wait. She wanted to see who this very important client was, who could compel Wittiers to drop everything—especially her—and rush to serve him. A crest, one of the clerks had said; that meant nobility. Her husband had been a mere baronet, but she’d met a number of lords. Insufferable conceit was a common flaw in the nobility, the sort of arrogance that would summon a prominent solicitor to attend him on a moment’s notice. Wittiers, of course, had jumped like a trained dog, which did not reflect well on him, either. She twisted her handkerchief into a knot, fuming in impotent frustration.

Almost three-quarters of an hour later James Wittiers emerged from his offices. He was followed by Mr. Napier, now wearing his coat neatly buttoned up. They climbed into a hackney cab the clerk hailed in the busy street and set off at a quick pace. Francesca told her coachman to follow, sitting with her head almost out the window to watch where they went.

True to her expectation, they drove through nicer and nicer streets. Francesca’s eyes narrowed as the solicitor’s carriage drew up in front of an imposing stone mansion facing a fenced green square in the most elegant part of Mayfair. The house was enormous, taking up most of an entire side of the square. Nobility, probably; but wealth most certainly, in great abundance. Perhaps the prospect of a large fee, more than any prestige, had lured Wittiers away from her case. Mr. Wittiers and his clerk were admitted at once, indicating they had been expected.

She sat back in a dark mood. The rational, sensible side of her knew it was pointless, now that Wittiers had turned her away and taken this other case. Her best hope was to find another solicitor, and quickly, before Georgina’s stepmother could make any progress in lodging her own case. But the other side of her, the hot-blooded Italian side of her, wanted to march into that towering mansion and demand recompense from the owner. Or at least give him a scathing set-down.

With a word to her driver to wait, she gathered up her skirt and stepped down. Wittiers had dismissed his hired carriage, meaning he expected to be some time inside. Settling her shawl around her shoulders, Francesca set off down the street.

At the corner she stopped a woman with two young children in tow, heading for the lush green park in the center of the square. “I beg your pardon, is this the residence of Lord Alconbury?” she asked, indicating the stone edifice. She knew very well it was not, but Alconbury would enjoy a great laugh at the thought of living in such a place when she told him the tale.

“No, ma’am, ’tis the Duke of Durham’s mansion,” replied the nursemaid.

“Indeed,” exclaimed Francesca, only half in pretense. Good Lord; a
duke
. “What a blunder I almost made!”

The nursemaid gave her a sympathetic smile. No doubt in this neighborhood she looked like someone applying for a companion’s post in her simple, severe gray dress. “I’d say so! But take heart; the butler, Mr. Blackbridge, is a kindly sort. He’d not blister your ears for ringing the bell in error. He never complains when the little ones throw the ball on the steps.”

“That is good to hear,” said Francesca, pressing one hand to her bosom as if in relief. “A duke!”

The maid sobered. “His Grace was a decent man, but he’s dead, God rest his soul.” Belatedly Francesca noticed the black-ribboned wreath on the door. She had been so fixed on watching Wittiers, it had escaped her.

The children began quarreling between themselves then, and the nursemaid murmured a quick apology to Francesca before hurrying them off to the square. Francesca resumed her stroll, watching the maid and her charges. A
duke
—no wonder Wittiers had jumped at the summons. Of course, it also reinforced her belief that Wittiers was the best solicitor in London, and made her furious all over again that he had been whisked away from her.

But that was neither here nor there, not anymore. Wittiers’s services were lost to her now. There was nothing to be gained by lurking in the square like some hysterical female, nursing her disappointment. She drew a deep, calming breath and told herself it was not the end of her hopes. If Wittiers could see merit, someone else could as well. She just had to find that man, and pray no other dukes wanted his counsel as well. She sent one more black look at the imposing mansion as she returned to her carriage, and directed her coachman to Cheapside.

Ellen Haywood had taken a small, narrow house in a small, narrow street. It wasn’t the nicest neighborhood, and Francesca held her skirts carefully high as she stepped down from her carriage and walked to the door. Ellen hadn’t let her in the last four times she called, claiming every excuse from illness in the house to excessive cleaning that made it impossible to receive guests. All Francesca had wanted to see was Georgina, but by some suspicious chance, Georgina never seemed to be home when she called. On more than one occasion Francesca had to admit she’d lost her temper and raised her voice at the woman, which probably had not helped.

Today, though, she desperately wanted to see Georgina, no matter how she had to apologize and grovel to Ellen. The drive to Cheapside from Mayfair had been long enough for most of her anger over Wittiers to drain away, leaving weariness and a tinge of despair. She had never thought it would be this difficult. She had expected Ellen to be relieved by her offer to take Georgina; the girl was no relation to her, and Ellen must have her hands full with two small infants. She had been puzzled, then frustrated by Ellen’s stiff refusal, and then incensed when she realized Georgina’s maintenance must be providing vital funds to Ellen’s household. Flinging the accusation in the woman’s face probably hadn’t been the best course, but Ellen’s reaction had been ample confirmation. Her face had gone pale, and then Percival Watts had ordered Francesca out with the parting promise that she would never be allowed to see Georgina again for saying such a thing. And she hadn’t been.

Even then Francesca hadn’t thought she faced such long odds. After Giuliana’s death, John had promised to name her custodian of Georgina in his will, but he met his unfortunate end before he made the change. Surely the court would at least consider her petition. The reluctance of nearly a dozen solicitors to embrace her case had infuriated and frustrated Francesca, but today she felt the first real chill of despair. The last thing she wanted to do was start a battle with poor Georgina stuck in the middle. And at this rate, Georgina would be grown and married before she even saw her again.

She rapped the knocker and waited, and waited, and waited. She rapped again, feeling her shoulders tense in grim anticipation. An apology was certainly going to be required, and she would duly make it, even to Percival Watts’s face if necessary, but she would not enjoy a moment of it. Just standing here on the stoop was making it loom ever more galling in her mind. Just as she was reaching to knock a third time, a neighbor came out of the house next door, a large basket on her arm.

“Are you wanting Mrs. Haywood?” the woman asked, squinting at Francesca.

“Yes. But I fear they are not in.”

“Not at all, ma’am, not anymore!” The woman juggled her market basket and closed her door, then hurried down her steps. Francesca slowly followed suit. The woman met her beside the street. “I’m Mrs. Jenkins; we were neighbors, you see. They’ve moved house,” she said. “Left . . . oh my, it must be three or four days now.”

“Oh.” Francesca could feel the blood draining from her face. “I had no idea . . . Where have they gone?”

The neighbor’s plump, pink face creased as she shook her head. “I cannot tell you, for I don’t know. We’d no idea they were thinking of leaving! Although Mr. Jenkins wasn’t sorry to see the twins go; such a racket those two could make.”

“The little girl,” Francesca asked urgently. “Have you see the little girl recently? Georgina?”

“Of course,” replied Mrs. Jenkins with a smile. “Such a sweet girl, and so helpful. I’ve seen her sweeping the steps ever so often, and so polite she always is. Much too thin, to my mind, but pretty all the same.”