Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 01] (5 page)

She pursed her lush lips and tilted her head, finally acknowledging that he would not bend to her
will. She nodded and swept from his office, the scent of lilies floating in her wake.

Slowly he spun on his heel and stepped over to the window.

After a few moments, Mabel moved beside him and followed his gaze. “She certainly left in a huff.”

Nick shrugged, focusing on the street below. Lady Janus was crossing the thoroughfare as if she owned it, her harried footman a few steps behind.

“You refused the case.” It was a statement.

“Of course.”

She let out a noisy breath. “Damnable shame.” After a moment, she sniffed. “Did she show any interest…in a non-business capacity?”

“Are you daft?” he scoffed. “I have no title, and my bank account is meager.”

“That never seemed to stop you before.” She raised her brow knowingly.

“Working for me does not give you leave to discuss my personal affairs, Mabel—”

She snorted. “No, knowing you since the day you dawned, does. Besides, your affairs have not been particularly interesting of late. It’s all business with you these days.”

“Launching one’s own enterprise can do that to a man.”

“All work and no play makes for some very lonely nights.”

“It beats suffering the snores of forty other boys,” he jested, trying to make light.

Staring out the glass, her gaze grew troubled. “How are things at Andersen Hall?”

The weight of a thousand responsibilities pressed on his shoulders. “Not good.”

“A job would have been helpful to you, and to us. We could certainly use the blunt.”

“I will never go back on my oath, no matter how attractive the one asking.” He looked down at his hands, large and bony. Not a gentleman’s hands, nor a laborer’s, but a craftsman’s of a different sort. “Dunn taught me that my skills are tools to ensure that justice is done. I will not allow them to be corrupted in pursuit of the mighty coin.”

“I know, I know. But to work for Lady Janus…well, she is really quite beautiful.” She sighed. “Like a fairy with that lovely goldish hair—”

“I had not noticed anything beyond her calculating manner.”

“She seemed nice to me. And I always liked the idea that she chose her own path and would not marry….” Dropping into the couch, she shrugged. “Never did quite understand why not, but all the same, it took gumption.”

“She is cheeky, if that’s what you mean. But I suppose that comes with the territory.” He watched through the window as Lady Janus accepted her footman’s hand and stepped into her luxurious carriage. The driver flashed the whip and the horses pranced.

“Well, I think that it’s deuced nobby how she landed a title without having to take a man along with it. How do you suppose she did that?”

“I expect that for her title, descent must have been through the female line.” At the confused look on Mabel’s face, he added, “If there was no male heir, then the lady takes.”

“Fancy that.” Pulling a linen from her pocket, she fingered it with a wistful look on her face. “What will happen to her now, I wonder.”

“She will be fine,” he replied, turning his back on the window. “She is a survivor. The lady will probably have another titled protector before her handkerchief lands on a ballroom floor.”

Somehow, the thought did not soothe.

“V
ingt-et-un” Dillon called the game over, flipping his cards and exposing an ace and a king.

“You’ve been very lucky today, Dillon,” Lillian remarked, trying to hide her disappointment that the game was proceeding so rapidly. She could care less about her lost coins, instead fearing for how to fill the remainder of the afternoon.

For three days Lillian had visited him at Newgate Prison, bringing fresh baked goods, books, and tidings of the outside. They waited in a purgatory of sorts, for the first volley in the courtroom. Torturously slow, the clock ticked onward.

Lillian had managed to maintain a stiff upper lip by keeping life a whirlwind of activity focused on Dillon. He was doing better at Newgate Prison than she might have imagined. Thanks in large part to
the fact that his father, the Duke of Greayston, was greasing Warden John Newman’s greedy palms. Not every prisoner got to inhabit a room in the Warden’s residence.

Her eyes shifted about the small space. It was decent enough, with a bed, a chair and secretary set, a couch, table, chairs and a hearth. Certainly better than the unspeakably overcrowded, pest-ridden part of the prison where any other man awaiting trial would be housed.

“I really would like to see a newspaper,” Dillon remarked, pulling her attention back to him.

“What is the point of reading the papers?” She handed him the deck. “They will only upset you.”

“I just feel so disconnected. If it weren’t for your visits, and the barrister’s, I would feel completely isolated. I thought it might help.” He dealt the cards. “Do you think that they might print a retraction when all is said and done?”

Lillian would not bet a pickle on it. “What they should do is headline an outright apology. You deserve it.”

“That bad?”

“I never appreciated how inaccurate the news accounts were until now. Facts that I know as true they depict as wholly false. It’s really quite astonishing.”

“Then I suppose you are right in keeping them from me.” He peeked at his cards. “I certainly don’t need any more bad news.”

It was as if a scythe hung over Dillon’s head. But she would paste on a happy face if it killed her. “The proceeding tomorrow will go well, Dillon. You will see.”

“Dagwood is running the show.”

Her fists curled. “I know that the Solicitor Gen
eral believes that he is just doing his job, but I swear he pushes too far.”

“The barrister, Mr. Kent, says that if things go well tomorrow, then the matter will never even go to trial. I will be free.”

Reaching over, she squeezed his hand. “Let us keep our thoughts positive then.”

“I cannot wait to see what the investigator has scratched up.”

Lillian tried not to be pessimistic about Sir Patrick and his findings. She had attempted to meet the man, but he’d claimed to be too busy to see her. She had buoyed her spirits by rationalizing that he was occupied with freeing Dillon. Moreover, the Duke of Greayston had promised to pass on her suspicions about Kane. There was little more she could do.

“Has Sir Patrick not reported to you?” she asked, as if it did not signify.

“Father is handling everything. And trying to take care of Mother as well.”

“Any better?”

“No. She will not remove from her bed.” He studied his cards, asking with feigned nonchalance, “Has Russell come to see you again?”

“I am disappointed that he has not yet visited you. But he has promised to come to court tomorrow.”

“Well, at least he checks in on you. I never would have guessed that his infatuation would actually turn out to be for the good.” He motioned to her cards. “You know, Lillian, the game cannot proceed unless you look at your hand.”

Her cheeks heated. “Sorry.” A two and a three. Could her luck get any worse? “Russell seems to have matured in the last few days. I’m hoping that it is a permanent change.”

“It is about time, is all I can say. The man is nearing two-and-twenty.”

“Perhaps you will see a difference in him tomorrow.”

“
If
he shows up for the proceeding.”

“He has committed to come and give his support. He will be there.”

“What about Fanny?”

“Fanny is not good with these things, as you know. But she has made me pledge twenty different ways to Sunday that I report to her as soon as the proceeding is done.”

“Well, let us hope that you have good news to convey.”

The next afternoon Fanny strode into her drawing room, anxiety worrying her brow. “Well, how did it go? Is Dillon in the clear? What did Sir Patrick have to show? Did the Solicitor General retract his evidence?”

“Oh, Fanny. It was dreadful.” Lillian’s stiff upper lip crumbled to ash as she practically fell into her dear friend’s arms. “The matter proceeds to trial in less than two weeks.”

“There, there. Tell me what happened,” Fanny coaxed, pushing her into the chaise and sitting beside her.

Lillian yanked out the handkerchief that she had been clutching during the ordeal. It was in tatters. Bunching it up, she pressed it to her watering eyes and took a deep breath. “That horrid Solicitor General said the most dreadful things about Dillon. That he was a blood-soaked fiend, and…oh, Fanny, if you could have seen Dillon’s face….” Tears pricked her eyes, blurring Fanny into a fea
tureless haze of red hair and milky white skin. “He winced with every charge, as if it was a knife thrust. I have never seen him so pale….”

“I think we both could use a drink.” Fanny stood. “Scotch’ll do.”

“The judge hung on Dagwood’s every wretched word, clearly biased. And that oaf Sir Patrick. Oooh.” She brandished her fist. “I just wanted to shake some vigor into him. He just sat there like a useless shrub as each piece of evidence was presented. I swear, Fanny, the man must sit home counting his coin, for he has done nothing since Dillon’s arrest.”

Fanny poured scotch into the snifters at the sideboard. “It has only been a few days. Not so much time to be able to clear a man of murder charges.”

“Time is a luxury we do not have! In less than two weeks a trial will decide whether or not Dillon hangs! And no one seems to be doing a blessed thing about it!” Pressing her face into her hands, she sobbed, allowing the tears that she had been suppressing ever since Dillon’s arrest to break free. The waters poured unreservedly, like a dam that could contain itself no more, and, at this moment, she could not see them ever running dry.

“Drink this.”

A tepid glass was pressed into Lillian’s hand. She lifted it to her lips, and the smoky liquid seared her throat. She shuddered. “The barrister Greayston hired appeared dazed. And the poor duke sat there looking as if he were carved from stone. Russell actually had to support his father when they left the courtroom; the poor man was so grieved. I cannot imagine his anguish.”

“Did you tell the duke the idea you had to save Dillon?”

“He told me that he ‘would rather have his entrails consumed by maggots.’”

“Oh, dear. Greayston was never one for subtlety.” Fanny dropped onto the chaise. “I do not like to say I said so, but I did.” She sipped her drink. “At least he did not threaten you.”

“I am just glad that we were alone in the barrister’s office after the courtroom debacle, and no one had to hear his bellowing.” The memory of another meeting two years ago in a solicitor’s office flashed through her mind. The poor solicitor, a wraith of a man, really, had been no match for Kane’s fury. Lillian could not say that she had been surprised at Kane’s aggression, but never before had it been so public. Her stomach churned recalling the will reading and how Kane’s brutal fist had smashed into her face, busting open her lip. The flow of blood had seemed endless. A shudder quaked through her at the memory.

In one sense, she realized, Kane’s overt violence had been a good thing. It had been the breaking point for her, giving her the impetus to take a chance on a fool’s scheme and try to change her life forever. The inheritance had become the light at the end of a tunnel, glimmering faintly with promise through the darkness.

“Are you all right, Lillian?” Fanny inquired, her arched brows bowed in concern.

“Yes.” She shook off the memories; she had more pressing matters to deal with now. “I’m fine.”

“Greayston always was a terrific bully, especially when you told him something he did not wish to hear.” Fanny scowled. She had been Greayston’s mistress long ago and apparently had left him instead of the other way around, which was what usu
ally happened. The woman had fallen in love with someone else and followed her heart.

Lillian blew her nose. “Well, it was awful.”

“What, exactly, did Greayston say?”

“That he would destroy me if I even breathed a word of ‘such falsehood’ to the public. That a ‘fetid lie’ would not serve his son.” Lillian hugged herself. “It was like there had never been any history between our families, he was so hostile.”

“Even your good relationship could not hold a candle in the face of his fears. In this instance, one cannot really blame him. It was a terrible idea.”

“‘Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long,’” Lillian quoted. “‘A man’s son may, but at the length truth will out.’”

Fanny smiled wistfully. “I’ve always loved Shakespeare’s
Merchant of Venice
. But no matter how compelling, it is fiction, dear.”

“But it bears truth. And my specific…knowledge of certain things is the only means I have that might save Dillon.”

“You must leave matters to the barristers and the investigator. Greayston will not allow his son to swing.”

“You don’t understand, Fanny. There is little they can do to exculpate him; the deck is stacked so high. If you could have heard the supposed evidence of the affair, you would realize. They presented Lady Langham’s letters to her lover that conveniently have ‘Beaumont’ scratched across the outside, and a foul innkeeper who went on and on in wretched detail about secret assignations between Dillon and Lady Langham and fighting between the lovers. It was all so”—she shuddered—“neat. And foul. And the judge seemed to swallow it whole.”

“But you did try to help….”

“With naught to show for it!”

Fanny rubbed Lillian’s arm, worrying over her like a mother hen. “Do you really believe that it would have made a difference if it had been Redford sitting in the courtroom today instead of Patrick?”

Lillian thought about it a long moment. “I do. There is something about Redford. The man is so blasted confident you want to knock him in the chest and, at the same moment, trust him implicitly to get things done. I do not believe that he would rest until an innocent man was let free.”

“I have heard that Redford is known for never breaching a confidence. Why not tell
him
the truth about Dillon?”

“He would not believe me.” Lillian huffed, trying simply to imagine it. “In fact, he would probably laugh and hoist me out the door on my sassy bottom.”

“Sassy bottom?”

Lillian’s cheeks heated. “He told me not to bother using my feminine wiles on him.”

“What,
exactly
, did he say?”

Lillian shifted uncomfortably. “I cannot precisely recall….”

Fanny’s painted red lips pursed, and she raised a perfectly arched brow. “You remember every word that was ever said to you. Now spill.”

“Something like,” she cleared her throat and deepened her voice condescendingly, “‘You can bat your pretty eyes and sashay your hips until dusk, but I will not take Beaumont’s case.’”

“He wants you.”

“Yes, to go away.”

Fanny smiled indulgently. “The man noticed you.
He wants you. And who can blame him? You are a masterpiece.”

“Your masterpiece.”

“No longer.” Fanny shook her head. “I may have shown you how to walk, how to talk, how to dress, how to thread those bushy eyebrows, but it is all Lillian now.”

“Well, that transformation might have saved me once, but a well-arched brow will hardly keep Dillon from the hangman’s noose.” Lillian’s eyes burned warningly, and she blinked. “Kane. That man will be the death of me. I had hoped to be finished with him that day in the solicitor’s office when we learned my grandfather had willed all his money to me instead of Kane. When he attacked the poor solicitor, busted open my lip and I ran away to Dillon…” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I do not know what I would have done without him, and you…. And now,” she sobbed, “I am causing Dillon’s end….”

“Now, now,” Fanny cooed, wrapping a solid arm around Lillian’s shoulders. “It is not your fault that Kane is such a fiend.”

“But I brought his wrath upon Dillon.”

“But you cannot control Kane’s machinations. What you
can
do is expose him for the devil that he is.”

“How?” Lillian sobbed.

“Get Redford on your side. The man is known to be more dogged than a drunk with a tankard in his sights. If Kane is behind this, then Redford will see justice done.”

“If?”

“Have you any proof?”

“Well, no.”

“That’s what you need an investigator for.”

Lillian sniffed. “I don’t know, Fanny. The man seemed so dead set against even considering Dillon’s matter.”

“And you have never overcome crushing odds? Three years ago, you were a timid wallflower, hiding out on the margins of polite Society, hoping not to be noticed. You were a graceless waif—”

“I was not
that
pitiful….”

“Well, you did have steel in your spine, only it was hidden under the most horrific posture.”

Lillian grimaced, recalling the painstaking exercises that Fanny had taught her. She would never look at a broomstick in the same manner again.

“Do you know why I agreed to help you?” Fanny asked.

“For the money?”

“Well, that too.” Removing her arm, she continued, “But also because you never saw yourself as a victim. All of Kane’s ill treatment, and you never assumed that it was your fault.”

“Why would I?”

“Sadly, some people do, giving the tyrant power over them. I have seen it many times. Luckily for you, you never had to deal with self-recrimination as well.”

“Well, I certainly had my share of self-doubt. I was deuced terrified every time I had to be seen in public; sick as a cat on a regular basis.”