The Bride Hunt (28 page)

“Yes. How is my veil?”

“Impenetrable,” he said. “How’s the accent?”

“Thick,” she said.

He nodded and smiled, hearing the attempt at humor in her voice. “Come.” He put a hand on her shoulder and she was glad of the touch, of the sense it gave her of support. Gideon would not let her down.
Not in this instance.

She banished the mental addendum. He would not let her down and she must not let
him
down.

The courtroom was busy and the people on the long benches turned to look at them as they walked down the narrow aisle to the defense table. Prudence heard the buzz of whispers rising to a low murmur but she looked neither to the right nor the left, merely took the chair Gideon held for her. He sat beside her, laid his papers on the table in front of him, and sat back, as calm and relaxed as if he were in front of his own fireside, except for the white curly wig and the black gown.

“May the court be upstanding.”

The assembly scrambled to its feet as the judge entered and took his seat on the high dais. Prudence for the first time glanced sideways at the opposing table. Lord Barclay had an air that was both complacent and vicious, she thought, from a deep well of loathing. Sir Samuel Richardson looked rather older than Gideon, but in the same antique costume it was hard to distinguish them until they spoke. Then it was easy. Sir Samuel’s voice was cracked and gravelly against Gideon’s quiet, smooth tones. And they had quite different courtroom manners. Prudence was astonished to see that Gideon in his opening remarks was completely nonconfrontational, almost to the point of sounding conciliatory. He smiled, acknowledged his opposing colleague with a polite bow, and a murmured “My learned colleague” suggested that it was quite understandable that Lord Barclay should feel maligned by the publication in question, and sat down again.

Sir Samuel, on the other hand, ranted. His voice reached the rafters as he accused the publication of deliberate fabrication to dishonor the reputation of one of the most esteemed members of “Our society, m’lud.”

“Like hell,” muttered Prudence, and received a jab in the elbow from her companion. She looked studiously into her lap. Anger was now her friend. She had seen her father sitting in the row behind Barclay and his counsel, and at the thought of what had been done to him, her anxiety vanished. She could almost feel herself baring her teeth like a fox protecting her cubs. She could almost feel her mother’s spirit on her shoulder. An absurd fantasy, she told herself, but she was willing to take any help she could get.

Barclay’s testimony only strengthened her resolve. He was sanctimonious, hypocritical, and he lied through his teeth. And yet she couldn’t feel the slightest reaction from Gideon, sitting so close beside her. He made the odd scratch on a piece of paper, but otherwise simply sat and listened.

Until Sir Samuel had bowed to the judge and the jury and stepped back with a nod to his learned colleague.

Gideon rose, smiling. He greeted Barclay with a bow. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Morning.” It was a surly response.

“You are under oath, Lord Barclay,” Gideon said pleasantly. And from then on he was up and running. And this was the barrister Prudence had expected, the one she had herself experienced. Ruthless, brutal, letting nothing go until he had wrung the answer he wanted from the witness. There were objections from Sir Samuel, some sustained by the judge, but Gideon simply muttered a form withdrawal and swept on.

Prudence froze when her father’s name first came up. She saw him raise his head higher with a jerk of surprise, and then she couldn’t look at him again as Gideon exposed the fraudulent scheme, the lack of legal registration for the company, the demand for a huge monthly payment, and finally the lien on 10 Manchester Square.

And when the earl was a mere grumbling, muttering, sweating hulk in the witness box, Gideon reverted to his original smoothly charming manner and said, “May I suggest, Lord Barclay, that there was never any intention of building a trans-Saharan railway? I would ask you to consider how many other of your friends have been persuaded to invest in what now seem to be somewhat doubtful enterprises. How many other friends have been obliged to give your unregistered company a lien on their properties?”

“This is calumny, sir,” the earl blustered. He looked up at the judge. “I appeal to you, my lord.”

“Sir Samuel?” the judge suggested.

Barclay’s barrister rose heavily to his feet. His gravelly voice was now rather weary and resigned. “I would ask for a recess and time to confer with my client while we examine the documents in question more closely, m’lud.”

The judge banged his gavel. “We’ll reconvene at two o’clock.”

Prudence glanced up at Gideon as he returned to his chair. He had no expression on his face at all. His eyes were almost blank. And she realized with a chill that this was the face Barclay had been subjected to throughout his interrogation. It was enough to terrify the strongest, most righteous witness. And then it was gone, and he was smiling again, touching her hand lightly as he went around the table.

“That went well, I think,” he said. “I’m afraid we can’t go anywhere decent for luncheon since you can’t take off that veil in public, but I’ve arranged a pleasant picnic in my chambers.”

“My sisters?”

“Of course. Thadeus will bring them as soon as the court has cleared and there are no spying eyes around.”

Prudence again refused to look anywhere but ahead of her as they walked out of the court. A few questions were shouted in their direction. Gideon ignored them and held her elbow until they were out in a street where a hackney waited. Not by accident, it was clear. Gideon gave no instructions to the cabbie and as soon as they were inside, the driver cracked his whip and the horse trotted off.

Prudence took a deep breath and put up her veil. “It’s stifling behind this thing,” she confided. “It is safe now, isn’t it?”

“Safe enough.” He turned sideways on the bench, examining her in the dim light of the carriage. “How are you bearing up?”

“Better than Barclay,” she said with a shaky laugh. “You destroyed him.”

“Only almost,” he said gravely.

“But you can finish it?” she asked, a flutter of anxiety setting her heart racing.

“I need your father to finish it for me.”

“Oh.” Prudence understood now. Her father had to confirm that he had been inveigled by a man he thought his friend to invest in a fraudulent scheme designed purely to line the pockets of that so-called friend. If he insisted that he stood by his friend, that his friend had never led him astray, that he had always understood every nuance of the deal and had willingly given him a lien on his house, then their defense would crumple. It couldn’t be called fraudulent if the one who was supposed to have been defrauded maintained that he was not.

Constance and Chastity listened in silence as their sister explained this. Gideon kept his offerings to dressed crab-and-lobster sandwiches, glasses of a Chablis Premier Cru, and comment when asked. But he watched Prudence closely and was glad that she took barely a single sip of her wine.

And finally he said, “Prudence, I’m guessing that Sir Samuel will call
The Mayfair Lady
as his next witness. He can’t risk calling your father immediately after Barclay’s breakdown.”

“And with my testimony I have to get Father to switch sides.” It was the flat statement of one who had already accepted this conclusion.

He nodded. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss the lurking panic from her eyes. But if there ever would be a time again for a lover’s gesture, this was not it.

“Very well,” she said. She looked at her sisters, then back at him. “I’d like to talk to my sisters alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He rose from his chair and went to the door, then he hesitated. “You will need to tell me if what you discuss has anything to do with your testimony. You can’t spring surprises on your barrister.”

“We understand.”

He nodded and went out.

The sisters sat in silence for a minute, then Prudence said, “We all know what I have to do.”

“The question is how, without revealing your identity to the world at large,” Constance said.

“I have an idea.” Chastity leaned forward in her chair.

The courtroom that afternoon seemed hotter to Prudence than it had that morning. She thought she could detect a different, more alert note to the conversational buzz around her while they waited for the judge to reappear, and she was acutely conscious of the glances cast her way. Her heart was banging and the confines of the veil seemed even more stifling than before. She was sure her cheeks were scarlet, perspiration beading her forehead. Gideon, however, was as relaxed as ever as he sat beside her and she tried to draw some of that calm ease into herself by osmosis. It didn’t seem to be working.

Her one glance at Lord Barclay had shown her that he too was crimson-hued, but that, she suspected, came as much from an excessively liquid lunch as anything. He was certainly huffing and puffing and having frequent vigorously whispered exchanges with his counsel. Her father looked paler than usual and was sitting very erect on the bench behind Barclay, staring straight ahead at the judge’s dais.

“Please be upstanding.”

The court rose, the judge took his chair, adjusted his wig, and looked out expectantly at the court below. “Sir Samuel?”

The barrister rose and intoned, “We call the Mayfair Lady to the box, m’lud.”

“The publication itself?” The judge peered incredulously at the barrister.

“A representative of the publication, m’lud. A . . .” There was the barest hesitation to accentuate the insult. “A
lady,
as we understand it, m’lud, who prefers to be known simply as Madam Mayfair Lady.”

“Unusual,” the judge observed. “Can a publication take the oath?”

Gideon rose to his feet. “A representative of the publication can do so, m’lud. I would cite
Angus v. The
Northampton Herald, 1777.”

The judge nodded slowly. “Do you have any objection to a representative, Sir Samuel?”

“No, m’lud. The witness is a member of the human race, I believe.” This produced a titter around the courtroom. Prudence stared stonily ahead through her veil. Gideon didn’t twitch a muscle.

“Very well.” The judge nodded. “Call this Madam Mayfair Lady.”

Prudence rose and walked steadily to the witness box. The clerk administered the oath and she sat down, folding her hands in her lap.

Sir Samuel approached the box. He looked like a malevolent crow, Prudence decided, with his black gown flapping around him and a look on his face that was almost a leer.

“You are responsible for this publication?” He waved a copy at the courtroom with an air of dismissive disgust.

“
Oui, m’sieur
. . . uh, yes, forgive me. I am one of ze editors.”

“And you are from France, I gather.”

“From
la France,
yes.” Dear God, how was she going to keep this up? It was one thing in the parlor with her sisters at home, quite another here. For the first time, she looked towards the jury box. Twelve good men and true. At least they didn’t look bored.

“Is it a habit of your publication to dishonor the reputations of members of our society,
madame
?”

“No,” Prudence said simply. She caught the slight nod of approval from Gideon. His maxim had always been Keep it simple. Don’t elaborate unless you must.

“And what would you call this article about one of the most respected members of our aristocracy,
madame
?”

“Ze truth,
m’sieur
.”

“I would call it a deliberate attempt at character assassination,” he said smoothly. “But, of course, citizens of your country are not unused to assassinating their aristocracy.”

A ripple of laughter went through the spectators. Prudence glanced at Gideon. He was expressionless.

“We stand by our research,
monsieur,
” she said. “And others have done so too.”

“Others!” he boomed suddenly. “The
Pall Mall Gazette,
perhaps. And we all know the sensationalist penchants of that particular broadsheet. Your unfounded accusations,
madame,
have merely provided fodder for a known piece of yellow journalism.”

“Zey were not unfounded,
m’sieur,
” she stated. “We ’ad witnesses. Women who also spoke to ze
Pall Mall Gazette
.”

“Women! Fallen women. Women of the streets! Has society come to this? We put the word of a woman no better than she should be against that of a peer of the realm?” He spun around with a swirl of his cloak and gesticulated at the jury, before continuing a circular spin back to face the witness box.

“Ah, Sir Samuel, that is what you call women who are abused by their so-called betters. Fallen women, harlots, whores, prostitutes—” She broke off abruptly, aware both that her accent had slipped and that she had broken Gideon’s cardinal rule. She had let indignation rule her and shown her true colors.

“And these women are to be defended by harpies, it would seem,” Sir Samuel said, turning again to nod at the jury, confirming her fears.

Prudence took a steamy breath behind her veil. “Revealing society’s injustices,
m’sieur,
is part of our publication’s mandate. I maintain that we ’ad ample evidence for our accusations against Lord Barclay.”

“And these accusations of financial impropriety.” He changed the subject with such an aggressive sweep of his hand that Prudence involuntarily flinched. “What could you,
madame,
what could this rag . . .” He waved the copy again. “What could you know of the intimate details of business between two friends . . . two very close friends of many years standing. I would suggest,
madame,
that you and your fellow editors for some reason known only to yourselves had a personal vendetta against the earl of Barclay and made up whatever facts suited you.”

“That is not true,” she stated.

“Is it not true that you made advances to his lordship? Advances that were rejected?” He put both hands on the rail of the witness box and peered at her as if he could see the pale frame of her face beneath the veil.