Betina Krahn (60 page)

“Our point exactly,” Herriot said tersely. “The papers have taken note, I’ll tell you, and it’s raised a bit of a stir. A stroke of luck for you, actually.”

“It is?” Remington snarled, burrowing back into the seat.

“Absolutely, my boy,” Paddington inserted, handing him a newspaper with a headline reading:

Beneath it was a subheader declaring: “Does Government Prosecute or Persecute Controversial Earl?”

“The papers have come down on your side. Called it irregular and vindictive. The
Telegraph
and
Evening News
both have said it was the queen’s undue influence, and that, since she doesn’t ‘bother’ with public life, she ought not to ‘bother’ the courts, either. The Lords passed a bill of protest, and there have been a number of fiery speeches in the Commons.”

“There have?” Remington scanned the paper and his tense frame relaxed. “This is certainly a novelty—seeing my name in the papers without the words ‘radical,’ ‘woman hater,’ or ‘depravity’ linked to it.”

It was dusk when they arrived at his home. There was a small crowd of news writers loitering on the street outside. As the coach slowed to enter the carriage turn by the front steps, the writers swarmed after it, waving and shoving to get onto the steps ahead of him. He battled his way toward the doors, growing steadily more indignant at their relentlessness
and furious at the way they invented what they couldn’t—

“Come on, yer lordship—give us
somethin
’ to print!” one called out plaintively.

It struck him like a bolt out of the blue, stopping him in his tracks. They invented things because they needed something to publish. Then why didn’t he just give them something—something
he
wanted to see in print?

“You want a quote? Then try this,” he said, turning to them with a calculated smile. “These charges are totally spurious … brought to punish me for speaking my mind and publishing my views.” He struck a pose of subtle drama. “We enjoy a vigorous and independent press in Britain, one that promotes and encourages the exchange of ideas. But it will not remain free much longer if we who dare to think new thoughts and publish them are arrested for being a danger to society.

“I have dared to ask questions about that most basic of institutions: marriage. And in my questioning I have learned a great deal. When I walk into that courtroom a few days hence, I alone will not be on trial. The institution of marriage will stand trial with me.” He paused. “Now, if you will excuse me, I would like a bath and a bit of decent food.” He managed a wry smile. “Scotland Yard accommodations, gentlemen, leave a good bit to be desired.”

They tossed additional questions at him, but he turned and shoved his way past them and through the opening doors. They stood outside for a while, watching, hoping he would relent and speak again. But when one correspondent decided simply to use what the earl had already said and left, the others saw him hurrying off to his paper and soon followed.

“My lord!” Phipps met him looking uncharacteristically flustered. “How good to have you home, my lord! We didn’t expect you so … that is … we thought …”
He took the hat Remington held because he hadn’t wished to put it on with his hair so filthy.

“A bath, Phipps. And while Manley is preparing it, I want something to eat,” Remington ordered, heading straight for the stairs leading down to the kitchen. “Whatever you have on hand will do—I’m famished. I’d have starved if it hadn’t been for Antonia’s hampers. Uncle Paddington, show Mr. Herriot where the liquor is.”

“Really, my lord—” Phipps hurried along after him, paling a bit more with every step Remington took. “Truly, I can bring you a tray in just a few minutes—”

Remington went charging into the kitchen before he could be stopped. But once there, he stopped dead. At the table—his kitchen table—were five faces he had sworn to put his fist through the very next time he encountered them.

“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, stalking toward them with his fists clenched.

“We’re … we’re …” Trueblood put down the glass in his hand and backed away from the table.

“Eating,” Everstone supplied, pushing back from the table and rising, his cheeks bulging with ham and roast potatoes.

“I can see that!” Remington roared. “What in God’s name are you doing in my kitchen eating my food?”

Woolworth swallowed what was in his mouth with some difficulty, then shoved to his feet. He glanced at the others and then squared his shoulders manfully and confessed: “Dodging subpoenas.”

Remington closed his eyes for a moment as he gathered strength. His association with these pathetic “ruined bachelors” had proved to be the very low point of his life—and with each new encounter that point seemed to sink a bit lower. This was probably yet another catastrophe in the making.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, suddenly fixing them with a glare. “You’re hiding in my house … from the people who are trying to serve you subpoenas to testify against me?” When they nodded, he momentarily lost control.

“Good God—wherever did you get such a harebrained idea?” he thundered. It was Woolworth who assigned the blame.

“From Lady Antonia.”

“She and her aunt thought that this would be the last place they would look for us … and since you weren’t here …” Howard tried to explain.

Remington closed his eyes. Antonia. He should have known. Devious woman. First she worked a little magic on Fitch to turn things around in the newspapers, and now this. Maddening woman. Interfering woman. Delicious woman. She was undoubtedly worth every bit of trouble he was going through to win her.

Paddington and Herriot came rushing downstairs to see what all the commotion was about and halted behind Remington, wide-eyed at the sight of five gentlemen sitting in his kitchen in shirtsleeves and braces. Remington came to life, snatching up a slab of bread and a hunk of ham and somebody’s glass of wine, then ordering the lot of them upstairs, to sort it all out. When introductions were made minutes later in Remington’s study, lawyer Herriot went perfectly gray in the face.

“Dear Lord—these are the men named in the charges against you!” When Remington nodded, he grew frantic. “Then you’ve got to get them out of here! If they’re found here, it will look as if you’re trying to influence their testimony!”

As Remington stared at the lawyer, his mind raced. Then a slow, inexpressibly wicked smile stole over his handsome face.

“Oh, no! You cannot let them stay,” Herriot declared, watching a scheme being born in Remington’s expression. “It’s … irregular … possibly
criminal
!”

“So is the government’s case against me,” Remington responded. “And perhaps it’s time to fight fire with fire.”

When asked to relate how it had all come about, the five husbands spun yet another tale of their marital woes. Their conjugal fate had now been linked to the success of his defense, they informed him. Their wives, under Lady Antonia’s influence, refused to come home to them until he was free.

“What are we to do, Landon?” Woolworth demanded, looking shaken. “If we testify, our marital troubles will be splattered all over London! I’m already on thin ice with my family—my uncles have already paid me a call over this business with my mother. I can’t stand another brouhaha.”

“If we don’t testify—it will look as if we’ve something to hide!” Trueblood whined.

“Because we damn well do!” Everstone ground out. “I may have to stand for reelection at any time. Can’t have my troubles with Margaret made grist for the political mill—I’d be finished!”

“And if we do testify, our wives won’t speak to us for months—years!” Howard declared. “This just gets worse and worse! You’ve got to do something, Landon!”

“On the contrary, gentlemen,” Remington said, settling into the chair behind his desk, munching his ham on white bread and looking perversely pleased. “This time I’m afraid it is you who will have to do something.”

“Us?” Searle said, nearly choking on the word. “What can we possibly do?”

Remington gave them a perfectly devious smile.

“Testify, gentlemen. You can testify.”

• • •

The courtroom, Number One Court of the Old Bailey, was packed, and had been from the moment the doors opened, the morning of the trial. News writers, liberal Lords, conservative MP’s, curious socialites, placard-carrying suffragists, outraged clergymen, and even a few ordinary citizens jostled for the standing room at the side of the gallery. A similar crowd—with the addition of pickpockets, protesters, constables, and roasted-nut vendors—filled the corridors outside and spilled out into the street. This was a sensational trial, and there wasn’t a person in London who didn’t wish to be there to see the proceedings.

That large and increasingly unruly crowd greeted Antonia and her ladies as they arrived. One of the news writers recognized her as she stepped out of the cab and rushed to question her. In seconds she was beset on all sides by people shouting questions, spouting scripture, chanting suffrage slogans, waving signs, and even offering her money to endorse face cream! She managed to reach a bobby, and he helped clear a path so they could enter the building.

Remington’s solicitor was waiting outside the courtroom and spotted her above the crowd. With some effort they showed their passes and made it down the steps to the front of the gallery, where Aunt Hermione and Uncle Paddington had saved them front-row seats. Antonia took several breaths to steady herself, then straightened her hat and smoothed the bodice of the creamy-yellow shot-silk dress that Florence and Victoria had spent half the night updating. She had chosen to wear something cheerful and easy to spot, so Remington could see her from the prisoner’s dock—that is, assuming that he wanted to see her.

She still hadn’t seen him since his release nearly two days ago. Paddington brought word that he was closeted with his solicitor and barrister, planning his defense. He also brought her a personal note from Remington, which
thanked her for all her help and support and assured her that he was doing well. She had read and reread it, trying to find meaning between the lines and finding only blank space instead.

Was he furious with her? Did he not want to see her? She had lain in her darkened bed the night before, aching for him, wishing he would materialize out of the dark to love her and reassure her. Why wouldn’t he come, or at least ask her to come to him? Through the long night she had been tortured by what he had said the last time she had seen him: he didn’t want a lover … he wanted a wife. Was it possible that after all this he didn’t want her anymore?

Now as she sat in the courtroom, waiting to see him for the first time since he left her bed more than a week ago, she was terrified that he would turn in her direction with a cool, polite smile and look right through her.

Below them the floor of the court was filling with black-robed barristers and their associates. They bustled back and forth, shuffling papers, exchanging briefs, and covertly preening their robes and wigs. At the front of the paneled court loomed the judicial bench, behind which three high-backed chairs sat awaiting the clerk’s cry and the arrival of the three justices.

Remington appeared a short while later, accompanied by barrister Kingston Gray, who would present and argue his defense. Remington’s impeccable dove-gray morning coat and black silk tie were an elegant counterpoint to the sea of black robes on the floor of the court. There was an audible, and decidedly feminine, stir when he looked up and swept the gallery with a searching glance.

His eyes settled on Antonia, and he stilled, staring at her, absorbing her with his eyes. Dark eyes. Irresistible eyes. But eyes that gave little clue to the emotions behind them. Her heart stopped. And then he smiled at her. It was
a small, speaking smile, but for the life of her Antonia couldn’t make out what it was saying.

He turned back to confer with his counsel before allowing warders to escort him to the prisoner’s dock. Then a hush of expectation fell over the venerable Number One Court. A moment later the crier entered and called out: “Oyez, oyez, oyez. All manner of persons that owe suit and service to this court of the Central Criminal Courts, draw nigh and give your attendance!”

The bewigged and scarlet-robed justices took their seats behind the bench. Antonia reached for Aunt Hermione’s hand and stared at Remington as the clerk of the court rose to read the charges against him. He seemed
composed and outwardly confident as they detailed his
crimes against the Crown and state.

“… Remington Carr did advocate and promulgate ideas injurious to both the common moral will and the common good, to wit: views and opinions denigrating that most sacred and beneficial institution which is the foundation of society and which has been ordained for humankind by the Almighty Himself: marriage,” the clerk read in stentorian tones. She vibrated with the urge to stand up and shout the little wretch down. “That Remington Carr did actively seek and contribute toward the destruction of at least five existing marriages … and through the injuries inflicted upon their unions, he did attempt to do injury to all other marriages by association.”

As if feeling her eyes on him, Remington let his gaze wander to Antonia. After the third or so time that their eyes met across the courtroom, Antonia felt the coil of anxiety in her loosen. What he could not say in a display of emotion, he seemed to say with the frequency of his glances. He thought of her. She still mattered to him. She felt a little dizzy with relief. By the time the prosecutor began his
opening argument, she was able to sit straight and focus on the proceedings.

The case boiled down to a very simple and very ugly situation, the lord prosecutor declared. The Earl of Landon despised marriage and had written about it, spoken about it, and avoided it personally. He had denounced it as an unfit association and advocated that people refrain from it, if unwedded, and abandon it, if already wedded. Then he had carried his views one unforgivable step further, by attempting to destroy the marriages of five prominent men.