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Authors: Tina Gabrielle

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Brent Stone's eyes twinkled. “Jack's latest case. You must be special indeed for Jack to agree to aid you. His docket is quite full. Are you here to see him then?”
“I was supposed to meet with Mr. Harding, but he appears quite busy this afternoon.”
“He has his charitable cases today.”
“Yes, Mr. Stevens told me, but I cannot help but find it surprising.”
“Jack handles dozens of such cases throughout the year. Jack and I are board members of the London Legal Aid Society, an organization dedicated to providing necessary services for the destitute.”
Evelyn looked to Anthony. “Are you a member as well, Mr. Stevens?”
“Alas, but no, Lady Evelyn. The impoverished have no need for my legal expertise,” Anthony drawled.
“And what exactly is your expertise?” she asked.
“Exploiting the fairer sex for their partners' gain.”
“Pardon?”
“Disposing of unwanted wives,” Anthony said bluntly.
“I see,” Evelyn said.
“Anthony's reputation precedes him,” Brent Stone said.
“Are there any more barristers in your chambers I should be aware of ?” she asked.
“Mr. James Devlin is the only other. He is not at the Old Bailey this afternoon. But you will have the privilege of meeting him soon, I'm sure,” Anthony said.
“I'm looking forward to it.” After meeting these two, Evelyn couldn't help but wonder what the remaining barrister was like.
The doors to Judge Lessard's courtroom opened and out came Hannah Ware and her six children followed by Jack.
Jack stopped in his tracks when he spotted Evelyn. He looked at Anthony Stevens and Brent Stone beside her, and then cursed beneath his breath.
Chapter 17
“What the devil are you two doing?” Jack glanced from Anthony Stevens to Brent Stone.
“Don't panic, Jack,” Anthony said. “We were just introducing ourselves to Lady Evelyn.”
“That's what I'm afraid of,” Jack drawled.
Evelyn spoke up. “Your fellow barristers are quite charming, Mr. Harding.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Charming? I've never heard Anthony Stevens referred to as charming before.”
“She must have been referring to me, then,” Brent Stone said, a teasing note in his tone.
Evelyn smiled at the handsome barrister. “You have both been very informative.” She turned to Jack. “They advised me of your charitable activities. I had no idea.”
Something akin to admiration crossed her beautiful face. He felt a curious pull at his innards like a boy seeking the approval of an attractive governess.
Ridiculous.
“It's nothing,” Jack said.
“I'd hardly call your activities nothing. Father is a firm believer that justice, in the form of legal representation, should be available to all. Not just those wealthy enough to afford it,” she said.
Anthony whistled between his teeth. “Look out, Jack. She is beginning to believe you her champion.”
Jack shot Anthony a dark stare. “Don't you two have somewhere else to be?”
“Truth be told, I was looking for you when I spotted Lady Evelyn,” Anthony said. “I'm waiting for my Armenian investigator, Armen Papazian, to arrive. He's unearthed information that may be of interest to you.”
Jack eyed Anthony. “Let's speak with him elsewhere. The client consultation room is best.”
Anthony arched a brow. “Why? Don't you want the lady to be present?”
Jack itched to punch Anthony in the mouth. The bastard was baiting him and anticipated Evelyn's outraged response. The problem was Jack didn't know what information the investigator had discovered.
What if it concerned Randolph Sheldon's past secrets?
“I want to hear what Mr. Papazian has to say,” Evelyn insisted.
“Of course you do, my lady,” Anthony said.
“Let's get on with it then, shall we?” Jack said tersely. He'd take a piece out of Anthony's hide later. He couldn't do it in front of Evelyn.
Brent Stone bowed to Evelyn. “Unfortunately, I must miss this meeting as I have an appointment. It was a pleasure, Lady Evelyn.” He turned and left, his lean frame gracefully turning a corner and disappearing from view.
Jack turned to Evelyn. “Where's your maid?”
“I left her in the carriage. Janet had no interest in viewing the Old Bailey.”
“Will you never bring a chaperone?”
“I did. She's in the carriage.”
Jack looked at Anthony Stevens, then back to her. “Forget the client consultation room. I'll not take you in there without your maid.”
With two unmarried barristers
remained unspoken.
They chose a vacant corner in the hallway instead.
“Where's your man?” Jack asked.
Anthony withdrew a pocket watch. “I expect him any minute now. He's always prompt. Ah, here he is now.”
Jack glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps. A short man with a furrowed brow and a head of jet, curly hair approached. Olive-black eyes, hooded like those of a hawk, regarded them keenly before he greeted them, and Jack suspected his watchful inquisitiveness made him excel in his profession.
Anthony made the introductions. “May I introduce Mr. Harding and Lady Evelyn Darlington. This is Mr. Papazian.”
Jack shook the investigator's hand. “Please tell us what you have discovered.”
“I'm still looking into the list of possible suspects for Bess Whitfield's murder that Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Guthrie provided. What I have discovered, however, is that there is a man who visits Bess Whitfield's grave each afternoon. I spoke with the cemetery gardener who said the man is obsessive in his behavior. He arrives exactly at one o'clock each afternoon and exhibits conduct unusual to that of the average mourner.”
“What on earth does that mean?” Jack asked.
“I'm not certain. But upon further investigation, I learned the man's identity.”
“Who?” Anthony asked.
“Harold Kirk. The Earl of Newland.”
Evelyn gasped. “He's one of the lovers identified by Mary Morris, Bess Whitfield's dresser at the Drury Lane Theatre!” Evelyn said.
“Mary knew her mistress's secrets, then,” Papazian said.
Jack eyed Evelyn with a calculating expression. “It's time we paid Bess Whitfield our respects.”
 
 
“The man is obsessed,” Evelyn whispered.
“More like cracked,” Jack responded.
Evelyn glanced sideways at Jack, then returned her attention to the man placing roses, one at a time, on Bess Whitfield's grave.
Jack and Evelyn were a good twenty feet away, crouching behind a towering gravestone of someone of importance, spying on Harold Kirk, the aging Earl of Newland. In the distance behind the earl, loomed the shape of a gray stone mausoleum.
The earl's behavior was strange indeed. He circled round and round the grave, placing one rose on the top of the gravestone with each circuit. He mumbled beneath his breath as he did so. Evelyn could see his lips moving in what appeared to be a sort of eerie chant, but from this distance she couldn't hear the words.
“I've been here watching him every afternoon this week,” Jack said. “His routine hasn't varied. He's cracked, I tell you.”
This was the first time Evelyn had come along with Jack. Newland's repetitive behavior was truly alarming. Despite it being a pleasant May afternoon, Harold Kirk wore a heavy wool coat. His pallid complexion resembled ash from a fireplace gone cold. Sparse, gray hair protruded from his scalp like unkempt weeds. He was of average height and appearance, save for a bulbous nose that resembled a ripe tomato.
Evelyn smoothed damp palms over her black mourning dress. The outfit was from her uncle's funeral, and she had chosen it not only because she was to visit a cemetery, but because of the black hat and net veil that concealed her face. Jack wore a dark jacket as well, and with the collar up and the curled brim of his hat down, he gave the appearance of a nameless mourner.
“What is the man saying?” she asked.
“I passed by him yesterday, pretending to pay my respects to another grave. He mumbles Bess Whitfield's name, date of birth, and death. Exactly as it's written on the stone.”
Anxiety raced through her. “Could he be the killer?”
Jack shrugged. “If not the killer, then an obsessed lover. Either way, there are cases in which murderers feel compelled to visit the graves of their victims, much like infatuated lovers.”
Newland suddenly stopped his circuit of the grave and began coughing. Pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat, he hacked and gasped horribly for over a minute. One hand held the handkerchief over his mouth while with the other he grasped his side as the coughing fit reached a crescendo. His face turned an alarming shade of red, matching his nose. His struggle to breathe seemed endless, but finally the gasping subsided and he withdrew the handkerchief.
Even from this distance, Evelyn could see the blood on the cloth. “Sweet Lord,” she whispered.
“They say he has advanced consumption,” Jack said.
“Consumption!”
“He doesn't have long to live. That's why this troubles me. I don't think he's the murderer,” Jack said.
“Why?”
“He has no motive. He's been a widower for over ten years. He has no children. If he was having an affair with a notorious actress, and his sexual antics were detailed in her diary, who would care?”
“He's an earl. Society would still be harsh. Doesn't he have an heir?” she asked.
“A nephew that's currently in India. From what I understand, they were never close. Newland cares naught for the nephew save that the man is getting his title and fortune,” Jack said.
“You said yourself he's cracked. If he's mentally unstable, he could be dangerous,” Evelyn said.
“Yes. I've seen it before.”
Just then, Newland stopped his circuit and turned to where Jack and Evelyn stood partially concealed behind the tall gravestone. His lips twisted into a thin-lipped smile, and he took a step toward them.
Chapter 18
Evelyn gasped.
“Let's go,” Jack barked. “Now.”
“But—”
Jack grasped her arm and pulled her around. “Don't look back. Don't acknowledge him.”
With a firm hold on her elbow, Jack led her down the stone path between the graves. Evelyn rushed to keep up with his long strides.
“He saw us, Jack,” she said.
“Keep your hat on and your veil over your eyes. He has no idea who we are.”
“How can you be certain?”
“He thinks we are mourners come to grieve over another deceased.”
“Then why are we rushing away?” She was panting now, and they were only halfway down the stone path.
Jack's steps never faltered or slowed. “I don't want you seen up close and recognized. Whether Newland is Bess Whitfield's murderer or not, he is still demented.”
They reached the entrance of the cemetery and their hired hackney cab came into view. The driver spotted them, jumped down from his perch, and opened the door.
She had a mad urge to turn around to see if the earl had followed them this far.
“Don't, Evie,” Jack warned. He ushered her inside the cab, then gave the command to depart. The driver hopped into his seat and the carriage jerked forward.
She glanced out the window.
There among the last row of graves before the road, stood the Earl of Newland. His burning eyes, like those of a feral animal, took her completely by surprise, and she froze in her seat. Then he raised his hand and waved his bloody handkerchief at them.
 
 
In the thick stack of social invitations and legal correspondence on Evelyn's desk, one envelope stood out—not because of its costly, cream vellum, fine calligraphy, and gold-embossed seal, but because it bore the crest of Viscount Hamilton.
Evelyn broke the gold seal and tore open the envelope. Inside was a formal invitation for one of the most anticipated costume balls of the Season given by Cecilia Stanford, the Viscountess Hamilton. This was not just an ordinary costume ball. Cecilia hosted a masquerade where all the guests' identities were guarded with vigilance appropriate to top military maneuvers.
Evelyn was a friend of the Hamiltons' daughter, Georgina. A fourth-year debutante, she was close to twenty years old, just two years younger than Evelyn.
Georgina was an intellectual who read voraciously on the controversial subject of women's rights. Georgina had been quite vocal about not wanting a Season, but because of her family's social status, her wishes were ignored. Georgina's mother, Cecilia, a renowned hostess, had been aghast at her daughter's beliefs. She was determined to parade her reluctant daughter through Season after Season and find her a suitable husband.
Evelyn, like Georgina, hadn't any desire for an official coming out either, and because her father had not inherited the earldom until after she had reached the ripe old age of twenty, Evelyn had been spared.
Evelyn's mother might have impressed the importance of a Season on her daughter had she been alive, but she had died when Evelyn was an infant. Evelyn's father had been far too busy at Lincoln's Inn to concern himself with such frivolities. Evelyn had been grateful for her father's legal distractions.
An endless Season of balls, soirées, garden parties, masques, and Wednesday evenings at Almack's marriage mart at the mercy of its frightening patronesses, all in the hopes of finding a fitting husband, was not a fate Evelyn would wish for any lady, let alone herself.
No, she had found her match in Randolph, a man with whom she could hold an intellectual conversation without his needing to reach for his snuff box.
A sudden image of Jack Harding flashed through her mind. Would he seek a rosy-cheeked debutante as a bride?
Although Jack wasn't titled, he was very wealthy and many aggressive mamas of the
ton
sought out rich men before titled ones for their daughters. Ideally, a husband with both wealth and title was preferred, but if given a choice between the two, many went after money like bloodhounds during hunting season.
Jack didn't seem the sort to seek out a young, virginal debutante with an overreaching, interfering mother. What would he have in common with such a girl?
But then again, men acted completely irrationally when choosing a spouse. Perhaps Jack was after a wealthy wife from a respectable or titled family.
Evelyn frowned at her thoughts. Jack Harding's marital prospects were none of her concern.
She skimmed the rest of the invitation, noting that the masque would be held in a fortnight. The ball offered the perfect opportunity to learn more about the viscountess's husband.
Mary Morris, Bess Whitfield's dresser, had named Maxwell Stanford, Viscount Hamilton, as one of Bess's lovers. Unlike the mad Earl of Newland, Maxwell had a wife and daughter. Both would suffer from the humiliation if Bess's diary became public. The scandal sheets would relish printing any outrageous story about the viscount and the notorious actress. Gossip would be rampant.
In short, Maxwell had more than sufficient motive to kill Bess for her incriminating diary.
Evelyn wondered if either mother or daughter had any idea about the viscount's extracurricular activities with the actress. Perhaps they wouldn't be surprised. Many married men of the
beau monde
had mistresses.
Just as the wives had lovers.
Evelyn didn't want such a marriage for herself. She could not picture herself cuckolding her husband, and she knew she would be distraught if her spouse took a mistress.
She turned her attention back to the invitation. She had never wanted to be paraded about as a debutante, but she did enjoy an occasional masque or party, and Cecilia Stanford's yearly costume ball was one of Evelyn's favorites. Like all the guests, she could don a costume and shed a part of the rigid propriety that constrained members of polite society.
Evelyn contemplated what to wear. Cleopatra came to mind. She loved the Egyptian period.
She thought of Jack and wondered if he was on the guest list. What would he wear?
Instantly, Mark Antony sprang to mind.
Good Lord.
What was she thinking?
She didn't know if Jack was invited. She only knew that she wanted him there. The opportunity to observe Viscount Hamilton could be invaluable to their investigation. But if she were truthful to herself, that wasn't the only reason she wanted Jack Harding to attend.
She was becoming accustomed to having him around, and that was a bad, bad thing.
She shifted in her desk chair, reached for a piece of foolscap, and penned a note.
Mr. Harding,
Received an invitation to Viscountess Hamilton's costume ball. Will you attend?
Lady Evelyn
Evelyn needn't mention the viscount himself. Jack would make the connection to Maxwell Stanford, the viscount that Mary Morris had said was one of Bess Whitfield's lovers.
 
 
Hours later, Hodges entered the drawing room carrying a silver salver with an envelope addressed to Evelyn. She waited until the butler departed before opening the envelope. Bold, black script dominated the page.
No invite as of yet. What can you do?
 
Jack hadn't bothered to address the note or sign his name.
Shrewd barrister.
She tore his note into tiny pieces and threw it into the fireplace.
 
 
It had been weeks since Evelyn had last paid Lady Georgina Stanford a visit. Evelyn stood on the steps of a magnificent Berkeley Square mansion and raised the brass door knocker.
Within seconds, a dour-faced butler opened the door.
Evelyn looked up at the servant in surprise.
Hodges would have taken forever to reach the door, assuming he even heard the knock,
she mused.
“Good afternoon, Lady Evelyn. Lady Georgina is expecting you,” the butler said.
Evelyn stepped inside a stunning marble vestibule with a vaulted ceiling. Sparkling chandeliers holding dozens of candles drew her eyes upward. Sunlight from the open door bounced off the chandeliers' crystal prisms, creating magnificent iridescent images on the marble floor.
She followed the butler down the hall, past two sitting rooms and a music conservatory. Peering momentarily into each room they passed, she hoped to catch a glimpse of the viscount, but all were empty. She doubted whether he was in. Whenever Evelyn had visited in the past, he had never been home, and only rarely had she seen him out.
The butler opened a door into a formal drawing room, and Evelyn entered. Royal blue silk settees matched the curtains, and the same shade was in the Aubusson carpet. Priceless artwork from Dutch and Flemish masters Rembrandt, Jan Steen, Sir Anthony Van Dyck, and Peter Paul Rubens lined the walls.
Georgina Stanford stood as soon as she spotted Evelyn.
“Evelyn!” Georgina's face lit with a smile. She rushed over to embrace Evelyn. “It was such a pleasant surprise to get your note asking to see me.”
Evelyn hugged her friend. An attractive young woman with abundantly thick chestnut hair and hazel eyes, Georgina was tall, slender, and quick to smile. If she was a fourth-year debutante, it was not for lack of offers, but for lack of interest on her part.
The two women took seats side by side. A maid carried in a tea tray with scones and crumpets. Georgina poured two cups of steaming green tea and handed one to Evelyn.
Evelyn waited until the door closed behind the servant before speaking. “I received your mother's invitation to the masquerade ball.”
“I take it you are attending?” Georgina asked.
“It's my favorite event of the Season. What will you be?”
“I was thinking of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt,” Georgina said.
“Diana! Didn't Roman mythology depict her with one breast bared?”
“Exactly.”
Evelyn shot her friend an incredulous look. “Georgina Stanford, you wouldn't dare.”
“Why not? That would surely push Mother over the edge.”
“Who has she been pressuring you to marry now?” Evelyn asked.
“Lucas Crawford, the son of the Earl of Haverston.”
“Lucas Crawford is merely a boy.”
“Ah, but he is heir to the earldom. And from the looks of Haverston, he hasn't long to wait.”
“What will you do?”
“Thumb my nose at him. I've been meeting with a group of feminist women and we are currently reading Mary Wollstonecraft's book
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman,
in which she argues women are regarded inferior to men because of their lack of education. Even though Wollstonecraft has been dead now seventeen years, her ideas still provide endless fodder for discussion, and we currently are debating her beliefs on marriage.”
“The conversation must be fascinating,” Evelyn said.
Georgina's voice rose an octave. “It is! There are women in our group who believe the poets—including Byron—spout nonsense merely to trick young girls into believing in love. These girls then marry and sacrifice their identities, their very souls, to their husbands. Men are not taken over by such poetic fancy; rather, they use it in order to control women until they have legally relinquished all their rights in matrimony. They compare marriage to slavery.”
Evelyn laughed. “It doesn't sound like a group that would interest your mother.”
Georgina rolled her eyes and reached for one of the scones on the tray.
Evelyn felt an instant's guilt tighten her chest. What if Georgina's father
had
murdered Bess Whitfield?
Evelyn truly liked Georgina. They were friends, and friends didn't seek to harm each other. But then again, there was Randolph's very life to consider. He was an innocent man, and unlike the viscount, Randolph didn't have a title or wealth to favorably influence a Bow Street magistrate.
With renewed conviction, Evelyn tucked her guilt away and pressed on with her plans.
“Are your parents home today?” Evelyn inquired.
“No. Father is at one of his clubs as usual, and Mother is attending Lady Litmanson's garden party. I claimed a headache to escape Mother's constant nagging on the subject of Mr. Crawford.”
“Do you ever want to marry?” Evelyn asked.
“Only if there is a meeting of the minds.”
Evelyn thought of Randolph. “I understand.”

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