In the Barrister's Chambers (9 page)

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Authors: Tina Gabrielle

BOOK: In the Barrister's Chambers
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Chapter 13
On a busy Saturday evening, the Drury Lane Theatre could hold a little over three thousand people. Located in Covent Garden, the theater faced Catherine Street and backed onto Drury Lane. Built only two years earlier, it was the fourth Drury Lane Theatre on the site, the last having been destroyed by fire.
Jack's carriage pulled up, and Evelyn watched as a throng of theatergoers made their way inside. The newly installed gas street lamps illuminated the splendid clothing of the gentlemen and ladies dressed in high fashion. Some held opera glasses while others had playbills dangling from their gloved fingertips.
Rather than join the crowd, Jack directed the driver to turn onto Drury Lane in the rear of the building by the service entrance.
Evelyn turned to Janet who sat beside her. “Stay in the carriage. We'll be back shortly.”
Janet's brown eyes grew wide, and she swallowed hard. Reaching up, she nervously smoothed wisps of frizzy, brown hair that had escaped her tightly braided coronet. “Is it safe, m' lady?”
Evelyn smiled and touched Janet's hand. “Please don't fret. I'll be back shortly.”
Jack jumped down and assisted Evelyn. As they headed for the back door, he said, “Your maid doesn't approve of our clandestine activities.”
“She'll do as she's told,” Evelyn said.
“Ah, but where do her loyalties lie, Evie?”
Evelyn's stride slowed as she looked up at Jack. The lighting here was not as bright as at the front of the building since the expensive new gas lamps were not deemed necessary in the rear.
In the dimness, dressed entirely in black, Jack looked a dashing, but dangerous pirate.
“Don't worry, Jack,” she said. “My maid's loyalties lie with me. She'll not whisper a word to my father.”
He nodded, obviously satisfied with her answer. They came to the back door, and Jack reached for the handle.
At once the door swung open, and two men dressed in full costume as eighteenth-century noblemen stumbled out.
“'Ow the devil did I know they were plannin' to substitute Chester fer me? 'E don't know 'is arse from 'is head onstage!” the first actor said.
“Everything's been a bloody mess since Bess was murdered, what with the director changin' roles,” the second man responded.
Evelyn held her breath, but neither actor paid them any heed. Jack took advantage and pulled Evelyn inside. The door closed behind them, leaving the two disgruntled actors to themselves.
They stepped into a dimly lit corridor. The strains from the orchestra warming up its instruments for the night's performance echoed off the walls. Actors and stagehands with single-minded purpose rushed to and fro, in and out of dressing rooms and gathering their props—before the curtain was raised.
To Evelyn's surprise, no one stopped them, everyone obviously too consumed with last-minute preparations. It was Jack who reached out and grasped the sleeve of a short man with a determined expression who attempted to scurry by.
“We're looking for Mary Morris,” Jack said.
The man stopped short, his chest jerking with each indrawn breath. He clutched a clipboard tightly to his chest and eyed Jack with annoyance. “Who are you?”
“I'm Mary's brother,” Jack lied.
Jerking his head behind him, he said in a clipped voice, “Mary is in the second dressing room to the right. But I wouldn't bother with her tonight if I was you. She's been in a foul mood since the actress she worked for died. Mary's been lowered to dressing the seconds.”
Jack grinned. “Thank you for the warning.”
The man turned his back and scurried onward with a clipped stride.
Jack took Evelyn's hand and led her in the direction the man had indicated and stopped before a closed door. He rapped twice, then waited.
“What is it?” came a muffled voice.
Jack opened the door. A stout middle-aged woman, with steel gray hair and seamstress pins clenched between puckered lips, lifted her head and glared at them. She was hunched over, pulling the two ends of a gown together on the back of a skinny actress. With jerky movements, she removed the pins from her lips and proceeded to pin the actress's dress together. The bodice, clearly made for a more full-breasted woman, sagged drearily like two deflated balloons on the actress's chest.
“Bloody 'ell!” Mary swore. “Ain't nobody can fix this dress. You lack the titties to carry it off.”
The actress's kohl-lined eyes narrowed, and with an indignant huff, she lifted her skirts and swept past Jack and Evelyn out the door.
Jack stepped forward, and Evelyn followed close on his heels.
The dressing room was small and crammed with a rack full of costumes, shelves of hats, and a counter crowded with facial makeup, wigs, and hairpieces. It smelled of sweat, smoke, and face powder.
“Who are ye?” Mary demanded.
“My name is Jack Harding. I'd like to talk with you about Bess Whitfield.”
Two deep frown lines appeared between Mary's eyes. “Yer with the constable?”
“No. I'm a barrister, and this is a close friend of Bess's cousin.” Jack motioned to Evelyn. “Has Bow Street spoken with you?”
“Not yet. I was wonderin' what was takin' 'em so long.”
“They may not have thought to question you.”
“Word on the street is they know who killed 'er. Some university boy seen jumpin' from 'er window.”
“You don't sound convinced.”
“Bess could 'andle a boy like that.”
“You knew her well, then?” Evelyn asked.
“Bess was
my
actress. The day she walked in 'ere, I knew she 'ad what it took to make it big. Not like the dozens of girls that float through 'ere. Bess took a likin' to me. As she rose, my position in the theater rose with 'er. I owed 'er.”
“They say she had many lovers. Do you think one became jealous and killed her?”
“I couldna say fer sure. All I knew is she liked 'er men. All sorts of 'em. Titled nobility, rich merchants, and even young, good-lookin' stagehands. Poor thing was neglected by her father as a child, and sought male attention like a moth seeks a flame. I knew all 'er men, all except 'er longtime benefactor.”
“Her benefactor?”
“She kept 'im as a lover the entire time I knew 'er. 'E 'ad to be rich, probably nobility, fer 'e regularly sent 'er blunt and gifts, expensive ones too. But I never learned 'is real name.”
“Do you know why someone would want to kill Bess?”
“No. There were rivals at the theater, but none that would advance straightway if she was dead. They knew the director would 'ire outside the theater, and 'e did just that after Bess was killed.”
“Do you know if Bess had something to hide or something valuable? Something worth killing for?”
“None of 'er jewels were missin'.”
“Anything other than jewels or money?”
“She kept a diary, but she was real careful never to use 'er benefactor's true name. As for 'er other lovers, they were all there.”
“A diary? Do you know where it is?”
“It's missin'. I searched her dressin' room, but I knew it wouldn't be there. Bess always carried it with 'er.”
“Do you recall any of her admirers she might have written about in her diary?” Evelyn asked.
Mary shrugged. “I knew 'em all as I seen 'em come to visit 'er backstage.”
“Name them,” Evelyn said. “Please.”
“There was a fancy viscount with a curled mustache she called Maxwell, and the old, fat Earl of Newland. Then there was a well-spoken commoner with dark hair named Sam. Never did learn 'is last name.”
Evelyn took a quick breath of utter astonishment. “Maxwell Stanford, the Viscount of Hamilton, and Harold Kirk, the Earl of Newland!”
“There were others too. Some of the fools would pretend they were theatergoers who only wanted to meet Bess. Ha! As if old Mary can't tell when a man wants to bed a woman.” Mary's wizened eyes studied Jack, noting Evelyn standing close by his side. “Just like ye two.”
Evelyn took a step back. “We're not . . . lovers.”
“Not yet?” She turned a hard eye on Jack. “Then it won't be long by the look of 'im.”
Chapter 14
“Stop the carriage at the corner,” Evelyn said.
Jack leaned out the window and spoke to the driver. Moments later, the conveyance stopped down the street from Evelyn's home.
Evelyn grasped her maid's sleeve, then reached for the door handle. “Kindly take a walk around the block, Janet. Knock on the carriage door when you get back.”
Janet opened and closed her mouth like a fish, clearly surprised by the command. But at her mistress's stern stare, she scurried from the carriage.
Jack casually leaned back against the padded bench. He eyed Evelyn across from him, a knowing look in his eyes. “I take it you want a word with me alone?”
“I need to ask you something. When Mary Morris said she could surmise when ‘a man wants to bed a woman,' and she referred to your inclinations toward me, you did not rebuke her or deny it. Why not?”
His stare was bold as he assessed her frankly. “Do you want to know the truth, Evie?”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “For us to successfully work together there must always be the truth between us.”
Ever since they had left the theater, Evelyn had pondered what Bess Whitfield's dresser had said—and very little of what was running through Evelyn's mind had to do with the murdered actress.
Mary Morris was old and shrewd, far more experienced than Evelyn when it came to men. Mary's comment that Jack wanted Evelyn in his bed had taken Evelyn by surprise.
But more shocking was that Jack had not denied the accusation, had merely shrugged in acceptance.
Did Jack truly desire her?
Instead of dissecting the valuable information they had learned about Bess's past interests since leaving the dresser's presence, Evelyn had been consumed with getting Jack alone and questioning him on
his
interests.
A mocking smile crossed Jack's lips. He sat forward, resting an elbow on his knee. “You truly are a fascinating contradiction, Evie. You ask me about my desires and in the next sentence you bring up our working relationship. Are you completely ignorant of a man's baser needs?”
“I . . . I don't know what you mean,” she stammered, suddenly doubting her wisdom for bringing up the topic in such a forthright fashion.
The curtains were drawn, blocking out the street lamp, and in the dim light of the carriage, Jack suddenly seemed darkly illusive.
“I think you know exactly of what I speak.” His voice, deep and sensual, sent a ripple of awareness through her.
He reached out to lightly finger a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. His fingers, tapered and strong, continued onward, trailing a leisurely path down her neck.
She gasped at his touch, her heart drumming in her ears.
He leaned closer until she could see the flecks of gold in his jade eyes and feel his breath on her cheek. The scent of his cologne, sandalwood and cloves, filled her senses, and she sat perfectly still, entranced and weak-limbed. The idea to pull away did not enter her fogenshrouded mind.
Kiss me.
The traitorous thought snaked through her head.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. Tender and seductively persuasive, his tongue slid lazily across her bottom lip, and he sucked on its plumpness, before delving between her parted lips. Overwhelmed by the taste of the man, she opened to him, reveling at the first tangling of their tongues.
Her hands rose of their own volition to his arms, the superfine texture of his jacket smooth beneath her hands. She leaned forward, into the kiss, and when she grazed his hard chest, a delightful shiver of desire ran through her. Her fingers inched higher, touched his neck, then speared through his thick hair.
He growled, low and deep in his throat, and captured her face in his hands, ravaging her mouth. Whatever logic or propriety remained flew from her mind.
His hands caressed her shoulders, then lowered to trace the sensitive skin above the bodice of her gown.
At the first brush of his palm against the side of her breast, she quivered and arched closer. Perched on the edge of the bench with her heart hammering madly, her mind told her to resist, but her body refused.
And then he cupped her breast.
The heat from his palm through the material of her gown nearly melted her bones. His touch was light, painfully teasing, and the shock of it ran through her body. Her breasts instantly swelled; her nipples hardened.
Ah.
She wanted this . . . wanted more . . .
A loud rapping sounded on the carriage door.
Evelyn jerked backward like a stunned bird flown into a stone wall.
Jack cursed.
She reached for the door handle, then dropped her hand and touched her kiss-swollen lips. A horrid sense of shame and guilt flooded her veins.
She looked up at Jack. “We must never speak of this again.”
“Don't try to deny what you felt, Evie,” he said.
“It was a mistake, nothing more.”
His eyes were like bits of stone. “Do you feel the same when Randolph kisses you?”
She lifted her head in horror.
Dear Lord, poor Randolph! How could I have behaved so wantonly?
The rapping came again, more insistent this time.
Evelyn threw open the door, suddenly overcome with the need for fresh air and to escape the close confines of the carriage.
Janet stood outside, her pale face pinched. “M' lady?”
“Yes,” Evelyn answered.
“Shouldn't we return?”
“Yes, of course. Father will be waiting.” Evelyn made to step down with an urgency as if the carriage was on fire, when Jack grasped her arm.
“The step isn't lowered,” he pointed out sharply.
He jumped out before her, lowered the step, then offered her his hand.
She alighted with his aid, but when she tried to pull away, he refused to release her hand.
“We need to discuss what occurred today,” Jack said matter-of-factly.
For a heart-stopping moment, she believed he referred to their passionate embrace. But then she realized he meant what they had learned from Bess Whitfield's dresser.
By the smug grin on Jack's face, Evelyn suspected he knew of the true nature of her thoughts.
“I am available Monday,” she offered.
“I'll be at the Old Bailey.” Looking to Janet, he flashed a charming smile. “I'm certain Janet will enjoy viewing her first trial.”
 
 
Jack's gaze hardened on Evelyn's stiff back as she hurried down the street with her maid rushing to keep pace by her side.
His body was tense, the blood pounding in his veins.
What the bloody hell had he been thinking?
Frustration roiled deep within his gut. It was simple lust. Evelyn was a beautiful woman. She had stared him in the eye and questioned him about his base desires.
What man wouldn't grow hot and heavy in similar circumstances?
And yet he had tasted her, tasted the rising passion within her. Beneath her no-nonsense and straitlaced façade simmered a passionate nature that was as challenging as a swift-footed deer darting past a starving hunter.
Ah, and there's the rub, Jack-boy.
She was untouchable. Not to be dallied with. And not just because she was a client that could possibly compromise his legal ability, but because she was Emmanuel Darlington's daughter.
His former pupilmaster deserved Jack's utmost respect. Seducing his daughter in a carriage parked on the man's street was not the way to show his gratitude or respect.
Not to mention the fact that Evelyn intended to marry another man.
Jack's mouth set in a grim line. The more he learned of Randolph Sheldon, the more he thought Evelyn's choice was a bad match. Intellectually compatible, perhaps, but Jack was certain they lacked even the merest spark of passion.
Then there was the messy business of the brutal stabbing of Bess Whitfield. The criminal still roamed free. And most disturbing of all, Jack was not yet entirely convinced of Randolph's innocence.

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