Chapter 19
Wallace Champlin had been working in the law offices of Hampton and Crowley for seven years and prided himself on knowing the difference between a gentleman and a pretender. But the man standing before him had him a bit baffled. He had none of the arrogance of an aristocrat, but his clothes were of the finest material and the cut near perfection. If he were not a member of the ton, he was certainly a man of means.
He held himself stock-still, hands thrust behind his back, eyes devoid of emotion. His speech was educated, but had a slight, almost foreign-sounding accent. Most people, he thought, would not hear it, but Wallace was a bit of an expert on dialects. French? Italian? Definitely continental. He was soft spoken and yet commanding, his gaze not quite direct.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
The man clenched his jaw as if he’d asked an impertinent question. “No.”
“I’m afraid I cannot accommodate you, then.” Wallace made a great show of looking through Mr. Hampton’s appointment book, languorously flipping through page after page. “The first opening I have is in five weeks.” He looked up expectantly, surprised to see a thunderously angry expression developing on the man’s face.
“That is unacceptable.”
Wallace gave the man a tight smile. “I’m afraid it’s going to have to be.”
“I do not think Mr. Hampton will be pleased to know you have put off the future Duke of Kingston. I suggest, sir, that you tell him Lord Hathwaite is here to see him about a long-term arrangement.”
Wallace’s eyebrows nearly disappeared beneath his stringy bangs, not only from the tone, but the fellow’s claim. “You are Lord Hathwaite? But you introduced yourself as
Mr.
Alexander Wilkinson,” he said, stressing the common title. “I beg pardon for the mistake.” Again, the man clenched his jaw and Wallace thought he detected a slight bunching of his shoulders. Fear sliced through him as he recognized the strength and power of the man—and his obvious anger. There were many things the secretary was, but brawny was not one of them.
Wallace stood abruptly, still uncertain what or whom he was dealing with. The man in front of him was not Lord Hathwaite. He knew Lord Hathwaite. Well, didn’t actually
know
him, but had seen him on occasion accompanying his father into their rival’s office. Lord Hathwaite was blond and not quite as large as this man. This man looked more like the duke than Lord Hathwaite, actually... Now that gave him pause.
Sensing that Mr. Hampton just might be angry if he sent this man away, Wallace knocked on his employer’s door and waited to be beckoned into the richly appointed office. “Yes, Mr. Champlin, how can I help you?”
Wallace smiled, glad that he’d decided to send this particular problem to Hampton instead of Crowley, for Hampton was a far more agreeable sort.
Wallace closed the door quietly behind him. “There is a man outside claiming to be Lord Hathwaite but I know for a fact that it is not Lord Hathwaite. But he is also claiming to be Alexander Wilkinson, and I do know that is the surname of the Duke of Kingston.”
Hampton smiled as if delighted by this puzzle. “You don’t say. Interesting.”
“I thought so. I nearly sent him away, for obviously he is not who he says he is. But I thought you might be interested in speaking with him. He does bear a striking resemblance to the duke, sir, if I say so myself.”
“I am intrigued,” Hampton said, his smile growing. “Do send him in.”
Alexander squeezed his hands together and took a deep and shaking breath. He’d nearly vomited in the alley before walking up the stairs just thinking about talking to the attorney. Being in London was nerve-wracking enough; obtaining a room in a fine hotel, making an appointment with a tailor (he’d gotten a recommendation from the hotel’s concierge), donning these fine clothes, getting a shave and haircut from the valet the hotel provided. He felt foolish, like the pretender everyone thought he was. And every time he forced himself into a new situation, he had to force himself to act like a normal person, even though inside he was rather petrified.
Now he was to meet with a solicitor, make a case for himself, convince someone else that this impossible quest was possible. He swallowed again when the door opened with a soft
snick
.
“Mr. Hampton will see you now,” the secretary said sedately, as if the man hadn’t been looking at Alexander moments before as if he were quite mad.
“Thank you.”
Alexander walked through the thick paneled door into an office lined with leather-tooled books and richly upholstered furniture. A huge mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface covered with portfolios much like the one he held in his sweating hand. Sitting behind it was a man gone bald, but with eyebrows so bushy one would need a comb to get them in their current uplifted position.
“My secretary informs me that you have an interesting story,” he said with a smile that seemed oddly out of place.
“I do, sir.” And then Alexander proceeded to tell him his story in precise detail, starting with his youthful affliction and the death of his older brother. The more he told, the further forward the man sat, until he was sitting with one elbow braced on his desk, his chin resting on his thumb. When Alexander was finished, he passed the solicitor the portfolio, which the man perused slowly and thoroughly without uttering one word. Finally he put the leather case aside and gave Alexander a long, hard look, as if he could determine whether or not he told the truth simply by looking at his person.
“We will never win,” Hampton said finally, and pushed the leather portfolio back toward Alexander.
Sharp disappointment stabbed at him. From what he had determined, this was one of the finest solicitors in London, second only to his father’s firm. He wanted and needed the best if he was to take his father on and claim his rightful place.
“We don’t have to win,” Alexander said. “We only have to make my father believe we can.”
Hampton sat back and pressed his lips together, a glint of admiration in his intelligent brown eyes. “I’d be taking on one of the most powerful men in England and one of the most powerful solicitors as well,” he said, as if the prospect of doing so wasn’t unappealing. Then he shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know if we can take that risk.”
“But if you win, this firm will be solicitor for one of the most powerful titles in England.”
Hampton smiled slowly. “This is very true. Stay here, young man,” he said, having come to some decision, “and let me meet with my partner. I can’t make such a large decision without his input. Do you have any other appointments today?”
“No, sir.”
Hampton took up a copy of the
Times
that was folded on his desk and handed it to Alexander. “This may take a while.”
Elsie stared at the
Times
, anger filling every bit of her body, even though she knew the duke and her father had insisted on formally announcing her engagement. Yesterday was to have been her birthday ball, and in keeping with their plans, her father had allowed the announcement of her engagement to Lord Hathwaite to run.
She had no way of contacting Alexander to warn him the announcement was going to run and she prayed he did not read the
Times.
How wretched he would feel to read those words. She felt completely helpless, for she had no idea how to reach Alexander or even where he was.
No amount of pleading or tears could convince her father to stop the announcement. It was purely maddening to see that her father, who truly believed Alexander loved her, continue with this false engagement.
“I will not marry Hathwaite no matter what the paper says,” she raged, trying to shout but unable to because she was still so out of breath.
“Don’t get overly excited,” her father said, with such kindness Elsie wanted to scream.
“I am marrying Alexander. On second thought, this announcement is fine, for Alexander
is
Lord Hathwaite.” She stared daggers at her father, praying he would say something to contradict her words. She was angry and wanted to be angry, wanted to scream and cry and rant about how hopeless she felt in every way.
“Have you heard from him?” her father asked, even though he obviously knew she had not. And perhaps that was the reason she was most angry.
“No, as well you know,” she bit out.
“I’ll let you rest,” he said, getting up, and a terrible thought came to Elsie.
“Father. You wouldn’t keep his correspondence from me, would you?”
“As much as I believe it would be in your best interest, I would not.”
Slightly mollified, Elsie watched her father go, a scowl on her face. She hated feeling so helpless, so weak and ill. It was maddening to be stuck in this bed, unable to play with Mary, unable to walk unassisted to the necessary. Poor Missy was being run ragged, even though she never complained.
This illness, whatever it was, was unlike anything Elsie had ever had before. She thought once she started getting better, she would rapidly improve and be up and about in a day or two. But it had been a week since Alexander had left and she still could not walk on her own, her vision was still slightly blurred, and she found it tiring sitting up for too long.
Missy came in and laughed. “You’re looking grumpy as usual, Miss,” she said, sounding far too happy for Elsie’s ill humor. “I’ve brought the morning post.”
That did bring a bit of a smile. Even though she still had trouble reading some of the longer correspondence, she enjoyed going through the missives and get well wishes. Perhaps today, finally, there would be something from Alexander. Flowers had arrived for her nearly daily and her room was filled with the arrangements. The three lovely bouquets she’d had from Lord Hathwaite had been placed outside her room, for they made her feel decidedly uncomfortable.
Elsie flipped through the letters, and paused, finding one with bold handwriting and a small drawing of a fairy on it. “Alexander,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She opened the letter, squinting her eyes so that she might read the words better.
I hope this letter finds you well. I hated to leave you while you were still so ill, but am driven to act so that we may be together always. You are forever in my thoughts, from the moment I awaken, to the moment I close my eyes at night. I will return to you as soon as I have news. I have found some success, but need more time. I am heading to London to hire a solicitor. I will forward you my address when I arrive.
I love you always,
Alexander
Elsie held the letter to her lips, knowing that he had touched this paper, had held it in his hands, had warmed it with his skin. And then, even though it was brief, she read it again, smiling at the words he’d written.
“Why, yes, that handsome man over there painting a masterpiece and playing Mozart at the same time really is my husband, the Marquess of Hathwaite.” She giggled, feeling better than she had in days. He loved her. He would succeed. He would return to her. Truly, all was well in the world.
The Right Honorable Lord Huntington
announces the engagement of his daughter,
The Honorable Elizabeth Stanhope,
to The Most Honorable The Marquess of Hathwaite
and son of His Grace, The Duke of Kingston.
Alexander read the announcement and stopped breathing for perhaps five beats, until he realized that her father had had no choice but to make the announcement. At least he hoped that was the case. Still, seeing those words inflamed the panic already growing in his breast. If Mr. Hampton rejected his case, he would be forced to go to another and another firm until he found someone to hire. No doubt, the less influential, the less likely the solicitor would be to take on such a fight.