Elyse Mady (15 page)

Her breath caught and she tensed, her hips rising in anticipation of she knew not what. Thomas thrust and thrust again, his rhythm compelling. Then he moaned her name, soft and low, and collapsed beside her, spent, his breathing easy, his vigour rewarded.

It was done.

Small frissons ricocheted round her body. She was bathed in sweat, the stuffy heat of the warehouse cloying against her damp skin. Lying over her, his wide chest against hers, she could feel his heart beating erratically. He seemed content to hold her, his hands stroking her hair as his manhood softened and slipped from her body.

Her course was set and she would not retrench. But even as she curled up beside him, a small part of her wondered at the ultimate cost. Of course, if Thomas loved her, it would be different.

But he did not and wishing would not make it so.

“Are you all right?” His voice was a little unsure. “I did not hurt you?”

Hurt was the furthest thing from her mind. “No. No, I am well.”

My heart is breaking, but I am fine otherwise.

“You are a remarkable woman.” He coiled his arms about her, his breathing even, and she tried not to let the tears spill over. He might discover them, even in the darkness, and then she would have to explain. She did not think she could. Not now, not after what had just passed between them. “And you will stay?”

It was the same thing he had said when he’d invited her into his home. This time she knew he was asking her to share much more. If she stayed, she would share his bed as well.

The risk to her heart was considerable, but the idea of living apart was so painful that anything to delay its inevitability was to be welcomed.

“Yes, Thomas. I will stay,” she whispered. She tried to distance herself but she could not. His grip was more than her strength was equal to. And so she closed her eyes, willing herself to remember every moment so that she might recall it in the years to come.

Chapter Twelve

Hester had spent the night in Thomas’s bed, creeping from it only as the dawn had broken.

His kisses, soft and winning, had robbed her of sleep and kept her awake until the wee hours. If the warehouse had been a moment of hasty, scrabbled need, what had transpired in his bedroom last night had been its opposite—a slow, languid satiety that left them both replete.

Finally, as the gaslight men had begun to extinguish the streetlamps, she had fallen into her own bed and into a fitful sleep, waking to find the morning nearly gone.

By the time she had dressed, broken her fast and convinced Mrs. Lytton of her determination to travel from the house on her errand, the afternoon was well advanced. George, not knowing she meant to be out today, had taken himself to the prison, and she had refused to send a note to Thomas at his office.

She was a rational creature. She could deal with the solicitor herself.

The address her brother had directed her to at their meeting yesterday was in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The hackney cab deposited her near the entrance to the public square, leaving her to walk slowly round its perimeter to search out Mr. Wooley’s offices.

The sight of an old woman emerging from between a narrow opening pushing a handcart of freshly picked vegetables, surprised her. Covent Garden and the Clare Market weren’t far, to be sure, but these looked too fresh from the ground to have been brought to the city from an Essex field.

Hester stepped aside to allow the woman room to pass and a flash of green caught her eye. She looked again. There, just behind the long row of boghouses—the latrines maintained for the square’s residents—she saw a small, open space and realized that a garden had been planted, eked out between the tall, narrow buildings that overlooked it.

“Freshest you’ll find, missus,” the woman boasted. Hester could see at a glance that the woman’s pride in her produce wasn’t misplaced. Holding out a bunch of carrots, she shook them gently at Hester and said, “Buy something for your supper?”

“No, thank you. I’m looking for number sixty-two. Do you know where I might find it?”

“Sixty-two?” The woman seemed sceptical, and Hester hastened to reassure her.

“Yes, I’m told Mr. Wooley, the solicitor, keeps rooms there.”

The vegetable seller spat on the ground then jerked her thumb towards the bogs. “They come at night, mucking out of yonder holes. Shame it is that they can’t cart all the filth away.”

“I beg your pardon?” Surely this woman wasn’t insinuating that Mr. Wooley ought to be removed? “The gentleman comes highly recommended to me. I did not ask your opinion, merely your assistance in making out his direction. If you will not stir yourself, I am sure I can locate him on my own.”

Hester moved away but her path was cut off by the woman’s arm, pointing towards the far end of the square. “Your troubles are your own, I’m sure. You’ll find him yonder, much good it’ll do ye.” Bundling her wares into the cart, she rattled away, the wooden wheels thudding unevenly against the cobblestones with every turn.

Perturbed by the woman’s vehemence, Hester hurried across Lincoln’s Inn. It was patently ridiculous to be overset by the cryptic warnings of a vegetable seller. She would put her faith in her brother’s judgement and not let her baseless apprehensions overwhelm her common sense.

Her confidence was rewarded when she met Mr. Wooley in person. Although his rooms were very modestly furnished and situated on the fourth floor, the man himself inspired the utmost confidence in his abilities.

He’d greeted her warmly when she’d finally appeared at his office door, ushering her in solicitously before stowing her in a chair across from his own. The gentleman was tall and thin and soberly dressed as befitted his profession. But his face, though no longer young, was animated and he moved his hands quickly, with great economy. Hester found herself smiling despite her worries, such was the aura of competence and fatherly reassurance that Mr. Wooley projected.

“Miss Aspinall, despite the circumstances, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you, sir. My brother has written, speaking equally well of you and I know how grateful he is to have your assistance in this serious matter.”

“It is a serious and sad business, to be sure,” Mr. Wooley agreed. He stood and made his way to the Rumford fireplace. He hung a small teapot from a hook, raked the coals until they glowed red again and then returned to his desk. “Your brother’s case is distressing in the extreme. That a young man of his character and unquestionable industry should be taken up, all unawares, in the dead of night. This is not the continent, where a man might be snatched from the streets without right of trial, condemned out of hand without a chance to present arguments in his own defence. Actions against an innocent tarnish the law’s lustre irredeemably.”

“You believe him innocent?” Hester’s relief at hearing the lawyer’s position, stated so unequivocally, was overwhelming.

“I make it my business never to take clients I believe to be otherwise.”

“Oh.” The breath wheezed from her chest like a worn squeeze box, as though a weight she had not known was pressing down on her was suddenly lightened. Wooley believed Robert was innocent.

Mrs. Hannaford didn’t.

Reverend Charlesworth certainly didn’t. Neither George Stroud nor his daughter were willing to extend the slightest hint of doubt.

Even Thomas seemed equivocal on the question of Robert’s guilt, more concerned with the immediate realities of Hester’s safety than that of her brother’s unjust arrest.

Wooley seemed perfectly able to understand her relief. “As you can see, my high standards have not brought me wealth.” He sighed, gesturing round the simple room. “Indeed, it has often caused others who share my profession to heap scorn up me. They do not scruple to take any case that promises a lucrative reward, but I believe that we solicitors ought to have a higher purpose than merely provocateurs in matters of civil discord, defending the guilty and enriching the litigious. Do not you agree?”

Hester nodded. “I do. I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Excellent. Then let us move on to the particulars of your brother’s case.” His eyes narrowed for a moment as he peered at Hester. “What do you understand my role in this venture to be, Miss Aspinall?”

“Your role?”

“Yes. My role.”

“You will defend my brother against these egregious charges. You will speak on his behalf in court and prepare the filings.” She knew there was paperwork and briefs to be written but she had no experience with the legal profession. Wasn’t it his job to tell his client what he was doing and not the other way round? He saw her confusion and lifted a reassuring hand.

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear. You have touched on some of my tasks but in others, let me enlighten you a little further.” He fiddled with a thick copy of
Leach’s
Case Law,
opening and closing the cover as he spoke. “While you are correct in assuming that I will be Mr. Aspinall’s staunchest advocate throughout the entirety of the process, I will not be speaking on his behalf at court. I am his solicitor.
Locus standi,
you understand.”

“I don’t understand.”

Wooley chuckled apologetically. “An overuse of the classics is a hazard of the profession, I’m afraid. In English, it means that I do not have the right to appear before the court. As such, I will be responsible for briefing the barrister, preparing any briefs or legal arguments we might present the presiding judges and interviewing witnesses to testify on his behalf.”

“Someone else will be representing my brother in court, but you will be compiling the arguments they present and speaking to anyone who might testify on Robert’s behalf?” Hester spoke slowly, trying to understand.

“Exactly.” Wooley beamed at her as though she had unravelled a particularly tricky problem.

“Who will that solicitor be? Shall I meet with him too?”
Shall I have to pay for him too?

“I have already approached a number of my colleagues, enquiring as to their willingness to argue on your brother’s behalf. Unfortunately, the notoriety of the case has made it more difficult than is typical.”

“No one will represent him?”

“No one will represent him yet,” Wooley replied. “But it is early days and many of my colleagues remove themselves from the capital during the summer months.”

“But if you cannot find someone willing—”

“Early days, Miss Aspinall,” he said again, sliding the heavy book he’d been fiddling with aside and looking down at the ink stained blotter it had been covering. “Now, this is a delicate matter and one I hesitate to broach with a young lady such as yourself, but on the matter of money…” Wooley’s voice trailed off apologetically. “There will be expenses I must incur if I am to mount a vigorous defence. I will make every economy possible of course but even then, some costs cannot be set aside.”

Hester took a deep breath and opened her reticule. “I have the twenty pounds you asked for, sir.” She laid out the paper notes Thomas had lent her. “We have borrowed it. I must marshal what remains of our savings, you understand. Robert cannot work at present and I must ensure that he is properly fed. If he were to fall ill in that dreadful place, I do not believe he would survive.”

“Yes, quite unwholesome.” With a quick gesture, the solicitor gathered the money and stowed it in a small strongbox. Now that he had received his retainer, he seemed slightly less jovial. Standing, he gestured at the door and Hester realized their interview was over.

Finding herself on the threshold, she hesitated. “Sir?”

“I am quite busy at present, my dear. I know you understand that.”

“Yes, but what is the next step? What are you to do now that we have retained you?”

“Do?” Wooley seemed surprised by her question. “Many things.” He did not offer any further details however and Hester grew frustrated.

“Such as?” She forced herself not to apologize for her impertinence. Wooley’s face darkened but his smile reappeared so quickly that Hester was sure she had imagined it.

“Your concern for your brother does you credit,” he commiserated. “I shall begin by investigating the events of his detention. Then, I will begin the process of interviewing the gentlemen who were present at the public house itself. I expect it will take me several weeks to meet with all of the individuals in question.” He paused, as though a thought had occurred to him but he did not elaborate.

“Yes?”

“If—ah—but no, I could not trouble you,” he demurred.

“What is it? Is it some way I can help my brother?”

“Indeed, but I can hardly ask one such as yourself to engage in such small tasks as I would require.”

“I will do anything and go anywhere if it means Robert’s freedom,” she said. “If there is a task you need, I will do it, no matter how humble or uncomfortable.”

“From time to time, I require an emissary. Someone who will deliver notes, take a reply and in whose discretion I can be assured. Often times, the messages are of a sensitive nature, or require judicious judgements that a mere errand boy cannot be expected to possess.”

“I would be happy to assist you. I will deliver or collect anything you require. You need only send me word.”

Wooley beamed, shaking her hand. “I am delighted. I will send word to your rooms as soon as I have need of you.”

The mention of the irascible minister dampened Hester’s delight. She swallowed and retrieved her hand from between Mr. Wooley’s. “I am not residing in Great Wild Street at present.”

Once again, an expression crossed the solicitor’s face so quickly that Hester could not identify it. For a moment, his eyes seemed cold and calculating. But the confusion that followed appeared so genuine that she knew she was only attributing to the older gentleman her own feelings of uncertainty about her unusual arrangement with Mr. Ramsay.

Thomas. He’d asked her to call him Thomas.

“No?”

She cleared her throat. “No, I am currently staying with a friend in Bruton Street, near Berkley Square.”

The address, so near to the fashionable quarters of Grosvenor and Portman Squares, not far from Hyde Park, was very good but Wooley expressed no surprise that Hester should claim acquaintance with anyone living in such style. Yet not even his silence could mask the questions in his eyes, and she had to work hard to prevent a blush rising beneath his speculative gaze.

“I will send word there. Until then, Miss Aspinall.”

“Until then.” She slipped from the room. As she passed down the plain staircase, a woman was making her way up. She was dark-haired, buxom and remarkably pretty, her face distracting admirably from the plainness of her roller-printed gown. She held a scrap of notepaper in her hand and as they moved around each other on the twisting landing, she consulted it.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. Do you know if a Mr. Wooley keeps rooms here?”

Hester gestured upwards. “Continue and you will see his door on your left.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.” Hester hurried down the steps, quickly forgetting the woman as the care for her brother commandeered her thoughts completely once again.