Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] Read Free Page B

spare a wretched young man from transportation, if all goes well.”
    “Stubbs, to be sure. A well-meaning man, but his head’s nearly as soft as his heart. See that he’s prompt with your gratuity this time.” Westbrook gave a nod and half-salute to a passing gentleman in the silk robes of King’s Counsel. Burnham. Nick knew the name of every KC.
    “Indeed I took a lesson from the last time, and collected in advance. Mind you, I suspect it’s out of his own pocket. From what I’ve read of the boy I doubt he has either means or connections sufficient to engage a barrister. But you know how Stubbs is.”
    They both did. To rail at the eccentricities of this or that solicitor was a barrister’s pleasure and privilege, though he would never go too far in mocking Stubbs. Other solicitors, after all, had ceased to bring him clients since the events that had blemished his family name. Stubbs continued undeterred.
    “Well, I know you’ll give the client a fine, spirited defense.” The older man clapped him on the shoulder. Father had done that a very few times—he’d been a cerebral man, not much given to such displays—and to this day the action loosed a melancholy that went trickling throughhis veins. “Indeed that brings me to my purpose in seeking you. An opportunity has arisen that I think may suit your talents and inclinations. I won’t delay your arrival in court by telling you all about it now, but I wonder if you might come to the house for dinner. Mrs. Westbrook and the family would be glad to see you, and we could speak on my subject over a glass of port.”
    “I’d like that very much. It’s been too long since I’ve seen them. Let me bring the port. I just bought a new bottle of something fine.” He got the words out rapidly as they approached the gatehouse into Fleet Street. Westbrook, like any barrister, knew the value of efficient speech and wouldn’t think it brusque.
    They parted at the street and Nick made a mental note to buy port. And to ask one of his neighbors which sort was fine. He had better uses for his money than to be frittering it away on transitory luxuries, but hanged if he’d turn up empty-handed to dinner. Not when his host had four daughters to dower, and a son still living with him as well.
    Ah, the daughters. His pulse swung into a foolish little jig at the prospect of seeing Miss Westbrook. His pulse would never learn.
    The rest of him had learned all too well. It hadn’t wanted any scandal on his side to put Kate Westbrook beyond his reach—she’d put herself there from the beginning, and kindly left him in no doubt of the fact. His pride still smarted sometimes at the memory, when he allowed himself to dwell.
    So he would not dwell. Certainly not when there was an opportunity to be thought of. He’d turn his pondering there instead.
    What sort of opportunity? He wound through the usual crowd loitering outside the bail dock’s brick wall, curiosity kindling steadily as he went. Westbrook knew every detail of his circumstances; knew how heavily hispractice depended, these days, on the sorts of clients who couldn’t afford to be fastidious in choosing their representation; knew how the work dwindled during those periods when the criminal court was not in session. Maybe the opportunity had to do with a good long case in Chancery, or the Court of Common Pleas?
    The gate, the bail dock, the great courthouse door, and the corridors all went by in a pleasant blur, mere background to the question of what news he’d learn tonight over a glass of fine port. When he crossed the threshold into the courtroom, though, he put that question away. A client and his soft-hearted solicitor were depending on him, and until he left this room again he was entirely at their service.
    T RUE TO her word, Viola stationed herself under one of the great maples in Berkeley Square’s center, the very picture of righteous disapproval with her back turned to Harringdon House and her arms folded