Very Good, Sir. #2
Instead the man assessing her—there was no other word for the way his gaze took her in—could be no older than thirty or so.
He possessed classically handsome features and a fashionable mane of dark brown hair of an enviable hue.
He wore a long banyan that could pass for a greatcoat if not made of midnight brocade instead of wool.
An impressive man. His green eyes captivated one’s attention. Right now they reflected aloof displeasure. Very attractive eyes, however. Intelligent. Expressive.
She found her wits. “Are you Lord Ywain Hemingford?” She had no idea how to pronounce Ywain. Surely not Ya-wane, as the bawd had. She tried EE-wane instead. His subtle wince said she got it wrong.
“I am. You have me at a disadvantage, however.” Those eyes flashed a spark of impatience.
“My apologies. My name is Padua Belvoir.” She took in his informal dress. “I have intruded at the wrong time. I am sorry about that too. I have been so distraught I have not paid proper mind to the hour, and I could not rest until I sought the help I need anyway.”
“You told my man you were recommended to find me. May I ask by whom?”
By a prostitute in Newgate Prison. “I do not think she wants me to tell you her name.”
He strolled across the chamber. “I assume you are here regarding a criminal matter.”
“How did you know?”
“Because that is the only reason she would not want her name used, and because from the smell of you, you have recently been in Newgate.” Ever so calmly, he opened one of the windows. A crisp breeze poured in.
She felt her face burning.
“Please, do not be embarrassed. The prison is a fetid place,” he said. “I had a coat that had to be burned after I wore it there one summer day.”
“It is not only fetid, but horrible in every way. The conditions are disgraceful. The inmates are wretched.”
He settled his tall body into a chair near hers.
He sat in it like a king might sit on a throne.
His arms rested along the tops of its sides and his hands hung in front of its carving.
“I thought you had come to request a donation, perhaps in order to attempt to improve those conditions. Just as well you did not. It would be a noble but futile quest. People tend not to worry overmuch if criminals are not comfortable.”
“I am not here to ask for a charitable donation, although someday I hope to have the time to devote to such good causes. And not everyone in that prison is a criminal.”
“I assure you that most are.” He offered a half smile, no more. “Since you do not want money, perhaps you will explain what you do want.”
“I want your eloquence and skill to help my father, who has been so affected by prison that he is too weak to help himself. He has been wrongly accused of a crime.”
“How long has he been there?”
“At least two weeks, but perhaps a month. I only learned about it yesterday. I received a letter, from whom I do not know, telling me. Normally I receive news from him at least once a month. It has been some six weeks since I last received a letter, so I had become concerned.”
“Why did you not visit him, and see what was wrong, if the letter did not come?”
“We are somewhat estranged. There was no argument between us. He is just not by nature a warm man, and is much engaged in his own pursuits. I could not visit, because I do not know where he lives in London.”
More than somewhat estranged if you did not know where he lived. He did not say it, but she could see the reaction in his eyes.
“I went to Newgate to inquire after him. I was allowed to see him. He is in a large cell with many rough fellows. He is unwashed and unshaved and frightened. I fear he will get ill there. So many others are sick.”
“Why was he put there?”
“He would not tell me. I wonder if he even knows. If he does, he did not admit it, nor accept my offer of help. He told me to leave and not come back.”
“Miss Belvoir, I am sure you were dismayed to find your father in a cell with men unsuitable for polite society. However, if you do not know the crime with which he is accused, how can you know that he is wrongly accused? His refusal to speak of it even with you suggests the opposite.”
“My father is no criminal, sir. He is a scholar. He has taught at universities throughout the Continent and had a position as a teacher at Oxford until he married my mother. He spends all his time on his research and his books, and is more apt to argue over some debatable mathematical proof than politics. There can be no justifiable reason for him to be imprisoned, unless being an intellectual has now become a crime. A serious miscarriage of justice is about to occur.”
It poured out nonstop, the way her excitement often betrayed her. Lord Ywain just sat there, listening, exerting a presence that crowded her despite his sitting six feet away. He did not appear especially interested.
“You are sure of this?” he said.
“Positive.”
“And yet you do not even know where he lives in London.” His words did not dismiss her outright, but his expression almost did. His eyes had narrowed over his smile in a way that suggested he had heard petitions like hers from relatives many times in the past.
She felt her best chance to help her father slipping away.
“I beg you not to think his silence is an admission of guilt. He is a proud man, and I think he is too embarrassed to let me know the details and hoped I would remain ignorant and think if he disappeared he had fallen in the river, which, with his tendency to distraction, would not be unthinkable.”
“Miss Belvoir, I have known innocent people who initially took that stance with relatives. It never lasts three days in Newgate, let alone two weeks or more. The guilty, on the other hand—”
“I told him that his silence was foolhardy. That is why I am here. I was told that some people have lawyers at their trials now. I was told that you at times speak for those accused.” Slow down.
Stop gushing words. “My father is incapable of defending himself, and may even be unwilling to do so. The accusations are insulting, and he is the sort to refuse to engage in the insult by refuting it.”
Lord Ywain had not moved. Those hands still rested at the end of the chair’s arms. Nice hands, as handsome as his face.
His gaze had not left her, and the shifts regarding what he looked at had been subtle but unmistakable.
Not only her face had been measured. She did not think she had been as closely examined in her life, let alone by a man like this one.
In a different circumstance she might be flattered, but the bawd’s words made the attention dangerous.
He did not appear of a predatory nature, and a man like this hardly needed to take advantage of an accused man’s female relatives if he wanted to satisfy carnal needs.
However, she was not accustomed to attracting the less despicable version of that kind of attention, so it raised some alarm and a good deal of confusion.
“You do not know the accusations, so you cannot say they are insulting,” he said.
“Any accusation of a crime would be insulting to a man like my father. If you met him you would understand what I mean. Hadrian Belvoir is the least likely criminal in the world. Truly.”
The smallest frown flexed on his brow. His attention shifted again, to the inside of his head. She ceased to exist for a long moment. He stood abruptly. “Excuse me, please. I will return momentarily.”
Then he was gone, his midnight banyan billowing behind him.
* * *
Hadrian Belvoir.
Ever since his visitor introduced herself, an indefinable something had nudged at Ives. The pokes implied he should know her, yet nothing about her was familiar.
Hadrian Belvoir. That name did more than poke.
He strode up to his private chambers, to a writing desk there where he dealt with personal letters. He pawed through a thick stack of old mail, discarding it piece by piece, frowning while he sought the letter he wanted. Finally he found it.
He flipped it open and held it near the lamp. There that name was, buried amidst a casual communication. You can expect to be asked to be Prosecutor for a Hadrian Belvoir, once his case is brought forward.
He checked the date. This had been written a month ago.
No wonder the name had not been in the front of his memory.
If Mr. Belvoir resided in Newgate Prison, why had this informal approach not turned into a formal one by now?
It was possible his victims had hired their own prosecutor, of course, but if that were likely, this sentence would never have been written.
Whatever the situation, it was time to inform Miss Belvoir that she must look elsewhere.
He returned to the office and the bright-eyed Miss Belvoir.
He had realized, while she talked and talked, that her eyes sparkled even when she did not cry.
He had also calculated that if she stood she would be very tall.
An idle curiosity had crossed his mind, about what it was like to take a very tall woman.
His mind had pictured it, making the necessary adjustments . . .
Probably just as well if she looked elsewhere.
No sooner had he walked into the chamber than she started again. “I think you can see that a great injustice will occur if my father does not receive your help, sir. I beg you to consider accepting his case. I am prepared to pay you whatever fees you require.”
Not likely, from the looks of that dress and spencer. “Miss Belvoir, allow me to explain that I will be accepting no financial remuneration from you or anyone else for defending in this matter.”
She went still. Her lips parted in surprise. He felt bad that she was shocked at his refusal, but there was nothing else for it.
“I see.” She stroked her hands nervously over her lap. “I was told that with the Old Bailey, things are often done differently. When it comes to lawyers, that is.”