Chapter Twenty-Seven
“This is a somewhat unusual request, Lord Devereaux.”
Charles looked up from the sheaf of papers emblazoned with the legend Stockton & Stockton and raised his eyebrows.
“Of course,” the lawyer continued, “you employ me to follow your instructions rather than comment on your decisions.”
Charles gestured to John. Excellent. The fool understands what I pay him for.
Stockton tilted his head until he was looking over the lenses of his circular-framed spectacles.
“Lord Devereaux says that he is determined in his decision,” John said.
“Your wife is already adequately provided for, Lord Devereaux. Her brother settled a substantial annuity on her at Drummonds Bank. He negotiated a very generous interest rate.”
That’s her brother’s business. This is mine. I’ve no wish for her to be dependent on anyone should she outlive me, not even her brother.
Charles nodded to John, who conveyed his words.
“She’s a countess, Lord Devereaux,” the lawyer said. “She’ll want for nothing.”
Charles raised his hands. I want to be absolutely sure. My brother is my heir.
“Heir presumptive,” Stockton said after John translated. “Your wife might produce an heir herself. And you might outlive her.”
In the event that neither occurs, I must ensure that she will not suffer even the slightest risk of destitution.
The solicitor’s eyes widened after John responded.
“Very well, Lord Devereaux. I applaud your consideration. Few husbands are concerned for the welfare of their wives should they predecease them.”
Charles raised his eyebrows, and the solicitor let out a soft chuckle.
“Most men of your rank believe they’ll live forever. If you don’t mind my speaking out of turn, you must have a high regard for your wife.”
Charles frowned. I don’t pay you to give me your opinion.
John let out a laugh.
“What did his lordship say?”
“Nothing he’s not said to me, Mr. Stockton,” John said. “He appreciates your opinion—an opinion that I share myself.”
That’s enough, John. Must I remind you what I pay you for?
John ignored Charles’s gestures.
“Hmm.” Stockton tapped his pencil on the desk, then leaned back. “Very well—I shall proceed as directed.”
He scribbled on his notepad, then picked up a bell on his desk and rang it.
“I should have the formal papers drawn up regarding your will in a week or so, then it’s a matter of having the document signed and witnessed.
As to the transfer of the outstanding portion of your wife’s dowry into your account, it might take rather longer depending on whether the Duke of Whitcombe is in Town, given that the documents will require his signature.
I shan’t impugn your honor by referring to the terms of the marriage contract upon which the remaining ten thousand depended.
That is a matter between yourself and His Grace. ”
Or, more to the point, a matter between Charles and his wife.
“Have you seen His Grace in Town?” Stockton asked.
Charles shook his head.
“We’re only recently arrived in London,” John said, “and Lord Devereaux prefers not to attend social events.”
“How long are you staying?”
“As long as necessary,” John said.
But no longer, Charles signed.
How was it that after only a few days, he already found himself missing his wife? Did she miss him also? Or had she not forgiven him for his crassness?
In claiming her body, Charles had gained far more than mere cash. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of her body, soft and pliant beneath him, and her tight warmth that promised sweet pleasure, rather than mere base satisfaction…
He glanced up to see the solicitor staring directly at him, understanding in his eyes, his lips lifted in a slight curve, as if…
…as if the man, damn him, knew that Charles was sporting a painful erection in his breeches.
Charles crossed his legs, and Stockton’s smile broadened.
The door opened and the clerk entered.
“Ah, Billings,” Stockton said, “would you have these documents drawn up, and bring a bottle of brandy.” He glanced at Charles. “Unless you prefer port? But I have a rather fine Armagnac that I keep for my most important clients.”
Bloody fool. I’ll wager he says that to every client.
“Lord Devereaux says he would very much appreciate a brandy, Mr. Stockton,” John said, smiling at Charles’s gestures. “He also asked if you’d be kind enough to permit his valet to have a glass also.”
“Very well. Three glasses, if you please, Billings.”
Impudent bastard, Charles signed.
John signed back. Me, or the lawyer?
Both.
The solicitor watched their exchange, a smile of amusement on his lips. Shortly after, the clerk returned with three glasses half filled with a deep amber liquid. Charles gestured to his valet.
I wonder why he doesn’t keep his brandy in his office.
Stockton let out a laugh. “Because I don’t offer my best brandy to just any client. Do I, Billings?”
The clerk’s expression clouded with confusion and the lawyer chuckled once more then dismissed the clerk.
“How did you know…?” John asked.
Stockton smiled. “Contrary to what you might think, a lawyer doesn’t merely draft legal documents. The chief objective of a lawyer is to earn a client’s trust. He must therefore understand his clients’ wishes and desires, as well as their deepest needs.”
What is my deepest need?
Stockton’s smile broadened. “Justice.”
Any lawyer can make that claim.
“I see from your expression that you doubt my conclusion?” Stockton said, taking a glass from the tray. He gestured to the remaining two glasses. “Please.”
Charles picked up a glass and took a sip.
“Justice is something that every lawyer is expected to serve,” Stockton said.
“However, in my experience, most clients don’t seek true justice.
Instead, they seek to further their own ends and act in the spirit of what suits them best, even if it’s detrimental to the wellbeing of others. Whereas you, Lord Devereaux…”
Charles paused, his glass at lips.
“Whereas you,” the lawyer continued, “wish to act in accordance with the true spirit of justice. Justice for your tenants, which redresses years of neglect.” He sipped his brandy.
“Of course, I mean no disrespect to your father. And, of course, justice for your wife to redress the imbalance imposed on us by a society where one’s advantages are as a result of birth and sex rather than merit. ”
Devil’s breeches, had the man managed to crawl into Charles’s soul?
“I’m sure that many of my clients would act in accordance with similar principles had they the means—or rather, had they access to a substantial dowry from the Duke of Whitcombe. But you have my good opinion, Lord Devereaux, whether you value it or not.”
Stockton raised his glass. Charles did likewise and clinked his glass against the lawyer’s, nodding to John to do likewise. Then the three men drained their brandies.
“I shan’t keep you longer than necessary if you’re anxious to return to your wife, Lord Devereaux. Billings can send a message as soon as the documents are ready.”
“Lady Devereaux is not in Town,” John said.
“A pity,” Stockton replied. “In which case, I’ll do everything I can to ensure the documents are prepared as quickly as possible so that you may return to her. It’s never wise to leave a bride alone for long. In the meantime, I trust you’ll enjoy your stay in Town.”
Did the lawyer’s voice carry a note of judgment?
Perhaps Charles should have brought Olivia with him. But she disliked Society even more than he. And his lodgings were hardly suitable for a woman. For one thing, there was only one bedchamber.
Though that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.
He drew in a sharp breath to temper the surge in his groin. His body might be ready for her again, but hers…
Though he’d tried to be gentle with her, Charles hadn’t missed the glimmer of fear in her eyes despite her pleading with him to take her, nor the sheen of pain that she’d tried her best to hide.
Their business concluded, Charles rose, and Stockton ushered him out of the office and escorted him to the door, where the bright sunshine of the London morning awaited him, reflecting off the bone-white facade of the buildings. He climbed into the waiting carriage and his valet followed.
“Where to?” John asked. “Savile Row, perhaps?” He gestured to Charles’s jacket. “You could do with a new suit—the moths have got to that one.”
Whose fault is that? Aren’t you supposed to take care of my jackets?
“You’ve had that jacket for years, sir. I’ll wager it’s even older than your wife.”
Charles let out a sigh and glanced out of the window at the passing buildings, which grew increasingly less ostentatious en route to Cheapside.
“Something must have unsettled you if you’re not threatening to dismiss me for impudence,” John said. “In fact, you’ve not made such a threat for two days. Since…”
Charles snapped his head around and glared at the valet.
Go on, John, I dare you.
John met his gaze and nodded in understanding.
Charles’s intimacy with his wife had unsettled him—not just because of the guilt he’d felt at taking her, but from the faint rush of pleasure that had swelled inside him as he claimed her body.
But, unlike every previous encounter with a woman, their coupling hadn’t been just a primal act of a male marking his female.
It was something else. A union of bodies…
perhaps even the beginning of a union of souls.
“If I’m permitted to express an opinion…” John began, and Charles gestured in return.
Since when have you felt the need to ask permission to force your opinion on me?