Chapter 1 #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 classical features and fashionable locks 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. Very attractive eyes. Intelligent. Expressive. This lawyer was not merely handsome, but handsome in a way that made fools out of women when they saw him.
She found her wits, lest she appear just such a woman. “Are you Lord Ywain Hemingford?” She had no idea how to pronounce Ywain. Surely not JA-wane, as the bawd had. She tried EE-wane instead. His subtle wince said she got it wrong.
“I am he. It is pronounced eh-WANE, by the way, at least by my family. There are half a dozen options. Almost everyone chooses the wrong one, so I long ago retreated into the name Ives. Think of me by that name, if it is easier.” His perfect mouth offered a half smile.
“By either name, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“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 criminal matters.”
“How did you know?”
“Because that is the only reason she would not want her name used, and because I believe you visited the prison today.” 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.
“Have you come to request a donation, perhaps to further a campaign to improve those conditions? I will contribute, but I must warn you that yours is a noble yet 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.”
“A budding reformer, are you?”
“There is much in our society that could use some reform.”
“As there has been in every society down through time.”
Oh, dear, he was one of those. The kind who saw no point in trying to better the present because such efforts in the past had failed. “I know history, sir. I have received a liberal education. With our superior knowledge, I think we can be more enlightened than our forefathers.”
He resettled himself in that chair, and angled his head.
“I would ask which reforms you want to see first, but let me guess instead.” His gaze scanned her from head to toe.
“Workers’ rights. Educational reform.” He scanned again.
“Universal suffrage, including the vote for women. If you are educated, you would not like being denied a right enjoyed by others who have no more training of their mental faculties than you have.”
“Your conclusion is accurate. However, my reasons are less elevated. I simply believe that since there are many men who now vote who are stupid and ignorant, there can be no logic in denying the right to any others, stupid or ignorant though they might be as well.”
He laughed lightly. An appealing laugh. Quiet. Warming. His eyes showed new depths. “I do not think I have ever heard it said that baldly before. Like a wily math tutor, you have insisted that a different equation be solved, one that puts me at a disadvantage should I want to disagree.”
His insight with that math tutor comment unnerved her. How had they veered onto this topic? “My opinions do not signify, of course. My original point was that not everyone in that prison is a criminal, so the suffering there cannot be excused.”
He offered that half smile again, no more. “Since you do not want money, and you do not want to discuss reforms, 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.”
He did not actually sigh at hearing this most predictable topic, but his expression retreated into one of bland patience. “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 one of his letters, 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 much engaged in his own pursuits. I could not visit, because I do not know where he lives in London.”
“Did you see him when you went to the prison today?”
“I was allowed to visit him. He is in a large cell with many rough fellows. He is unwashed and unshaven and frightened. I fear he will get ill there. So many others are sick.”
“Why was he put there?”
“He would not tell me. He only said to leave and not come back.” Her voice almost caught on the last sentence. The visit had been horrible. If an iron door had not separated her from Papa, she thought he would have physically driven her away.
The green of his eyes darkened while he thought. She did not take the pause as a good sign. Not at all.
“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 of 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. 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 sometimes betrayed her. Lord Ywain—Ives—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.
“I am 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 with skepticism.
She felt her best chance to help her father slipping away.
“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.”
He had not moved during her impassioned plea.
Those hands still rested at the end of the chair’s arms. Attractive, masculine 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 such as this one.
She was not an inexperienced young girl. She recognized the purpose of that gaze, and could imagine the thoughts that occupied part of his mind. A small part, she hoped. She trusted at least some of what she had said took root amidst his masculine calculations.
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 such a man hardly needed to take advantage of an accused man’s female relatives if he wanted to satisfy carnal needs.
However, she experienced some alarm and a good deal of confusion.
The latter resulted from the undeniable and inappropriate low stirring his attention evoked.
She did not want to acknowledge it, but it was there.
He was the kind of man who could do that to a woman, no matter how much she fought it.
“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 rifled through a thick stack of old mail, discarding it piece by piece, frowning while he sought the letter he wanted. Finally he found it.