26. From Bitter Rivals to Unlikely Allies
From Bitter Rivals to Unlikely Allies
“Though I share your distaste for the fellow, Miles,” observed Alex, as they returned to Grosvenor Square, “we cannot permit personal animus to cloud our judgment. If Creswell can ensure the success of our case, then we must at least give him a chance.”
Reluctantly, his brother agreed, and a summons was dispatched to Lord Creswell’s residence.
He presented himself that very evening. The sound of footsteps in the hall silenced the three gentlemen awaiting him in the library.
The door swung open a moment later, admitting Lord Edwin Creswell, who was ushered in by Alston.
Creswell’s gaze swept the room before landing on Miles by the hearth—the man who had temporarily stolen Miss Harrington’s affections from him. His hound, looking decidedly the worse for wear, slumbered upon a cushion at his feet.
Then there was Alex, standing at ease as though he owned the air in the room. He was likely his true nemesis if he correctly judged Miss Harrington’s demeanor at the ball.
The third occupant he recognized as the foreign brute, who had dared to lay hands on him at the charity ball. Resentment smoldered beneath Creswell’s polished facade. There was tension in his bearing, a wariness in his posture.
“Gentlemen,” he said, inclining his head. “You summoned me?”
“Creswell,” Alex said genially, rising to his feet. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Your note, Sinclair, alluded to some requirement for—ah—my services. I confess I am at a loss as to what those might be.”
“Indeed. You must forgive my ignorance, sir. Due to my extended time abroad, I hadn’t heard of your esteemed reputation in the legal circles. It was only today that I learned about your achievements.”
“Ah, that,” he said, with a negligent wave. “Since assuming my title, I have abandoned such pursuits. But you flatter me, Sinclair, to mention them.”
Miles glowered by the mantle, vexed by the man’s airs. “Well then, call it a night,” he said dismissively. “If you’ve given up practicing there’s no point going on.” He sank into a squat to pat his loyal companion. “We’ll find someone else.”
“Just a moment, brother.” Alex gestured his guest towards the leather chesterfield. “We have a matter of grave importance to discuss, Creswell. I trust you will treat it as such. Perhaps we can persuade you to dust off your talents for a good cause.”
“If you’ll promise to dust off your manners,” he said, looking at the Dutchman and Miles. “I’m ready to oblige you.”
“Of course, sir. The events of last Saturday night were regrettable. On behalf of the count and myself please accept our apologies. For my sake, what passed between us need not be mentioned again.”
Before sitting, Creswell inclined his head with finality. “Let us agree that the incident remains in the past—where, I trust, it belongs.”
Alex procured a green bottle from his desk and extended it toward the barrister for his perusal.
Creswell drew back a hairsbreadth. “No thank you, Lord Sinclair. I make it a rule never to drink after supper.”
Unperturbed, Alex tilted the bottle so the label caught the light. “You mistake me, sir—I wouldn’t dream of tampering with your constitution. Though I assure you, it’s not your palate I’m appealing to—but your eyesight.”
Creswell frowned locating his quizzing glass, which he applied to the red scrawl across the label. “ ‘Patrons Only,’ ” he read aloud. “Pray, what particular significance am I to divine from this?”
“This bottle was confiscated from the depths of the Bittermanns’ cellar,” Alex explained. “We suspect other bottles bearing similar labels have been served to unsuspecting patrons at the Sixes & Sevens establishment.”
Lord Creswell’s countenance darkened.
“My apothecary,” Alex continued, extracting a document from his pocket, “has confirmed that this wine is laced with opium. Under its influence, Lord Creswell, my brother has been victimized by the Bittermanns’ schemes to ensnare him into heavy debt.
Wilberforce, having the highest opinion of your legal acumen, proposed you as our advocate when the matter is brought before the King’s Bench. ”
Surprise flickered across Creswell’s face. “Wilberforce?” he echoed. “As in William Wilberforce?”
“The very same. When he heard of the matter, he was kind enough to summon Mr Dolben—”
“Billy Dolben?” Creswell interrupted. “Lord. Is that barnacle still issuing warrants?”
“He is,” Alex replied with a faint smile. “And he will shortly be issuing one for the Bittermanns—quietly, of course, before they catch the scent and scuttle back to whatever Continental hole they last emerged from.”
Creswell seemed impressed. “You’ve done this rather efficiently for men unacquainted with the law.”
“We’ve had able assistance,” Alex said. “And now we seek yours. We’ll need someone to manage the legal proceedings—someone who knows the terrain. Wilberforce suggested your name.”
“I imagine he said something about my fondness for lost causes,” said Creswell, flattered.
“He did,” Miles affirmed, “especially regarding crimes of cruelty towards animals.”
Creswell gave a slow nod of understanding. “I see. Would one of you please oblige me with the complete tale?”
The catalog of offenses was laid out as Creswell listened attentively. He endured it all with a languid poise, one brow faintly arched, as though the entire business was in questionable taste. When at last the recital concluded, the evidence was arrayed neatly upon the low table before him.
He leaned forward, lifting his quizzing glass with delicate disdain to inspect the apothecary’s report.
“The Bittermanns, it seems, have not been idle,” he said dryly.
“Nor, I daresay, have you—in assembling these charming artifacts.” His voice, though cool, bore a fractional edge.
He glanced around the room, his gaze passing over each gentleman in turn.
“Now then, gentlemen, do we seek justice—or mere retribution?”
“Both,” Miles responded without hesitation.
“We should be very glad,” Lord Sinclair clarified, “to see their doings at Sixes & Sevens brought to a halt—and the pair of them safely lodged behind bars. They’ve proved to be a blight upon every society they enter.”
Creswell, leaning back in his chair, steepled his fingers, pondering the weight of evidence. “Gentlemen, allow me a moment, if you will, to play devil’s advocate. If I was Lilith being accused of these crimes, how could I dismantle your case?”
“By lying through her teeth,” said Miles flatly.
“Outright falsehoods are the tools of the desperate. A skilled schemer like Lilith Bittermann does not fabricate—she’ll have her barrister direct the court’s attention elsewhere. Take, for instance, this bottle. Where was it found?”
Alex exchanged a glance with his brother. “In the cellar,” he supplied.
Creswell nodded, as though indulging a pupil.
“Precisely. A communal space, accessible to any number of persons, including masquerading wine merchants making deliveries. And you expect the court to believe that because the bottle was there, it must be linked to Lilith?” He clicked his tongue.
“My dear fellows, that is absurdly tenuous. Why, she could just as easily accuse you of fabricating the find. Or some previous employee with a grudge, or even a nameless gambler wishing to tilt the odds in his favor for the evening.”
“Here now, what’s your game?” Miles demanded.
“I told you, devil’s advocate.”
“Miles, please,” groaned Alex.
“Upon my word!” the young man expostulated. “Had I—or some discharged servant or desperate gamester—planted it, we should never have been so foolish as to label it!”
Alex agreed. “Doesn’t the word choice, sir, indicate the proprietors are writing instructions for servants not to confuse the wine stock?”
“Ah, I like your thinking Lord Sinclair, but there you err! A label is not proof of guilt—merely proof that someone, at some time, chose to write upon it. In a court of law, knowing something to be true is insufficient. You must prove it beyond mere circumstantial inference.”
“Then we must have something irrefutable,” Alex concluded. “A link from the bottle to Lilith herself.”
“Precisely, and what have we?” He reached for the ransom note, examining it through his long-handled eyeglass.
Looking triumphant, he began tapping it lightly with his quizzing glass.
“Here, you have not only the words of your villainess but the hand in which they were written. A hand which, if my instincts do not fail me, may yet betray her.”
“How?” asked Johan.
“That, sir, is part of my genius. However, we must also address a somewhat inconvenient truth. It is all well and good to speculate about Lilith’s wine stock, but if I am to speak with perfect candor, we may find ourselves on shaky legal ground when it comes to bringing formal charges against Rudi Bittermann. ”
“Then the law stands in need of reform!” Miles erupted.
“Ah, the righteous fury of youth,” Creswell intoned. “But alas, the law is not always so obliging. One cannot charge a man for mere odiousness.”
“Then the law needs improving!” Miles burst out. “What’s the good of your profession if you can’t make sensible laws?”
This earned him a long-suffering look from the barrister, who looked like he had been asked to stop the tides. “I daresay Parliament might spare a Tuesday for the question—provided you can first make them weep. Unfortunately, I am but a barrister, not a bishop.”
Alex, ever more composed, interjected, “But does his treatment of the hound not speak to Rudi’s nature, as a man of cruelty?”