36. For LoveMoney
For Love or Money
Alex divined Lord Creswell’s displeasure in the supercilious tone of his summons.
What he hadn’t expected was to be marched down the long corridor and neatly parted from Miss Harrington under the flimsy pretext of discretion.
He met Creswell’s gaze with the composure of a man who had already dismissed the forthcoming argument as unworthy of consideration.
Creswell stood rigid against the wainscoting, his hands clasped behind his back as though physically holding himself in check. Opposite him, Lord Sinclair looked maddeningly relaxed—broad-shouldered, straight-backed, eight years his junior, and entirely too composed.
Creswell, whom even his friends had once charitably termed ‘unobjectionable in appearance,’ was excessively vexed that Lord Sinclair should be quite so handsome.
“You are making a grave miscalculation,” Creswell declared with a tone of weary patience.
“I thought you said the proceedings were over.”
“And I thought you a man of reason,” Creswell returned acidly.
He studied Alex, then asked: “You cannot seriously intend to continue your association with Lucinda Harrington?” His voice, though quiet, carried an unmistakable note of urgency.
“Surely even you cannot be so obtuse as to mistake my meaning. To attach yourself to a woman whose good name is undone.” He broke off with a glance down the passage, where Lucinda stood near the courtroom doors, steeling herself before making a re-entry.
His mouth tightened. “Her reputation is in tatters,” he continued, lowering his voice.
“She is as good as ruined, Sinclair—and you, by association, will find yourself similarly sunk beyond recall.”
“You go too far, Creswell,” Alex interposed coldly. “Miss Harrington enjoys my protection, and I will not brook any aspersions cast upon her.”
“Protection? A noble sentiment, Sinclair, but you would have done better to exercise a more prudent brand of gallantry. By aligning yourself with her, you will not restore her credit—you will only succeed in forfeiting your own. Society will close ranks against you. And, most lamentable of all, your mother will endure the humiliation of witnessing her son become a byword for folly.”
Alex’s patience thinned, but he would not falter. “You presume too much. My mother has the discernment to trust in my honor.”
Creswell inhaled as if fortifying himself.
“Very well, let us leave honor aside and speak of common sense. You cannot—surely you cannot—mean to shackle yourself to a woman irredeemably tainted by scandal! No matter how bewitching her eyes or how captivating her smile, no female is worth—” He stopped, something shifting behind his gaze.
“Ah. But of course. It is the seventy thousand pounds that holds your interest.”
Revolted by such a vulgar insinuation, Alex replied with icy civility, “Had you the slightest acquaintance with my character, Creswell, you would never have ventured so contemptible a conjecture. The imputation, I collect, reveals rather more about your own propensities than mine?”
Irritation flickered. “I cannot imagine what you refer to.”
Alex crossed his arms. “Come now, man. Would you have pursued Miss Harrington so ardently had she been penniless?”
“I—pursue Miss Harrington?” He broke off, recalling the very advice he had once imparted to Miles in St. James’s Park, which now served to confound him.
He pursed his lips and stared out the window at the end of the hallway.
“It was of no consequence. If any partiality existed, it was—” He broke off again, shaking his head over a matter too distasteful to contemplate.
“It does not signify. She has chosen to abandon propriety and all sense of decorum. She is nothing to me,” he flung over his shoulder.
“I am heartily glad of it. For she is all the world to me.” Then he added quietly, “And you are mistaken.” Creswell’s gaze snapped back to him.
“She is not some reckless creature who delights in scandal for the sake of it, nor is she careless of her reputation. She is a woman of intelligence, wit, and kindness. And I would rather stand beside her, no matter what the world says, than live among cowards who abandoned her when she needed them most.”
Creswell opened his mouth to argue—but Alex was not finished.
“You think I care for her fortune?” He gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Faith, man, Lucinda is more than her dowry. She is warmth in a world gone cold. She is clever enough to match wits with me, stubborn enough to stand against me, and strong enough to fight for those she loves.” His expression softened, but his resolve did not.
“And if she will have me, I will count myself the richest man in England, no matter what society says.”
Creswell looked at him disdainfully. “I take no pleasure in seeing a man ruin himself over a woman.”
Alex returned a look of pity. “Then you have never been touched by love, my poor fellow.” With a kindness of character he added: “I do not expect you to understand, but one day, I hope you do.”
The courthouse corridor stretched, cavernous and imposing, its vaulted ceilings trapping whispers and the click of heels, casting them back in a disconcerting echo.
Yet, despite the acoustics, it failed to deliver clarity to anyone attempting to eavesdrop on hushed exchanges.
Standing before the forbidding doors, bracing herself against the battery of stares awaiting within, Lucinda observed the tense interaction between Lord Creswell and Lord Sinclair.
Their figures, silhouetted against the window at the far end, seemed to clash with each other in a way that was strange for a plaintiff and his loyal barrister.
As Lucinda kept stealing glances at them, the courtroom door creaked open and Miles peeked out, one foot still in the room. His brows lifted in surprise upon spotting Lucinda nearby.
“Oh, Lu! Did you catch where Creswell and Alex disappeared to?”
Lucinda gestured toward the distant end of the corridor, with a nonchalant shrug, indicating she knew little more than their direction.
Miles ambled down the corridor. “Gentlemen,” he drawled, favoring them with his most provoking grin. “I do not wish to interrupt, but the court recorder grows impatient.”
Creswell turned, irritated by the intrusion. “This does not concern you. I suggest you—”
“Ah, but you see, the recorder takes quite a different view—he’s distinctly lacking in amusement, I might add.
He accosted me just now, demanding to know why our barrister had chosen this particular moment to perform a vanishing act.
It appears you are single-handedly obstructing the wheels of justice, my dear fellow. Excessively inconvenient.”
Muttering a curse, Creswell swept past Miles, his heels clicking upon the stone floor as he strode back toward the chamber where he was missed.
Miss Harrington stood poised before the forbidding doors, bracing herself against the battery of stares awaiting within.
Creswell did not so much as glance at her.
No polite nod, no perfunctory acknowledgment—nothing.
His disregard was so marked, so calculated, that no one could mistake it for mere abstraction.
If she insisted upon making a spectacle of herself, then let her understand the price.
He had no objection to being the first to withhold his notice; indeed, he meant for her to feel it.
As was his habit, he paused before the doors, briefly adjusting his powdered wig and smoothing his pristine sleeves. The doors creaked as he reentered, closing behind him with a thud, sealing off the chamber where justice was poised to unfold.
Lucinda swallowed. A barely perceptible stiffening of her spine was the only sign she allowed herself, yet it did not escape Lord Sinclair’s notice. With an effortless grace, he extended his arm.
“Creswell denies you his attentions? What a tragic loss—” he said, smiling, “—to no one at all.”
A startled laugh escaped Lucinda before she could check it. The easy grace of his gallantry, the natural charm of his manner, did much to restore her equanimity. Taking his arm, she was escorted back into the courtroom with unhurried efficiency.
As Miles and Alex reclaimed their seats beside Lord Creswell, they could feel the weight of the court’s collective gaze upon them—a hundred pairs of eyes following their every movement.
Scarcely had they settled when the clerk sprang up and vanished through a side door, reappearing moments later with a cry of: “All rise!”
At once, the assembly surged to its feet in a show of deference. As Justice Holroyd re-entered, his expression somber.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” he intoned, “have you reached your verdict?”
The foreman, a man of sober aspect, stood. “We have.”
“And how say you? Is the prisoner Rudolph Bittermann guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty.”
“And Lilith Bittermann—guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty.”
The words fell upon the courtroom with the grim finality of the headsman’s axe. A murmuring rustle followed, quickly suppressed as the judge adjusted his robes and leaned forward, eyes cold and voice deliberate.
“Let it be entered into the record,” he declared, “that for crimes most base and unbecoming—namely, the operation of a house devoted to unlawful gaming, the gross defrauding of its patrons, the wanton cruelty inflicted upon helpless beasts, and the brutal striking of a woman—this court sentences Rudolph and Lilith Bittermann to transportation beyond the seas for the term of seven years.”
He paused, surveying the prisoners with an expression that did not soften.
“Such offenses are not merely unlawful—they are depraved. They speak to a deliberate abandonment of decency, a corrosion of moral restraint. These egregious acts offend not only the statute but the conscience.”
A final rap of his gavel underscored the decree.
“Let the sentence stand. The prisoners shall be remanded to Newgate there to await removal to His Majesty’s colonies.”
Lilith sat as one turned to stone, her breath shallow, her fingers curled into fists. Rudi, by contrast, gave a low, despairing groan and dropped his head into his cuffed hands.
A murmur of astonishment rippled through the gallery. “Transportation! Seven years!”
The gallery erupted in a flurry of shocked exclamations, with only the occasional murmured pity for the Bittermanns.
Lucinda sat motionless, a mixture of relief and apprehension swirling within her.
Seven years. She looked toward Alex, who sat unmoved by the surrounding furor.
She believed she understood his composure—incapable of taking joy in another’s misfortune, even when the guilty deserved it.
The room was chaos and elation, but Lucinda remained quiet in her seat, watching the storm brewing around her.
Gradually, voices were raised among the gathering of elite women. “Shocking,” remarked one matron, with a pointed glance at Lucinda. “Quite shocking. And the girl showed such promise, too.”
Lucinda’s heart dropped, and she turned to her father.
The Admiral offered her a reassuring nod. “Do not fret, my dear.”
Lucinda forced a faint smile, her mind drifting to Creswell’s warnings. She said nothing, her gaze trailing Alex as he moved through the dispersing crowd, the weight of final judgment settling over the room.
Beside her, Sir John stood, extending his arm. Lucinda slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“What happens now, Papa?”
Sir John regarded her, a smile hovering. “Now?” he echoed. “Now, my dear, it is time for a white knight to make his overdue appearance.”