Sinless (The Shaws) Page 7

  Andrew swallowed, hating the necessity of asking the next question. “What did you plan to do?”

  “What do you think?” Darius threw back his head, thrusting out his chin, appearing at his most disdainful.

  But Andrew knew him by now. “Would you have gone so far as to seduce him?”

  With a wry grin, Darius lost the arrogance. “No. But I would have enticed him into a private room where I could have had a vigorous conversation with him, which would not have included taking off my clothes. Taking off his, maybe. However, I want more than Bartolini. I want his contact. I want to discover how he obtained this list. My first aim is to recover the document. The second, to uncover the next link in the chain.”

  Andrew realized something else. “And you will become inviolate. The authorities will owe you a favor.”

  Darius shrugged. “Maybe. They already owe me several. I am not concerned with that. I will shift for myself should I need to.”

  Surrounded as he was by people of power, Darius was close to untouchable. An enemy would have to work hard to topple him, but discovery in a place like Mother Fleming’s might have been enough. He’d risked all he’d worked for by going there.

  “What can I do?”

  “You wish to help?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Why?”

  That question turned Andrew’s stomach. He could evade the question, but that would not do Darius or himself justice. Honesty reigned in this room. If he claimed loyalty to his country, that was true, but not his primary reason.

  “Because I care for you,” he said. “You need someone to help.”

  Darius glanced down and flicked a piece of dust from his sleeve before looking back up at him. Andrew had never seen such a bleak expression, such loneliness.

  “I care for you, too. But it must not be more than that. I can never become so involved with a man that I threaten his safety, especially one such as you. I conduct affairs with men such as myself. Men who have surrounded themselves with protection. Men who can survive a scandal. You, my dear, cannot. Discovering you have a daughter makes any personal connection impossible between us.”

  “So you would not consider it?” If he did not, friendship might be possible.

  If, that was, Andrew could bear seeing Darius with another man and know that he was sharing intimacies Andrew was denied. If he could watch all that beauty go somewhere else.

  Because honesty went both ways, and yes, the shot of jealousy a moment ago had cleared the fog from Andrew’s brain. He wanted Darius very much.

  “I could not. If you did not care for me, if you were merely curious—but no. Not even then.” Darius got to his feet. His voice softened. “Make no mistake. In other circumstances, I would leap on your interest. I would leap on you. I have rarely known such an attraction to another man. If this desire subsides, we might consider friendship, but until then…while I thank you for your help, I must gratefully decline. I will shift for myself. I only returned to clear the air and inquire after your daughter.”

  He bowed, his graceful gesture as deep and respectful as if he were greeting a prince, and then straightened. “Thank you for the tea.”

  He left, the only sound his footsteps echoing on the old floorboards as he let himself out.

  Chapter 7

  Could a person die of grief? Of course not. As the days passed, Andrew first resigned himself to his loveless fate and then allowed anger to consume him, driving him through a few cases that had plagued him lately. In court, acting for a man claiming his brother had stolen property from him, he was nothing short of a firebrand, according to the judge.

  His performance did his reputation no harm at all, and he found himself talked about. Visitors to his chambers increased, and his clerk was kept busy annotating new cases. At this rate they would have to take on more assistants.

  That suited Andrew. Keeping himself busy worked well. Then he did not have to think about anything else.

  The Lord Darius Shaw, for example.

  His daughter recovered quickly and soon became her lively self again. However occupied he became, Andrew always spared several hours a day for her. When she had been smaller, he would settle her in his study downstairs while he worked through the night on tedious cases that brought in money. His love for Elizabeth constantly astonished him. He had not expected that to happen, but the moment he’d held her and gazed into her eyes, she’d ensnared him completely. He’d willingly die for her. She unwittingly formed another barrier to any thoughts of Darius and what he had taught Andrew.

  More than he knew. The tepid “I care for you” had unlocked a barrier he had put across his heart after he’d left Oxford. Now he did not seem to be able to turn the key and lock it up again.

  His clerk tapped on the door and handed Andrew a letter. “Something for you, sir. It doesn’t look like business. Hand delivered by a liveried footman.” That in itself was unusual. Whether it was the publicity of the court case involving The Lord Valentinian Shaw, or something else, more aristocrats were seeking him out.

  Most of the cases were trivial affairs, concerning little work, but Andrew knew his customers. They were testing him. He could find himself with a comfortable business. Many lawyers acted as land stewards, working on several estates or one huge one. While he had no interest in becoming any man’s servant, accepting the management of several could lead to a comfortable living. He would not have to look from case to case any longer, but could depend on a steady income.

  That was what he had always worked toward. But a nagging concern remained at the back of his mind. Was Darius responsible for any of this new business?

  He broke the seal and opened the letter. Flowing black script on heavy cream paper revealed an invitation for a large ball to be held the next day. It would not be a matchmaking ball. It was the wrong time of year for that. Young ladies and their chaperones flooded into town in the spring to indulge themselves in the social round before dutifully taking a husband. This time, the back end of the year, had a more political flavor.

  Miss Angela Childers requested his presence at her ball.

  Well, that was something.

  Andrew returned to his chair and rang for coffee while he scrawled a reply. Of course he would attend. Perhaps Miss Childers had business for him. At least Darius wasn’t responsible for this stroke of luck.

  * * * *

  Outside Miss Childers’s imposing London mansion set on one of London’s most fashionable squares in Mayfair, Andrew paused and tweaked his snowy-white neckcloth. He had broken out his best clothes for the occasion—the mulberry figured velvet coat and the ivory waistcoat embroidered by experts from Spitalfields. Wisely aware that he could not compare with the great and the good but could present a respectable figure, he had not attempted any fancy detailing. Plain silver buckles adorned his shoes and his knees, and while his linen and lace were good, Andrew didn’t sport double or triple flounces.

  Curious as to what Miss Childers wanted, he stepped forward and presented his invitation. Others had swanned through without the footman halting them, but Andrew was not a noted figure in society. He had assumed this would be one of Miss Childers’ City balls, but it seemed not.

  Angela Childers was one of those strange beings, someone who straddled City and County, having valid claims to belong to both. Her mother had been the daughter of a duke, her father a noted banker, worth more than all the dukes in the world, or so he had claimed in his lifetime.

  Miss Childers had inherited the fortunes of both her parents. The wealthiest woman in Britain, to be sure, and possibly the world. She had declared she would never marry, and so far she had stuck to that resolve. Not the most romantic duke, nor the hardest striker of bargains in the City had snared her. Now, approaching the age of thirty, she was fond of declaring herself well and truly on the shelf.

  Truthfully, a woman of fifty with her fortune would not be considered unmarriageable. However, Miss Childers was an exception to almost everything.
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br />   Andrew understood her predicament. She had more to consider than her own pleasure. Hundreds of employees depended on her for their living. As a single woman, she had no concern about inheritance. She could will her fortune to whomever she pleased.

  Andrew liked her, although he did not know her well. Only from City dinners and suchlike, where they had exchanged a few words and found themselves in accord about many matters, including her determination not to marry.

  Andrew was grateful she had remembered him. He could no doubt meet some potentially useful people tonight. He spared a thought for his daughter. She would be sleeping peacefully by now, and he had not had his usual pleasure of looking in on her.

  He disliked stepping outside the circles he had made his own, where he felt comfortable. His uncles’ drapery business, his own legal concerns—there he was happy, but coming here made him uncomfortable and out of place. As he was.

  Aristocrats passed by him, noses in the air, talking loudly to each other about the Park, the last ball, and fashion. Nobody took any notice of him, which, he supposed, was a blessing. He would find Miss Childers, thank her for inviting him, and leave. He did not belong here.

  The footman standing at the door examined Andrew’s invitation carefully, as if he, too, doubted its veracity. However, he let him through and directed him to another man who would take his hat and gloves.

  Inside, the spacious hall blazed with light, as did the other rooms in the house. Andrew tried not to gaze around like a gawping child faced with the grown-up world for the first time, but he found it difficult. Everywhere he looked there was something worth seeing, from exquisite paintings to delicate pieces of porcelain, all carefully arranged. Andrew found the effect delightful.

  A woman he vaguely recognized as the countess of somewhere or other passed by, speaking to the mousy woman walking a few inches behind her. “Of course it’s vulgar. What else can it be? She’s from Trade. Her poor mother, forced to marry so far below her!”

  Since, presumably, Miss Childers’s father belonged to the City. The countess should take care what she said. If Andrew were of a more vindictive disposition, he might drop the word at the next Guild dinner of how much the lady despised Cits. They might already know. Her comments on their hostess were the only vulgar things in this hall that Andrew could discern. Perhaps he, too, was blessed with inferior taste. Perhaps his vulgarity prevented him seeing true beauty.

  He didn’t care. Instead, he climbed the stairs in the wake of the more exalted guests, intending to search for his hostess. He was even more determined to leave quickly. He spotted people he knew, but nobody he felt entitled to stop and talk to, although some nodded to him. No doubt they would talk if he stopped. A few glanced at him curiously. Everyone chattered, fans fluttering, their cultured voices vying with the attempts of the quartet in the corner to provide sweet background music.

  The packed throng proved the ball a success, a sad squeeze, even though the rooms opened for the ball were more spacious than Andrew was used to.

  Halfway across, someone murmured his name, and when he turned, said, “Pardon me, are you not the man who appeared so brilliantly at Bow Street to defend Lord Valentinian Shaw?”

  He stopped and modestly said he was. That led to another person speaking to him, and another, so that he took half an hour to reach the end of the room. At least he knew where to find Miss Childers.

  The next room contained just as many people as the previous one. Andrew reluctantly began to enjoy himself, as word spread of his arrival and people stopped to talk to him. A few did not, for he had not been introduced to them, and some were sticklers for correct procedure. He did not try to impose himself on them. One example of that, and they would label him an upstart, or encroaching. Nobody could freeze a person where he stood like an aristocrat.

  A few stared at him, either through quizzing glasses or directly, but he did not comment or appear to notice.

  Would his presence there help him in any way? Perhaps if he wanted to pursue his career as a barrister and appear regularly at Bow Street. Very few people engaged barristers to act for them in such arenas. He did modestly mention that most of his work took place elsewhere, concerned with property management, but nobody seemed interested. They drifted away, so he did too and found his way into the music room.

  Although a quartet of musicians stood in the large drawing room, presumably because dancing would take there sometime, the music room also contained a musical air. Someone was playing the harpsichord, though unlike at a musicale, the people here did not give it their complete attention. The person at the harpsichord must have been a professional.

  At last Andrew spied his hostess. However, he was already wondering if he should stay a little longer. Perhaps, as Darius had mentioned to him once, attending an affair like this would be good for business.

  However, he wasted no time crossing the room and presenting himself to her.

  He bowed, and Miss Childers offered him her hand to kiss. He was careful not to allow his lips to actually touch her skin, and then straightened.

  Miss Childers was smiling. “I am so glad to see you here tonight, Mr. Graham. You are very welcome.”

  “You’re gracious to invite me.” Already he was wondering why. Especially since she had slipped a tightly folded piece of paper into his hand before she’d let it go. He kept it in his palm, covered by the lace at the end of his sleeves. He knew better than to slip it straight into his pocket, because people would notice.

  “I heard of your performance at Bow Street, and I had to meet the gentleman who had created such a stir. But as you know I’m a single lady, so I added two hundred of my most intimate acquaintances to give countenance to the encounter.”

  Andrew liked the twinkle in her eye that told him she was entirely serious. The citizens of London knew her statuesque figure and perfectly oval face and respected her for running her bank so well. She disdained putting the business in the hands of the trustees appointed to conduct business on her behalf, although her father had expected her to become a lady of leisure. After a few spurious attempts at overwhelming her with male strength and acumen, her colleagues gave up and accepted her. She had broken through their contempt with sheer persistence and a strong dose of intelligence and common sense.

  “I was sure you had invited me on the wrong evening,” he said, taking the opportunity to slip the note into his pocket.

  Several ladies standing nearby tittered, and a couple of fans covered a couple of mouths.

  “Indeed no,” the lady explained smoothly. “I merely wished you to expand your circle of influence. You should spread your wings, sir.”

  “Even if I have to mix my metaphors in the process.” As soon as he’d said the words he wished them unsaid. This woman was doing her best to help him. She did not deserve a riposte like that.

  However, the gasp and laughter told him he’d done well. Even more when he saw the smile Miss Childers bestowed on him. “Well said, sir. I should take more care, especially when conversing with a man as sharp as you.” She offered him her hand. “I would appreciate your escort to the main ballroom, if you please. The dancing is about to start, and I imagine your minuet is meticulously correct.”

  If she had targeted him precisely for her revenge, she could not have chosen more cleverly. He would have to admit his failing to her. She laid her hand on the back of his arm, the pressure pushing his limb into the correct attitude.

  Leaning toward him as he walked her slowly to the main room, she said, “You have a few skills to learn, sir. Including, I imagine from the widening of your pupils, the steps of the minuet.”

  Relief swept him so he nearly sagged. At the pressure of her hand, he said, “You are exceedingly good with your silent instructions, ma’am.”

  “I’ve had to be.” Her tone was dry. “Mingling in two of the worlds of London has forced me to learn several skills most people have no need for.”

  “Two of the worlds? How many more are there?”


  “You know another as well as I do. Much better, I imagine.”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “The trial last year. The criminal world.”

  Shock made him stumble, but he apologized and continued, since people were glancing in their direction. If they stopped, they would find themselves in the center of another group. “You cannot wish to become involved in the criminal fraternity, surely, ma’am. If you do, I am not the man you need.”

  “No indeed. Allow me to explain. But not here. If you can contain your impatience for half an hour, I would like to speak to you in private. I have given you the means. Half an hour, sir. In the meantime, you may escort me over there, to the portly gentleman in blue-and-gold. He is the Duke of Chandos, and he will lead me out in the dance. Despite his appearance, he is a graceful dancer, and besides, he is the most senior gentleman. I know my society rules even if you do not.”

  “I do not,” he agreed gravely. “Not the detailed and complex nuances society demands.”

  She laughed, but quietly, a skill in itself. Laughter usually took Andrew by surprise, and it showed on the occasions when amusement broadsided him. “I shall have to learn. Doubtless if you were required to do so, you would master the technique. Ah, your grace.”

  Andrew stood back while the grandee greeted his hostess, marking the way he led her to the center of the room and bowed to her. The quartet struck up, and the floor cleared, except for the couples engaged in the first minuet.

  Although she had told him to learn, Andrew decided to leave the lesson for another time. He had a note to read.

  Twenty minutes later, having followed the instructions, Andrew found the small and charming sitting room two floors above. The walls were decorated with green silk, and portraits of Miss Childers’s parents hung there. Not in the gracious poses formal portraiture demanded, but arm in arm, walking their dog, a large collie. Another showed a couple admiring an estate, with a house in the distance.