near the fire, which Deene noted was burning cheerily on a temperate day.
And how much was that costing the already strained Deene coffers?
“My errand, as you put it, is to accept from you a status report regarding the pleadings I asked to have drawn up well over a week ago.”
Hooker pursed his lips. He turned loose of his lapels and stared for a moment at the floor. When Hooker had studied the floor long enough to make Deene’s jaw clench, the solicitor looked up and turned to his associate. “Bring me his lordship’s file.”
The associate fairly scampered out of the room while Deene let a silence extend.
“Perhaps your lordship would like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you take coffee, then? Some sustenance? What we have on hand is modest, your lordship, but certainly available for your comfort and convenience.”
From his own father, Deene had learned that the best rebukes were offered in the most civil tones. “This is not a social call, Hooker.”
“Of course not, your lordship. Might I inquire if we’ll be looking at any marriage settlement documents in the near future?”
An attempt at cross-examination and surprise, both. If the old windbag was half as good at the law as he was at conducting himself like a lawyer, then—with a half-decent barrister added to the payroll—Deene should soon have custody of his niece.
“Have you seen any announcements in the
“Announce—? I have not, your lordship.”
Deene turned to survey the narrow street below, allowing Hooker to conclude for himself that solicitors would no more be privy to Deene’s personal attachments than would the general public.
After a soft tap, the door opened to reveal the scholarly associate. “The file, Mr. Hooker.”
A fat, beribboned folder was passed over to Hooker with a ceremony befitting High Church on a solemn holiday.
So much theatre, when all Deene wanted was to hug his niece. To know she was happy and thriving, to see her occasionally and have all of Polite Society know she was, unfortunate paternal antecedents notwithstanding, a
“Ah, yes. Here we are.” Hooker bent over the folder, setting papers in various piles on his desk. “We are making quite good progress on the pleadings, your lordship. Bitters here is taking the lead.”
“I’d like to see the draft documents.”
Hooker straightened, his expression all benevolent concern. “My lord, you must understand, such an undertaking requires a command of arcane legal language, law Norman, knowledge of appropriate precedents, and a great deal of preparation.”
“Nigh two weeks have gone by since I indicated these papers were to be drawn up, sir. Show me the draft.”
Hooker’s look of long-suffering should have been studied on Drury Lane. He passed over a single sheet of foolscap, which Deene took in at a glance.
“This is a list of cases.” And no date. The list might have been hastily tucked into the file in the past five minutes.
“One starts with the relevant precedents, my lord, and a good deal of research into how those cases bear on the present circumstances. As I said, this is an arcane and complicated legal undertaking. Allow me to say to you we are honored to ensure it will be handled in the most thorough and competent fashion possible.”
Deene unclenched his jaw and set the single piece of paper on the desk.
“Allow me to say, Hooker, that you will not be paid for all this painstaking research—which I do appreciate, of course—until such time as I have pleadings in my hand, suitable for submission to a court of appropriate jurisdiction. I bid you good day.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Hooker’s brows crash down.
“And, Hooker? One more thing. I dipped my toe in the law at university, at least to the extent a man likely some day to serve as magistrate ought to. Those cases listed on your precious paper relate to trade agreements and civil contracts. While not a lawyer, I’m hard put to understand how custody of a girl child involves those aspects of the law.”
For Deene to close the door softly on the way out was a small triumph and short lived. The truth of it was Hooker and his imps had been sitting on their backsides, swilling tea—or coffee—eating cakes, and doing exactly nothing to pry Georgie loose from the clutches of the climbing cit who called himself her father.
As Deene made his way to his horse, he found his mind turning to the nonlegal means of extricating Georgie from Dolan’s custody. A concocted duel, a rigged card game, a flat-out kidnapping… each dishonorable, dangerous alternative was becoming increasingly tempting.
“If this isn’t a providential blight on an otherwise fair spring day.” Dolan offered his brother-in-law a cheeky smile calculated to irritate his Royal Importance-ship no end. “Deene, good day to you.”
The marquis’s rapid progress down the sidewalk halted. “Dolan, good day. I want to see my niece.”
Some burr had gotten under the saddle of Love’s Young Dream—one of Marie’s terms for her younger brother. His blue eyes were spitting fire, and his lean form was bristling with indignation.
“We don’t always get what we want, your lordship.”
Deene was hanging onto his composure by a gratifyingly obvious thread, and yet a rousing set-to on the street—though mightily entertaining—would serve no one, least of all Georgina.
“Perhaps your lordship might explain to me why you want to see your niece?” Dolan turned and ambled along in the direction of Deene’s travel. “Grown men don’t typically associate voluntarily with small girls.”
Deene at least comprehended the need to avoid a scene—the English were predictable in this regard—for he fell in step beside Dolan.
“I do not have to explain my motives for seeking the occasional company of my sister’s only offspring.”
It was an effective hit, but the wrong answer.
“Perhaps you need not explain your motives to God Almighty, your lordship, but I am the girl’s father.” Oh, the pleasure of being able to say that so gently and implacably. Dolan considered brightening his future perambulations about Town with more frequent collisions with his benighted Lord Brother-In-Law.
Marie’s wit was not the least of the attributes Dolan missed about his late wife.
“Let me put it this way, Dolan. Either I see her with your permission, or I will take any means necessary to see her without.”
“I’m quaking in my muddy bogtrottin’ boots, your lordship.” Dolan let his brogue broaden perceptibly, then noticed no less a person than the Duchess of Moreland making a brisk progress down the street. “Heard your colt finally put that braying ass Islington in his place. One would hate to miss the rare opportunity to offer you a sincere compliment, Deene, particularly when the compliment can be rendered in public.”
“And my thanks for your kind observation is rendered just as publicly. At least tell me how Georgie goes on.”
Marie had always sworn her brother wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the previous marquis and marchioness, but Marie was—had been—blind when it came to the people she loved. Dolan silently apologized to his wife’s sainted memory, but allowed himself to doubt the sincerity of Deene’s query.
“Georgina, as always, thrives in my care, Deene, and you’d better hope your colt never comes up against my Goblin.”
Deene’s expression had become that bland, handsome mask of impassivity Dolan could only envy. The English were arrogant, ungrateful, and not to be trusted, and they could not be relied upon to turn up stupid at times that suited any but themselves.
“Your Grace.” Deene made a lovely little bow to the duchess, who bestowed a dazzling smile on the
