He was under duress, she reminded herself. His cruelty could not be held against him. “The gaoler said you refused to meet the lawyer I sent to you.”
His heavy eyebrows joined over his nose. “He came with a clerk. You can’t have confidence in a man who needs another to remember what he says.”
“The clerk makes a record, for reference later. Much as a person takes notes of a lecture. Mr. Notley came well recommended. He can advise you on how to respond to the questions put to you, before and during a trial.”
He dipped his head until his nose touched a bar rightin front of her eyes. “I am not addled. I can respond on my own well enough. Tell this Nutley—”
“Notley.”
“Tell him his services are not needed. Now, be gone. Stop trying my patience with your infernal interference.”
He turned away so she saw only his back. He walked over to his corner, his manacles clanking. He sank down against the wall, and closed his eyes.
She thought her head would explode. He had rendered her invisible. Gone for sure, to his awareness. As gone as when he sent her to that school.
If he had not walked away, she would reach through the grate somehow, grab his coat, and force his ear to her mouth so she could spew out the fury racking her. Only knowing the whole prison would hear kept her from pouring out her resentments anyway.
That he did not love her was the least of it. She could live with that truth. Many relatives do not love each other. That he denied her any connection to a family, however—she had lost two parents when her mother died, not one. The difference was that her father had chosen to be dead to her. Hewantedit that way.
She glared at the stack of books beside his hip. Would he even care about that handkerchief inside the top one? Maybe those letters had been the product of a brief, passing tendre. He probably had not even cared much for her mother either.
A painful fullness choked her breath at the idea he might have spoken to Mama the way he just spoke toher. How horrible and sad. No, surely not. Mama had always spoken of her marriage as a glorious passion. She had taught her daughter to seek the same, and never settle for less. If there had been disillusionment, she would not have done that. Would she?
She had to leave, before she lost her composure right there in front of the criminals sharing the cell.
“I will tell Mr. Notley to try again later this week, Papa. Perhaps you will feel better then. More yourself.” She turned on her heel and passed blindly through the prison’s passages.
The autumn air outside brought some calm. The breeze blew away the worst of her indignation, but the hurt remained a nauseating lump in her chest.
Ives had been correct. She had done her duty and all that she could. She should leave her father to Mr. Notley now, for whatever good it might do.
She looked at the low sun and experienced a moment of panic before she remembered she no longer had to answer to Mrs. Ludlow. She judged she could walk back to the house before night fell, and set off.
Two hours later, her arrival at the house raised more notice than she expected. A footman waited right inside the door, his wig visible from the street. When she entered he asked her to wait while he retrieved something for her. He returned with a letter. “It was delivered by messenger a few minutes ago, Miss Belvoir.”
She carried the letter up to her chamber. A lamp cast soft illumination from its place on the inlaid writing desk. She sat and opened the missive.
One of Mr. Notley’s clerks had written, asking her to call on the lawyer this evening on a matter of importance. They would remain in chambers until ten o’clock, he explained, in the hopes she could meet tonight.
She set the letter down, then removed her bonnet and pelisse. She would wash first, and eat something. Then, if there were still time left to hire a carriage to go into the city, perhaps she would visit Mr. Notley. Right now she had no inclination to do so. She did not think she could bear being disheartened even more about her father in one day.
***
Ives patted the flat package in his coat while he trotted through town. The mere existence of the money he carried put him in a black mood. That he now carried it into Mayfair—when he should not—did not make the ride any more pleasant.
He had told himself he would decide on the way. He had debated with himself while his horse’s hooves clipped out his progress on the stone streets. Even as he turned onto the block dominated by Langley House, he pretended he still had the choice of turning around, and instead visiting the magistrate in the morning.
Curses flowed in his mind while he paused and looked at the house. Curses at himself, because he knew he was going to do what he should not do. Curses tinged with resignation. God help him, he was an ass.
All the same he began to move his horse again, but stopped abruptly. He squinted into the shadows acrossfrom the house. He was sure that for an instant he had seen a hat poke forward before being absorbed by the darkness again.
He slid off his saddle and tied his horse to a post. Assuming a casual gait, he strolled down the street toward that shadow. As he drew near, the figure of a man became more obvious. He watched Langley House so intently that he noticed Ives rather late. When he did he pretended to be scraping his shoe. He looked over his shoulder at Ives, and smiled. “Damned shit. Can’t even walk on the best streets without risking your shoes.”
Ives smiled back. When he came abreast of the man, he reached out. He grabbed the fellow by the collar of his coat, and swung him around. The man immediately took a fighting stance.
“I would be glad to beat you soundly, in a sportsmanlike manner, but I don’t have the time,” Ives growled. He hauled the fellow over to a gate illuminated by a street lamp. “What are you doing watching that house?”
“I’m not watching—”
