“Of falling in love.”
“If you find the person you’re meant to be with, you don’tfallin love with them.” Her blue eyes shining, she smiled gently. “You fly.”
The private officesof Mr. Jacobson and his partners were not available to clients, new or existing, without an appointment. Generally speaking, that appointment needed to be made weeks in advance. As the most highly regarded solicitor in all of London, Mr. Jacobson’s time was of the utmost value.
And he charged for it accordingly.
But–as with all things–there were always exceptions, the Weston family being one of them. Which was why, when he was informed that the Marquess of Dorchester’s daughter had made an unscheduled visit, Mr. Jacobson left his meeting and met her in the grand foyer of the elegantly appointed townhouse without delay.
“Lady Brynne,” he said after he’d personally taken her jacket and gloves and ushered her into the adjoining parlor, an informal space meant to put his higher brow clientele at ease. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Or to be more accurate, no notice at all.” Forgoing tea and refreshments, Brynne sat down and neatly folded her hands on her lap. After her enlightening conversation with Evie yesterday, she’d known what she needed to do. What shehadto do.
“I am always available to you, my lady. Ready to serve in whatever manner you require.” Approximately the same age as her father, Mr. Jacobson was tall and thin. The most notable thing about him was his gray moustache, and the way he waxed the tips so that they pointed straight up like tiny barbs. Everything else, from his three-piece tweed suit to the way he kept his hair slicked back (what remained of it, at any rate) with pomade was ordinary. Plain, even. But his intelligence and sharp legal mind were extraordinary, making him the obvious choice when Brynne had sought someone to help end her marriage. And now he was who she needed to see in order to save it.
“I come to you today with a delicate matter, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Delicate matters are my specialty.”
“You may recall our discussion surrounding the dissolution of my marriage to Lord Campbell,” she began. “We settled upon judicial separation as our best course of action, and you had papers drawn up for both parties.”
“Indeed,” the solicitor nodded. “Lord Campbell has already returned his.”
“He–he has?” she said in dismay. “So soon? But he only just arrived in London.”
Eighteen months.
Foreighteen months,Lachlan had held on to hope that their marriage could be saved. And in three days he’d signed papers to destroy it once and for all.
Because of her.
She’d done this.
She’d wanted this.
She’d asked for this.
And now, perversely, it was the one thing shedidn’twant.
“Give them to me,” she said wildly. “The papers. I’ll–I’ll destroy them. Burn them. Throw them in the Thames. It will be as if they never existed, and the judicial separation won’t be able to proceed.”
Mr. Jacobson frowned. “I am afraid I cannot do that, Lady Brynne. They were filed with the Court of Divorce and Matrimonial Causes this morning. Per your last written directive, that was what you requested me to do as soon as I was in possession of them.”
“Yes! No.” She clutched her skirt as she struggled to stave off a rush of tears. “I mean, yes, itwaswhat I hired you to do. But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to separate from my husband. I don’t want to separate from him at all.”
“Ah,” the solicitor remarked, his countenance impassive. “I see.”
“I’ve ruined it.”
“Lady Brynne–”
“I’ve ruinedeverything.”
“If I may–”
“Now our marriage is over, and it’s all my fault.”
Mr. Jacobson cleared his throat.
