Duckworth’s cheeks. “Are you the owner of Wright Holdings, Limited?”
“I am.”
“You are engaged in financial dealings?”
“I am.”
“Do you have in your possession a promissory note in the amount of forty-two thousand pounds from the late Duchess of Southam, which she was, in fact, unable to pay?”
A veritable wave of gasps engulfed the courtroom.
“I do.”
Another damsel swooned.
“And is it true, Mr. Wright”—Mr. Duckworth was on his toes now, building to a mighty crescendo—“that you and the Duchess of Southam agreed that the promissory note should be considered executed in full if her stepson, the Marquess of Hatherfield, agreed to marry your sister, Lady Charlotte Harlowe, who was in love with him at the time?”
A wail of agony rose up from among the damsels, nearly drowned by the expressions of shock and horror rattling among the benches behind.
Stefanie’s heart had frozen in her chest. She looked in horror at Hatherfield, for some sign of surprise, but his expression remained in place. The mouth a little compressed, perhaps.
“I don’t deny it,” said Wright, looking a trifle smug.
“And did the accused, the Marquess of Hatherfield, agree to this plan?” demanded Mr. Duckworth.
Wright shrugged. “I can’t say, can I?”
“Let me rephrase the question. Was it your impression that the Marquess of Hatherfield looked favorably on the hand of Lady Charlotte Harlowe? This—you’ll pardon the expression—this bargain between you and the Duchess of Southam?”
A silence settled upon the courtroom, so thick and heavy it lay on them all like a blanket of hot midsummer air. Stefanie’s mind floated above it all. She twirled her pen around her forefinger and stared at the square tip of Wright’s clean-shaven chin. Someone coughed, and the noise echoed and echoed.
Without moving his head, Mr. Wright turned his gaze to Stefanie. His eyes, to her surprise, were soft with compassion.
“No,” he said. “I believe he did not. Not at all.”
EIGHT
November 1889
T he brothel was not Stefanie’s idea, not at all.
In fact, she hadn’t quite realized they were going to a brothel at all. They’d been slugging back ale at the Slaughtered Lamb, and someone had slurred, I’ve got it, let’s head over to Cousin Hannah’s, I hear they’ve got exceptionally fresh pickings at the moment , and Stefanie, who was not precisely an innocent, still assumed he meant that this Cousin Hannah’s establishment, wherever it was, had just received a brand-new shipment of ale. And anything was preferable to this swill she’d been pretending to drink at the Slaughtered Lamb.
“Oh, splendid thought,” she exclaimed, hopping from the booth, because Stefanie had been born and raised in Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, had cut her teeth sneaking out of the castle for adventures in the village with the son of the Holstein mayor, and she knew her hefeweizen from her doppelbock. “The fresher the better!”
She did feel a twinge of guilt, as she made her way along the damp and darkened alleys of London with her fellow clerks. She’d always felt a twinge of guilt, even back home, when slipping out the kitchen door of Holstein Castle and into Gunther’s jovial company (and, later, his waiting arms). There was work waiting for her back at the chambers, duties to be performed, and this time those duties actually interested her. There was her father’s death to avenge, when she had a spare bloody moment.
But her spirits had stirred, her damned restless spirits, as the clerks rose up in five o’clock unison and made for their black coats on the coat stand, all jumpy and smiling with anticipation of the amusements to come. Before she could stop herself, she’d thrown down her pen and called out, “Wait! Perhaps I’ll come along for a bit, after all.”
And after all, it was important to win the trust and confidence of one’s colleagues, wasn’t it?
But. This business of skulking down the
“I am.”
“You are engaged in financial dealings?”
“I am.”
“Do you have in your possession a promissory note in the amount of forty-two thousand pounds from the late Duchess of Southam, which she was, in fact, unable to pay?”
A veritable wave of gasps engulfed the courtroom.
“I do.”
Another damsel swooned.
“And is it true, Mr. Wright”—Mr. Duckworth was on his toes now, building to a mighty crescendo—“that you and the Duchess of Southam agreed that the promissory note should be considered executed in full if her stepson, the Marquess of Hatherfield, agreed to marry your sister, Lady Charlotte Harlowe, who was in love with him at the time?”
A wail of agony rose up from among the damsels, nearly drowned by the expressions of shock and horror rattling among the benches behind.
Stefanie’s heart had frozen in her chest. She looked in horror at Hatherfield, for some sign of surprise, but his expression remained in place. The mouth a little compressed, perhaps.
“I don’t deny it,” said Wright, looking a trifle smug.
“And did the accused, the Marquess of Hatherfield, agree to this plan?” demanded Mr. Duckworth.
Wright shrugged. “I can’t say, can I?”
“Let me rephrase the question. Was it your impression that the Marquess of Hatherfield looked favorably on the hand of Lady Charlotte Harlowe? This—you’ll pardon the expression—this bargain between you and the Duchess of Southam?”
A silence settled upon the courtroom, so thick and heavy it lay on them all like a blanket of hot midsummer air. Stefanie’s mind floated above it all. She twirled her pen around her forefinger and stared at the square tip of Wright’s clean-shaven chin. Someone coughed, and the noise echoed and echoed.
Without moving his head, Mr. Wright turned his gaze to Stefanie. His eyes, to her surprise, were soft with compassion.
“No,” he said. “I believe he did not. Not at all.”
EIGHT
November 1889
T he brothel was not Stefanie’s idea, not at all.
In fact, she hadn’t quite realized they were going to a brothel at all. They’d been slugging back ale at the Slaughtered Lamb, and someone had slurred, I’ve got it, let’s head over to Cousin Hannah’s, I hear they’ve got exceptionally fresh pickings at the moment , and Stefanie, who was not precisely an innocent, still assumed he meant that this Cousin Hannah’s establishment, wherever it was, had just received a brand-new shipment of ale. And anything was preferable to this swill she’d been pretending to drink at the Slaughtered Lamb.
“Oh, splendid thought,” she exclaimed, hopping from the booth, because Stefanie had been born and raised in Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, had cut her teeth sneaking out of the castle for adventures in the village with the son of the Holstein mayor, and she knew her hefeweizen from her doppelbock. “The fresher the better!”
She did feel a twinge of guilt, as she made her way along the damp and darkened alleys of London with her fellow clerks. She’d always felt a twinge of guilt, even back home, when slipping out the kitchen door of Holstein Castle and into Gunther’s jovial company (and, later, his waiting arms). There was work waiting for her back at the chambers, duties to be performed, and this time those duties actually interested her. There was her father’s death to avenge, when she had a spare bloody moment.
But her spirits had stirred, her damned restless spirits, as the clerks rose up in five o’clock unison and made for their black coats on the coat stand, all jumpy and smiling with anticipation of the amusements to come. Before she could stop herself, she’d thrown down her pen and called out, “Wait! Perhaps I’ll come along for a bit, after all.”
And after all, it was important to win the trust and confidence of one’s colleagues, wasn’t it?
But. This business of skulking down the
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