The Dead Shall Not Rest by Tessa Harris Page A

pantomime in his honor at the Haymarket.”
    Lydia had heard the rumor, too, but continued undeterred. “His father, sir, was executed last year for the murder of a young woman in a village near Derry. He died protesting his innocence.”
    Marchant let out a dismissive laugh and threw his hands in the air. “Don’t they all? I wish I had a guinea for every felon who told me he was not guilty.”
    Lydia felt indignant at his insult but, ignoring the slight, she placed a small leather satchel on the desk. “The real perpetrator of the crime has been arrested and convicted. You will find all the documentation here, sir,” she told him in a very businesslike fashion that wiped the smirk from his face.
    He leaned forward and opened the satchel, taking the documents out and scanning them briefly. His face hardened.
    “And you wish a posthumous royal pardon for this”—he looked at one of the documents—“Patrick Byrne.” His voice dripped with contempt.
    Lydia nodded. “I do, indeed, sir.”
    He paused and looked at her. His gaze was intense, and if his aim was to make Lydia feel uncomfortable, he certainly succeeded.
    “My services do not come cheap,” he snapped eventually.
    “Mr. Byrne will be able to pay you, sir.”
    “There will be a petition at the King’s Bench. It will need to be brought by the right people, of course. There is the paperwork, the court fees . . .”
    He was now gazing down at his desk, mentally calculating the monetary gain that he could make on the pages of some imaginary ledger, thought Lydia.
    “I am sure, sir, that I can attract much support for the cause,” she told him, her back stiffening in anger.
    He looked at her with an unsettling glint in his eye. “Your giant is an Irish peasant, your ladyship.”
    Lydia bristled at his harsh words. “If that is how you see him, then I shall need to find another lawyer who is more sympathetic,” she retorted, rising to leave.
    “Please, please, my lady.” Marchant rose, too. “Do not be so hasty, I pray you. Please.” He motioned to her to sit down. “I may be a lawyer, but on this occasion I speak plain. You will not find many who want to take up this man’s case.”
    Lydia frowned. “Why would that be?”
    “Your giant is Irish and the king, as you well know, has no love of his sort. God knows they have caused us enough troubles over the years.”
    Lydia paused for a moment. “But is not justice a right to be enjoyed equally by all of His Majesty’s subjects?”
    Marchant snorted. “Now you are sounding like a colonist!” he mocked.
    Lydia rose. “I see I had better take my business elsewhere.”
    Again Marchant relented. This time the sneer on his lips was nowhere to be seen. “I deal with realities, your ladyship.” His tone seemed to soften. “If you are to succeed in your task, you must know the obstacles you have to overcome. Please,” he said, motioning to the chair once more. She looked at him warily, but did as he bade.
    “Mr. Byrne will need to enlist the support of as many of high rank as he is able,” he told her earnestly.
    Lydia nodded. “Indeed,” she said, feeling that perhaps she was beginning to make some progress.
    “But such support can cost.”
    Lydia was unsure as to his meaning. “Are you saying, sir, that we will need to bribe officials?”
    He fell back in his chair, snorting once more. “Oh, oh, we do not use that word within these hallowed precincts,” he chided her. “All I am saying is that certain hospitality may need to be offered in return for the signatures of eminent supporters.”
    “Hospitality?” Lydia felt the color in her cheeks rise again.
    “Tokens of appreciation, favors . . .” His voice trailed off, but he held her gaze.
    “As I said, Mr. Byrne will pay you, and pay you and any,” she searched for an appropriate word, “associates handsomely. He is attracting many paying spectators.”
    “Indeed, and that is all to the good.” A smile flickered on his lips.