Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (10 page)

She could have it again. She could have it all again. All she had to do was win that seat.

The killing blow, when it came, was delivered in the afternoon post. Norman eyed the letter warily. He should rip it open, he thought, get it over with. He snatched it from the top reaches of the stack of unopened post in the entrance hall. Neglected letters accumulated on an antique console table like a snow drift until either his father found his way to opening them (his stepmother could not read), or one of the maids got tired of tidying the heap and quietly shuffled it off to a fireplace.

Several floors above, a thundering herd of children shrieked and screamed as they galloped from one side of the nursery to the other. The lone governess for all those hellions attempted, in vain, to assert herself as the voice of authority. A girl child made a sound of derision; the others laughed. He heard something that sounded rather like begging, followed by an immediate resumption of the whooping and running. A door shut and then, closer, the soft weeping of a life gone awry.

stared up at him, the coal black letters formed in the even, impersonal hand of a clerk. The first two months of 1818 had been spent attending a hearing with the benchers, waiting, attending another hearing, waiting, filing an appeal to the judges, and even more waiting.

Ironically, it was while fighting for his professional life that Norman had felt more like a barrister than at any time in the seven years he’d spent studying and taking his suppers at Gray’s Inn. He had prepared his case as he’d learned from his mentors, with much studying and diligence. As Norman had been prohibited from the Inn, he’d enlisted the aid of Human Torch—Robin Alderly, as he happened to be called—to smuggle out of the library volumes of the Inn’s official histories. By sun and candlelight, accompanied by the constant roar of his young siblings’ exuberance, Norman worked his way through generations of Keepers of the Records, searching their writings for cases similar to his own. As it happened, his situation was without precedent. No member of Gray’s Inn had ever been called to task for bungling the Christmas revels to the point of arson. And so he’d focused on cases of expulsion and refusal to call to the bar. He’d orated brilliantly before the benchers—the same men who should have been calling him to the bar, rather than weighing whether to strike his name from the rolls of the Inn. Sadly, the judgment of the benchers had gone against him. Norman suspected politics at work; Mr. Turton had scowled and huffed throughout the hearings, his prejudice evident, and the other benchers had feared crossing him.

He’d been disappointed by the ruling, but not surprised, given Turton’s determination to make an example of Norman. Already, he’d been drafting an appeal to the judges, which he had readied and dispatched within days of the benchers’ ruling. His appeal had been a work both intellectually rigorous and emotionally appealing, a recounting of his own achievements, as well as the Inn’s storied history as an institute not just of legal learning, but a center of culture. In centuries past, residents of the Inn had included poets, musicians, and theologians. The very bench tables threatened by the fire had been gifted to the Society by Queen Elizabeth as thanks for a banquet held in her honor, and for the “Certaine Devises and Shewes presented to her Majestie by the gentlemen of Grayes-Inn, at her Highnesse Court in Greenwich.” The revels Norman had resurrected may have ended in misfortune, but it harkened back to a proud tradition, a time when the Inn had produced gentlemen of culture and distinction, not just advocates for the court.

The judges had acknowledged receipt of his appeal and then gone silent for three weeks. At last, this was it. Norman’s fate was contained in this letter.

Abruptly, he stuffed it into the inner pocket of his coat and headed out the door, shutting behind him the sounds of his father’s happy second family.

He strode down Tavistock Street, turned onto Southampton, and cut across the bustling Strand to reach the coffeehouse where he had scheduled to meet his friends. Norman was the first to arrive, and so he procured a table and ordered a pot of coffee and some refreshments. At other tables, men debated politics, the economy, and other topics of the day. In a corner, a thin fellow with a literary air about him bent over a sheaf of paper, pen scribbling madly.

The letter in his pocket seemed to weigh a stone. He was aware of it cocooned in his clothing, scant inches from his heart. He pulled it out and turned it in his hands, as if the wax seal might offer a clue as to the contents.

If the ruling against him was upheld, Norman didn’t know what he’d do.

His father who, as a younger son, did not have a considerable fortune, had nevertheless financed Norman’s education and housing for seven years, so proud was he when his eldest had been accepted at Gray’s. Though the elder Wynford-Scott had never breathed a word of repayment, Norman had always intended to reimburse his father once he was a barrister. All of that investment would be for nothing, money lost, never to return.

Asking his father and stepmother to make room for him in their home, having to explain why, had already been a lesson in humility. His father had expressed confidence in Norman’s ability to clear his name. But if he did not? If he was never to be called to the bar? The thought of becoming a disappointment in his father’s eyes tormented Norman.

“What have you there? The lost Gospel of Saint Aloysius?”

Norman glanced up to see Sheridan Zouche regarding him through his quizzing glass from across the table.

“I’ve been standing here, watching you brood over that missive as if it held the Word of God for four minutes, and you never even noticed I was here.”

“Why not make it a full five?” Norman asked.

“I was going to,” Sheri mused, pulling out a chair and taking the seat opposite Norman’s, “but then I realized that I was the one who looked odd standing here staring dumbly, not you, and this insight compelled me to bring my public idiocy to an end ahead of schedule. A very efficient process, you see.”

Shaking his head, Norman chuckled. “You’re daft, Zouche.”

Sheri poured himself a cup of coffee and slanted a wry smile. “Daft enough to gape at you like a lovelorn idiot for four minutes, but not daft enough to do it for five. So, what is that, anyway?”

Norman nodded a greeting at Henry De Vere and Brandon Dewhurst who had just entered, and waited for them to reach the table before answering. “This is the final judgment on my appeal. It arrived just before I left, so I thought ...”

He glanced around the table at the faces of the three men. Along with Harrison Dyer, absent for reason of being at sea, these were Norman’s closest friends in the world. Their bond had been forged in adolescence, but as men, they continued to stand together against whatever challenges life threw at them. If one man were in need, the others would be there for him; it went without saying. Theirs was a brotherhood of sorts, and though Norman now had several young half brothers, The Honorables were the brothers of his heart.

Brandon, seated beside him, clapped Norman’s shoulder in wordless support.

“Whatever comes, big man,” said Henry. His golden hair caught a band of light when he gave a firm nod.

“Naturally,” Sheri concluded.

Puffing an exhale, Norman cracked the seal and opened the letter.

His eyes, jittery with nerves, would not follow the text, instead skipping down several lines and hopping from word to word.
Unprofessional ... his defence ... two years ... deserving ... severe ...

“Well, what does it say?” Henry’s golden head was tilted in anticipation.

Norman gulped hard. Cleared his throat. Forced himself to read again, careful and slow.

Having done so, he blew out a long breath. “I’ve been screened.”

“Screened?” Sheri tapped the table with his quizzing glass. “What the devil is that?”

“Severely censured,” Norman explained. “Excluded from the Hall for two years.”

“What’s that to do with a screen?” Brandon inquired.

Norman chuffed a humorless laugh. “This order is to be affixed to the screen in the Hall for the duration of my exclusion, so all may see my name and punishment.”

Sheri sucked air between his teeth. “
Oooo.
Puts my four minutes of public humiliation in perspective, though, doesn’t it?”

“But that’s good, though, isn’t it?” Henry contributed. “You haven’t been expelled. You can still be called to the bar.”

“Two years from now!” Norman exclaimed, striking the table with his fist. “What am I—” At the startled looks from the other patrons in the coffeehouse, he covered his mouth, then continued at a lower volume. “What am I supposed to do for the next two years?”

“Practice as a solicitor? Your degree in civil law from Oxford gives you that much,” Brandon suggested, but Norman was already shaking his head before the words were fully out of his friend’s mouth.

“To do that, I’d have to resign from Gray’s Inn, abandon any hope of ever being called to the bar. Then, I’d have to apply to practice as an attorney, an application that may or may not be approved, given this disciplinary action from Gray’s Inn. This is limbo.” He flung his arm, gestured widely with a hand. “Neither here nor there.”

A long silence followed. Norman slouched, heavy with despair, and the other three stared into their coffee cups as if a solution would arise from the depths of the dark brew.

“You could work for me,” Henry ventured uncertainly. He spun his cup on the table, hooked a finger into the handle, half raised the cup, put it down again. “You could ... help with the books, or, you know, actually,” he picked up speed, his voice more animated, “we need a new foreman in the warehouse, someone we can trust. I caught the last bloke skimming goods to sell on the side.”

Henry and his brother owned a shipping company, De Vere and Sons. To the best of Norman’s knowledge, the young venture had yet to turn a profit. Henry’d already taken on their friend Harrison Dyer, who even now sailed eastward on a ship loaded with all of Henry’s hopes for the future.

“Thanks, Henry, but I’d only be a charity case. I’ve no skills to offer. Would probably wind up losing you money.”

Brandon’s shoulders rose. “Maybe—”

“Thanks, but I’ll figure it out.” The other men regarded Norman uncertainly. “Really, gents, it’ll all work out in the end.”

He put on a smile, conveying confidence he didn’t feel.

The others let the matter drop and moved on to other topics. Norman listened with half an ear. He swallowed coffee without tasting it; it felt like acid in his stomach. Continuing to live off his father was out of the question. Norman was twenty-nine years old, strong of body and mind, and fully capable of supporting himself. Yet the sad truth was this: He was overeducated and suited for no vocation whatsoever.

Manual labor of some nature might be in his future. Or tutoring. He pictured himself in the schoolroom of some nobleman’s nursery. The memory of his siblings’ weeping governess echoed in his mind. He suppressed a shudder.

Sheri said something, a name, that snapped Norman’s attention to the conversation. “Repeat that, please?”

“I had a letter from Lady Fay.”

Brandon raised a brow. “And how does she get on?”

Norman clasped his hands around his cup of coffee and feigned disinterest in Sheri’s answer.

Besides the pressing matter of his status at Gray’s Inn, Norman’s thoughts had been consumed with Elsa—often the two were muddled together. Never before had he experienced such a turmoil of emotion over a woman. Though, to be honest, he’d never experienced any strong emotions relating to a woman. He had admired some, certainly; when he was twenty, he’d even fancied himself in love with Miss Grafton, the daughter of a local squire he’d met while summering at his uncle’s estate in Dorset. For the bulk of his adult life, he’d been focused on his studies, first at Oxford, and then at Gray’s Inn, neither of which institutions provided many opportunities to mingle with the gentler sex. And while Norman was the grandson (and now nephew) of an earl, his father’s
mésalliance
with a dairymaid had resulted in his branch of the family being cut from the guest lists of the highest of Society’s sticklers. In brief, Norman simply had not been around women enough to develop a strong attachment to one.

“She says she is doing well.” Sheri said. “I have written Foster and shall withhold judgment on the matter until I hear from her.”

Henry tipped his cup toward Sheri. “Do you not trust Lady Fay’s own word?”

Sheri shifted in his seat. His eyes clouded with uncertainty. “I want to believe Elsa. But if you had seen her that last day, Henry ... She was like a different person. My friend of so long just wasn’t there.” Beside Norman, the surgeon sighed. “Unfortunately, Sheri, you’re right to mistrust Lady Fay’s report. Individuals with heavily entrenched habits often lie to conceal the extent of their use.” Brandon tapped a calloused finger on the table. “Hopefully her ladyship is telling the truth. She’s strong at her core, and she has trusted servants around her to help.”

Help.
That’s all he’d wanted to do on that trip to Berrybrook. Including Elsa in the revels hadn’t benefited either of them, but like a dolt, he had grasped at another chance to spend time with the beautiful, troubled widow, to shelter and protect her.

Everything had gone well until that last night. Arrogantly, he’d credited his own efforts at keeping her from alcohol with the relative ease of the trip. How foolish he’d been; how little he knew. Witnessing Elsa trapped in the snare of her cravings had shaken him. Hearing her anguish as she paced and cried had made him feel helpless, desperate to ease her suffering. Her body had demanded physical deliverance, and his own had innately responded to her call. How could it not? Elsa was gorgeous, sensual—and, finally, had turned to him. And she’d been so kind, in her way, about his inexperience, had matter-of-factly showed him the way of it, made him feel like a king when she’d come undone at his touch. In that instant, his heart had opened to her. There was nothing he’d not do to protect and comfort this woman.