Gambling on a Scoundrel (27 page)

"You shouldn't have found out this way. Mme Le Clair said she'd tell you before we left London. I didn't realize that you still didn't know. She begged me to let her be the one to tell you. If it's any consolation, she regretted not telling you sooner."

"If by sooner, you mean ten years ago, then yes. Sooner would have been much better. How could she keep my own history from me for so many years?"

"I think she was worried you'd try to confront Formsworth."

Boothby reddened. "Perhaps I would have. But that decision should have been mine to make."

"I don't necessarily agree. You mother left you in Mme Le Clair's care. Hasn't Madame protected you? Prepared you for the world? Helped you find employment?"

"I should have been told," Boothby insisted. "I had a right to know."

"And she meant to tell you."

"So you say. But that's only words. Empty promises. All I know is that she didn't do it."

"Actually," Tempy said, "I think you were probably better off not knowing about that man. It must be difficult to grow up not knowing who your father is, but I imagine it would have been even worse to suffer a father's loathing. That type of disdain would certainly have affected you. It might have altered the course of your life."

Boothby's expression became thoughtful.

They had left most of the shops behind as they walked, and the street was much less busy here. Lucien could now see Formsworth far ahead of them, entering the town hall.

Lucien glanced at Tempy and then back at Boothby. "I've never mentioned this, but my father was aware of my grandfather's low opinion of him, and I'm certain it affected him. It was hard for him to face that sort of loathing every day. I'm certain he would have had a better life if that man hadn't continually berated him. As it was, he always felt as though he had to prove himself."

"Thank you for telling me that, m'lord," Boothby said. "Fortunately, I've already come to realize that Formsworth means nothing to me. I only approached him today to see if I could learn something about my mother. Can you tell me anything more about her?"

Lucien frowned slightly. "I know little of her. I only met her once, while she was carrying you. She was a demimondaine, much like Mme Le Clair, but not as lucky."

"Why," Boothby asked, "because she met Formsworth?" Although the young man's tone was belligerent, Lucien knew his anger wasn't directed at Lucien, but at the man who had caused his mother so much pain.

"She left him because he hit her. She said she didn't want to risk losing her unborn child to one of his rages. Formsworth refused to believe the child was his, despite the fact that he'd kept her isolated at his home here in Somerset for months. His jealousy was like poison to the women he claimed to love. But your mother escaped, unlike his wife. After you were born, she sent a message to Formsworth to let him know he had a son. She hoped that his love for her would transfer to his newborn child, but Formsworth insisted he had no child."

"But Boothby is the image of him," Tempy said. "How can he continue to deny it?"

"He didn't deny it just now," Boothby said. "He accused me of wanting money. But he's wrong. I want nothing from that man. I wish I could strip away any resemblance we share."

As they paused in the shadow of the town hall, Lucien turned to look squarely at Boothby. "Any resemblance you share is superficial. I've known you for years. In every way that matters, you are nothing like him. I admire the man you've become."

The clock in the tower above the town hall began to chime.

Boothby glanced at it guiltily. "You need to go inside. I'm sorry I delayed you. Thank you, m'lord."

"I'm glad I could be of help."

Boothby nodded. "Yes, sir." He hurried away and then turned down a side street.

"Formsworth's been your bane for years," Tempy murmured.

He frowned. "And this court case is simply his way of trying to irritate me."

"At least the judge already recognizes that."

"Yes. At least there's that."

He turned to enter the town hall, and Tempy turned back toward the area with the shops. Suddenly he realized he
wanted
to face Formsworth in court. The man had gotten away with running roughshod over everyone for years. Even Grandfather had bowed to the man's will simply because he hadn't wanted to rile him.

Lucien walked through the town hall doors with a lightness in his step that formerly hadn't been there.

23 - Cavendish Takes Stand

Tempy paused and turned to watch Lucien enter the town hall. Something was different about him. His chin was higher and his shoulders were thrown back, like a man preparing for a battle.

But this would be a legal battle.

CAVENDISH TAKES STAND

She loved that double play on the word
stand
.

She smiled. The new Earl of Cavendish was obviously feeling confident. The court case should be an interesting one.

So why was she standing here on High Street rather than watching the proceedings? What had she been thinking?

Tempy quickly retraced her steps and entered the town hall less than a minute behind Lucien. She'd been neglecting her role as a journalist on this trip, and it had left her feeling unanchored. She wasn't cut out for an aimless life of ease. Making the decision to throw herself into her role as a reporter immediately released the floodgates on a dam of tension that had been building, leaving her energized.

A few other people were milling around in the main foyer, but it didn't take long to find the room where Lucien's case was being heard. Quite a few locals were already filling the rows of seats at the back of the room, so it was easy for her to find a seat where Lucien was unlikely to spot her.

She didn't want to distract him. Of course, there was always the chance that he'd be annoyed at seeing her here. She certainly hoped not. But it was an open court, so she had just as much of a right to be there as anyone else.

Tempy dug around in her reticule and found the small wooden box containing a dip pen and a pot of ink. She wondered, yet again, if she should switch to a fountain pen. Her frustration, however, was that she found them to be more temperamental than a traditional dip pen and inkwell. And she simply detested pencils. The always managed to break at the most inopportune moment.

Paper. What about paper?

Tempy shoved her hand back into her reticule and was relieved when she closed her fingers around her slim bound notebook.

She checked her inkwell and discovered that the ink was too thick, so she exited the court room and walked down the hallway, searching for an open office where she might find a bit of water.

She caught sight of a man leaning on a cane as he walked through the nearest doorway, so she followed him to look for some assistance.

There was nobody in the room. There was another door on the far side of the room. Perhaps the man was in an interior office. "Hello?" she called, hoping that someone would appear who could help her. She glanced around and spied a pitcher of water on a side table.

She waited a moment, but nobody responded to her call. Why didn't the man reply? "Do you mind if I take a small bit of water?" she asked, feeling a bit foolish. There was still no answer.

With a sigh, Tempy crossed the room to the pitcher and dribbled a few drops of water into her ink pot. She closed it and shook it, then opened it again to examine it. Perfect. After stoppering the inkwell, she hurried back to the courtroom.

It was even more crowded now, and she ended up sitting closer to the front than she would have preferred. Fortunately, a rather tall man sat in front of her, blocking her from view.

But that also meant that
her
view was blocked. She set her pen kit on a small wooden block affixed to the seat in front of her that was probably meant for that purpose, opened the lid of the inkwell, and readied her pen.

She heard someone, most likely the clerk to the court, announce the judge.

She leaned to one side and caught sight of Judge Conner entering the room. She easily recognized him despite the white wig and black robes he wore. It occurred to her that his short hair must make the wig a bit more comfortable to wear.

Chancery court was now in session.

Judge Conner spoke first, and Tempy leaned to one side to observe him. "I've read the Bill of Complaint submitted on behalf of Squire Formsworth. In essence, he disputes the ownership of a piece of property. He claims that the late Earl of Cavendish erected a fence and that part of that fence intrudes upon his property. The fence was constructed twenty years ago, but Squire Formsworth only recently discovered the error." He glanced at Formsworth's barrister. "Is this correct?"

"Yes, your honor," the barrister replied.

Tempy quickly scrawled notes regarding the initial complaint.

"Mr. Severson, how does your client respond?" Judge Conner asked, glancing at the man sitting next to Lucien.

"We formally reject this bill, your honor. As you already mentioned, the fence has been there for twenty years and it is clearly well within the boundaries of the Cavendish land."

Tempy leaned to one side to watch Mr. Formsworth while Mr. Severson spoke. He was speaking with his own barrister. Even from her distant vantage point, she could hear Formsworth's hisses of anger.

Judge Conner nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Severson." He glanced at Formsworth's barrister. "Mr. Aikley, I see you have something to say. What is it?"

Formsworth's white-wigged barrister stood, a peeved expression on his face. "It is my client's contention that various pieces of land have been in dispute over many, many years. He believed that the issue concerning this particular piece of property had already been resolved and only recently discovered he'd been mistaken. He begs the court's pardon in waiting so long to begin these proceedings, but he is confident that his rights in this matter will be upheld."

Tempy took a moment to jot down brief descriptions of the men in the courtroom.

Mr. Aikley presented evidence showing that, indeed, these sorts of disputes had been dealt with in Chancery Court for a number of years. Apparently, the bad blood between the two families could be traced back over at least four generations. That would probably explain the ongoing animosity between Lucien and Formsworth. Tempy had felt certain that there was more to it than was on the surface. She'd been right.

Mr. Severson stood, letting out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "I admit, your honor, that these land disputes began over a hundred years ago. Fortunately, however, we have not seen any new claims made by the Formsworth family in about thirty years. Not since the Tithe map was updated in 1820. The map is detailed and accurate, and shows all structures in the region. These include the rectory, mills, gardens, common areas, woods, boundary posts, trees used to mark boundaries, and every disputed boundary. You will note that this particular fence is not among those listed as being under dispute. The map also shows hedge and fence ownership, field gates, hill-drawings, footpaths, bridleways, bridges, embankments, and streams. If you examine the map, you will discover that the fence in dispute is shown as belonging to the Earl of Cavendish, and that it is well within the boundary of his property. I am prepared to offer witnesses who have walked the entire length of the fence while consulting this map, and they can attest that the map is accurate with regard to this particular fence. I beg of you, your honor, that you not only settle this dispute in favor of my client, but that you also reprimand Mr. Formsworth for wasting the court's time in such a frivolous manner."

Tempy wrote as quickly as she could, but she paused a moment to lean to one side and glance at Formsworth. She could see his face turning that deep shade of red that had presaged yesterday's angry outburst.

"I object," Formsworth shouted. "This man isn't even the acknowledged heir. He's a usurper."

"Please be seated, Mr. Formsworth, and refrain from speaking in this court. It is your barrister's role to speak for you, and if you cannot control yourself, I will take measures to
ensure
that you do not address this court again. Do I make myself understood?"

Formsworth sputtered and fumed for a moment, but then he nodded to the judge and sat back down.

"It is the opinion of this court that Mr. Formsworth's case is without merit, and I hereby dismiss it. Furthermore, Mr. Formsworth is heavily cautioned against presenting any more of these frivolous suits. Should another one as baseless as this appear in my docket, I'll be forced to deal more sternly with him. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, your honor," Formsworth's barrister replied. "And thank you for your leniency in this matter."

Tempy hurriedly transcribed the judge's ruling before his words could fade or become jumbled in her memory. She was so busy that she barely took note of the people around her exiting the room. When she looked up, she found herself staring directly into Lucien's eyes.

He raised one eyebrow sardonically and she lifted her notebook to display it to him. He looked quite happy as he crossed the courtroom to stand closer to her. They were separated by the low railing surrounding the visitor's area and a row of seats. "Taking notes?" he asked.

"I thought I might get a story out of this."

"And did you?"

"Certainly. But I'm not certain it's one that the London papers would find of interest. Perhaps Porlock's paper is looking for an article."

Lucien shook his head in mock reproach. "You're a journalist to the core, aren't you? I'll introduce you to the editor tomorrow night while we're at Judge Conner's house. He's hosting a dinner party, and we're invited."

Tempy stared down at her notebook for a moment and then glanced back up at Lucien. His offer of an introduction was more than either Father or Ernest had ever done to further her career. "You'd do that for me?"

Lucien shrugged one shoulder. It wasn't that Gallic shrug that he used to disguise his real feelings. This was his natural one. "Of course. I'm happy to help."