* * * *
Clare did miss his kisses and waking up curled against him in the morning. She missed the way he had gently but effectively aroused her and readied her for his love-making. She didn’t miss, however, those awful moments after his release when he would attempt to bring her to hers. And surely, it would not have done their marriage any good for them to have gone on pretending?
They had talked about the possibility of attending the Little Season in the beginning of the summer, but had come to no clear decision. Clare was relieved one morning at breakfast, when Giles raised the possibility again.
“I think it is time to think about returning to London, Clare. Sabrina? I hope you are both in agreement with me?”
Sabrina was of two minds. She wasn’t sure she could stand seeing Andrew More socially. It would be painful to maintain her friendly facade now that the truth between them had been spoken. Although surely during Michaelmas Term, he would have a busy schedule? Yet as painful as it might be to return to London, at least there would be a variety of activities to distract her. And Giles and Clare. The careful politeness between them was hard to watch, and she was well aware that something had happened that was keeping Giles from his wife’s bed. All in all, London seemed the better choice.
“I have enjoyed the summer, Giles,” she replied. Well, she
had,
up until Andrew’s visit. “But I think some time in the city would be good for all of us.”
Clare smiled and nodded her agreement. Surely a change of scene could not hurt their marriage. Might even help it. And she would have a chance to speak with Andrew in London. If she couldn’t bring Giles happiness, then perhaps she could help Andrew and Sabrina find it.
The first few days Andrew was back in London, his rooms seemed very cramped and dingy after the spacious elegance of Whitton, and for the first time in his life, he wished he were his brother. Well, not precisely, he thought humorously. He would never want to be as priggish, responsible, and boring as Jonathan. But had he been born the elder, he would have asked Sabrina to marry him years ago.
He would just have to put her out of his mind. Banish the memory of how soft her cheek felt, how well she fit against him when he pulled her close.
He had no
reason to be in court for the next few weeks, but on his first day back, instead of going straight to his office, he had decided to distract himself at the Old Bailey for a few hours. Although the practice was by no means universal, it was becoming more common for victims and criminals alike to be represented by counsel, and Andrew enjoyed watching other barristers putting witnesses through their paces.
After watching two young men sentenced to the hulks for burglary, one older woman transported for stealing from her mistress, Andrew felt better. Not that he enjoyed feeding off human misery as did some court spectators. He felt sympathy for those victimized by poverty who then, in turn, victimized others. Oh, he prosecuted them, but he also sympathized. And this morning he had certainly needed to feel sorry for someone other than himself.
He spied Thomas Ruthven, one of the better-known Bow Street Runners and after the morning session, sought him out. He enjoyed socializing with Runners as much or perhaps more than with his social equals. Most of them were men of great natural intelligence, albeit uneducated, and most important of all, were not hypocrites as were so many of his own class. They knew firsthand what was important: life and death, not who was the latest cuckold. After an enjoyable dinner with Ruthven at the Garrick Head over which he caught up on the latest criminal gossip, Andrew strolled to his office, mellowed by the ale and good company, and distracted at least from his thoughts of Sabrina. All a man really needed, he decided, the ale working on him, was work, meaningful work.
When he entered his chambers, his clerk greeted him and then motioned to a young man sitting in the corner.
“He’s been waiting three hours to see you, Mr. More.”
Andrew glanced over. His visitor and he assumed, prospective client, was a young man, not older than twenty-four, Andrew would have guessed. He was dressed respectably and looked considerably different from many of Andrew’s usual clients. He had lank, dirty-blond hair, which fell over his forehead, and a sallow complexion.
“You would like to see me, Mr. ...?”
The young man’s face brightened. “Yes, sir. Oh, I am John Grantham.”
“Come in to my office, Mr. Grantham.”
The young man unfolded himself and stood up. He was at least two inches taller than Andrew, and very thin. Not a particularly healthy-looking specimen, thought Andrew, as he led him into the office and motioned him to sit down.
“Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?”
The young man cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his chair. He didn’t look like a criminal, thought Andrew, but then, quite often appearances were deceiving.
“I wish you to help me prosecute someone. Er, actually, four men.”
Robbery, thought Andrew. “Do you know the identity of these men, Mr. Grantham? Or will I have to call in a Runner?”
The young man smiled bleakly. “Oh, I know them very well, Mr. More. They are Richard Bennett, Frederick Oldfield, John Phillips, and Thomas Carolus. They are the proprietors of a gaming hell at 75 St. James Street.”
“You wish to prosecute the proprietors of a gaming house?” Andrew was flabbergasted. No one ever brought charges against such men.
“Yes,” said Grantham, his fidgeting hands still now that he had spoken. “Yes, I do. I am, or I
was,
”
he said bitterly, “a student at Inner Temple. I have learned something of the law. It says that ‘Any person who shall at any one sitting lose the sum of ten pounds or more and pays, he is at liberty for three months to recover it.’ ”
Andrew lifted his eyebrows. “You are correct, Mr. Grantham. The law does say that. But I know of hardly any precedents.”
“Oh, I know,” said Grantham bitterly. “A gentleman pays his gaming debts. A gentleman does not complain and certainly does not attempt to get his money back. A gentleman values his honor above all things. Well, I am not a gentleman, Mr. More. Which is why I am here. Your solicitor told me you take on clients whose cases interest you. He told me to talk to you directly in the hope that mine also would.”
“Tell me your story, Mr. Grantham,” said Andrew, leaning back in his chair.
“I was born in India. My father is a minor official with the East India Company. His dream and also my mother’s was that I would come back to England and become something a little more successful than my father. My parents scraped and saved for years, and when they finally had enough for my journey and fees, they sent me off with their lifesavings in my pockets.”
“And you settled into the life of a law student?”
“Yes. But I didn’t make many friends, Mr. More. Most of my fellow students are the younger sons of the nobility and had no interest in someone like me, whose family has been in trade. It has been a lonely year, but I discovered a coffeehouse in the West End, where I spent hours reading the newspaper or studying.”
Andrew knew the rest of the story. An obvious “Johnny Newcome,” John Grantham was the natural prey for a blackleg, one of those ruined gamesters who haunted the West End acting as “recruiting officers.” But he let Grantham continue.
“I met an older man. A man called Thomas. I found out later he is called ‘Coaxing Tom,’ ” added Grantham with a hollow laugh. “It is a good name for him. He was kind and coaxing. He told me I was too serious and too sallow. That I needed a little excitement to liven up my life, and he knew just the place. I would make friends there,” he said. “And so I went.”
“And played?”
“Oh, I only laid down a little the first few times. But I won back everything and more.”
“Yes, they make sure of that in these houses. Everyone wins more than he loses the first few times.”
“Then I started to lose. But not too much. Not enough to discourage me. And I was welcome. Oh, I’ve told myself I was having a hard time. I was homesick, had no friends.”
“But that is the truth,” said Andrew sympathetically.
“The truth is, I was naive and stupid. The truth is I
let
them fleece me out of my parents’ hard-earned money. The truth is I have nothing and have had to quit my studies. And the truth is, I don’t give a damn about honor and what is
done
and what isn’t
done.
I want my money back. The law is on my side, and I have come to love the law, although at the end, I was giving it little enough of my time.”
Andrew sat quietly through his outburst. At first, he hadn’t been drawn to this young man, partly because of his unappealing exterior, he was ashamed to say. And, also, he had to admit, because of his class. Sometimes he had an easier time with the poorest of the poor, and whether he liked it or not, he mixed with his own class confidently. He understood the middle class least. No one that he knew would ever dream of trying to get their money back. He knew men at Oxford whose fathers had lost whole estates; one whose brother had committed suicide over unpaid debts. But the code of honor demanded that a gentleman always paid what he owed, even if it meant impoverishing his family.
So at first he had only thought the young man a “whiner,” unwilling to take responsibility for his actions. Then, as he listened, he began to admire him. Here he was, willing to admit he’s been gulled, “fleabotomised,” as the blacklegs called it, but not willing to go along with a societal code that would have meant destroying the belief his parents had in him. If he carried through with this, Grantham would be even more of an outcast than he already was. But he obviously didn’t care. The principle of what was right and lawful motivated him.
And why should old Lord Marchmain have given up his estate. Or the young Viscount Blakeney shot himself? Andrew’s thoughts surprised him, and he had a fleeting vision of how nice it would have been to come home to Sabrina and discuss these issues. He dismissed it as quickly as it appeared and leaned forward on his elbows.
“You realize that these men are not going to appreciate your devotion to the law, Mr. Grantham.”
Grantham swallowed hard. “I do.”
“They are criminals, although they appear very welcoming and genteel.”
“I am not afraid,” said Grantham stoutly, and then he laughed. “No, I am very afraid,” he admitted. “But I must do what I believe is right.”
“As long as you understand the possible consequences, I will take you on as a client and direct my solicitor to prepare your case.”
“Thank you, Mr. More, thank you,” Grantham answered with great relief.
“The case cannot be brought until Michaelmas Term. I will have Mr. Lawrence contact you to prepare the brief.”
Grantham got up to leave.
"Mr. Grantham, there is something you have forgotten,” said Andrew. “The small matter of my fee,” he added dryly.
Grantham blushed. “Of course. I have a small amount of money set aside.”
“Which, no doubt, you need for lodging and food?”
Grantham nodded sheepishly.
“Well, I will wait, and you can pay me when we win.”
“You think we can win, then?”
“I know we will.”
“Thank you for taking this case on, Mr. More,” said Grantham fervently.
“You are more than welcome, Mr. Grantham,” said Andrew, walking him to the door. “It will liven up my fall term considerably, I am sure.” And keep my mind off Lady Sabrina Whitton, he added to himself.
* * * *
The Whittons arrived in London in mid-September and spent their first few days getting settled in. By the end of their first week, however, they started to accept selected invitations. Each time Sabrina walked into a drawing room or a ballroom, she found herself trembling like a young girl about to encounter the object of her first calf-love. But Andrew More was not at Lady Edward’s soiree nor the Thorndike ball, which left Sabrina both relieved and disappointed.
Giles was also on the lookout for Andrew, and when he didn’t appear either evening or call on the Whittons, Giles decided it was time to call on his friend. He excused himself from the daily ride one morning, announcing over breakfast that he had some errands to do. After Sabrina and Clare left, he took a hansom cab to Temple Bar.
Andrew’s clerk greeted him and announced that Mr. More was with a client, “If you can wait, my lord.”
“Of course. Mr. More had no idea I was coming.”
After ten minutes, Andrew’s door opened and a tall, thin young man emerged. Giles looked at him curiously. He was better dressed than Andrew’s usual class of clients, and Giles wondered just what he had been accused of.
As soon as the clerk announced him, Andrew was at the door, a broad smile on his face.
“Giles! What a delightful surprise! I didn’t know whether you were still in the country or had decided to do the Little Season.”
“It was a quick and unanimous decision, Andrew. We only arrived at the beginning of this week. We were hoping to see you at the Thorndike’s, but when we didn’t, I decided to hunt you down myself.”
“I have been quite busy, Giles,” said Andrew, sitting on top of his desk and motioning Giles to a chair in front of him. “Michaelmas Term starts soon. And I always do the minimum socializing anyway, you know.”
Giles smiled. “Yes, I know you well. Was that a new client, Andrew? He looked well-heeled compared to your usual clientele. What is he accused of?”
Andrew grinned. “He is accused of nothing, Giles. I am acting as prosecutor in this case.”
Giles lifted his eyebrows questioningly.
“That young man, Mr. John Grantham, is bringing suit against Messrs. Bennett, Oldfield, Carolus, and Phillips.”
“Embezzlement?”
“Of a kind, I suppose you could say,” Andrew replied. “The gentlemen in question run a gaming hell at 75 St. James Street.”
“You are bamming me, Andrew. That young man is trying to use the law to renege on a gaming debt?”
“Oh, no, Giles. He owes them nothing. He’s paid all of his parents’ hard-earned money, which they saved to place him at the bar. He is trying to get it back. And he is quite within the law, I might add.”