1. November, 1826

1

NOVEMBER, 1826

NO. 10, BEDFORD SQUARE

A ristotle Barker-Finch was not a sentimental man by any measure. Being the most successful barrister in Edinburgh, he’d had no need for sentimentality. All he’d needed was his keen intellect, his formidable knowledge of the law, and an attitude of invincibility before the various benches where justice was meted out.

Invincibility.

A cruel joke for any man to believe, but especially so for a man with the lives of others in his hands. Fortunately, he no longer had that burden to bear. No, as the rays of the noon day sun tried their best to light the dim shadows of his study, he held no lives in his hands. Just a beautifully carved wooden horse, polished over the last two years by hours spent gripped by his fingers as he contemplated throwing it into the fire. Each time, no matter how long he stood and tried to force himself to consign William’s gift to the flames, he returned the horse to his desk atop the file of the last case he’d ever defended before the highest bench in Edinburgh.

The last case he’d defended. The first and only case he’d ever lost.

One foot propped on the brick hearth and his head rested against the coolness of the marble fireplace, Ari finally drew the horse away from the flames and placed the beautiful piece on the mantel. He continued to stare into the crackling blaze the footman had built up sometime early that morning whilst Ari had slept stretched out on the long Chesterfield sofa at the far end of his study. He could not remember the last time he’d slept in the large, comfortable four-poster bed in his chambers upstairs. Not that it mattered where he slept. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do which required a good night’s sleep.

Rap! Rap!

What the devil?

His servants never knocked on doors. They scratched or tapped lightly. They did not hammer with the sharp, imperious blows of a Bow Street runner about to take a man into custody. Which could mean only two things.

First, a visitor had managed to push their way past Fitz, his stickler of a butler. Something most Runners of his acquaintance would not dare attempt.

Second, Ari was about to be invaded by the one person who could run roughshodover Fitz.

“Come in, Mother,” Ari said, with a heavy sigh as he returned the horse to his desk and made an attempt to tidy up his appearance. An attempt which he quickly abandoned. There was no hope for his shirt, wrinkled beyond redemption by several days of wear, and only God knew where his neckcloth might be. He suspected the Almighty didn’t give a damn, so why should a broken-down barrister at the last tether of his patience for company?

“Aristotle, when are you going to take your servants in hand?” his mother asked, as she crossed the room and offered her cheek for his kiss. Which he forced himself to give. She glanced over her shoulder to glare at Fitz, poised at the open door to do whatever Ari asked up to and including throwing Lady Margaret Barker-Finch out on her arse . The war between his mother and his butler had been going on for two years now with little sign of surrender on either party’s part.

“What sort of butler refuses a gentleman’s mother entrance to her son’s home?” She began an inspection of Ari’s clothes and person as if he were a maid she were about to dismiss.

“The sort who has been told to do so. Thank you, Fitz. That will be all.”

“No, it will not, Fitz.” She turned to give the butler the full volley of her meddlesome, condescending attention. “Run down to the kitchens and order a tray of food sent up for your master.” She sniffed and waved a magically retrieved lacy handkerchief under her nose. “From his appearance and his smell, the only sustenance he has taken in several days has been brandy. Send for some tea and sandwiches and perhaps a bowl of beef broth.” She continued to stare at the butler, who purposefully ignored her and looked to Ari for instruction.

“Never mind, Fitz. No need to trouble Cook. I’m not hungry.”

“Of course he is, Fitz. Do as you are told.” When the butler didn’t budge, she turned her ire on Ari. “I insist you send for some food this instant. I will not leave until I see you eat something.”

Ari looked to the ceiling and then at his butler who simply shook his head. “If that is all it will take to send her on her way for God’s sake, Fitz, send for a bloody banquet.”

“As you wish, sir.” Fitz executed a bow, directed only at Ari, and quit the room.

“I don’t understand why you keep that upstart in your employ,” his mother said, as she dusted off one of the leather chairs in front of his cluttered desk and sat down. Her posture ramrod straight, she perched on the edge of the chair as if to touch the rest might soil her clothes. He might appear a monument to dishevelment, but his servants kept his home spotless as much as he allowed.

“I keep him because he runs my household efficiently with little trouble to me and keeps my privacy and peace secure save for the occasional breach by invading relations.”

“I am your only living relation, Aristotle.”

“Precisely. What do you want, Mother? I’ve neither the time nor the patience for another lecture about my duty to the damned Barker-Finch name.” He made a great show of sitting in his desk chair and organizing the chaos his desk had become over the last two years. Anything to avoid her disapproving glare.

“Haven’t the time? It appears to me all you have is time. Time to wallow in self-pity and drink. Why your father—”

“Your assessment of how I spend my days is correct, so let me be about it, Mother. I have nothing else to do.” He despised losing his temper with her, but he despised the truth of her words even more. The last thing he wanted to hear from her was what his late father would think. The man had died and left them each a fortune. Which was the only kind thing he’d done for either of them. Those fortunes allowed her to live in the luxury and ease she’d enjoyed as a duke’s daughter before she married London’s leading barrister, the second son of another duke, and now allowed Ari to wallow in self-pity and drink .

“That is precisely why I am here. As you have nothing better to do, I have accepted a commission on your behalf for Lady Camilla. You are to attend her tomorrow at two in the afternoon.” She waved her handkerchief under her nose again and fixed him with her most commanding gaze.

Her tactic might work on a cowed coachman or a helpless lady’s maid, but he was neither, and the last person he wanted to do business with of any sort was Lady Camilla Bowles Attington Carrington Whitby, the one woman in London who made his mother look like a young miss right out of the schoolroom.

“I have no interest in entering the ranks at Lincolns Inn or anywhere else barristers are employed, and I certainly have no intention of placing my life in the hands of that old harridan. I’d sooner take a swim in the Thames.”

“That is one possible choice, Aristotle. Though I doubt a swim in the Thames would make you smell worse than you do at present. The commission is not as a barrister. I am not certain what it is actually. She merely asked after you at the Cavendish’s rout, and when I explained my concerns for your well-being, she suggested she might have the answer. Apparently, she is a patroness of Stephen Forsythe, your barrister friend.”

Stephen Forsythe . There was a name he hadn’t heard since he’d left London twelve years ago to practice law in Edinburgh, far away from his father and his censure. Ari had no intention of facing either Lady Camilla or his old friend. Not now. Not anymore.

“The answer is no.” He shoved himself to his feet and braced his hands on his desk to keep from swaying. “Please give my regrets to Lady Camilla. Good afternoon, Mother.”

“Aristotle—”

“Your repast, sir.” Fitze burst into the room without knocking followed by Ned, the head footman, bearing a large tray loaded with a pot of tea, a plate of sandwiches, a bowl of some steaming broth, and various pieces of cutlery and a teacup. Fitz bustled past Ari’s mother and directed the footman to arrange the tray on a tea table before the high-backed, black-and-gold silk upholstered chair before the hearth. The look he exchanged with Ari allowed that Fitz had been listening at the door for the opportune moment to interrupt. The butler needed a rise in pay for that if for nothing more.

“Have you need of anything else, sir?” Fitz asked as the footman hurried out the door.

“He does not.” Ari’s mother managed to say though her teeth were fairly gritted in rage.

“No, thank you, Fitz. That will be all. Her ladyship will be leaving momentarily. Perhaps you would be so good as to have her things ready at the door and inform her coachman of her immediate need to depart?”

“Of course, sir.” His face was composed in an expression of deep butler-like solemnity though his eyes sparked with humor. He walked out of the room on silent feet but left the door open.

“Really? How dare you dismiss me as if I were some servant? And before your butler and footman no less.” She shot to her feet. “You will meet with Lady Camilla, my boy. I insist you at least try to enter good society again. Why, I —”

He silenced her with a raised hand as he took a large bite of one of Cook’s sandwiches made of fresh baked bread, a generous slice of ham, and a slice of soft Cheshire cheese. The bread had been buttered as only Cook could do. He chewed vigorously and tried not to show how good the fare actually tasted. He’d not realized how delicious a simple sandwich might be after not eating for a few days. Once he swallowed, he placed the sandwich back onto the plate.

“There. I have eaten something. Our business together is done. Goodbye, Mother.” He folded his arms and waited.

She sniffled and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. He had no idea why as her eyes were completely free of tears no matter how hard she attempted to make him believe she was weeping. “You have broken my heart, Aristotle Barker-Finch. How I gave birth to such an ungrateful son I will never know. But my heart is truly laid waste that you would treat me thus.”

“I would not worry overly if I were you, Mother.” He settled into the fireside chair and poured himself a cup of tea. “Surely there are enough pieces of coal and knots of wood about for you to find a reasonable replacement for your heart. Good day.” He added milk to his tea and took a long sip whilst the indignant huff and the rustle of skirts let him know she’d finally left him alone.

Ari concentrated on his food and tea in an effort to clear his mind of the last hour’s encounter with the woman who had given birth to him and then abandoned him to the care of nurses, nannies, and governesses before handing him over to his father’s machinations and demands at the tender age of nine. Had he not escaped to Cambridge from the ages of fifteen to nearly nineteen he might have run mad. Perhaps he should have run mad, especially given the state of his life at present.

Enough! Enough dwelling on things that cannot be changed.

He spied a small plate on the corner of the tray. Two perfect raspberry tarts sat waiting for him. Cook had raided the orangery at the back of his townhouse. She’d come with him from Edinburgh and knew how much he loved raspberries in any form. He bit into one of the tarts and closed his eyes to savor the taste.

A scratch at the door interrupted his reverie. “Come.” If his mother had returned, he would not be responsible for his actions. Especially if she saw him actually enjoying the food she’d ordered he eat.

“You have a visitor, sir.” Ari found his curiosity piqued by Fitz’s odd expression. “Are you at home to Mister Stephen Forsythe?”

“Prinny’s pizzle,” Ari groaned.

“Not exactly,” Forsythe said brightly as he strode into the room. “Though I have been called worse.”

“Why are you here?” Ari asked, though he suspected he knew the answer all too well.