“And how many housemaids do we have?”
“Twenty at the moment, your lordship, though they tend to turn over.”
“How many footmen?”
She frowned slightly. “The footmen answer to Mr. Gower, your lordship. I would put their number at about the same as the maids.”
“And their wages?”
At that question—and only that question—her gaze flickered across Deene’s face, her eyes betraying a wary consternation. “I wouldn’t know for certain, your lordship. Lord Andermere sees to the paying of the wages.”
“What about the marketing, do you keep an account of that?”
“I hand in the sum to Lord Andermere at the end of each month, your lordship. If he’s not in Town, then I give it to Mr. Gower.”
There was no house steward for the townhouse—except Anthony, apparently.
“I would appreciate it if in future, Mrs. Hitchings, you apprise me of the sum expended as well. That will be all. Please send Gower to me directly.”
Gower’s litany was the same, though he of course remained standing while Deene interrogated him. Neither servant knew much of the household finances other than the single sum they reported to Anthony.
As Deene called for his horse to be saddled, he concluded such an arrangement was likely in the interest of domestic harmony, it being the province of the lower orders to grouse about wages, working conditions, and the tightfistedness of employers generally.
The ride into the City gave Deene an opportunity to consider yesterday’s developments with Lady Eve Windham—to further consider them, just as he’d been awake considering them for half the night.
She was attracted to him; of that there could be no doubt.
Nonetheless, she’d also unhesitatingly rejected a proposal from a very eligible catch, when her own tenure on the marriage market was growing woefully long. Her rejection stung more than it should have, but it also puzzled, which was annoying as hell.
Solicitors were annoying as hell too, but in a way that allowed Deene to vent and posture away some of his irritation.
“This is very short notice, my lord.” Hooker came up from his bow and took hold of a velvet coat lapel in each hand. “Very short notice indeed. May I inquire as to the nature of your lordship’s errand?”
Why was it the legal profession excelled in planting a sense of shame in a paying client?
Deene remained standing, requiring that Hooker do likewise. The skinny, younger associate was hovering near the fire, which Deene noted was burning cheerily on a temperate day.
And how much was that costing the already strained Deene coffers?
“My errand, as you put it, is to accept from you a status report regarding the pleadings I asked to have drawn up well over a week ago.”
Hooker pursed his lips. He turned loose of his lapels and stared for a moment at the floor. When Hooker had studied the floor long enough to make Deene’s jaw clench, the solicitor looked up and turned to his associate. “Bring me his lordship’s file.”
The associate fairly scampered out of the room while Deene let a silence extend.
“Perhaps your lordship would like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you take coffee, then? Some sustenance? What we have on hand is modest, your lordship, but certainly available for your comfort and convenience.”
From his own father, Deene had learned that the best rebukes were offered in the most civil tones. “This is not a social call, Hooker.”
“Of course not, your lordship. Might I inquire if we’ll be looking at any marriage settlement documents in the near future?”
An attempt at cross-examination and surprise, both. If the old windbag was half as good at the law as he was at conducting himself like a lawyer, then—with a half-decent barrister added to the payroll—Deene should soon have custody of his niece.
“Have you seen any announcements in the Times, Hooker?”
“Announce—? I have not, your lordship.”
Deene turned to survey the narrow street below, allowing Hooker to conclude for himself that solicitors would no more be privy to Deene’s personal attachments than would the general public.
After a soft tap, the door opened to reveal the scholarly associate. “The file, Mr. Hooker.”
A fat, beribboned folder was passed over to Hooker with a ceremony befitting High Church on a solemn holiday.
So much theatre, when all Deene wanted was to hug his niece. To know she was happy and thriving, to see her occasionally and have all of Polite Society know she was, unfortunate paternal antecedents notwithstanding, a Denning.
“Ah, yes. Here we are.” Hooker bent over the folder, setting papers in various piles on his desk. “We are making quite good progress on the pleadings, your lordship. Bitters here is taking the lead.”
“I’d like to see the draft documents.”
Hooker straightened, his expression all benevolent concern. “My lord, you must understand, such an undertaking requires a command of arcane legal language, law Norman, knowledge of appropriate precedents, and a great deal of preparation.”
“Nigh two weeks have gone by since I indicated these papers were to be drawn up, sir. Show me the draft.”
Hooker’s look of long-suffering should have been studied on Drury Lane. He passed over a single sheet of foolscap, which Deene took in at a glance.
“This is a list of cases.” And no date. The list might have been hastily tucked into the file in the past five minutes.
“One starts with the relevant precedents, my lord, and a good deal of research into how those cases bear on the present circumstances. As I said, this is an arcane and complicated legal undertaking. Allow me to say to you we are honored to ensure it will be handled in the most thorough and competent fashion possible.”
Deene unclenched his jaw and set the single piece of paper on the desk.
“Allow me to say, Hooker, that you will not be paid for all this painstaking research—which I do appreciate, of course—until such time as I have pleadings in my hand, suitable for submission to a court of appropriate jurisdiction. I bid you good day.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Hooker’s brows crash down.
“And, Hooker? One more thing. I dipped my toe in the law at university, at least to the extent a man likely some day to serve as magistrate ought to. Those cases listed on your precious paper relate to trade agreements and civil contracts. While not a lawyer, I’m hard put to understand how custody of a girl child involves those aspects of the law.”
For Deene to close the door softly on the way out was a small triumph and short lived. The truth of it was Hooker and his imps had been sitting on their backsides, swilling tea—or coffee—eating cakes, and doing exactly nothing to pry Georgie loose from the clutches of the climbing cit who called himself her father.
As Deene made his way to his horse, he found his mind turning to the nonlegal means of extricating Georgie from Dolan’s custody. A concocted duel, a rigged card game, a flat-out kidnapping… each dishonorable, dangerous alternative was becoming increasingly tempting.
Four
“If this isn’t a providential blight on an otherwise fair spring day.” Dolan offered his brother-in-law a cheeky smile calculated to irritate his Royal Importance-ship no end. “Deene, good day to you.”
The marquis’s rapid progress down the sidewalk halted. “Dolan, good day. I want to see my niece.”
Some burr had gotten under the saddle of Love’s Young Dream—one of Marie’s terms for her younger brother. His blue eyes were spitting fire, and his lean form was bristling with indignation.
“We don’t always get what we want, your lordship.”