The Heart's Appeal Page 8

  Michael knew better than to raise any of these points, however. This was Corinna’s dinner party, and if she wanted to allow Laura to share the glory for saving Michael, he wouldn’t object.

  “About that nurse who helped you—what did you say her name was?”

  This question came from Baroness Crowder, a spinster bank heiress who had been given a life peerage by the queen because she’d spent so much of her time and fortune on philanthropic causes.

  In fact, Julia’s name had not been mentioned. Michael had hoped to avoid any detailed discussion of her, lest her medical studies come into the conversation. He ought to have known it would be difficult.

  The baroness added, “My second cousin is Miss Nightingale, you know. I believe she would be interested in speaking to this woman. What hospital is she attached to?”

  Still trying to think of a roundabout answer, Michael brought a napkin to his lips to buy some time.

  Unfortunately, David stepped in to fill the pause and answered for him. “Her name is Miss Julia Bernay. She does seem to be quite an extraordinary young lady. As for the hospital . . .” He turned to Michael. “Did she give you that information when she came here to see you?”

  David didn’t notice his wife’s look of irritation, but Michael did. He also saw Laura frown.

  “I don’t believe she’s working as a nurse at this time,” Michael said. He realized that he didn’t even know where Julia was from—she hadn’t sounded like a Londoner—or where she’d received her training.

  “Well, that’s too bad.” The baroness gave a disappointed shake of her head. “Getting married, then?”

  “Married?” Michael repeated, bewildered by this assumption.

  “That’s why girls usually give up nursing,” the baroness said. “They can’t do both, since nurses generally live in housing at the hospitals.”

  “Rather like nuns, aren’t they?” Mr. Dalrymple remarked.

  “She came here?” Laura asked. “When was that?”

  “Only a few days after the accident, wasn’t it, Michael?” David supplied. “You were still wrapped up in all those bandages, like an Egyptian mummy.”

  “But I thought you weren’t well enough to see anyone at that time.” Laura’s statement sounded more like an accusation. She hadn’t been happy to be turned away that day.

  Corinna interposed smoothly. “Miss Bernay stayed only briefly, just long enough to ask after his health and offer her best wishes for a speedy recovery. You can understand that she would naturally have an interest in how things turned out.”

  Laura nodded but did not appear mollified. Michael would ensure he spent extra time with her this week and perhaps accompany her and Corinna the next time they went to an art show or some other event. The last thing he needed was for Laura to worry overmuch about Julia. He was a little regretful that he’d agreed to give Julia Latin lessons. He had to be careful to keep these two aspects of his life separate. He had a foreboding that it wasn’t going to be easy.

  A few days later, Michael stood across the street from the Carlton Club, pausing for a moment to survey the impressive edifice before going inside. It was a long building made of warm brown Portland stone and topped by an ornate cornice. Tall, elegantly arched windows ran the length of its two stories, and it took up a generous amount of the street corner on Pall Mall where it stood.

  For Michael, the Carlton Club was a physical representation of what he had been working toward for over a decade. Its members were the conservative power brokers in the city—bankers, barristers, members of Parliament. People with influence, with a finger on the pulse of the nation. This club was also a bastion of social respectability. Above all, it was a place where Michael could become those things, too. Being accepted as a member here had been a feat in itself. Michael’s rising reputation was finally erasing the large shadow thrown over his family by his father’s infamous dealings and death.

  The adage that a person must spend money to make money had never been truer than in this case. As a barrister, Michael was prohibited from advertising his services. Clients had to come to him. Many a young barrister had languished, broke, with no work because he was not yet known. He had to depend on his social connections to help his career get under way. Barristers were officially contacted by a solicitor, and a savvy client knew which barrister he wanted and would make sure his solicitor hired that person.

  By working for Tamblin, Michael had grown his personal caseload. Here at the Carlton, he could increase it even more by meeting the kind of people he hoped to take on as clients. He’d already acquired a few important cases since becoming a member here two years ago, and there was promise of more to come as his successes in court added up.

  Today, though, Michael was here on a different errand. Laura’s brother, the new Viscount Delaford, had accepted Michael’s invitation to join him for lunch. The viscount had his own membership at a different club generally preferred by the aristocracy, but for their first meeting, Michael thought it would be better to operate from his own ground. It was a shameless display of status, he supposed, but one that was necessary when trying to impress a peer he hoped to have as a brother-in-law.

  He’d set up this meeting weeks ago, before the accident. At the time, he’d been eager to move forward with the match. But now as he looked at the club, preparing himself for the upcoming meeting, he was surprised to realize the idea was not as appealing to him today as it had been. He put it down to his preoccupation with catching up on his caseload and the lingering pain from the accident. These things would pass.

  A blast of cold air nearly blew off his hat and sent many people scurrying to their destinations. Pulling his coat collar tight against the bitter March wind, Michael crossed the street and entered the club.

  He’d been in the club’s excellent library for about half an hour when Lord Delaford arrived. Although Michael had never met him, he was immediately sure who it was. The viscount was not much older than Michael. He was impeccably dressed and moved with the self-confidence of a man born into money and privilege.

  Delaford made a beeline toward Michael’s chair, and Michael rose to greet him. “Mr. Stephenson, I presume?” He echoed the now-famous catchphrase of the explorer Henry Stanley with a theatrical flourish. Leaning in closer, he added, “I certainly hope you are Stephenson. You appear to be the only man under forty in the room, and I’m not prepared to marry my sister off to an old codger.”

  Michael appreciated the way Delaford sought to put him at ease. His interest in this meeting returned.

  After exchanging a few pleasantries, Michael said, “Shall we go in to lunch? There is an excellent soup on the menu today that should chase away the chill from that wicked wind outside.”

  “Wonderful.”

  As they ate, the viscount engaged Michael in all kinds of subjects. At one point he remarked, “What in the world are you doing in this club? Now that Mr. Gladstone is prime minister again, you would do better to join the Reform Club.”

  Others had expressed this sentiment to Michael, although he was surprised to hear it coming from a peer. Laura had told him her brother had liberal leanings; apparently this was true. Still, Michael didn’t give the idea much credence. He figured the political tides were always changing, and it would be folly to chase them. “I’ll take my chances. Besides, I know nothing about the quality of their soup.”

  This quip earned an approving grin from the viscount. “I like you, Stephenson. You are sharp and can’t be put in a corner. I suppose that’s a necessary trait for success in the legal profession.”

  “I’ve found it useful many times,” Michael agreed.

  The viscount waved a fork to indicate the finely appointed dining room, and by extension, the club itself. “I’ve been here a few times. It’s always congenial. I myself belong to White’s. It’s been a tradition in my family for generations. Although if I had my preference, I’d belong to the Garrick. A much livelier crowd over there.”

  A peer hobnob
bing with artists, writers, and actors? This was another indication Lord Delaford was a far different person than his father had been.

  It wasn’t until they were nearly finished with the main course that Delaford said, “Shall we talk about Laura? I’m sure that’s why you invited me here today.”

  Michael decided a neutral approach would be best. “It may seem presumptuous for a man like me to put myself forward as a candidate for her hand.”

  The viscount weighed this. “Due to your position in life relative to hers? Perhaps. If my father were alive, it would be a different story. He didn’t like the idea of commoners marrying into the aristocracy. Unlike him, I am willing to entertain the idea. However, lest you think I am merely some kindhearted soul who sees good in everyone, I will tell you I have carefully researched your history. There are plenty of men pursuing Laura. She is beautiful, they tell me—one can never be the judge for one’s own sister—and there is a substantial dowry set aside by our father before he passed away. But although my views are more liberal than my father’s, it doesn’t mean I am less diligent about making sure my sister marries an honorable man. There are too many rogues and fortune hunters out there. One cannot be too careful.”

  Michael knew this was only to be expected. “I appreciate that you are performing such due diligence for your sister’s sake, sir.”

  Delaford nodded. “You are, by all accounts, a scholar and an honest gentleman. So much as barristers can be. I also know from my research that you are beginning to acquire clients on your own account, aside from the work you do for Tamblin.”

  “Yes.” These were all facts that would be easy for anyone to learn. But the viscount already having this knowledge kept Michael from needing to blow his own horn.

  “I do have one question, though. You seem content to continue at Tamblin’s chambers when you are well-positioned to strike out on your own. Why is that?”

  This was another question Michael had fielded more than once. “Tamblin’s reputation is unparalleled. It is all but certain he’ll be appointed to a judgeship soon. At that time, I expect most of his work to come to me.”

  “So you are prepared to wait.”

  “I don’t think the wait will be long. We expect his appointment within a year. I think of it as strategic planning.”

  This was true. It was also a way to save money. Establishing his own chambers and hiring a clerk would use up funds that he needed for other things. He was determined to pay back the money that had been given to him by his brother-in-law. David insisted this wasn’t necessary, but Michael couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

  His answer seemed to satisfy Lord Delaford. “I believe your assessment is correct. I have no doubt you could provide for my sister in the manner to which she’s accustomed.”

  Although the conversation was going well, Michael knew there were deeper subjects to discuss than his rosy financial future. “As you have been looking into my affairs, I assume all aspects of my past are familiar to you? Of my family’s past, I mean?”

  Delaford nodded. “I can see you are a straightforward man who prefers to tackle hard subjects head on.” Setting down his knife and fork, he leaned back, not speaking until a waiter who had been hovering nearby whisked away their plates and left them alone again. “Stephenson, in these modern times, many old-fashioned notions are falling away. I can’t deny that if my father were still alive, he would refuse even to speak to you. However, I have no such compunctions. Why should I hold you accountable for things your father did? It makes no sense. I believe a man should be judged on his own merits.”

  “You know there are rumors my father committed suicide.”

  It was a risky thing to say. Most people believed mental illness was hereditary. But Michael wanted to be sure he knew exactly where the viscount stood on this matter.

  Delaford gave him an appraising look but didn’t answer right away. He took a slow sip of his wine. As he set the glass back down, he spared a brief look around, as if gauging their distance from the other diners. No one was paying them any attention.

  “I am aware of the speculation surrounding your father’s unfortunate demise. I believe all that is known for sure is that he broke his neck when he fell off a horse. That is correct, yes?”

  Michael nodded. “Those are the indisputable facts.”

  “So the year I spent at Lincoln’s Inn after leaving Oxford was not entirely misspent.” Delaford flashed a brief, joking smile before returning to a more serious expression. “Approaching this as a lawyer, I would say that whether your father’s death was an accident, in that he had been riding recklessly because he was drunk, or whether he was in fact deliberately trying to kill himself, is a matter of conjecture. I don’t believe there are enough concrete facts to make a judgment either way. I also don’t deny that the more negative explanation is entirely plausible. There are men who, through bad luck or ill-advised actions, reach a low enough place in life to unbalance their minds, causing them to deliberately inflict pain on themselves or others.” He leaned forward, looking Michael in the eye. “But even if this were true about your father, does it necessarily follow that you must be such a man?”

  Michael met his gaze squarely. “I have spent the past decade doing all I can to restore my family’s reputation. I will not repeat my father’s mistakes.”

  This would be exactly what the viscount wanted to hear, but it was also the truth. The last thing Michael would ever do was follow any path that inflicted more pain on his sister. She and Michael had endured enough already.

  Lord Delaford leaned back in his chair, relaxing again. “Then we are agreed. I must tell you one more thing, however.”

  “Yes?”

  “My sister and I are only just out of mourning. For propriety’s sake, we should not rush into an engagement too quickly. I don’t worry overmuch about such niceties myself—although one hates to be accused of bad taste. Also, as Laura’s debutante year was cut short by our father’s death, this is her first real opportunity to partake of the London Season. Let’s give her a bit of time to enjoy it, eh? All those balls and filling up dance cards and what have you. Laura is quite enamored with you, so you have nothing to fear by waiting to declare yourself.”

  The suggestion that things not be moved along too quickly was fine with Michael. Corinna was anxious to have him settled, and he knew she would feel frustrated at having to wait another few months. He thought he should feel that way, too, but this directive felt almost like a reprieve. He couldn’t say why.

  Delaford pulled a silver case from his coat pocket. Opening it, he extended the case toward Michael. “Cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.” As explanation, Michael briefly touched a portion of the bandage that rose above his cravat. The wound still hurt, and he had no desire to increase the pain by smoking.

  “Of course. I’d nearly forgotten,” Delaford said. “Though I don’t know how I could have,” he added wryly. “Some days it seems Laura talks of little else.”

  Michael wasn’t surprised that the accident loomed large in Laura’s mind. It had never been far from his thoughts, either. Physical aches and pains were constant reminders. So, too, was the knowledge that things would have turned out very differently if not for Julia. It was easy to contrast her actions with those of Laura, and for Laura to come out worse for the comparison. But was that fair? Given her sheltered life, she’d never been in such a frightening situation before. Even Corinna, sensible as she was, wouldn’t have known how to stem Michael’s bleeding. Laura had many good qualities—she was pretty, generally kind, and a competent woman within her sphere of life. Michael ought to be grateful that she was, as Lord Delaford said, enamored with him.

  Julia was . . . altogether different. She wasn’t like any other woman he knew. The whole situation reminded him of a trial where the opposing counsel offered up a surprise piece of information at the eleventh hour. He didn’t know what to expect from his future encounters with Miss Bernay, but he was pretty sure the
y would be interesting. He just had to make sure their interactions did not take his plans in the wrong direction.

  CHAPTER

  9

  THE BARKERS’ BUTLER USHERED JULIA into the parlor. Michael Stephenson rose from his chair and greeted her. His appearance was much different than the last time she’d seen him. Aside from the fact that his cravat was tied loosely to keep pressure off his bandage, he looked the picture of a gentleman. His fingers were still bandaged, though, so Julia accepted his polite bow instead of offering a handshake.

  The butler withdrew, and Julia noticed he did not shut the door behind him. “Is it just us? I half thought we’d be chaperoned by Mrs. Barker.”

  “My sister is out making calls, capitalizing on the social cachet she earned at a recent dinner party.”

  His voice suggested gentle mockery, yet Julia was hard-pressed to determine whether he disapproved of his sister’s aims. “I’m happy to hear it was a success.”

  “Yes.” He frowned a little, then seemed to dismiss the matter from his thoughts. “Shall we begin?” He motioned to a table with two straight-backed chairs drawn up to it. “I’ve set this up for our work.”

  Julia remembered the table from her previous visit. It had been covered with framed photographs, three or four small plants, a decorative figurine, and a lamp. Everything but the lamp had been removed, and two large books had been laid out—a Latin grammar and a dictionary—along with paper and pens. He had thought of everything.

  As Julia placed her own Latin textbook on the table, she saw Michael tug at his collar. “Are you having trouble with your wound?”

  “It itches a little,” he admitted. “And it is still sore, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”