Page 19 of Touched By a Traitor
The room erupted into both a storm of applause and contentious murmurs. Andrew stood transfixed, seeing Charlotte as if for the first time. Where others might have crumbled under such a personal attack, she had transformed it into a masterful argument that not only defended her place but elevated their entire purpose.
As she turned to him, triumph playing at her lips, he offered a slight nod—a warrior’s acknowledgment of a worthy opponent.
Their eyes held as the judges announced their victory and the substantial sum secured for the orphanage.
In the celebrations that followed, Andrew found himself drawn to her orbit, keenly aware of her proximity. “We make quite the team, it seems,” he said, his voice softening.
She glanced up, eyes dancing with victory and mischief. “Indeed, though don’t let it inflate your ego. I still find you thoroughly insufferable.”
Andrew’s laugh rumbled low. “The sentiment is entirely mutual, Miss Morton.”
As they parted that evening, he felt the ground shifting beneath his feet. Whatever his public position demanded, he could no longer deny what he’d witnessed tonight. She belonged here—thrived in this world of intellectual combat and legal brilliance—while he remained trapped in a world that demanded he deny her excellence.
How could he reconcile the woman who commanded respect through sheer force of intellect with the political reality that required him to publicly dismiss her achievements? His shareholders, his fellow lords, his entire carefully constructedposition depended on maintaining traditional values that would see her brilliance as a threat to the natural order.
He was left with impossible choices. Loving her meant choosing between her happiness and his survival in a world that would never accept them both. And that terrified him more than anything else.
Out With the New
20 October 1836—London
Despite Lord Alford’sbest efforts and Charlotte’s stellar performance, the emergency meeting crackled with barely contained fury. The Master of Bench presided at the oak table’s head, his composure a thin facade over chaos. Andrew and Charlotte stood at opposite ends, unlikely allies watching hostility swirl around the man who’d dared challenge tradition.
Lord Symon heaved himself up, jowls trembling with rage. “Gentlemen, we face a crisis that threatens our very foundations. Lord Alford’s decision to admit… a woman,” he spat the word like poison, “borders on institutional sacrilege.”
Approving murmurs rippled through the chamber. Andrew stepped forward, his voice slicing through the din. “While I share concerns about women in this institution, I cannot watch us sacrifice a man of Lord Alford’s caliber over what some view as progress.”
The Duke of Chatham joined Andrew’s defense. “Lord Alford’s decision wasn’t made lightly. The law doesn’t explicitly bar women, and Miss Morton’s admission rested purely on merit.”
Andrew’s jaw clenched as he watched the duke speak with such passionate conviction about Charlotte’s abilities. The man defended her with the very courage Andrew should have shown, and the bitter irony wasn’t lost on him. Here he stood, makingtepid arguments about institutional politics while another man—his rival for Charlotte’s affections—championed her cause with the fervor she deserved.
“Merit?” Lord Symon scoffed. “What merit could a woman bring? Lord Alford’s judgment is clearly compromised. He must step down for our institution’s sake.”
Chaos erupted, opinions flying like arrows. Andrew glanced at Charlotte, noting her calculated silence as she let Chatham champion her cause. Smart, he thought grudgingly, even as resentment churned in his gut. She was letting the duke fight her battles while Andrew stood by like a coward, torn between protecting his interests and protecting her.
“My Lords,” Andrew’s voice thundered over the din, “consider the cost of forcing Lord Alford out. We’d set a dangerous precedent, valuing blind tradition over justice and equality under law.”
Chatham nodded. “Is this not our sworn duty? The law, in its purest form, knows no sex.”
Their words seemed to land, several benchers’ expressions turning thoughtful as Lord Alford straightened in his chair. Andrew found himself simultaneously grateful for the duke’s support and disgusted by his own relief at having an ally—especially this particular ally.
Andrew’s gut twisted as Lord Conrad rose, the ancient bencher’s movement drawing every eye in the chamber. The silence that fell made his skin prickle with foreboding.
“I’ve witnessed many changes in my years,” Conrad’s voice quavered but held firm. “But this… this goes too far. Lord Alford, you’ve served admirably, but here you’ve erred grievously. For our beloved institution’s sake, you must step aside.”
The words settled over the chamber like a funeral pall. Andrew watched faces turn, one by one, toward Conrad’s position. Even those who’d nodded along to his earlierarguments now wore masks of grim acceptance. The tide was turning.
His chest constricted as he glanced at Charlotte, seated ramrod straight beside Lord Chatham. She’d earned her place through merit, not privilege. Now they would strip it away through backroom politics rather than law.
Charlotte rose suddenly, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “My Lords, if I may speak.”
The chamber fell silent, surprise rippling through the room.
“Lord Alford showed courage in admitting me based on qualifications alone. If that courage is now seen as error, what does that say about your commitment to justice?” Her voice remained steady despite the hostile stares. “I ask not for special consideration, but for the same standards applied to any barrister. Judge my work, not my sex.”
She sat back down to uncomfortable silence, her brief intervention hanging in the air like a challenge none seemed willing to meet.
Lord Alford rose then, dignity settling over him like armor. “If this body demands my resignation, so be it. I stand by Miss Morton’s admission. History will judge us all for what transpires here today.”
