Page 24 of Touched By a Traitor
“Because she’s a woman,” Daisy said, her voice cooling.
“It’s not that simple.” Andrew ran a hand through his hair. “If my investors learned I’d engaged England’s first female barrister, it would signal support for her cause. Lord Pemberton and his allies are already watching my every move, waiting for me to step out of line.”
“So this is about politics.”
“It’s about survival, Daisy. One misstep and I lose everything—my position in Parliament, my business contracts, my ability to protect our family. Wilson’s appointment to the Inner Temple isn’t coincidence. He’s positioning himself to destroy anyone who challenges the old order.”
“And yet I heard you defended her at the ceremony.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened. “That was different. I prevented a mob, nothing more. Hiring her would be a declaration of war against men who could ruin us both.”
“So you’ll sacrifice my future to preserve your standing with those same men?”
“I’m trying to protect us both!”
“By letting them win?” Daisy’s eyes blazed. “You’ve already stripped away my medical career for the same reasons. Now you’ll let my reputation be destroyed rather than risk their disapproval?”
Andrew slumped in his chair. “We’ll never agree on this.”
“You’ve already stripped away my joy, my passion, my purpose!” Daisy’s voice rose. “I was born to be a physician, risked everything for those credentials! Now what fills my days? Shopping, menus, reading about medicine I can’t practice!”
“A woman’s place—”
“Don’t!” She slammed her palm on the desk. “I don’t diminish motherhood, but you diminish me! I could be mother, wife, and physician—but you won’t allow even the attempt!”
Andrew watched his sister’s anguish with growing discomfort. When had he become the enemy in her eyes?
“If I can’t live my dreams,” Daisy continued, her voice dropping to steel, “I’ll fight for the woman brave enough to carve her place in this world. Hire her, Andrew.”
“No.”
Daisy’s fists crashed onto the table, fury vibrating through the room. When she spoke again, her voice carried a quiet venom that chilled him.
“Hire her, Andrew. My reputation, my case, my future hang in the balance. Hire her, or I swear I’ll disappear and destroy what’s left of my reputation myself. At least then the scandal will be of my own making.”
The threat hung between them like a blade. Andrew stared at his sister—this brilliant, passionate woman he’d tried so hard to protect—and realized he might have been protecting her from the wrong things entirely.
The Scoundrel
2 November 1836—London
The Great Hallof the Inner Temple hummed with tension as members gathered for the formal introduction of their new Master of the Bench. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and leather-bound books, mingling with expensive colognes and snuff.
Lord Wilson strode into the hall, his presence immediately commanding attention. His silver hair was immaculately coiffed, and his robes of office hung perfectly from his tall, imposing frame. As he took his place at the head of the room, a hush fell over the assembled barristers and benchers.
“Gentlemen,” Lord Wilson began, his voice resonating through the hall, “I stand before you today with a solemn duty to uphold the traditions and integrity of this esteemed institution.”
His gaze swept the space, pausing briefly on Charlotte, who stood near the back, her spine straight despite the palpable tension. Wilson’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“We find ourselves at a crossroads. The world outside these hallowed halls may be clamoring for change, but it is our responsibility to stand firm in defense of the principles that have guided English law for centuries.”
Several of the older members nodded in agreement, while others shifted uncomfortably.
“It has come to my attention that certain irregularities have been permitted in recent months.” His gaze fixed directly on Charlotte. “Miss Morton, you are trespassing. You’re not invited, as I do not recognize you as an official Temple member.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the assembled crowd. Andrew studied Charlotte’s expression—disgust and determination carefully masked behind a concealment of polite interest. Just as he took a step forward in her defense, Charlotte’s voice carried clearly across the suddenly silent hall.
“I am a barrister approved by the Inns of Court, whether you personally approve or not, Lord Wilson. Unless you see yourself as above the Court.” Her tone grew honeyed with poison. “Though I suppose that would explain your rather creative interpretation of legal precedent.”
