Page 72 of Touched By a Traitor
Wilson chuckled, a grating sound that set Andrew’s teeth on edge. “You are as obedient as an ill-tempered feline. No, that would be a foolish endeavor. In truth, I was doing you a favor. As an honorary bencher, you could vote on court policies that may impact your business practices. And now, you have the means to keep a watchful eye on Chatham and your lovely wife.”
At the mention of Charlotte, Andrew’s gaze lifted to meet Wilson’s, his countenance hardening. “Speak one disparaging word about my wife, Wilson, and I shall ensure my face is the last thing you’ll see before drawing your final breath,” he hissed.
Wilson, seemingly unfazed by the threat, took a languid sip of his brandy before setting the glass upon the table. “I meant no offense to Lady Carlisle, of course. But you know how men can be, Carlisle, and Chatham is no exception to that rule.”
A shadow passed over Andrew’s features, his brow furrowing with suspicion.
“He seems to seek out your wife’s company when she is in court. They are often seen together, engaged in conversation. Nothing improper, mind you, but a glance here, a touch there… I merely thought it prudent to inform you, as I would hate for my new bride to be gallivanting about with a former lo… colleague, causing tongues to wag. It would not bode well for our company if rumors of your being cuckolded were to spread.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the document he was holding. “Our company?”
Wilson shifted uncomfortably, realizing his slip of the tongue. “What I meant to say is that I have a vested interest in the success of your enterprise, Carlisle.”
Tossing the papers onto the table, Andrew leaned back in his seat, his gaze never wavering from Wilson’s face. Though his initial impulse was to storm out and confront Chatham directly, he knew such an action would be the height of folly. He had not built his empire by acting on childish whims.
Some foolish men might call the scoundrel out, demanding satisfaction, but Andrew had never understood how putting a bullet in the man would bring about any desirable change. Besides, there would be ample time for that later, after he had gotten to the bottom of Wilson’s true motives.
“What is it that you want, Wilson? Surely, you’re not informing me of my wife’s impending infidelity out of the goodness of your heart.”
Wilson laughed, a forced, awkward sound. “Your reputation is at stake, Carlisle. As the president of the company, any rumors regarding your lack of control, be it over your business or your household, may sow seeds of doubt in the minds of our investors.”
Andrew regarded the man with an unwavering gaze, then chuckled softly. Wilson started in his seat. Was this a veiled threat, or was Wilson revealing his hand? Either way, the message was clear. He wanted her out of the Inner Temple and away from Chatham’s influence.
“You have taken up enough of my time, Wilson. I shall be sure to convey your regards to His Majesty when I see him tomorrow,” Andrew said.
At the mention of Andrew’s royal connections, Wilson blanched, his earlier bravado faltering. With a curt nod, he turned to leave but paused briefly to deliver a parting shot.
“The agenda for the next bencher’s meeting shall include a vote on Lady Carlisle’s disbarment,” he said, then beat a hasty retreat.
*
As Andrew sat,his mind roared with conflicting emotions. The conversation with Wilson had left him unsettled, a nagging sense of unease lingering in the pit of his stomach. Though he knew better than to take the man’s words at face value, jealousy flooded his mind at the thought of Charlotte spending time with Chatham, even if it was in a purely professional capacity.
He trusted his wife implicitly, knew that she would never betray him, but the knowledge did little to quell the irrational fear that gnawed at his insides. Chatham was a handsome, charming man, a far cry from the rough-hewn docker Andrew was. What if, in the course of their work together, Charlotte found herself drawn to the duke’s refined manners and cultured ways? What if she came to regret returning his affection, longing for a life of elegance and sophistication that Andrew couldn’t provide?
Even as these dark thoughts swirled through his mind, Andrew knew he could not stand in the way of Charlotte’s dreams. She had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to become a barrister, to make a name for herself in a world that sought to deny her existence. How could he, who loved her, be the one to crush her reason for being?
But the thought of losing her, of watching her slip away from him and into the arms of another man, was a prospect too terrible to contemplate. And yet, he knew any attempt to control her, to limit her interactions with Chatham or any other man, would only serve to drive a wedge between them.
Torn between his desire to protect what was his and his need to support his wife’s aspirations, not to mention what his investors might demand if he didn’t support their agenda, Andrew felt as though he were being pulled in all directions.
Trial
22 January 1837—London
The Old Bailey’simposing stone facade cast long shadows in the winter morning light as Charlotte prepared to represent the Earl of Carlisle’s family in what many considered an unwinnable case. Lord Byron had publicly accused Lady Daisy Creswell of compromising herself during their betrothal, leaving her reputation and her brother’s business interests hanging in the balance.
“If it pleases the court, I am here to represent the Earl of Carlisle, Andrew—”
“I am well aware of who he is, Miss Morton. The question is, are you a qualified barrister?” Judge Hoffman’s voice dripped with condescension.
Charlotte straightened her spine, meeting the judge’s gaze. “Indeed, Your Honor. I graduated at the top of my class at Cambridge—”
“This court has no patience for boasting and self-aggrandizement, Miss Morton,” the judge snapped. “A true lady would know better as would a qualified barrister.”
A hush fell over the courtroom as Charlotte’s voice rang out. “If I were not qualified to stand before you today, Your Honor, then I’m afraid the court has made a grave error in allowing me to enter, to don this robe and wig, and to take my place at this bench.”
From his seat, Andrew quirked a brow at the judge, whose face now matched the hue of his bulbous, red nose. Andrew had never been fond of the man and was even less inclined to be now.
