Page 90 of Touched By a Traitor
Wilson shrugged. “Then you’d best prepare yourself for a world of pain and disappointment, my boy. A world that will chew you up and spit you out without a second thought.”
Andrew drained his glass to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. “You speak the truth, Wilson. Perhaps it is time to reap the rewards of my labors. I shall procure another three rounds.” He signaled to a passing servant, who hastened to fulfill his request.
The courtesans erupted in a chorus of applause and delighted squeals at the prospect of more alcohol. Wilson joined in their enthusiastic cheers, his voice booming above the din. It had occurred to Andrew that Wilson’s persistent attempts to disqualify Charlotte may have been to muzzle her before she could reveal what kind of repugnant beast he was. Andrew, his smile now smug and self-satisfied, fought to suppress theloathing that churned in his gut. Oh, how he longed to pummel the scoundrel until his knuckles were raw and bleeding, to feel the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his fists. But he held fast, reminding himself that he had a far worse fate in store for the despicable man.
Much to Andrew’s delight, Wilson tossed back the fourth glass of brandy in a single swallow, too foxed to notice the bitter taste of the laudanum Madam had discreetly prepared earlier in the evening. As the drug began to take effect, Wilson’s movements grew increasingly clumsy and uncoordinated. A moment later, his head hit the table with a resounding thud, his body going limp as he succumbed to the sedative.
Rising slowly to his feet, Andrew fixed the unconscious man with a look of utter contempt, his lip curling in disgust. “I shall await Judge Hoffman’s arrival,” he announced, his voice cutting through the haze of smoke and perfume. “See to it that this wretch doesn’t leave your sight.” With deliberate movements, he withdrew a carefully folded document from his pocket, lifted Wilson’s head, and deftly slid the incriminating papers beneath before allowing it to drop back onto the table with a satisfying thump.
With a curt nod to the two courtesans, who promptly positioned themselves on either side of Wilson, Andrew took his leave. He made his way to the parlor, his steps purposeful and measured, where he sprawled himself upon the plush divan, feigning intoxication alongside another courtesan he had entrusted with the crucial task of attending to Hoffman upon his arrival.
Andrew was quite certain that once the esteemed judge laid eyes upon the damning document in Wilson’s possession, he would have little appetite for the night’s revelries, his sense of duty and moral outrage overriding any base desires. Andrewsettled in comfortably, prepared to wait as long as necessary. The pompous fool was notorious for his tardiness.
As he reclined on the divan, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Charlotte, her face swimming before his mind’s eye, tormenting him with memories of their shared past and the uncertain future that stretched out before them. For a moment, he considered imbibing the laudanum-fortified brandy himself, if only to dull the ache in his chest and quiet the clamoring of his own traitorous heart.
As the evening progressed, the once stately parlor of the brothel grew increasingly lively and raucous with each passing moment. The air was thick and heavy, redolent with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled alcohol, and the unmistakable musk of desire that seemed to permeate every corner of the room. Andrew, still sprawled out on the divan in a carefully affected posture of drunken repose, kept a watchful eye on the entrance, his senses attuned to any sign of Judge Hoffman’s impending entrance.
The sudden sound of a carriage pulling up outside caught Andrew’s attention, and the courtesan beside him rose gracefully to her feet, adjusting her bodice to better showcase her ample bosom, the creamy swell of her flesh almost spilling over the confines of her tightly laced corset. As Judge Hoffman stepped through the door, his portly frame filling the doorway, the courtesan bent over toward Andrew conspiratorially and said loudly, “I don’t believe Lord Wilson is capable of such dishonor. He is the Master of Bench at the Inner Temple, is he not?”
“He is,” Andrew slurred, pitching his voice just loud enough to ensure that the judge, who had halted a few feet away and was currently eavesdropping on their conversation with a look of avid interest, would hear every word. “But greed will make a foolout of any man, no matter how high and mighty he may believe himself to be. I saw it with my own eyes, the proof…”
He let his voice trail off, as if suddenly realizing he had said too much. With an exaggerated gesture, he placed a finger over his lips. “But don’t tell a soul about this,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “I wouldn’t wish for anyone to blame the honorable judges…”
“What is this all about, Carlisle?” Hoffman boomed, his voice cutting through the din of the room. “What exactly might the judges be blamed for?” He strode forward, his face flushed with a combination of righteous indignation and barely contained curiosity.
Andrew turned around, affecting a look of surprise and unsteadiness as he caught sight of the judge looming over him. He stood up hastily, swaying slightly and grabbing onto the furniture to keep his balance, the very picture of a man deep in his cups. He bowed clumsily, the gesture made all the more comical by the courtesan trying to hold him steady.
“My apologies, my lord.” His words were a barely coherent jumble. “I didn’t mean to trouble you with such unpleasant matters. Please, pay no heed to the ramblings of a drunken fool such as myself. I implore you, enjoy your evening and think no more of it.” He waved a hand dismissively, as if to banish the topic from the room.
The green-eyed beauty walked over to Hoffman and hung onto his arm tightly, her smile never wavering as she tried to steer him toward the more private chambers. But the judge shook off her touch impatiently, his attention fully focused on Andrew.
“I must insist that you tell me everything you know, Carlisle,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “If it is related to the Inner Temple, then it is a matter of utmost importance and cannot be ignored.”
Andrew hesitated, rubbing his chin pensively as if deep in thought. He let the silence stretch out for a long moment, building the tension until it was almost unbearable. “Very well, my lord,” he said at last, his voice tinged with grim resignation.
Andrew gestured for the judge to follow him. He led the way down the dimly lit hallway. They entered the room where Wilson lay unconscious, the two courtesans keeping watch over his prone form.
Andrew pointed at the papers peeking out from beneath Wilson’s head, acting appropriately reluctant to make accusations. Judge Hoffman approached the table and lifted Wilson’s head and retrieved the incriminating document, his eyes scanning the neat columns of figures and notations with growing horror and rage. Wilson, still deep in slumber, did not move a muscle.
“Embezzlement? From the Inner Temple, no less?” he roared. “This is a grave offense, a betrayal of the highest order. The fool has sealed his own fate with his greed and arrogance. I shall see to it that he pays dearly for every penny he has stolen, that he spends the rest of his miserable life rotting in the darkest, dankest cell the Tower has to offer.” He looked up at Andrew with an expression of self-importance. “You have done a great service today, Carlisle, in bringing this matter to light, albeit reluctantly. I shall handle things from here. Wait for me, if you please. I may have further questions for you once I have alerted my colleagues.”
With that, Hoffman turned on his heel and strode purposefully out of the room, the tails of his coat flapping behind him. Andrew leaned against the wall, a sense of deep satisfaction settling over him as he watched Wilson’s motionless form. He took out a cigar and lit it with a steady hand, savoring the rich, earthy flavor as he puffed out a stream of fragrant smoke.
It was a pity, he mused, that he wouldn’t have the pleasure of squeezing the life out of Wilson with his own bare hands, of watching the light fade from the bastard’s eyes as he gasped out his last, rattling breath. But there was a certain poetic justice in knowing that the man would be tormented and die a slow death in a filthy cell.
Healing
6 May 1837
As dawn broke,the dock bustled with activity. Sailors hustled about, loading supplies and cargo onto the waiting ship. The creaking of ropes and groaning of wooden planks mingled with shouts and laughter, creating a symphony of human endeavor.
Amidst this chaos stood Charlotte, her trunk at her feet and her heart heavy with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Taking a deep breath of salty air, Charlotte made her way to the gangplank. The creaking wood beneath her feet seemed to echo the uncertainty in her heart as she boarded the ship that would carry her away from everything she’d ever known.
After showing her ticket, she paused to gaze at the country she was leaving behind. Doubt crept in, but she steeled herself, remembering the knowledge and freedom awaiting her across the ocean.
“May I help you, Miss?” A sailor tipped his hat.
“Oh, yes.” Charlotte handed him her ticket. “Could you direct me to my berth, please?”
