Page 121 of The Captive
“Silence, St. Just. Girard needs to die, and there’s an end to it.”
St. Just said nothing more on the subject, and really, what more was there to say?
The next day, when the colonel took himself off to Ambrose Court, Christian traveled to the City to pay a call on one Gervaise Stoneleigh.
“Your Grace, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Stoneleigh said after offering a perfectly correct bow.
“Unexpected, I will believe. You will make some time for me regardless?”
“Lady Greendale would require it of me.”
“Direct,” Christian said when he’d been shown into a surprisingly elegant office. Potted violets grew on the windowsill, and one wall held framed sketches of a smiling lady with two small, chubby children. “Bluntness saves time, I suppose, but one always expects lawyers to prevaricate on general principles.”
Stoneleigh nudged a clay pot an inch to the left, so the small, tender green plant sat in direct sunlight.
“As one expects the nobility to be arrogant on general principles. Please have a seat, Your Grace.”
“I can see why Gillian hired you,” Christian said, taking one of two opulently cushioned armchairs.
“That would be the Countess of Greendale.”
Stoneleigh did not make his comment a question, though neither was itquitea scold, and he did not ask permission to sit in his own offices. Christian was pleased for Gilly that this dark, unsmiling man had her custom.
“She is Gillian to me, and she, alone among all others, calls me by my given name.”
Stoneleigh’s brows rose then settled, surely the lawyer’s equivalent of an exclamation of surprise.
“Shall I ring for tea, Your Grace, or would you like something stronger?”
One could tell a lot about a man by the drink he served. “Something stronger, if it’s not too much bother.”
When they’d enjoyed fine libation indeed, Christian withdrew a sealed letter from his pocket and passed it to his host. “I will transact some business in the next several days that might result in my death or legal incapacity. That epistle is for the countess in the event of such an outcome.”
Stoneleigh set the letter aside without even glancing at it. “The rumors are true, then? The clubs were all a-chatter last night because you’d challenged the man responsible for your ordeal after being taken captive.”
Such delicacy. “Iwas responsible for being taken by the French,” Christian said. “At the direction of his superiors, Girard exploited the technicality of finding me out of uniform and treated me to months of torture.”
“Ah, so we’re now killing soldiers who follow their generals’ orders,” Stoneleigh remarked, topping up Christian’s drink. “Andwereyou out of uniform, Your Grace?”
Any officer captured out of uniform was presumed to be a spy, and spies were regarded by gentlemen and scoundrels alike as beneath contempt.
Stoneleigh’s willingness to lawyer that point now was not helpful.
“I was naked, Stoneleigh, bathing in the same river the soldiers on both sides used to water their horses and wash their clothes. My uniform was in sight, spread on nearby bushes to dry, had the French bothered to look, and the ducal signet ring graced my finger.”
“So you were out of uniform.”
“What is your point?”
“In the next day or two, you will get yourself killed or do premeditated murder,” Stoneleigh said, his air patient, as if he were instructing a dim junior clerk. “One seeks to understand how exactly your honor was slighted, that one might explain it to the countess when your death adds to the misery that has already befallen her. I assume that is what this letter is for?”
When Christian remained silent, Stoneleigh flicked a glance at the missive Christian had spent hours composing.
“A maudlin exercise in futility, to be visited on the woman in the event of your death?”
A barrister knight errant. Tedious, but at least Stoneleigh was Gilly’s barrister knight errant.
“That letter includes a substantial bank draft, made out to her, along with a few lines of apology and encouragement.”
