Page 18 of Dukes for Dessert

“I take defenses that are in a good cause.” Sinclair looked David up and down, clearly not considering him a good cause.

David spread his arms. “I am completely innocent. Griffin fired at me. I was willing to ignore the entire incident, but he is a fathead.”

Sinclair sank back into his chair, taking up his glass of whisky. The strain and grief of his former life had entirely gone from the man, David was pleased to see. Sinclair’s home was now quite happy and filled by his delightful wife and four tumbling children—hellions, every one of them, including the wife, lucky man. David was quite fond of the swiftly growing Andrew, a fearless boy who reminded David of himself at a young and adventurous age.

Sinclair’s domestic happiness had made him an even more talented barrister—he had declined a judgeship offered to him in order to stand in the courtroom and win case after case with aplomb. The Scots Machine, other barristers called him. The criminals called him Basher McBride, for his unflinching zeal in putting away bad men. Exactly the sort of barrister David needed on his side.

“Your solicitor is interviewing witnesses,” Sinclair said. “Though a statement from you would be helpful. More than I didn’t do it. I need the entire story.”

“That is the entire story.” David swung his booted foot. “Griffin fired his weapon and missed, thank God. I never fired mine. We were all roaring drunk at the time.”

“Griffin had injuries,” Sinclair pointed out with his glass of whisky.

“From my fists, not my pistol. I had injuries as well.”

“The fight was about …?”

David grimaced. “A woman. What else? Griffin is convinced I was bouncing upon his lady wife, but I was not. She might have cuckolded him, true, and I wouldn’t blame her. But it was not with me. He and I have been sparring for years, however—verbally, I mean, on the Commons floor. I’ve thwarted many of his stupid schemes.”

The supposed affair with his wife was only the excuse, David knew, for Griffin to release his frustrations. Griff was a touchy bastard, especially when his lack of political acumen was thrown in his face. Accusing David of attempted murder must be his way of trying to remove David from his path once and for all.

Sinclair tapped his fingertips on the glass. He made no move to write notes, but David knew Sinclair did not have to. He had an amazing brain.

“I’ll do what I can for you,” Sinclair resumed. “Eye witnesses would be useful, but I believe putting Griffin on the witness stand will be best. I have the feeling his testimony won’t hold up to my questioning.”

David chuckled. “Not under the lash of Basher McBride, it won’t. Why do you think I told my solicitor to hire you?”

Sinclair gave him a thin smile. He was the best barrister in London but too modest to accept praise. Many a hardy criminal wilted under the stare of the Basher.

David took a sip of whisky and the two descended into companionable silence. David hadn’t needed to come here to talk about his defense—his solicitor could have done that. Had done it, in fact.

“By the way,” David said when his glass was nearly empty. “What do you know about the Devonport divorce?”

“The Devonport case?” Sinclair asked in surprise. “That’s in the civil courts. I only go after dire villains.”

“True, but you must know something about it.”

Sinclair bent him a wary look. “You’ve been out of London a long time if you haven’t seen the newspapers. The journalists are excoriating both husband and wife.” He shook his head, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. “It’s a bad business.”

“I only read the sporting news. Life is difficult enough without journalists constantly flogging us with the horrors of the world.”

Sinclair gave him a sharp stare, the one that penetrated a man’s skull and tore out all his secrets. “What is your interest?”

“I happen to know the wife in the case,” David said, trying to sound nonchalant. “She’s the niece of a dear friend.”

“Is she?” Sinclair’s gaze didn’t waver. “Interesting.”

“You know, you put more insinuation into three words than most men put into entire speeches. I will say about her what I do about myself—she didn’t do it.”

“Devonport is going a little far in his accusations,” Sinclair said. “He’s claimed his wife committed open adultery. Two men so far have come forward to testify that they were her lovers, but Devonport says there are many more. I might believe one or two, but knowing what I do about ladies of society, I’d say she did not have time for more than that.”

“And I say she did none of it.”

David slammed down his glass, and the remaining liquid leapt over the rim. He pictured Sophie’s sweet smile, her green eyes looking straight into his. No coyness or falseness about her.

He dragged in a breath. “Trust me, McBride, I know women who have no inkling what the word fidelity means, and I know mostly innocent women who’ve had a single illicit affair in their lives. The former ladies have a complete lack of guilt, the latter have too much of it. Sophie—Lady Devonport—is unlike any of them. She did not have affairs with these men, no matter what Devonport claims. He wants rid of her so he can marry a wealthier woman. If I actually do shoot anyone, it will be him.”

Sinclair listened with his uncanny perception. “I see.”