Page 8 of Provoked

Chapter Three

“David Lauriston! Where on earth have you been this last week?”

David looked up from his books, blinking. Francis Jeffrey was sliding into the seat on the other side of the desk. Short, dark-haired, bright-eyed and smiling. A small package, Mr. Jeffrey, but a big man in other ways.

“Mr. Jeffrey, how are you?” David spoke more softly. The library was quiet this morning, but a handful of other advocates were working studiously at their desks.

“Don’t avoid the question, dear fellow,” Jeffrey replied, one dark eyebrow raised. “Where have you been?”

David busied himself marking his page with a slip of paper and closing his book. “I went away for a few days,” he said mildly. “Has anything interesting happened in my absence?”

Jeffrey cocked his head to the side like a spry little bird and stared at David for several long moments. David felt his cheeks heat but stayed carefully mute. Eventually, the other man sighed dramatically. “I can guess anyway. You went to see the execution, didn’t you?”

David said nothing, but he knew his complexion betrayed him. Inwardly he cursed his fair skin and red hair—his colouring gave rise to the worst sort of painfully red blushes.

“In a way, I admire you, Lauriston,” Jeffrey said. “But don’t imagine this hasn’t been noted.”

“I didn’t see anyone there—”

“I don’t mean the execution—though thank you for confirming my suspicions—I mean your attachment to the case.” He gave one of his twitchy little smiles. “Don’t misunderstand me. I valued your contribution very highly, and believe me, I’m mindful of how modest a fee you took. But I don’t want to see your progress at the Bar suffer more than it needs to, and the fact is, my boy, you have allowed your sympathy for our clients to show too plainly. It is imprudent to espouse such views in our profession.”

“I never espoused any views,” David protested.

“You were openly sympathetic. It is enough.”

“And so were you.”

“Ah, but I am Francis Jeffrey.” He preened a little as he said it, but it was true. He was Francis Jeffrey, the famous man of letters, still overlooked from time to time because of his Whig leanings, but with a fearsome reputation that made sure he had no shortage of cases. Not these days, anyway.

Working with him on the weavers’ case had been a privilege, even though David’s fee had indeed been modest. He’d offered his services as junior counsel on something of a whim, keen for the opportunity to work with the great man. He hadn’t considered how consuming the case was going to be. Now he urgently needed to pick up some new cases and earn some fees, if he was to pay his rent on time.

David smiled. “Thank you for your concern. But I’m fine.”

“Are you?” the older man asked, one sceptical brow raised. “I know what it’s like to be where you are now. Trying to make a reputation when it feels like no one will give you a chance. I’ve had thin years—good lord, thindecades—thanks to my political sympathies.”

“Well, you seem to have done all right for yourself,” David replied lightly. “If that house of yours in the country is any measure.”

Jeffrey gave his high, chirping laugh—he loved to be teased about his new house. “Craigcrook was obtained with the fruits of my writing, dear boy. And stop changing the subject. My point is this: I had years of scraping around for work, and it’s not what I’d wish for you. You’re a very able fellow. I’d like to see you get on.”

David sighed. “Getting new cases isn’t easy, but I’m not destitute yet.”

Jeffrey sniffed. “You need to play the game, boy. Get to know more of the senior chaps. If they like you, they’ll bring you into their cases and they’ll introduce you to the solicitors who instruct them.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

”I know,” Jeffrey replied. “And my reputation isn’t much help to you, I’m afraid, but some of my friends could be of more assistance to you. So here’s the thing—I mean to introduce you to some of them.”

David blinked, taken aback. “That’s very kind of you,” he said after a pause. “Thank you.”

Jeffrey looked pleased. “Excellent. So are you able to dine with us on Saturday evening? At Craigcrook?”

David paused. The idea of attending a formal dinner was unappealing, but Jeffrey was right; he had to make an effort. He forced himself to smile and answered, “I am, thank you. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Let’s say six o’clock, then. We’re a long way out of town, so we’d be pleased if you’d stay the night too.”

“Th-thank you.” David flushed, a little embarrassed by that suggestion, undoubtedly prompted by the awkwardness of David having neither a horse nor carriage to his name.

Jeffrey dismissed David’s gratitude with a wave of his hand. “So what’s this you’re working on?” he asked, peering down at David’s notes on the desk, at the hand-drawn map David had made in an attempt to understand the long-running boundary dispute he’d been working on.