That suited Andrew. Keeping himself busy worked well. Then he did not have to think about anything else.
The Lord Darius Shaw, for example.
His daughter recovered quickly and soon became her lively self again. However occupied he became, Andrew always spared several hours a day for her. When she had been smaller, he would settle her in his study downstairs while he worked through the night on tedious cases that brought in money. His love for Elizabeth constantly astonished him. He had not expected that to happen, but the moment he’d held her and gazed into her eyes, she’d ensnared him completely. He’d willingly die for her. She unwittingly formed another barrier to any thoughts of Darius and what he had taught Andrew.
More than he knew. The tepid “I care for you” had unlocked a barrier he had put across his heart after he’d left Oxford. Now he did not seem to be able to turn the key and lock it up again.
His clerk tapped on the door and handed Andrew a letter. “Something for you, sir. It doesn’t look like business. Hand delivered by a liveried footman.” That in itself was unusual. Whether it was the publicity of the court case involving The Lord Valentinian Shaw, or something else, more aristocrats were seeking him out.
Most of the cases were trivial affairs, concerning little work, but Andrew knew his customers. They were testing him. He could find himself with a comfortable business. Many lawyers acted as land stewards, working on several estates or one huge one. While he had no interest in becoming any man’s servant, accepting the management of several could lead to a comfortable living. He would not have to look from case to case any longer, but could depend on a steady income.
That was what he had always worked toward. But a nagging concern remained at the back of his mind. Was Darius responsible for any of this new business?
He broke the seal and opened the letter. Flowing black script on heavy cream paper revealed an invitation for a large ball to be held the next day. It would not be a matchmaking ball. It was the wrong time of year for that. Young ladies and their chaperones flooded into town in the spring to indulge themselves in the social round before dutifully taking a husband. This time, the back end of the year, had a more political flavor.
Miss Angela Childers requested his presence at her ball.
Well, that was something.
Andrew returned to his chair and rang for coffee while he scrawled a reply. Of course he would attend. Perhaps Miss Childers had business for him. At least Darius wasn’t responsible for this stroke of luck.
Outside Miss Childers’s imposing London mansion set on one of London’s most fashionable squares in Mayfair, Andrew paused and tweaked his snowy-white neckcloth. He had broken out his best clothes for the occasion—the mulberry figured velvet coat and the ivory waistcoat embroidered by experts from Spitalfields. Wisely aware that he could not compare with the great and the good but could present a respectable figure, he had not attempted any fancy detailing. Plain silver buckles adorned his shoes and his knees, and while his linen and lace were good, Andrew didn’t sport double or triple flounces.
Curious as to what Miss Childers wanted, he stepped forward and presented his invitation. Others had swanned through without the footman halting them, but Andrew was not a noted figure in society. He had assumed this would be one of Miss Childers’ City balls, but it seemed not.
Angela Childers was one of those strange beings, someone who straddled City and County, having valid claims to belong to both. Her mother had been the daughter of a duke, her father a noted banker, worth more than all the dukes in the world, or so he had claimed in his lifetime.
Miss Childers had inherited the fortunes of both her parents. The wealthiest woman in Britain, to be sure, and possibly the world. She had declared she would never marry, and so far she had stuck to that resolve. Not the most romantic duke, nor the hardest striker of bargains in the City had snared her. Now, approaching the age of thirty, she was fond of declaring herself well and truly on the shelf.
Truthfully, a woman of fifty with her fortune would not be considered unmarriageable. However, Miss Childers was an exception to almost everything.
Andrew understood her predicament. She had more to consider than her own pleasure. Hundreds of employees depended on her for their living. As a single woman, she had no concern about inheritance. She could will her fortune to whomever she pleased.
Andrew liked her, although he did not know her well. Only from City dinners and suchlike, where they had exchanged a few words and found themselves in accord about many matters, including her determination not to marry.
Andrew was grateful she had remembered him. He could no doubt meet some potentially useful people tonight. He spared a thought for his daughter. She would be sleeping peacefully by now, and he had not had his usual pleasure of looking in on her.
He disliked stepping outside the circles he had made his own, where he felt comfortable. His uncles’ drapery business, his own legal concerns—there he was happy, but coming here made him uncomfortable and out of place. As he was.
Aristocrats passed by him, noses in the air, talking loudly to each other about the Park, the last ball, and fashion. Nobody took any notice of him, which, he supposed, was a blessing. He would find Miss Childers, thank her for inviting him, and leave. He did not belong here.
The footman standing at the door examined Andrew’s invitation carefully, as if he, too, doubted its veracity. However, he let him through and directed him to another man who would take his hat and gloves.
Inside, the spacious hall blazed with light, as did the other rooms in the house. Andrew tried not to gaze around like a gawping child faced with the grown-up world for the first time, but he found it difficult. Everywhere he looked there was something worth seeing, from exquisite paintings to delicate pieces of porcelain, all carefully arranged. Andrew found the effect delightful.
A woman he vaguely recognized as the countess of somewhere or other passed by, speaking to the mousy woman walking a few inches behind her. “Of course it’s vulgar. What else can it be? She’s from Trade. Her poor mother, forced to marry so far below her!”