Regency Christmas Wishes(96)

Trevor had never felt inclined to celebrate the year’s cases, won or lost. He seldom triumphed at court because his clients were generally all guilty. True, their crimes were among the more petty in English law, but English law always came down hard against miscreants who meddled with another’s property, be it land, gold bullion, a loaf of bread, or a pot of porridge. A good day for Lord Trevor was one where he wheedled a reprieve from the drop and saw his client transported to Australia instead. He knew that most Englishmen in 1810 would not consider enforced passage to the Antipodes any sort of victory. Because of this, a celebration, even for the birth of Christ, always felt vaguely hypocritical to him. Besides that, he knew his solicitor was in a hurry to be on his way to Tunbridge Wells.

But not without a protestation, because the solicitor, an earnest young man, name of George Dawkins, was almost as devoted to his young charges as he was. “Trevor, you know it is my turn to take that deposition,” the good man said, even as he pulled on his coat and looked about for his hat. “And when was the last time you spent more than a day or two home at Chase Hall?”

“You, sir, have a family,” Trevor reminded him firmly. “And a wife eager to see her parents in Kent.”

Dawkins must have been thinking about the events of last Christmas. “Yes, but I could return for the deposition. I would rather not . . .” he paused, his embarrassment obvious.

“ . . . leave me alone here, eh? Is that it?” Trevor finished his solicitor’s thought.

The man knew better than to bamboozle. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t want to return to . . . Well, you know. You were damned lucky last time.”

Not lucky, Trevor thought. I thought I was home free. Damn those interfering barristers in the next chamber. “I suppose. I suppose,” he said. “I promise to be good this year.”

His solicitor went so far as to take his arm. “You’ll do nothing besides take that deposition? You’ll give me no cause for alarm?”

“Certainly not,” Trevor lied. He shrugged off his solicitor’s arm (even as he was touched by his concern), and pulled on his overcoat. He looked around the chamber, and put on his hat. Nothing here would he miss.

He and his solicitor went downstairs together and stood at the Chancery Lane entrance to the Inn. He looked up at the evening sky—surprisingly clear for London in winter—and observed the stars. “A rare sight, Dawkins,” he said to his employee.

As they both looked upward, a little shard of light seemed to separate itself from a larger brightness, rather like shavings from some celestial woodcarver. Enchanted, he watched as it dropped quickly, blazed briefly, then puffed out.

Dawkins chuckled. “We should each make a wish, Trevor,” he said, amusement high in his voice. “Me, I wish I could be more than five minutes on our way and not have one of my children ask, ‘How much farther, Papa?’ ” He turned to Trevor. “What do you wish?”

“I don’t hold with wishing on stars,” he replied.

“Not even Christmas stars?”

“Especially not those.”

But he did. Long after his solicitor had bade him good night and happy Christmas, and was whistling his way down the lane, Trevor stood there, hesitating like a fool, and unable to stop from staring into the heavens. He closed his eyes.

“I wish, I wish someone would help me.”



“Miss Ambrose, do you think we will arrive in time for me to prevent my sister from making this Tragic Mistake that will blight her life and doom her to misery? I wish the coachman would pick up speed!”

Cecilia Ambrose—luckily for her—had been hiding behind a good book when her pupil burst out with that bit of moral indignation. She raised the book a little higher to make sure that Lady Lucinda Chase would not see her smile.

“My dear Lady Lucinda, I have not met her, but from what I know of your family, I suspect she is in control of her situation. Is it not possible that your sister welcomes her coming nuptials? Stranger things have happened.”

Her young pupil rolled her eyes tragically, and pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. “Miss Ambrose, in her last letter to me she actually admitted that Sir Lysander kissed her! Can you imagine anything more distasteful? Oh, woe!”

Cecilia abandoned her attempt at solemnity, put down the book after marking her place, and laughed. When she could speak, she did so in rounder tones. “My dear little scholar, I think you are lacing this up a bit tight. If the wicked stage were not such a pit of evil and degradation, you would probably be anointed a worthy successor to Siddons! It is, um, possible that your sister doesn’t consider kissing to be distasteful. You might even be inclined to try it yourself someday.”