Page 12 of A Modest Independence

“I wouldn’t presume to think you were.”

“I’m fit as can be expected. Fitter than most, I’ll wager. Why, I could return to practice tomorrow.”

“You may take over the reins whenever you please.”

Fothergill gave another snort. “Conceited pup. You know you’re the better solicitor. You’ve known it for ten years and more.” He turned to the next page of the contract. “I credit myself.”

“Naturally.”

“That’s not to say you don’t have a God-given talent for legal maneuvering. Take this phrasing here.” He pointed at a line. “Ingenious, Finchley. Utterly ingenious.”

“I thought it was rather clever myself.”

“Indeed. You’ve bound the villain up good and proper for the foreseeable future. He won’t even realize it until it’s too late.”

“The villain,” Tom repeated. “In this case, it’s difficult to tell which one of them that is.”

Fothergill’s head jerked up. “Difficult, you say? What’s so difficult about it?”

“Both parties have behaved abominably. Blackmail. Corruption. Kidnapping. Between them, they’ve done it all. Were they anyone else, they’d have been brought up on charges.”

“The difference being that Viscount Atwater and the Earl of Warren are not anyone else. Neither are they both villains. If you don’t understand that, my boy, you understand nothing.”

Tom’s expression tightened. “I wrote the contract, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” Fothergill folded the papers in half. “I’m pleased to see your personal views haven’t affected your ethical obligations.”

“If you’re questioning my loyalty to my client—”

“You as good as said Atwater was a villain.”

“And so he is. When has that ever made a difference? I don’t need to like my clients. I don’t even need to believe them. As long as they pay for the services I render, my loyalty is theirs.”

Fothergill’s mouth twisted. “One of the first lessons I taught you.”

“You may rest assured it has been well learned.” The edge of bitterness in his voice surprised him.

It surprised Fothergill as well. The old solicitor’s wiry brows lowered in disapproval. “You’re not yourself, Finchley. First late to our appointment, and now voicing these erratic opinions. What the devil is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nonsense. You’re distracted. Restless.”

Tom exhaled. He was distracted. And restless, too. He needed to pay a visit to the East End. And he needed to stop by his rooms. With any luck, he’d have just enough time to shave and change before he was due in Half Moon Street. “If I’m anything, it’s exhausted. Lest you forget, I worked straight through Christmas.”

Fothergill waved the folded papers. “Then take some time off, by all means. Now that you’ve executed an agreement on that cursed plot of land—”

“There’s no guarantee they’ll abide by it.”

“Of course they’ll abide by it. They’ll have to. It’s a signed contract, enforceable by law.”

“For common men, perhaps. Men of little money and less learning. But Warren and Atwater are a different breed.”

“They’re gentlemen.”

Tom gave a short, humorless laugh. “They’re no gentlemen, Fothergill. Maybe in breeding, but certainly not in practice. The pair of them have no honor that I can see.” He retrieved the papers and thrust them back into his attaché case. “They’ve signed this, yes. But the law is meaningless in these cases. What power does it have if no one obeys it? If no one enforces it?”

Fothergill’s features settled into grim lines. “You’re tired, my boy.”