Page 153 of A Modest Independence

“No?” Fothergill motioned to the paper. “Read the third paragraph, if you please.”

Tom skimmed it. When he’d finished, his gaze jolted back to Fothergill’s face. “What is this?”

“Viscount Atwater called on me in Belgrave Square last week. It seems there’s some difficulty with the terms he agreed to with the Earl of Warren.”

Tom sank down into a chair. Probably the very same chair Jenny had sat in when she called on him in February. It felt like a lifetime ago. “He wants to renegotiate a contract they’ve both already signed?”

“He wants you to have a talk with Warren. To see if you can convince him to come to more favorable terms. If anyone can do it, you can, my boy. It’s past time you resumed your work. I didn’t invest all of my knowledge in you so you could shirk your duties whenever a handsome woman chances to flit by.”

Tom ignored the barb. “This case is settled. If it hadn’t been, I’d never have left London.”

“I believed it so as well. But you know Atwater. He’s a gentleman of many moods.”

“His moods have no bearing on the legal force of that contract.”

“The contract notwithstanding, there remain several actions you might take to reshape the outcome of the case to his satisfaction.”

Tom was familiar with the sort of actions Fothergill was referencing. He wanted him to apply pressure on Warren, just as Tom had done before. To make every other aspect of Warren’s life a legal nightmare until such time as he capitulated to Atwater’s demands. “Undoubtedly, but I have no desire to re-litigate the matter.”

“Your desire is of little concern. It’s your client who—”

“Atwater will never be satisfied. I’ve long begun to think it isn’t the land he wants, but Warren’s complete destruction.”

Fothergill regarded Tom with an enigmatic stare. His face had grown more cadaver-like in the past three months. He must have lost two stone at least. A reasonable man in his position would have taken to his bed. But Fothergill had never been reasonable—not when it came to his practice.

“It won’t be at my hand,” Tom said. “Not the destruction of Warren. Not the destruction of anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“You presume to know who deserves what and when?”

“No. But I have a mind to direct my talents to worthier clients—and to setting right injustices more grievous than the bad blood between two aging noblemen intent on getting the better of each other.”

“Few in the legal profession have the luxury of representing worthy clients and those who do are invariably underpaid—or not paid at all. Is this really the course you’d choose for yourself, Finchley? I can’t think it advisable. Especially not if you intend to marry and start a family.”

An image of Jenny Holloway smiling up at him in the clearing on Senchal Ridge sprang fully formed into Tom’s mind. His chest tightened on a rush of bitter anguish. “I have no plans to marry, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Hmm. And what about your natural mother? The shrill female who makes so many demands on your purse.”

“What about her?”

“She’s called here twice in your absence. Once inflicting herself on poor Keane. And the second time…inflicting herself on me.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say to her?”

“I sent her off, naturally, in terms she could understand.” Fothergill paused before adding, “You’re too softhearted with women, my boy.”

“She’s not just any woman.”

“No, indeed.” Fothergill set down his quill pen and leaned back in his chair. “She’s the low creature who abandoned you as an infant. Who left you in the custody of individuals even lower than herself. As I understand it, she won’t stoop to acknowledge you, though she certainly has no qualms about accepting your money. Is this the sort of woman to whom you owe filial loyalty?”

“She’s my mother.”

“And so you’re content to let her get the better of you?”

“Myra Culpepper has never gotten the better of me.” Tom’s voice was cold. “I know her for exactly who and what she is. What I feel for isn’t filial loyalty. It’s pity.”

“Pity?”

“Tempered by compassion.”