Stiff Drink

* * *

Genevieve “Gen” Ward stood in the conference room of Serle’s Court Barristers, a London law firm, eyeing dozens of manila folders strewn across the long table.

Her black, high-heeled shoes still bore traces of cold graveyard mud and shed dried flakes onto the rug, even though she had tried to wipe it off. Her cheeks felt starched-stiff from grinding her teeth during Horace Lindsey’s funeral. Weeping at a funeral was so American. Horace would have been so disappointed in her if she had cried in front of all the other lawyers.

The folders on the table held the summaries of Horace’s law cases that he had been fighting when he had died. Gen’s future as a British trial lawyer, a barrister, rested on which of them she might be assigned.

Just not the case of Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, she prayed to the capricious gods of the court. Any case but that one.

Outside the conference room’s long windows, a fountain spouted water amid the formal garden’s winter-dead lawns, as prim as any palace’s grounds. The tall spires and walls of Lincoln’s Inn—an antique, Gothic building that housed lawyers’ business offices—surrounded the garden and blocked out the skyscrapers and honking cars of central London.

Inside the conference room, the sixty-odd other senior and junior barristers crowded around the table, craning their necks and shouldering each other for a better look at the labels typed on the folders’ tabs.

Everyone was dressed in mourning black, and the gathered lawyers resembled vicious crows, ready to do battle over crumbs.

They would not, however, make a move toward the folders.

The Head Clerk, Celestia Alen-Buckley, stood at the head of the table, her short arms braced on the dark, carved wood as she glared at the folders strewn between the rows of hovering barristers.

The Head Clerk would decide who would be assigned to which case. Her dark eyes narrowed, watching the barristers, sizing each of them up even though she had known them all for decades. With just a glance, the lawyers shriveled under Celestia Alen-Buckley’s gaze. Without her formidable power stretching over the table, the barristers might have leapt onto the table to melee for the cases, each worth many thousands of pounds and mostly completed.

All the black-clad lawyers and staff had just returned from the funeral of their esteemed, learned colleague Horace Lindsey, one of the most senior barristers in chambers. The kindly, grandfatherly man had taken a special interest in Gen. Her multiple disadvantages—having spent her formative years in America, retaining an abominable Texas accent despite her best efforts, her lack of the benefits of the British independent school education like most of her colleagues had enjoyed, and of course, her unfortunate appearance—had provoked his pity.

Her mother had assured Gen of her lack of looks her whole life, telling her that she had to be especially smart and diligent to make up for her long, horsey face and too-big teeth.

Her whole life.

Gen liked to think that she had grown into her face and teeth when she had stretched to a towering five feet and ten inches, but her mother had continued to harp on Gen’s thick waist, her thunderous thighs, and her cankles.

So Gen worked like a demon dog to make up for all her disadvantages.

Horace Lindsey had noticed Gen working late—all the other pupil barristers had left for the pubs and an evening of socializing and drinking—because Horace was still at his desk, too. They drank tea while they worked, and he had imparted the little bits of lore and advice that, as an outsider, she had sorely needed. Horace had thought of her as an up-and-comer, a grinder, despite all her disadvantages. He had been the first senior barrister to make a cup of tea for Gen, one late evening while they were listening to streaming music while they worked. She had practically fallen in love with him and his sparse, white hair when he had presented her with a hot cup of tea and a wry, wrinkled smile. He had become her pupil master for the first six months of her internship, called a pupillage.

Horace had suffered a heart attack at his desk just a few days before, late at night, a few weeks after Christmas. Gen had called the ambulance while he had clutched his chest, and then Gen had told Horace’s partner, Basil, that his last words were of him.

They weren’t, of course. Horace’s last words had been instructions on his cases. Gen had taken notes with one hand and held Horace’s meaty fist with the other while he gasped, suffocating. He had been desperate to leave those final instructions on his cases, and she had printed out every word and stapled them into the manila folders littered on the conference room table.

And now all the senior, junior, and pupil barristers in chambers hovered over Horace’s folders, nudging each other as they peered at the labels, ready to pounce on the most prestigious cases or the ones most easily won or settled.

Genevieve was a lowly pupil barrister, the lowest rung on the barrister ladder, still in her first six-month term of law practical training, only recently speaking for clients in court with Horace looking over her shoulder the whole time. The Head Clerk would assign her the dregs of Horace’s cases to write the briefs for a new pupil master.

If she got any at all.

Just not Lord Severn’s case, she prayed again.

Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, had been one of Horace’s most difficult cases. His younger brother, Christopher Finch-Hatten, was suing him for possession and control of the family’s earldom and several estates. For any other defendant, this would have been designated a frivolous lawsuit that would have gotten the filing lawyer assigned costs or disciplined by the Bar Council.

Except that the defendant was The Right Honorable Arthur Finch-Hatten, the twenty-fifth Earl of Severn, the notorious and incorrigible scoundrel, damn it.

When Lord Severn deigned to grace the law offices with his presence to discuss the lawsuit against him, he strutted through chambers, the walking incarnation of privilege and sin. His deftly tailored suits were cut close to his muscular body as if he had been carved from dark marble. His strong cheekbones and square jaw were the pinnacles of centuries of beautiful women bred to powerful men to produce stunning gentlemen and ladies in the next generations. His ancestral tree was studded with several kings of England and Scotland, several more and farther back than the current heir to the British throne could claim.

As Lord Severn strode through the chambers, his silvery-blue eyes surveyed the female admins and junior barristers as he decided which of them to tempt into a night or a week of exuberant debauchery. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and the subtle scent of some hideously expensive cologne—warm spices and clean musk—wafted from him as he passed Gen, who always seemed to be caught out of her tiny office when he arrived. She would rather have barred her door against his influence.

Lord Severn usually left the barristers’ chambers with a young woman hanging on his arm and smiling up at his arrogant face, and then Horace had scoured the gossip websites with trepidation until the woman came back to work, shame-faced but oddly exuberant and dripping with new jewelry. His superficial relationships never lasted longer than a few weeks.

Lord Severn was a silver-eyed, silver-spoon-fed, silver-tongued billionaire, which was absolutely everything they needed him not to be.

Gen prayed that she would not have to deal with Horace’s most problematic case.

The tan file folders splayed across the table.

Gen waited quietly, her hands clasped in front of her.

The other barristers did the same.

Celestia Alen-Buckley examined each file and made her pronouncements.

Some folders, she perused the stickers and pursed her lips, deliberating, her eyes picking out a few barristers as possibilities, before she handed them off.

Some folders only received a cursory glance and a deliberate throw to a senior barrister.

Evidently, some considerations had already been made behind the scenes.

Damn it. Gen should have lobbied to be assigned the Lombardi case. With Horace’s wise and gentle instructions, it should settle soon. Gen needed a few wins in her docket.

She needed court wins a lot.

Tenancy offers—an invitation to set up shop as a “tenant” within the chambers, essentially a job offer to be a litigating lawyer in the law firm—would be made nine months from then, at the end of September. If the senior barristers didn’t offer tenancy to Gen, it would destroy her career just as it had officially begun. No other chambers would take her on. She would have few options to salvage her career, and they were all bad.

Gen’s new boss, Octavia Hawkes, stood across the table from Gen, eyeing the manila folders littering the dark wood table. Octavia’s blond hair was tightly coiffed into a French twist, as it always was on court days. Her black suit clung to her slender body. Her tailor came to her home once a month to adjust any suit that wasn’t a perfect fit.

Yep, glamorous, successful Octavia Hawkes was Gen’s new boss and her competition for Horace’s best cases.

Gen needed to snag several of those cases or at least one really good one.

Most pupil barristers were in debt, of course, unless they had wealthy parents who had ponied up the cash for their education. Gen sure as heck hadn’t had that advantage, either. The bar course had cost thirty thousand pounds for the year-long session. Thirty thousand pounds of debt, and Gen owed that money to her mother.

And her mother needed it back now.

Not in five years. Certainly not in ten.

Right now.

Celestia Alen-Buckley divvied up the cases.

The Lombardi folder whisked across the table to James Knightly, one of the other first-sixers who was vying for a tenancy offer. James had brought a caramel macchiato to the funeral and handed it to Celestia Alen-Buckley, and now James had the Lombardi file.

James played the barrister game exceptionally well. His father was a judge.

Gen mentally kicked herself again for not cozying up to Celestia Alen-Buckley yesterday and this morning. She ought to have known better.

File by file, Celestia Alen-Buckley made her pronouncements, her dusky hands flipping the folders across the table to be grabbed by their intended recipients too fast for Gen to keep track of them.

Finally, only one folder remained on the table.

Please, not Arthur Finch-Hatten. Please, God. Not Arthur Finch-Hatten.

Celestia Alen-Buckley picked up that last folder and looked straight at her.

Gen tried not to shrink under the woman’s stare.

Celestia Alen-Buckley whipped the folder down the long tabletop, the paper whispering on the wood the whole way. It skidded to a stop right where Gen stood.

“Here, Genevieve,” Celestia said. “You’re ambitious. If you can win it, you’ll make your name here.”

Gen was reaching for the folder when she saw the label, a blur of black ink on white with three capital letters sticking up: an A, an F, and an H.

Damn it.

* * *

Gen’s first meeting with her new client, the scandalous Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, was scheduled for eleven o’clock the next morning.

Her handwritten notes covered the inside of his manila folder:

Call him Lord Severn, My Lord, or Your Lordship. Not Mr. Finch-Hatten. Certainly not Arthur or Hey Hottie Sugar-Buns.

Don’t offer to shake his hand. You’re a barrister for God’s sake, and barristers don’t do that.

Don’t stare at him. Act like a damn professional.

The meeting was not to be held in her cubby of an office at Serle’s Court Barristers. In her office, her pupil desk was hardly larger than her laptop and couldn’t have held even a fraction of the documents that she needed to go over with him.

Instead, Gen had reserved the smallest of the conference rooms for the all-important first meeting. The windows looked outward from the building over the winding streets of central London, lined closely with brick structures like a medieval city. The other side, the good side of the building, faced the courtyard garden.

In the conference room, the heavily carved table seemed ridiculously ornate to Gen, but she had grown up in America. Her bourgeois tastes ran more to clean lines and modern furniture rather than the trappings of wealth and history that were the norm in British barristers’ chambers. She needed to get used to this kind of thing.

She waited in the conference room for Lord Severn to show up.

By eleven in the morning, Gen had made good progress on her work for the day and had drunk several all-important cups of coffee.

That morning, she had also prepared several more cups of coffee for her new pupil mistress, Octavia Hawkes, who took her coffee at a piping-hot one hundred eighty degrees Fahrenheit, which is eighty-two centigrade after Gen converted it in her head from the American stuff to the British thing. Octavia also required exactly one quarter cup of half-and-half that Gen purchased twice-weekly from the market on her way to work and no sugar. Gen made Octavia’s coffee perfectly five times per office day, or else Octavia’s crimson-painted lips retracted into a red dot of anger on her face.

Gen didn’t want to see the red dot of anger. Every time it appeared, Gen’s chances to obtain tenancy in the law chambers dropped a little.

Pupil barristers always made and served coffee for their pupil masters or mistresses. Gen had made Horace’s tea during her first six, though after the first month, they had been making tea for each other.

The student lawyers also wheeled in the silver tea service and chocolate cookies at high tea every day at four-thirty, and they served the drinks at the chambers’ occasional cocktail parties. It was a very British way of putting baby barristers in their place: making them serve their betters like actual servants.

But that morning, Gen waited in the conference room, fiddling with a pen, shuffling the stacks of papers associated with the Finch-Hatten case, and drinking her third cup of coffee. The cookies over on the sideboard called to her, even though they were the plain biscuits that they served to clients, not the chocolate ones that the barristers reserved for themselves at tea.

Lord Severn was late.

The lazy libertine had struck again. He had probably been out carousing and womanizing until the wee hours of the morning, perhaps a belated New Year’s party, and had only just gotten his privileged arse out of bed. When Horace Lindsey had arranged meetings with Lord Severn, Horace had joked that he always set the meeting for half past the hour in his own schedule, but he had told the rascal Lord Severn to be at the offices on the hour and started charging him then.

She did her best not to grind her teeth. It was all billable hours, after all. Lord Severn was paying her to wait for him.

But twenty-five minutes was excessive.

Gen’s pupil mistress, Octavia Hawkes, would have said, “Tardiness robs us of opportunity and the dispatch of our forces,” one of her quotes from Machiavelli. Octavia liked The Prince and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War a little too much.

As she had control over Gen’s entire future, Gen studied both books so she could hold a coherent conversation with Octavia.

Horace Lindsey had preferred Shakespeare, and his quotes were still marked on some of his clients’ file folders.

Like all lawyers who were waiting for a scheduled meeting, Gen busied herself with yet another case and billed that client for her time, too. Racking up the billable hours was another way to distinguish herself from the other pupil barristers who were competing for a tenancy offer.

Of course, everyone was doing that.

Gen needed to do something smart, something exceptional.

Something besides waiting for Lord Severn to show himself.

Even Horace’s death from overwork hadn’t shamed the irascible Lord Severn into mending his ways.

Gen straightened the stacks of papers on the table. She had read over and taken notes on all of them over the last few days, even though it should have been an easily winnable case.

Honestly, the Finch-Hatten case should never come to trial. No solicitor nor barrister should have touched the complaint.

Lord Severn’s parents had died in a car accident when he and his younger brother had been small children. As was customary, they had not divided the earldom and properties but had left the vast majority of the estates to the eldest son, Arthur. They had bequeathed only enough money for an excellent education and a nest egg to his younger brother, Christopher. Preserving the great estates in this manner was still common practice.

There had been no way for Arthur’s parents to know that Arthur would become a lascivious wastrel, while his brother, Christopher, would become an upstanding doctor with ties to Doctors Without Borders and did pro bono work in the most disadvantaged parts of London.

But even if they had known how their two sons would turn out, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.

After their parents’ deaths, the younger brother, Christopher, had gone to Eton and other very British independent schools to prepare him for an excellent career because he would have to work for a living.

Arthur Finch-Hatten had been raised in one of the world’s most expensive boarding schools in Switzerland, Institut Le Rosey, where the very wealthy dumped their inconvenient children.

No wonder the poor sod had turned out so badly, Gen mused. He hadn’t stood a chance. Everyone at that hoity-toity school probably had the work ethic of a sloth with a Quaalude problem.

Arthur had grown up among the offspring of Saudi sheiks, deposed European royalty, African and Latin American dictators, politicians and businesspeople from every continent, and Russian mobsters. The joke was that Le Rosey held their parent-teacher conferences in conjunction with the World Economic Forum that took place in January in Davos, Switzerland because many of the parents were in town that week, anyway. “Davos” is the annual event where the world’s twenty-five hundred most powerful people gather to discuss their world domination and to ski. Some of the world’s most effective security forces, supplemented by elite mercenaries, kept back the conspiracy theorists and anarchists who protested outside and at a considerable distance.

Her phone screen read eleven-thirty.

Gen shuffled the papers, checking over her notes.

Maybe, like Horace, she should have just assumed that Lord Severn would be at least half an hour late and scheduled other clients’ appointments in the meantime.

She whiled away the hour, her professional meter ticking off her ever-increasing fee, staring at the pages of the brief in her hand and wondering why the case had even gotten this far. It seemed that any judge should have thrown this out.

The parents had written their will.

It was a legal will.

It was aligned with the laws and customs of England.

The estate had been settled twenty years before.

Gen didn’t see how Christopher could even contest it.

Except that the defendant was the notorious rake, Lord Severn.

She was still staring at the paper when Miriam, one of the junior clerks, opened the conference room door and leaned inside, giggling. “Your client is here,” she practically sprayed.

Miriam never sprayed anything. The clerk was the soul of decorum and took care of Gen’s fees with the utmost professionalism.

Miriam withdrew, and the door gaped wider.

Gen steeled herself for battle. This client who was a walking waste of oxygen wasn’t going to put one over on her.

Lord Severn strolled into the room, his long legs covering the carpet at a quick pace even though he walked leisurely.

Gen had seen Lord Severn before, of course, but she had dodged behind other people and scurried back to her office while he had met with Horace. A nobleman with such an outrageous fee always commanded the attention of the most senior barrister in the office.

When he strolled in, Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, was still staring straight ahead at the window that overlooked the crowded streets of central London, so Gen’s first look at him was his profile.

Morning sunlight streaming in the window clung to his golden skin. His cheekbones were hard slashes, and his jaw was a sharp right angle above the crisp, white collar of the dress shirt and black business suit he wore. His lush lips curved in a smile, as if looking over London from such a prestigious advantage suited him. The subtle lift of his chin and roll of his broad shoulders suggested that, had history been different, he might have ruled the land that spread beneath the window.

He turned to survey the rest of the room and caught Gen sitting at the table, gaping at him.

Oh, God. She was staring.

He always caught her staring.

She was staring at the black curls of his dark hair that stroked his ears and the back of his neck, and she was staring at the way his very precisely tailored suit skimmed his strong shoulders and the rounded biceps of his arms and then narrowed at his waist and hips, and she was staring at his extravagant height and his long legs and the way his head tilted with amusement as he caught her staring at him again.

Gen’s brain turned to goo.

Damn, Lord Severn was one gorgeous man.

No, no, no.

No, Gen was a highly trained barrister, not a silly schoolgirl meeting a good-looking man for the first time. She had seen lots of handsome men.

Lots of them.

Lots.

Lots-lots-lots-lots-lots. The goo in her mind grew fuzzy tendrils, and cotton candy filled her skull and stopped up her ears.

Her thoughts slowed as she met his eyes.

My God. His eyes.

His eyes weren’t blue or gray or any color that she had ever seen on a real human being before.

His eyes shimmered with an unexpected delight and intelligence.

They narrowed when he smiled that good-natured, natural smile that beckoned to her.

And most of all, his eyes sparkled silver and were bounded by a dark blue ring.

They changed color depending on the light, from baby blue to silvery-gray and all the shades in-between. Gen saw all the variations as he turned his face from the sunlight toward her.

They were beguiling, magical, unearthly.

That was not damn fair.

Gen had heard about peoples’ knees weakening, but she was already sitting down. Still, her bones turned to soft clay, and she grabbed the sides of her chair because she was in danger of slithering out of it and onto the carpeting under the conference room table.

Lord Severn walked toward her.

It was customary for barristers to stand when greeting a client.

She should stand up. You really should stand up.

Stand up, dammit.

Gen gripped the sides of her chair and pushed with her arms to lift herself to her feet.

Even though too-tall Gen was wearing blunt, two-inch heels, Lord Severn was still inches taller than she was. At least four inches. Which meant he was at least six-four.

Blathering. Her brain was blathering.

His tie was the same azure-silver as his eyes but glimmering silk.

Goddamn it. She had seen Lord Severn before, several times, and he always had this effect on her.

Her and pretty much every person who was sexually attracted to men. One of the clerks, Roland, had actually fainted after Lord Severn had left chambers one time.

She should have gotten immune to him with subsequent exposures, right? This crazy reaction should have worn off by now, right?

Dizziness spun her head, and she gasped for air because she had forgotten how to breathe.

At her stupid sucking sound, Lord Severn smiled, though it was a sad smile like he regretted that his mere presence was overwhelming her so.

He pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. “I was terribly sorry to hear about Horace Lindsey’s untimely death. He was an excellent barrister and a family friend.”

Even though it was only eleven-thirty in the morning, Lord Severn’s breath carried a faint whiff of whiskey under the mint, like he had just come from a gentleman’s brunch.

Gen’s mind searched for words.

Any words.

Wut arrre werdz.

She gathered her brain together and squeezed something out.

“Yes, it was a great loss to us all,” she managed.

Lord Severn nodded. “He spoke highly of you. I’m pleased that you will be taking over my case.”

“You are?” she blurted. Oh, good grief. Could she be any more junior-high school? “I mean, Mr. Lindsey did a great deal of work preparing for this case. I’m honored to argue it in his stead.”

“Horace and I always discussed my case over a liquid lunch at my club. Why don’t you skive off work for a few hours and enjoy my hospitality?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Gen said. “I’m due in court with Ms. Hawkes this afternoon.”

“When?”

“Three o’clock.”

“I could have you back by then.”

“But I have to read the briefs that the solicitors sent over so that I know what I’m arguing.” Her native Texas accent broadened in her mouth. “What use is a hired gun if they don’t know whom to shoot?”

Lord Severn tilted his head. The corner of his lips twitched up. “Horace didn’t mention that you were American.”

Damn. Gen had been living in London for several years. Surely, most of her American accent should have faded away. She was trying like the Devil to enunciate, but evidently, she was still garbling her marbles. “I was raised in the States until I was seventeen, when my mother and I moved back to London.”

“So you’re a British citizen?”

None of Gen’s other clients had worried about what color passport she presented at customs. “Yes, I was born here. I have American citizenship, too, because when I was a kid in Texas, my dad made sure of it. I still travel with my US passport sometimes.”

Lord Severn leaned his elbows on the table and watched her. “And why would you use an American passport when you travel?”

The laser-like focus of his silvery eyes blinded her, and Jesus, he had dimples when he smiled.

Gen stuttered, “Masochism?”

Lord Severn laughed and adjusted his tie. The silver silk flashed in the sunlight, and his eyes took on a metallic sheen. “There’s something you won’t hear a barrister admit to every day.”

“Yes, well, barristers don’t admit to a lot of things.”

“Do tell.” His voice was warm with amusement as if he liked her.

“Oh, I couldn’t say. Professional courtesy.”

“Said the bishop to the actress.”

“Quite.” She laughed at him. Her laugh didn’t sound like a nervous cackle, either, which was a small miracle.

“I can only imagine what those other barristers do,” he said, and his eyes twinkled.

Jesus, Lord. How did he get his eyes to twinkle like that? They practically glittered with white-hot sparks, and Gen felt herself leaning forward and swaying her back like a broken-down mare to push out her boobs, two of her few decent physical assets. She admitted, “Sometimes, we play games in court.”

“What kinds of games?” he asked.

Go ahead, his voice implied. Say something outrageous, something unprofessional, something sexy.

Gen giggled. “One judge plays online poker all day while hearing cases, so we find him online and take his money while we’re arguing the cases.”

Lord Severn’s jaw dropped a little. “Does he know that you’re playing against him?”

“Oh, heavens, no. But if you win the case and the money from him, then the losing barrister has to buy a round for the pub that night.”

Lord Severn leaned in. “Are there any others?”

Gen whispered, “Like, we give each other a list of words that we have to work in during arguments.”

He asked, “What kinds of words?”

In his high-bred, arch English accent, his open-ended question couldn’t have sounded dirty, and yet there was just the suggestion that, if she said something naughty, he would be even more amused.

“Anything. Last time, the words were encumbered, rectitude, and nabob.”

“Oh, you barristers and your vocabulary. Horace said that he admired your wit.”

“He did not,” Gen said.

“Oh, yes. He was quite taken with you, in his own way, of course.”

“Of course.”

“He thought that you would make an excellent QC or a judge.”

Gen blinked, trying to process that Horace thought she could rise so high. “That’s more than I could hope for.”

“And yet he saw it in you.” Lord Severn leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other.

His pant leg rode up above his ankle.

The precisely tailored suit that he wore was soft black, as were his shoes, but his socks were teal.

Shockingly teal.

His ankles were a flash of Caribbean-sea color in the very conservative English barristers’ chambers.

Nothing that Gen was wearing had anywhere near that kind of color. Her pale gray blouse, black suit, pearl earrings, and beige-toned stockings and underwear were all respectable.

It wasn’t every day that someone wore teal socks into a trial lawyer’s office. Most clients were in a battle for their lives. They might lose or win a great deal of money or be sent to jail at the end of their trials. Most people wore their somber, Sunday best into her office to discuss the strategy and their odds.

The vibrant color of Lord Severn’s teal sock was so unexpected, so careless, that Gen felt like a Victorian matron offended by a glimpse of a table leg that should have been covered by a modest lace skirt.

Oh, Lord. She was staring at his ankle, a trim ankle that led up his leg to a swell of calf muscle.

She had to stop.

Stop looking.

Gen snapped her eyes up to his face.

Lord Severn’s smile grew. “Something amusing?”

“No.” She pointedly did not look near his foot.

He did, however. “My socks amuse you?”

“No.”

“A barrister wouldn’t wear anything so whimsical, would they?”

“Of course not. A judge might actually take offense, thinking that the barrister was flaunting the dignity of the court.”

Lord Severn said, “Because you’re in the professions. A working man matches his socks to his pants. A gentleman matches his socks to his mood.”

Gen steeled herself not to ask how he chose his underwear. “I can’t imagine what sort of mood you’re in to choose such an—” she didn’t look down at them, “—unusual color.”

“I’m a creature of many appetites, it’s true.” Though he was still smiling, his gaze didn’t waver from her eyes as he said this.

And right there, with Lord Severn’s words and his sultry glance that turned his silver eyes molten, their conversation went from casual banter, a pointless conversation that meant nothing to either of them, to something heated and with the suggestion of an offer, an implied extension of his hand to go wherever he might lead her.

Gen stared down at the paperwork she was holding, trying to steady her hands. “We need to go over this information,” she said. Her voice sounded thin in her own ears. “Is this contact information correct?”

He took the paper from her outstretched fingers, and she snatched her hand back as if his touch might burn her.

He held the paper pinched in his fingers as he scanned the list. “This next-of-kin bit is Christopher’s information, my brother who is suing me. Quite honestly, we weren’t raised on the same continent. The last time I saw him for any length of time, he was seven, and I was ten years old.”

“Are you estranged?” she asked, unsure how to put that politely.

Lord Severn laughed. “Estranged doesn’t begin to cover it. Let me add a few contact numbers.” He snagged one of the several pens rolling across the conference room table and wrote in neat block letters in the margin of the paper. “If I’m ever in trouble or in hospital, call these two: Casimir van Amsberg and Maxence Grimaldi. These are their private numbers. Max is often out of cell phone range. Leave a message for him. It will take both a while to get to England, so plan for that. If I die, and only if I die, call this last number, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t happen.” She paused. “You aren’t sick or anything, are you?”

“Healthy as can be. I plan to die in my own bed of advanced old age, preferably by being stepped on by an elephant.” He cleared his throat, as if he usually added something else to that sentence but hadn’t.

“An elephant? In your bedroom?” she asked.

“It’s as likely as anything else.”

Gen glanced at the paper and read upside down. “Elizabeth? No last name?”

“Yes, ask for Elizabeth, and then tell them what happened to me and answer any questions they have with all the information you know.”

“Is she your family solicitor? Or the estate’s?”

“I’d better write them down, too.” He did. “This is the number for my groundskeeper at Spencer House. He could handle the day-to-day functioning until the estate is settled.”

That seemed like a lot of information for just a barrister to have. “Are you sure you’re not planning to die?” she asked.

He looked up at her, grinning. “No one plans to die, and yet so few people truly live.”

“I’m sure most people live for quite some time.”

Lord Severn laughed, a ringing, joyful sound. “Not like me. Every day, every single day, I live.”

Yes, and they needed to talk about how he lived, too.

“Now,” he said, leaning in, “let’s talk about getting you out of this cubicle and onto my plane to the continent tonight. I know a guy who thinks he’s a rock star. Perhaps we can see his show from backstage and disabuse him of the notion, afterward.”

Partying with rock stars was absolutely part of the problem. “Mr. Finch-Hatten—”

“Lord Severn,” he said.

Gen glanced behind her, looking to see if someone was standing there.

“No, I’m Lord Severn,” he said. “I’m a third-rank peer of the realm. One uses ‘Lord’ and my title as the Earl of Severn. I sign letters and documents as Severn, rarely with my surname.”

“I’m sorry.” Her hands fluttered over the paper in front of her, where she had written that note right there to call him that.

“It’s perfectly all right, just something you should know.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope you aren’t offended.” She grabbed the table to keep her hands from flopping off like brain-damaged bats.

“No offense taken,” Lord Severn said. His hand lifted and hovered across the table, gently falling toward where her hands were braced against the dark wood.

Gen pushed back from the table, scooting the chair across the thick carpeting. “I think we should begin to discuss your case by going over some of the depositions. I have transcripts. The transcripts are right behind me, in the files. I’ll just get one of the transcripts so we can discuss your case.”

She bolted out of her chair and scrambled for the table, pretending to sort through a file folder while she fought herself.

Her hands tingled. She shook them, flicking her fingers to try to fling the crazies away.

Spidery nerves crawled up her arms.

Not now, not now. She knew Lord Severn hadn’t meant anything by their conversation and certainly not about being a creature with appetites. A little harmless flirting never killed anyone.

He wasn’t flirting with her anyway. No one flirted with horsey-face Gen unless they wanted something, or it was a dare, or they were a predator with a taste for the weak and stupid.

Deep breath, deep breath.

Her skin stilled, and her body quieted. The panic drained away, a small blip in her day that would have no effect on the afternoon or the rest of this meeting, she resolved.

Time to get back to work.

Gen walked her fingers through the tabs sticking out of the block of files in the box. “It’s in here somewhere. Do you want me to ring up the clerks and have some coffee or tea delivered?”

She felt him standing at her back rather than having heard him move.

The skin on the back of her neck heated, and a smoky shadow loomed up the white wall in front of her like an evil poltergeist trying to break through the centuries-old plaster.

His voice, whispering near her shoulder as he bent down, was low in his throat. “Or we could go back to my apartment for a liquid lunch. Or perhaps to Majorca for the weekend, to become better acquainted as barrister and client.”

He trailed his fingers over the outside of her upper arm, the merest suggestion of a caress.

Training kicked in.

Gen jabbed with her elbow, striking backward as hard as she could.

Her blow was deflected sideways before she connected with his solar plexus.

She spun and kicked.

Air. No contact.

She flipped around as her kick whiffed through the air and stumbled backward, banging her hip on the table.

Lord Severn stood several paces behind her, angled sideways, his arms up and ready to block again. His hands were balled into loose fists so he could either strike or block. His steady gaze was serious over his fists.

He said, “I’m sorry. I misunderstood our banter, earlier.”

“Don’t touch me,” she said, and the crazy shaking filled her hands and spread up her arms. “Don’t ever touch me.”

His voice was solemn. “As I said, I misunderstood. I won’t approach you again.” It sounded like a promise. “Are you all right?”

Gen leaned against the table with the boxes of file folders. The air felt chunky in her throat as she tried to breathe it, choking her. “I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“As I said, my mistake. I didn’t mean to cause offense, and I won’t presume again. I apologize for my error.”

She was still breathing too fast in panicky gasps. Damn. Krav Maga lessons for two years, and she hadn’t landed a blow when it had mattered. “I’ll bet you’re not used to women telling you no.”

“I’m not used to misreading signals.” Lord Severn lowered his hands, though he kept them near his waist and in front of him.

She had gotten caught up in the moment. She should have shut down any sort of invitation, fast. Her heart pounded in her chest, vibrating down her weak legs.

“I’m not used to men hitting on me,” Gen admitted.

“Why not?”

She stared at him, at that gorgeous man with his testosterone-molded cheekbones and geometric jaw and those silvery eyes lined with dark lashes. He had probably never felt like the fat, ugly, lumbering giant in the corner of a party where everyone else was a pretty little elf. “Look at me.”

Lord Severn blinked and lowered his hands to his sides. “You’re funny and smart and attractive. Horace doted on you. He said once that he would adopt you if he thought you would stand for it, which was his highest praise. I quite imagine that men are all over you.”

A laugh caught in her throat and turned into a snort.

Oh, that was sophisticated. Way to complete the image of the horsey, designated fat friend. She didn’t even have her pretty girlfriends around to make her seem like the good-natured buddy.

She tried to cover up the snort by saying, “Uh, no. The men are not all over me.”

And the thought of men being all over her made her legs shake.

Lord Severn said, “Their loss, then.”

She tried to breathe more slowly, holding her breath between inhales, but fear still drowned her. “You probably only date beautiful duchesses and models and actresses and stuff.”

He chuckled and took another step backward, putting more blessed space and air between them. “I’ve dated a few daft beauties. I had to measure every word I said lest they tattle to everyone they knew from lack of common sense. Handling women as if I’m manipulating a toddler to behave in public is tiresome.”

Gen shook her hands to flick the heebie-jeebies out. She still wanted to scamper up the wall and cling to the ornate crown moulding, shrieking curses down like a rabid spider monkey until Lord Severn left. “That sounds difficult.”

Lord Severn walked around the table and sat in his chair. He gestured to the papers spread over the table. “Can we resume our discussion of my case?”

Gen nodded and drew a deep breath. She didn’t like saying this. She felt like a wuss. “I just need to find that deposition. Could you remain seated while I turn my back, if you would be so kind?”

Lord Severn patted the arm of his chair. “I won’t move.”

She gathered every ounce of her willpower and pivoted, turning her back to him, and started walking her fingers through the files. “I can call for coffee or tea.”

“I would appreciate a coffee.” His voice came from across the room and on the other side of the table.

Good.

The air around her seemed to thin, and Gen breathed more easily.

The papers under her fingers drifted into focus, and though she listened for any scuff of his chair moving or his tread on the thick carpeting, she only heard Lord Severn clear his throat a few times and rustle some papers, all on the far side of the table.

When she turned around, clutching the depositions, Lord Severn was leaning back in his chair, studying a piece of paper, entirely at ease.

He smiled at her. “Did you find the deposition?”

She nodded. Her neck felt stiff, like she was holding herself ready for him to assault her.

Gen dropped the papers on the table, letting the swoosh cover up her deep breath. She shook out her hands again.

“Okay, so let’s talk about winning your case for you.” She tapped the pile of papers in front of her with her pen, covering up that she was still flicking her fingers. “There’s no mention of a jury strategy. It seems that Horace was preparing your case for an appeals court or magistrate instead of a trial.”

Lord Severn shook his head. “Oh, no, no. We won’t be going before a court at all. Matters of peerage are always heard in the House of Lords.”

Gen grabbed papers, trying not to look like she was reading frantically. “Did Horace say that?”

“We discussed the case rather than the venue, but I assumed.”

“Nothing is tried in the House of Lords anymore. Not since the Supreme Court was created in 2009. The last trial of a peer in the House was in 1935.”

“But this is a matter of peerage, not a criminal case to be tried in the special court for nobles. The House of Lords always hears cases concerning peerage claims.”

“But they never try cases anymore. They disbanded their court years ago. I think it was in 1948. The Law Lords aren’t even members of the House of Lords anymore.”

“But Horace said that we should appeal directly to the sovereign to throw it to the Lords.”

Yes, yes. Gen could just remember from her university days that the Crown was the fount of all honor, and thus the Crown was entitled to decide all questions related to peerage disputes.

In practice, the sovereign referred all disputes about who got to be the duke to a committee in the House of Lords—Gen wracked her brain—the Committee for Privileges and Conduct, and then the committee told the sovereign what to do in the case.

But the committee didn’t even have Law Lords anymore, not since 2009. Surely, a bunch of stuffed shirts who weren’t even barristers or solicitors couldn’t decide such a contentious case based on law and precedent and honor without even Law Lords to advise them.

“Are you a member of the House of Lords?” she asked Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, just in case.

“Egads, no. My grandfather held his hereditary spot until the reform in 1999, but neither he nor I ever stood for election. I’m far too busy with other priorities.”

Yeah, she just bet he was.

“I need to look over these depositions,” Gen said, trying to come up with something to say that would not let on that she was entirely out of her depth.

“Quite,” Lord Severn said drily and stood.

Oh, yeah. He knew.

“I just have to study this.” She clutched the papers to keep her hands from shaking. “Give me a few days, and we’ll meet again to discuss your case.”

He brushed some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “I’ll find some way to occupy my time.”

“No, you mustn’t.” Gen stood and let the papers in her hands flutter to the table. “Horace told me about your escapades. Every time you went on a bender, he watched the gossip sites for days, fretting that you might have given your brother yet more ammunition. The only reason this case has gotten this far is because of your atrocious behavior. For anyone else, anyone who acted with an ounce of decorum, such a stupid claim would have been dismissed immediately.”

Lord Severn flicked his fingers in the air. “My actions don’t matter. This is all a matter of peerage and privilege. My parents bequeathed the earldom and Spencer House to me.”

“Your brother is getting the National Trust involved. Horace thought you might lose when he was fighting this for you.”

“And now you’re fighting it for me, so you see to it that my ‘escapades’ don’t influence the case.”

“Ms. Hawkes and I can’t win your case if you’re doing everything you can to sink it!”

Lord Severn sighed and looked out the window. “Be careful about that fiery American temper. The House of Lords won’t like that.”

“Nothing is ever tried in the House of Lords!”

His sultry glance down at her was laced with pity and derision, and Gen felt like a lower-class biscuit aping her betters.

Class will out, she had heard more than once when certain other pupil barristers had made unfortunate choices in alcohol quantities or sleeping arrangements. They had lost the respect of the senior barristers in chambers, and thus their chances at tenancy, with a single miscalculation.

But Lord Severn’s stare made her feel all sorts of new levels of inferiority.

When he spoke, his cut-glass, upper-crust British accent clipped the words, “You need to do your homework.”

Lord Severn turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his long legs covering the plush carpet in just a few steps.

Gen sank into her chair, holding her head in her hands.

Between her panicked freak-out and lack of understanding about Lord Severn’s case, this meeting could not have gone any worse.

The only things worse than throwing the case to someone else was getting fired by the client or losing it in court.

And she had just increased the odds of both of those.

Disaster.