Heath followed the liveried servant to Solicitor-General Dagwood’s private study. The man motioned for Heath to go inside. “Mr. Dagwood will be with you in a moment.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping into Dagwood’s inner sanctum, Heath straightened his neck cloth and tugged on his silk waistcoat, suddenly glad that he’d worn his Sunday best.
The chamber was an imposing testament to all that Dagwood had accomplished in his legal career. Parchment certificates in gilded frames lined the walls, awards with commemorative engravings sat on a mantel, and inside a special glass case rested the notice declaring Dagwood the Solicitor-General of England, Law Officer of the Crown.
The walls were lined with legal treatises, and the scent of old books was like a comforting friend to Heath as he moved to stand before the window to wait.
The rear garden was barren and unkempt. Dagwood spent most of his waking hours at work; he likely had little care for the part of the house that he didn’t use and that visitors rarely saw. He had no children to run in the grass, no wife to tend a garden. It must be very lonely. For the first time ever, Heath felt a little sorry for his superior. Not that Heath had any of these things. But he hoped…
“Hello, Bartlett.”
Heath turned.
Dagwood strode across the room with that authoritative air that Heath had tried to emulate when he’d first come to work for the solicitor-general. “Congratulations! Lady Bright sent me a note last night and then I read the announcement in the Times this morning. Well done!”
Dagwood pumped Heath’s hand vigorously and patted him on the back. “A drink is in order, my friend!”
Moving over to the sideboard, Dagwood poured each of them a generous portion of brandy. Heath recalled the very first time Dagwood had brought him into this study and they’d shared a drink. Heath had just secured the repayment of a ten-thousand-pound debt on behalf of the Crown. The debt had been outstanding for five years and Heath had succeeded where his predecessors had failed. He’d made it happen not by using threats or sanctions, but by helping the debtor structure his payment so as not to lose the lands that had been in his family for generations, the key sticking point in the deal.
It had been a triumph that he’d savored, all the more gratifying because Dagwood had been pleased.
Dagwood’s usually stern face was creased in a wide smile as he pressed a glass into Heath’s hand. “Here’s to your fortuitous marriage. May you and Miss Whilom share many prosperous years to come.”
Nodding, Heath took a sip. It tasted like vinegar, and Heath knew it wasn’t the brandy that had soured.
Dagwood’s sharp dark gaze was assessing. “What’s troubling you, Bartlett? You should be on top of the world, and instead you look as if your best friend just died.”
Setting down the glass, Heath straightened. “I want to thank you for everything, sir. You’ve been only generous to me—”
Waving a hand, Dagwood stepped behind his great mahogany desk and sat. “There’s no need to get sappy now, Bartlett. Everything I did for you was for my own ends. Every general needs good lieutenants, and you’re one of my best.”
A large oil portrait of Dagwood was on the wall behind the desk, and Heath felt as if he was facing two Dagwoods. The Dagwood in the painting was resplendent in court attire, and the artist had managed to capture the hint of gray at the temples of his raven hair and the intelligence gleaming in Dagwood’s coal black eyes.
“Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me, sir.” Heath swallowed. “I hope you always feel that way.”
Dagwood’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something amiss. Are you concerned about the guest list? Or the wedding preparations? That’s for Lady Bright to worry over. Not you.”
“I…ah, well, there’s no easy way to say this, sir…”
“You, the exemplary barrister, at a loss for words? Mayhap marriage isn’t so good for you after all!” Chuckling, Dagwood reached into the box on his desk and selected a cigar. He held one out to Heath, who shook his head. Dagwood busied himself with the cutter and used the candle on his desk to light it.
Puffing white clouds of smoke, Dagwood narrowed his eyes and considered Heath through the haze. “So, what is it then? Concerned about your father meeting the Whiloms?”
Heath gritted his teeth, ashamed that he’d told Dagwood about his father’s indiscretions. He’d been lashing out at his father for far too long. He’d been acting like an adolescent, self-involved and without concern for the damage he was inflicting on his father or their relationship. He realized that he had some fences to mend. But they would be easier to repair now because Heath had finally stopped wanting his father to be someone other than who he truly was. Heath could finally accept his father and love him without judgment or shame.
Heath lifted his chin. “Nay, sir. My father is quite the gentleman and can carry himself well, no matter the company. He is not the problem.” Reaching into his coat, Heath pulled out a sheet of heavy vellum. He slipped it onto Dagwood’s desk.
“What’s this?” Dagwood asked.
“My resignation.”
Dagwood stilled, then leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. Smoke surrounded him in a cloud. He did not touch the paper. “Did you accept the offer from Benton and Williams?”
“You knew about that?” Mr. Isaac Benton had been courting Heath for two years, and Heath had taken pains never to let his superior know about it. Heath hadn’t wanted Dagwood to hold it against the law firm, and he’d never had any intention of accepting the position. Now Heath doubted that Mr. Benton would offer him so much as a drink after what he’d done. Again, the generosity of Bills’s offer warmed Heath’s heart.
Dagwood grimaced. “I never figured you for the private sector, Bartlett, but appreciate that you might feel the need for more funds now that you will be wed. I can see about a raise in salary, but you know there’s only so much I can do. Staying with me offers more than simple compensation, as you well know.”
“I’m not asking for an increase in salary, sir. I’m resigning. And if you read that letter you will understand why.”
“Hmm.” Blowing out a line of smoke, Dagwood lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and peered intensely at Heath.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I’m sure it’s quite poetic, but I’d rather hear you say why you’re resigning after all I’ve done to help you.”
Heath swallowed. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I have no other option.”
“There are always options, Bartlett.” Dagwood’s smile was self-satisfied. “If we don’t have one, we craft a new one. We’re lawyers; we define the rule of law.”
Heath shook his head, thinking of how brave Tess was. She’d stepped outside the little box that the world had placed her in, and instead had become an agent for England. She lived by her own code of ethics, safeguarding those she loved. He, in contrast, had gotten mired in legalities and caught up in his “position,” somehow losing sight of his values in the process. Her example inspired him.
Heath rubbed his eyes. “I can’t remember when I started seeing things less as ‘right and wrong’ and more as ‘win or lose.’ I can’t count the number of times when I justified an unjust result by saying it was how the system operated or was the way of things.” Dropping his hand, Heath frowned. “I can’t remember the last time I did something for the greater good that didn’t somehow further my ambitions.”
Dagwood stopped smiling. “Pray tell me you’re not going haring off to the country to teach snot-nosed children their numbers.”
“No, sir. I have no idea what I’m going to do.” Or who I’m going to do it with. But he had a hope, a dream…
Dagwood straightened in his chair. “I can’t believe that you’re quitting now, after working so hard and rising so high. It makes no sense.”
“I don’t want to quit, but—”
“Then don’t.”
“I have to, sir. After what I’ve done you will no longer want me in your employ. I’ve filed a nolle prosequi in the Golding matter.”
Dagwood’s quizzing glass dropped from his eye as disbelief shone in his dark gaze. “Pray tell me why you would do such a stupid thing?”
“Lady Golding is in danger.”
“Is that what she claims?”
“She was attacked last night and almost murdered. If I hadn’t come in when I did, she’d be dead.”
Leaning back in his chair, Dagwood stared at the ceiling. “So you were there last night. With her, in her rooms, at Newgate Prison.”
“That’s not the point, sir—”
“I could press charges, you know. Breach of fiduciary duty. You do recall that little pledge you made regarding the Crown?”
“Believe it or not, sir, I am keeping my promise to uphold justice—”
“By setting a murderess free?”
“Lady Golding didn’t kill anyone.”
Dagwood straightened. “And you know this, how? Because she told you so?”
“She works for the Foreign Office, sir. She’s an agent for the Crown. The very same Crown that we work to safeguard, too!”
“It’s very convenient that you tell me this after your insubordination.”
“I couldn’t take the chance that you’d say no. Or that you’d try to stop me.” Dagwood would have considered the political ramifications, the pros and cons. Heath couldn’t accept any compromise on Tess’s safety. It had been the first time that Heath had realized that Dagwood might not be the perfect model for him after all. He needed to carve his own mold, true to himself and his own code of justice.
Heath squared his shoulders. “I came here because I wanted you to learn it from me. I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir. I will never forget all you’ve done for me.”
Heath turned and walked out the door, leaving his career and everything he’d worked for in shambles behind him.
And he didn’t mind in the least.
He felt good, at peace with his decision and with the rightness of his actions. The law was sacred, and protecting its virtue for the woman he loved was the most gratifying thing he’d ever done.
As Heath made his way toward the front door, he sent off a prayer of thanks. For sending him Tess to help him find his way.
A liveried footman stepped forward. “This just arrived for you, Mr. Bartlett.” The man held out a folded note.
“Thank you.” Opening it, Heath read,
Mr. Bartlett,
I received your message regarding the attack on Lady Golding and am glad to hear that she was not too badly injured. Regarding the nolle prosequi, you certainly know how to make my job easier. I would dearly like to know how you managed to get S.G. Dagwood to agree to it, and if he’d be willing to consider it more in the future.
Please call upon me if any additional services will be required. I am at Lady Golding’s disposal.
Sincerely,
D. Bernard.
P.S. If it’s still pertinent, Wheaton is back.
“Yes!” Heath crushed the note in his hand. Wheaton was back. Tess was safe. It was time for Heath to make the Foreign Office do right by her. Wheaton would do it, for Heath was going to give him no other alternative.