42

Roger turned from the barred window in his cell. There was nothing to see except a bleak alley, a view he had studied too many times already. It looked particularly dismal with the summer rain dumping a fine, steady downpour. Shooting his cuffs, he straightened his waistcoat, hitched the legs of his elegant trousers just so, and sat on the edge of his cot. He smoothed back his hair and frowned at the smudge marring his otherwise impeccable shirtsleeve.

His arrest was an outrage. They couldn’t keep him here—he was Roger Lord! Yet, against all reason, kept him here they had. Over-goddamn-night.

This imprisonment was unthinkable. Gentlemen weren’t arrested on the word of a servant; whoever heard of such a thing? He was a man of consequence—yet, not only had the sheriff taken the word of a domestic over his; the fool had taken the word of a female domestic. And though Roger had said it before, it bore repeating: the incarceration of Roger Thaddeus Lord was outrageous. Men dallied with servant girls all the time. It was of no significance.

His lawyer informed him the court papers labeled it rape, as if that wasn’t patently absurd. There was no such thing. Women were a negligible commodity whose duty was to unquestioningly obey their betters. That meant any male, even the ripe-smelling old sot sleeping in the next cell. If women had worth in the world, they would’ve been given the same rights as men. Clearly, man was the superior, duly dominant species. Roger merely exercised his duty to teach women their rightful place. Rape, indeed.

It was preposterous this nonsense was going to trial. Hell, the sheriff was a man. Not a well-bred one, but still a man. One would’ve thought he’d be smart enough to know a man of Roger’s stature had no business being in jail and have immediately set him free.

There was no doubt in Roger’s mind the sheriff was Murdock’s minion. What else explained this monumental miscarriage of justice? Hell, Roger suspected this entire inconvenient dilemma was Murdock’s doing. Well, once Roger addressed the twelve jurors, they’d recognize his incarceration for the momentous error it was and acquit him posthaste. His release, quite naturally, would be accompanied by suitable apologies he might or might not accept. Perhaps he would sue for damages. He’d definitely have Jacobson’s job. Then he would destroy Jake Murdock, his bitch wife, and his snooty, interfering mother once and for all.

Meanwhile, he had to decide on his lunch. Squab, perhaps. His cook made a quite delectable squab. But, no. He wasn’t in the mood. “Sheriff,” he said peremptorily.

“What is it?” Jacobson asked without looking up from the papers on his desk.

“Tell my housekeeper to bring me rare roast beef for lunch. With roast potatoes, greens, bread, a flagon of wine, and perhaps”—he nodded—“yes, a caramel pudding for dessert. Oh, and I need a fresh shirt.”

“Sorry, Lord,” Jacobson replied, his voice lacking contrition. “You’ll be eating hotel fare today, same as me.”

The man in the cell adjoining Roger’s sat up on his bunk. He hitched up a sagging red suspender and scratched at the gray stubble on his chin.

Roger had learned more about the old drunk than he cared to know. Apparently, Bradley—whether the old fool’s first or last name, Roger neither knew nor cared—possessed an uncontrollable fondness for alcohol and therefore spent a good deal of time in the jailhouse. Particularly when the weather was foul, which was an egregious waste of taxpayers’ money. If he didn’t contribute to the town coffers, let him find his own accommodations when the weather turned inclement. But the evening before, when it started to rain, Jacobson went out and scooped the drunk off the street, where he’d been sleeping off a bender. Now, for the first time since being carried into his cell, Bradley showed a spark of interest in his surroundings.

“This stew day?” he asked.

“It’s Friday, ain’t it?” Jacobson retorted. “You’ve had the Buchannan’s menu memorized for a good two years now.” Tossing his pencil on the desk, Jacobson leaned back in his battered chair to the tune of protesting, creaking springs, and propped one foot on his desk.

“Mebbe I have,” Bradley replied. “Then again, mebbe I ain’t. In any event, sonny, I’ll take a flagon of wine with my lunch, too.”

Jacobson snorted. “Don’t hold your breath, old-timer. The taxpayers’ dollars don’t run to wine. You’ll get the usual glass of milk the hotel sends over.”

Bradley jerked his chin in Roger’s direction. “How come Mr. Gotrocks here gets wine with his lunch, then?”

Roger crossed to wrap his hands around the bars and regarded his neighbor with distaste. “Because I pay for it myself, you old sot,” he replied impatiently.

“Did pay for it,” Jacobson amended.

Roger slowly turned his head to peer down his nose at the sheriff. “What do you mean?”

Jacobson’s feet hit the floor. “I mean your staff is deserting you like rats from a sinking garbage scow. They know a losing proposition when they smell one.” Seeing Lord’s supercilious expression, he shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? Your case stinks. I know it; your staff knows it; even your lawyer knows it from the little I’ve heard in there.” He nodded to Lord’s cell. “He doesn’t want you to take the stand. Why is that, Rog?” Despite shortening Lord’s name, Jacobson took care no other disrespect colored his expression. But, damn, he’d love to get the bastard to reveal something. Jacobson would really like to know how the man got away with what Jacobson was sure was a long history of abusing his female help.

“My lawyer lacks the killer instinct,” Roger replied scornfully to Jacobson’s question. With unshakable confidence, he added, “Once I take the stand, my case will become clear to the men of the jury.”

“Oh, I agree,” Jacobson murmured, not adding what the men of the jury were likely to see was an entitled, self-important snob who considered himself above the laws applying to the rest of them. “But meanwhile,” he added, “you no longer have a cook to give your order to. So, unless you’re willing to go hungry, I guess you’ll just have to eat hotel stew with Bradley here and me.”