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fervently, pressing his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
    “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a moment to consult a few resources, to check my memory of certain laws and precedents before we proceed. Would you care for tea?”
    She shook her head, almost giddy with success. “Thank you, no.”
    Wittiers nodded and left. Trembling, Francesca sank back into her seat. He hadn’t definitely agreed, but he said her case had merit; he was inclined to take it on. That meant he believed he could win. She could win.
    The wait dragged on for some time. After a while Francesca got up and paced about the room, wishing Wittiers would come back soon. Something seemed to be going on in the outer offices; she could hear the rapid tread of feet, back and forth, and the rushed murmur of voices. It went on for such an extended period of time she finally grew too curious. She went to the door and opened it just a little.
    The clerk, Mr. Napier, stood across the room, his back to her, and was scribbling furiously in the notebook he held as Wittiers spoke rapidly to him, raising his finger to interrupt with a question from time to time. Another clerk was flipping through a large file, pulling out pages. Her heart leaped at the sight of such purposeful activity. She couldn’t make out what Wittiers or his clerk was saying, but Wittiers had the look of a general ordering his troops into battle, and the confidence emanating from him was hard to mistake. Francesca eased the door closed, not wanting to be caught spying, and returned to her seat feeling positively joyful.
    It was over a quarter of an hour before the door opened again. She looked up to see Mr. Napier. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “Mr. Wittiers has been called away on an urgent matter. He bade me express his deepest regret, but he won’t be able to take your case after all.”
    “O-Oh,” she stammered, completely thrown. “But—no, we just spoke and he was quite intrigued by it. Will the emergency pass? Shall I return tomorrow? I can afford to wait a day or so . . .”
    The clerk wet his lips. “Mr. Wittiers is most apologetic, Lady Gordon, but it appears very likely he won’t be able to take any new cases for some time.” She gaped at him, and he gently added, “He must recommend you seek other counsel.”
    “Other counsel?” she echoed numbly. No. No. She had sought other counsel, and found it all wanting. Mr. Wittiers was the best—and he had agreed her cause had merit. To have that hope, that confidence, stripped away now was unthinkable. “I don’t understand,” she said, her fingernails biting into her palms even through her gloves as she clung hard to her poise. “Why did he lead me to believe he would accept if he is now unable even to consider taking my case?”
    “An urgent matter arose,” he replied. “Unexpectedly.”
    “For another client?”
    “I cannot say, madam. Mr. Wittiers is truly sorry he cannot help you.” The clerk’s face creased in polite sympathy. “May I bring you a cup of tea? I am dreadfully sorry, Lady Gordon.”
    Francesca felt the door slam shut in her face—again. “No,” she said faintly. “No, thank you. If I could just have a moment . . .”
    He nodded. “Of course.” Quietly, he left, drawing the door closed behind him.
    Francesca pressed a hand to her forehead. What was she to do now? Which other solicitors had been recommended to her? A spark of bitterness flared in her chest that she had waited so long to see Wittiers, that she had been so sure of his abilities, that he had agreed , the blighter, and then refused. Perhaps she was well-shot of him if he couldn’t even keep his word for half an hour, but went rushing off on a moment’s notice. She tried to calm herself, reasoning that if she had become his client, she would have wished for just this sort of immediate response from him in her time of need. But it stung, to be summarily rejected mere minutes after being accepted, after he had allowed hope