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to sprout and surge forth within her. And now she would probably have to return to one of the other solicitors who had been doubtful or downright pessimistic about her case. Her chances of rescuing Georgina suddenly looked rather grim, and for a moment a film of tears blurred her vision. She dashed them away at once. There was no time to waste on tears.
    She put on her bonnet and gathered up her reticule and shawl, then left the room. The outer office was a flurry of activity, as Wittiers’s clerks rushed back and forth in response to the directives being called from the office at the end of the hall. As Francesca made her way out, two clerks were bent down searching a tall bookcase.
    “Make sure you find my treatise on the Commissary Court,” called Wittiers from his office. “And hurry!”
    “What the bloody hell is this case?” one clerk asked the other. “Parish records, parliamentary procedure, now commissary law?”
    “I don’t know,” muttered the other clerk, taking down a large box of documents and rifling through them. “I never even heard the name. But it must be the case of the decade, to set Wittiers off like this.”
    Francesca’s steps slowed. She fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief, then dropped the reticule as she dabbed the handkerchief first to one eye, then the other, eavesdropping shamelessly. Unaware, the clerks continued speaking behind her.
    “I haven’t seen this much fuss since the Cowley case, and there was a barony at stake then.”
    “There was a crest on the seal,” the other clerk said. “I wouldn’t doubt we’ve an even more important client now. Wittiers is to wait on him in an hour.”
    The first clerk rose with a stack of books in his arms, and noticed Francesca lingering just inside the door. He gave his companion a look, then set down his books and came toward her. “May I help you, Lady Gordon? You look rather pale.”
    “I— Yes,” she said, stooping to pick up her reticule to hide her expression. It wasn’t illness but anger that had sent the blood rushing from her head. Wittiers had thrown her over for another, more prestigious, new client. An emergency, indeed—only if one considered power and wealth a cause for urgent action. “I do feel a trifle unwell all of a sudden. Would you be so kind as to summon my carriage?”
    “Of course, madam.” He went out and returned a few moments later, saying her driver was waiting. Francesca gave him a look of wan gratitude, and he helped her into the carriage with great solicitude.
    But as soon as he had gone back into the offices, Francesca told her coachman to circle around and wait. She wanted to see who this very important client was, who could compel Wittiers to drop everything—especially her—and rush to serve him. A crest, one of the clerks had said; that meant nobility. Her husband had been a mere baronet, but she’d met a number of lords. Insufferable conceit was a common flaw in the nobility, the sort of arrogance that would summon a prominent solicitor to attend him on a moment’s notice. Wittiers, of course, had jumped like a trained dog, which did not reflect well on him, either. She twisted her handkerchief into a knot, fuming in impotent frustration.
    Almost three-quarters of an hour later James Wittiers emerged from his offices. He was followed by Mr. Napier, now wearing his coat neatly buttoned up. They climbed into a hackney cab the clerk hailed in the busy street and set off at a quick pace. Francesca told her coachman to follow, sitting with her head almost out the window to watch where they went.
    True to her expectation, they drove through nicer and nicer streets. Francesca’s eyes narrowed as the solicitor’s carriage drew up in front of an imposing stone mansion facing a fenced green square in the most elegant part of Mayfair. The house was enormous, taking up most of an entire side of the square. Nobility, probably; but wealth most certainly, in great abundance. Perhaps the