The Law of Love

Chapter 1London, June 1927 Sitting behind his desk at Garden Court Chambers in the Inns of Court, Rafe Devonish finished reading the brief for the case he would defend in court in the coming weeks. Having spent much of the afternoon at Holloway Prison taking instruction from Flora Hicks—a young woman he knew to be guilty of murder, though she offered no defense—he was confused and disheartened. Wishing the day was over, he looked up when the senior clerk opened the door. “Are you still brooding about your interview at Holloway, sir? You really should have let the solicitor deal with it. I always tell my barristers to stay out of the prisons. They stink for one thing, and—” But Rafe interrupted the man, finishing the joke Albert Albright had told a hundred times over the years. “They’re full of criminals, Bertie.” Rafe smiled despite the stale joke. Bertie—a small, wiry man of indeterminate age—ran Garden Court Chambers, handing out cases to the barristers and negotiating fees. Despite the power the man wielded in chambers, certain lines were never crossed. The barristers called the senior clerk Bertie, yet he always called them sir or guv or mister. They never went out for meals or drinks together. Bertie’s recognition came in the form of bonuses and gifts and a surprisingly high weekly wage compared to the junior clerks. “Bertie, am I free to go?” With a grin, the man said, “You have your last appointment of the day, sir. A Mr. Manning. Shouldn’t take long.” Rafe lounged back in his swivel chair. “Must I see another client? All I want to see is a whisky and soda and a comfortable armchair at my club.” “Sorry, sir. I can get you a cup of tea to keep you going.” Rafe groaned, making Bertie laugh. “No thanks. Send him in. And if it’s taking too long, knock on the door and tell me I have to be somewhere.” “Will do, Mr. Devonish.” Bertie disappeared for a moment and then ushered in a young man, the sight of whom made Rafe sit up straight. It was usually older, or particularly distinguished clients, that had such an effect on him. Increasingly a lord or a high-level politician would be referred to him. But the young man, who hovered near the door, seeming reluctant to enter, appeared to be neither. His suit was of good quality, but he had not the attitude of a lord and he did not look old enough to be a politician. It was his tall, lean, lanky frame and the beauty of his well-defined features that made Rafe look at him longer than he should have. “Mr. Ivo Manning, sir,” Bertie said. Impatient, as if he had been through this a dozen times before, the young man said, “It’s Ivo. You sound the I like an I, not like an E.” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Manning.” Bertie repeated the name, sounding it correctly this time and with a hint of sarcasm that he would only use with a client he thought to be unimportant. Rafe was very fond of Bertie, but the man was a bit of a snob. “Do come in, Mr. Manning.” Rafe gestured at the chair in front of the desk. The young man seated himself and then looked back at the door, waiting until the clerk closed it behind him. “Don’t worry about Mr. Albright. He never listens at doors,” Rafe assured him. “I’m Rafe Devonish. What have you come to see me about, Mr. Manning?” “Well, erm.” The young man rubbed his hands together, then, seeming aware of the nervous gesture, he placed them, palms down, on his knees. “It’s all rather delicate.” “It usually is when one needs a barrister.” Rafe waited, thoughts of a whisky and soda still uppermost in his mind, but less urgent than a moment ago. There was a quality of vulnerability about Ivo Manning that Rafe found appealing. As the eldest of three, Rafe had been the protector in his family since the death of his father ten years before. After darting glances about the office, looking everywhere but at Rafe, Ivo Manning finally met his gaze, blurting in a series of staccato statements, “I was arrested and charged. It was last week. I don’t know what to do. My family can’t find out. There’ll be hell to pay. I don’t have a lot of money—well, none really—and I can’t ask them for any. How much do you charge? I was thinking of pleading guilty to get it over with, but it’ll end up in the papers.” He took a deep breath and blinked several times, causing Rafe to fear the young man might burst into tears at any minute. When speaking to a client, Rafe kept his tone calm but formal. It was not unusual to have a man or woman sitting before him who was agitated either because he or she had done something wrong or had been accused of doing something wrong. However, when he spoke, his tone was far more tender than he had meant it to be. “Calm yourself, Mr. Manning. Everything you tell me is confidential, but you do need to state the problem.” Suddenly conscious of his reaction, Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his desk. His attraction to the young man was something he must not betray even though he suspected that Ivo Manning might also be a homosexual. However, homosexual or not, Manning was a potential client. “Where were you arrested, why were you arrested, and did you do what you have been accused of?” After a long pause during which the young man fiddled first with the buttons on his jacket and then with his tie, he spoke. “I was at the Trocadero Long Bar on Shaftsbury Avenue. It’s near Piccadilly Circus.” Rafe knew where the Trocadero was, and that it was known for its homosexual clientele, but it was also a place where many ordinary people, the young and wealthy, tended to go. It was considered risqué and attracted all the Bright Young Things of London. Though Mr. Manning did not strike Rafe as being of that set, he had the right voice and manners, but his social status was unclear. “Who are your people, Mr. Manning?” “My father is Geoffrey Manning, the Earl of Marsh Grange, but the money and the estate are all gone now. My parents still live in the Mayfair house, but they’re barely hanging on to it, so you see why I can’t ask them for any money.” He shrugged, indicating no embarrassment at his family’s impecunity. After the war and the loss of cheap labor, many of the great families were unable to keep up their estates and had sold them off. “Are you the heir?” Rafe enquired as he tried to recall who Marsh Grange was. “Gracious, no. I’m the tenth son.” “Ahh, yes.” Rafe smiled as he recalled the jokes. Their nickname was the Manning Millions, but it referred to their children and not their fortune. “I know of your family. They’re famous for their fecundity. Are there any daughters?” “Six,” Manning stated with an air of apology. “And where do you come in the family line?” “I’m the youngest. All the others are married.” Everything the young man said sounded as if he were either apologetic or desperate. “They have no patience with me. They’ll be so angry if this ends up in the papers. They’re already ashamed enough of our financial decline. Any other stain on the family name would be laid at my door.” “What do your brothers do?” Rafe enquired. “Banking and the diplomatic service. They’re all doing well, but it’s not like it was before the war. One of them is a barrister, the eldest.” “Of course, Lord Andrew Manning. I’ve met him. And you couldn’t have gone to him? Family rates and all that.” Rafe’s smile was more to reassure the young man than because he was amused. The Manning situation was rather sad. “No. He’d kill me. None of them really like me. They’re all dreadful snobs. They think I’m feckless, but I’m not. I’m an author. I’ve had three stories published, and I’m working on a novel.” “Are you indeed?” The earnestness in the young man’s sweet face made Rafe smile, but they were no further ahead with the case, and his desire for a whisky and soda was making itself known again. “Look, I’m dying for a drink. Will you join me at White’s and we can finish discussing this there? Are you a member?” “Goodness, no.” Manning said with a look that was a cross between humor and horror. “I don’t have the money for that sort of thing. Anyway, I doubt they’d have me even if I wanted to join, which I don’t. Andrew is a member, but he has the title and a good job. He took silk, you know.” “Yes, I do know.” When Rafe rose, Manning stood up also. “Let me buy you a drink, Mr. Manning. Come on.” As obedient as a small child, Ivo Manning followed him out into the main office where Bertie sat at his desk waiting to lock up. “Are you off home, sir?” he enquired. “We’re going to my club for a drink.” A slight pause followed and a miniscule raising of one eyebrow that Rafe would not have noticed had he not known Bertie so well. The man knew Rafe was homosexual and was ever mindful of the reputation of his barristers and of Garden Court as a whole. “Yes, sir,” was all he said. Bertie had made his point. Outside in the warm evening air, Rafe said, “I love to walk on long summer evenings, don’t you?” It was an inane thing to say, but he felt he needed to keep a light conversation going until they got back to talking about Manning’s case. He didn’t want the young man to get the wrong idea about his intentions. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked him to go for a drink. “Yes, I do,” Manning said as they strolled from Inns of Court to St. James’s Street. “It’s a lovely evening.” Now they both sounded inane. Fifteen minutes later they sat in the quiet, sumptuous library at White’s in wing chairs opposite each other but close enough to speak quietly and still hear one another. Manning appeared nervous and kept looking at the door. It was not unusual for a client to be nervous when discussing a case and Rafe was used to putting people at ease. “Look here, I chose the library because there’s never anyone in here at this time of day. Everyone is in the smoking room or the bar. Are you afraid of someone coming in?” “Yes, but I’m also afraid of bumping into Andrew. I told you, the brothers and sisters all hate me.” “Oh, I’m sure they don’t,” Rafe said. The young man appeared both paranoid and overly sensitive. They paused for a moment while the waiter handed each man his drink in a cut crystal tumbler. Rafe swallowed the first mouthful gratefully, savoring it, and waited until the door closed. “That’s better. Now, Mr. Manning, tell me what you’ve been charged with.” “You can call me Ivo if you want,” he muttered and took a large drink of his whisky. He’s putting off telling me. It must be something to do with being homosexual. “What’s the charge?” “I picked up a prostitute.” Ivo took another long drink, draining his glass. “I’ve never done such a thing before, but she was so pretty.” “Was she?” Rafe was both disappointed and relieved at the answer. He was finding Ivo Manning more attractive by the minute, but if the young man was heterosexual then there was no chance of a liaison of any kind. Aside from that, it was a mistake to get involved with a client. “But why were you charged? The man is never charged in prostitute cases, only the woman, which I think is unfair, but that’s the law.” “We were behaving rather badly near the Shaftesbury Fountain. I had drunk a fair bit, only beer, but I admit I was inebriated.” The confession made Rafe smile. He’d had a few nights like that when he was at Oxford, though they’d never involved women. “That would only be a drunk and disorderly. You don’t need a barrister for that. It’s a simple charge. You might as well plead guilty. The judge will fine you a few pounds, and it’s far too uninteresting to get into the papers, especially if the stringer doesn’t make the connection between you and your father. When you were arrested, you didn’t tell the police you are the Honorable Ivo Manning, did you?” “No.” Ivo shook his head, but he was avoiding eye contact, making Rafe suspect there was something more. “That’s good. Have you told me all of it, Ivo?” At the sound of his name, the young man looked up and, for the first time, smiled. The warmth in his blue eyes and the pink flush on his cheeks made Ivo look both boyish and seductive. “Yes, Mr. Devonish. That’s everything.” “When is your court date?” “Next Tuesday. I wish it were Monday, so there would be only two days and not three to endure between now and then.” It was such a childlike thing to say that Rafe found himself smiling. Ivo Manning was adorable. “Plead guilty, pay the fine, and put it behind you.” Rafe found his gaze lingering on Ivo’s sweet, appealing face, so he quickly looked away. “Excellent!” he said briskly. “I wish you the best of luck and now I must go.” They rose and walked into the hallway. “Do you live with your parents, Ivo?” Rafe asked as they walked to the entrance hall. He liked saying the young man’s name; it created an intimacy that, while it could go no further, felt agreeable in the moment. “Yes. What about you? I suppose you’re married.” “No, not yet. I have a flat in the city, but I live near the village of Sherewell; it’s about thirty minutes from London by train. The ride is pleasant, especially in the summer, and I leave my motor at the station in the village.” Rafe extended his hand to end the encounter. He was rambling now because he really did not want to let the young man go, and when Ivo grasped his hand and held on to it, he appeared not to want to leave either. Sometimes clients did that, gaining security from the man who was going to save them from prison or disgrace, or whatever the matter was. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Devonish. Oh, I need to pay you.” Ivo began to rifle through his pockets, but Rafe held up one hand to stop him. “Don’t worry about it, Ivo.” He wanted to say the young man’s name one last time. “Apologize to the court and stay away from women of ill repute.” “I will. Thank you, I’m so grateful.” Suddenly, a voice, the sound of which Rafe had come to despise, carried across the high-ceilinged entrance hall. “Hello, Devonish!” Rafe released Ivo’s hand and turned to face Lord Desmond Stealthman. “Good evening, Desmond. I’m on my way home. Do excuse me.” Well-built and good-looking, the man continued in his unnecessarily loud voice. “You must introduce me to your young friend, Rafe.” Rafe took Ivo by the arm and bundled him outside and down the steps to the pavement, not wanting him to have an encounter of even the briefest kind with Desmond. Looking confused at suddenly being strong-armed, Ivo asked, “Who was that?” “A man with whom someone like you should never get involved. He’s a bad lot.” A quick look at the door told Rafe that Lord Stealthman was following him. “Off you go now.” He gave Ivo a gentle shove and watched him lope off toward Mayfair. “What a darling young man,” Desmond said, coming to a stop before Rafe. “Who is he? Your latest conquest?” “I don’t have conquests. Not like you.” “Who is he then?” To disclose that Ivo was, even for a moment or two, a client would have breached confidentiality. “A casual acquaintance. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the train. I’m looking forward to my weekend. I hope you enjoy yours.” The instant Stealthman placed his hand on his arm, Rafe snatched it away and clenched his fist. “Don’t touch me.” “Going to give me another black eye, Rafe?” Lord Stealthman’s tone may have held mockery, but the look in his eyes told Rafe he was a little nervous. “If necessary. Stay away from me.” Rafe strode off toward the station, his fists still clenched. He really would have liked to blacken Desmond’s eye and bloody his nose, but not in a public street. The loss of his reputation and the subsequent charges should he get caught would not be worth it.