impolitic?” Emily Collins inquired.
“I was wondering that myself,” Esther said, glancing at her sister for enlightenment.
“One of Mr. Riverdale’s guests belly-shot a stag,” Imogen stated. “I put the poor animal out of his agony.” She turned with a brittle smile to Charles. “I trust your guest was able to salvage the antlers to his satisfaction. I’m sure they’ll make a splendid trophy above his fireplace.”
“Oh, cry truce, Gen,” Charles declared, throwing a complicit smile around the company as he raised his hands palms-up in surrender. “Yes, it was a barbaric kill, we both know it, but can we let it go now, please ?”
And even through her anger at the public way he was behaving, as if nothing untoward had ever happened between them, Imogen began to feel as if she had slipped through a crack in time. This was the old Charles, the one who always knew how to puncture her moments of high dudgeon and bring her back to an amused sense of the ridiculous. Of course she had been going on too long about it, and if it hadn’t been for Charles’s involvement, she would have long since let it go.
She shrugged and heard herself ask, “Are you staying for lunch?”
She sensed the startled reactions of the others in the drawing room, but even as she issued the casual invitation, she knew that she had hit upon the perfect way to handle Charles’s attempt at revenge. Quite simply, she would not be in the least uncomfortable in his company. She would treat him with casual friendliness and no more than that. He hated it when his carefully planned strategies failed—not that they did that often, at least not in the courtrooms and chambers of Lincoln’s Inn—but on this occasion, if he intended to embarrass her, make her feel awkward in his company, he was not going to have that satisfaction.
Charles crossed his legs at the ankles and regarded her over his sherry glass. “That would be delightful,” he said in a considering tone. “Unfortunately, however, I have guests at Beringer Manor, and I cannot leave them to fend for themselves.” Setting down his glass, he rose from his chair. “Lady Collins, such a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.” He bowed over the lady’s hand, then turned to shake hands with the Misses Collins before extending his hand to Esther. “I hope you and your sister will honor me with a visit to Beringer Manor very soon. Once I have ridded myself of troublesome houseguests, of course.” Here he shot a quick, almost mischievous glance in Imogen’s direction.
It was a look to be resisted at all costs. “Is it a very slow season in the divorce courts at present?” she inquired with a smile that was pure honey. Charles’s work defending apparently injured husbands had always been a bone of contention between them. He would never discuss the details of a case with her, but they almost always involved members of London society, who were, after all, the only people actually able to afford the hugely expensive process, and Imogen invariably had heard the wife’s case in one of the meetings of the Westminster branch of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies to which she belonged.
The union did more than work towards women’s suffrage, providing what support they could for the women involved in a divorce case. The support in general was limited to emotional rather than financial, although they did what they could. But in Imogen’s mind there were never two sides to these cases—how could there be, when the cards were stacked so powerfully on one side? The woman was always wronged, and she had argued case after case with Charles.
Now her remark was rewarded with a flicker like forked lightning at the back of his dark gaze before he returned her smile with a neutral version of his own.
“I have one or two briefs, but none that require my arduous attention at Lincoln’s Inn,” he said blandly. “My clerks are more than capable of handling the preliminaries,
“I was wondering that myself,” Esther said, glancing at her sister for enlightenment.
“One of Mr. Riverdale’s guests belly-shot a stag,” Imogen stated. “I put the poor animal out of his agony.” She turned with a brittle smile to Charles. “I trust your guest was able to salvage the antlers to his satisfaction. I’m sure they’ll make a splendid trophy above his fireplace.”
“Oh, cry truce, Gen,” Charles declared, throwing a complicit smile around the company as he raised his hands palms-up in surrender. “Yes, it was a barbaric kill, we both know it, but can we let it go now, please ?”
And even through her anger at the public way he was behaving, as if nothing untoward had ever happened between them, Imogen began to feel as if she had slipped through a crack in time. This was the old Charles, the one who always knew how to puncture her moments of high dudgeon and bring her back to an amused sense of the ridiculous. Of course she had been going on too long about it, and if it hadn’t been for Charles’s involvement, she would have long since let it go.
She shrugged and heard herself ask, “Are you staying for lunch?”
She sensed the startled reactions of the others in the drawing room, but even as she issued the casual invitation, she knew that she had hit upon the perfect way to handle Charles’s attempt at revenge. Quite simply, she would not be in the least uncomfortable in his company. She would treat him with casual friendliness and no more than that. He hated it when his carefully planned strategies failed—not that they did that often, at least not in the courtrooms and chambers of Lincoln’s Inn—but on this occasion, if he intended to embarrass her, make her feel awkward in his company, he was not going to have that satisfaction.
Charles crossed his legs at the ankles and regarded her over his sherry glass. “That would be delightful,” he said in a considering tone. “Unfortunately, however, I have guests at Beringer Manor, and I cannot leave them to fend for themselves.” Setting down his glass, he rose from his chair. “Lady Collins, such a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.” He bowed over the lady’s hand, then turned to shake hands with the Misses Collins before extending his hand to Esther. “I hope you and your sister will honor me with a visit to Beringer Manor very soon. Once I have ridded myself of troublesome houseguests, of course.” Here he shot a quick, almost mischievous glance in Imogen’s direction.
It was a look to be resisted at all costs. “Is it a very slow season in the divorce courts at present?” she inquired with a smile that was pure honey. Charles’s work defending apparently injured husbands had always been a bone of contention between them. He would never discuss the details of a case with her, but they almost always involved members of London society, who were, after all, the only people actually able to afford the hugely expensive process, and Imogen invariably had heard the wife’s case in one of the meetings of the Westminster branch of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies to which she belonged.
The union did more than work towards women’s suffrage, providing what support they could for the women involved in a divorce case. The support in general was limited to emotional rather than financial, although they did what they could. But in Imogen’s mind there were never two sides to these cases—how could there be, when the cards were stacked so powerfully on one side? The woman was always wronged, and she had argued case after case with Charles.
Now her remark was rewarded with a flicker like forked lightning at the back of his dark gaze before he returned her smile with a neutral version of his own.
“I have one or two briefs, but none that require my arduous attention at Lincoln’s Inn,” he said blandly. “My clerks are more than capable of handling the preliminaries,
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