Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“Now, I need you to remember the way you delivered those words, Mrs. Clifton, because that’s exactly how I want the jury to think of you when they are considering their verdict.”

“I’m not looking forward to this,” admitted Emma.

“Then perhaps it might be wise for you to consider settling the action.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To avoid a high-profile trial with all the attendant publicity, and to get back to your normal life.”

“But that would be admitting she was in the right.”

“Your statement would be worded carefully—‘the heat of the moment, possibly a little injudicious at the time, and we offer our sincere apologies.’”

“And the financial implications?”

“You would have to pay her costs, my fees, and a small donation to the charity of her choice.”

“Believe me,” said Emma, “if we were to go down that road, Virginia would see it as a sign of weakness and would be even more determined to go ahead with the action. She doesn’t want the case to go away quietly, she wants to be vindicated in court, as well as in the press, preferably with headlines that will humiliate me, day after day.”

“Possibly, but it would be Sir Edward’s professional responsibility also to put the alternative to her: that if she loses the case, she will end up paying your costs as well as his, and, I assure you, there’s nothing cheap about Sir Edward Makepeace.”

“She’ll ignore his advice. Virginia doesn’t believe it’s possible she might lose, and I can prove it.” Mr. Trelford sat back and listened carefully to what his client had to say. When she had finished, he believed for the first time that they just might have a chance.

31

SEBASTIAN GOT OUT of the car and handed the doorman his keys and a pound note. As he walked up the steps to the entrance of the Clermont, the door was opened for him and he parted with a second.

“Are you a member, sir?” asked the elegantly dressed man standing behind the front desk.

“No,” said Seb, this time slipping the man a five-pound note.

“Just sign here, sir,” the man said, swiveling a form around.

Seb signed where the finger rested and received a temporary membership card. “The main gaming room is at the top of the stairs on your left, sir.”

Seb walked up the sweeping marble staircase, admiring the dazzling chandelier, the oil paintings, and the thick plush carpet. Millionaires must be made to feel at home, he concluded, otherwise they wouldn’t be willing to part with their money.

He entered the gaming room but didn’t look around, as he wanted the onlookers to believe this was his natural habitat. He strolled across to the bar and climbed onto a leather stool.

“What can I get you, sir?” asked the barman.

“A Campari and soda,” said Seb, as this clearly wasn’t a club that served draft ale.

When the drink was placed in front of him, he took out his wallet and placed a pound on the bar.

“There’s no charge, sir.”

Establishments that don’t charge for drinks have to be making up for the loss in some other ways, thought Seb, leaving the note where it lay. “Thank you, sir,” said the barman, as Seb swiveled around and slowly took in the “some other ways.”

Two roulette tables stood next to each other on the far side of the room, and from the large pile of chips in front of each of the players, and their expressionless faces, Seb assumed they were regulars. Hadn’t anyone explained to them that they were paying for the marble staircase, the oil paintings, the chandelier, and the free drinks? His eyes moved on to the blackjack tables. At least there the odds were slightly better, because if you could count the court cards, it was even possible to beat the house—but only once, because after that, you’d never be allowed to darken the club’s doors again. Casinos like winners, but not consistent ones.

His gaze moved on to two men playing backgammon. One was sipping a black coffee, the other a brandy. Seb turned back to the barman. “Is that Hakim Bishara playing backgammon?”

The barman looked up. “Yes, it is, sir.”

Seb took a closer look at the short, pursy, red-cheeked man who looked as if he had to make regular visits to his tailor. He was bald, and his double chin suggested a greater interest in food and drink than weight training or running. A tall, lithe blonde stood by his side, a hand resting on his shoulder. Seb suspected she was less attracted by the deep lines on his forehead than by the thick wallet in his inside pocket. He wasn’t surprised that he kept being rejected by the English establishment. His younger opponent looked like a lamb about to be devoured by a python.

Seb turned back to the barman. “How do I get a game with Bishara?”