Duchess For A Day. Nan Ryan

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      Three

      Alas, it wasn’t weeks or months until Claire’s arraignment. It was later that very same morning.

      Nine sharp.

      Thursday, the twenty-seventh of June, 1895.

      Claire’s case was first on the docket. If indicted—which seemed assured—she would be convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

      The honorable Percival Knowlton sat on the bench above in his colorful flowing judge’s robes and curly white powdered wig. The prosecutor, Cecil Twiggs, a slight man with thinning, sandy hair and sallow complexion, was there to represent the Queen.

      Claire stood beside him as Twiggs stated the charges. “Your honor, the defendant, Mrs. Claire Orwell, betrayed the trust and kindness of her employer, Lord Wardley Nardees. Mrs. Orwell was employed…”

      The arraignment, a predetermined farce, had begun.

      Once the charges had been fully read, the elderly judge sat back in his chair, reached up under his white wig and rubbed a spot on his temple.

      He looked at Claire. “Who speaks for the defendant?”

      Rising to her feet, Claire looked around, searching in vain for the aging hack barrister the crown had appointed as her counsel. She turned back to address the judge.

      “No one, I fear, milord.”

      At that moment a large hand came to rest on her shoulder. She turned and looked up to see a giant of a man, resplendent in legal raiment bearing the Old Queen’s own colors. The powdered wig only added to his towering height.

      “I kindly beg to differ.” The giant’s voice was low and surprisingly soft. “I speak for the accused, your worship.”

      Cecil Twiggs paled and the slim prosecution brief slipped from his fingers. He bent and picked it up, his hand visibly shaking.

      The judge sat upright, imperious in his tall-backed leather chair. He adjusted his spectacles, leaned forward and asked, “To what happy circumstance do we have the honor of the Queen’s own Counsel gracing our humble criminal court? Welcome, Lord Northway.”

      Lord Northway thanked the judge and smiled at the awed Claire. He was an impressive man in both stature and manner and well known for his keen legal mind.

      Lord Northway’s father, Henderson Northway, had been elevated by Queen Victoria forty-five years ago for the outstanding legal, diplomatic and political advice he had given as the Queen’s Counsel on affairs both domestic and foreign. Most notable was his opinion that the Queen’s highly opposed recognition of the Republic of Texas would, if done, be unchallenged.

      The grateful Queen had rewarded him with a peerage.

      Claire was as puzzled as the learned judge and the nervous prosecution that Lord Northway had come to her defense.

      From his bench above, Judge Knowlton nodded toward Twiggs. “State the charge.”

      “Grand theft, milord.” Twiggs opened the brief. “To be specific, jewelry belonging to Lord Nardees’s wife, valued by these appraisals in the amount of three thousand pounds.”

      “Any witness besides the good baron?” asked the judge, a noticeable frown on his face.

      Twiggs shook his head.

      “What say you, Lord Northway? State your case.”

      “No case, milord, but a few questions for the crown, perhaps.”

      “We are honored to take questions of the Queen’s Counsel.” The judge waved a permissive hand.

      “Thank you, milord.” The tall barrister turned to Cecil Twiggs. “These appraisals you have before you in the amount of three thousand pounds?”

      “Yes,” Twiggs eagerly responded.

      “How many separate appraisals and who made the appraisals?”

      “There are six separate appraisals all made by Lloyd’s of London, of course.”

      The quality and power of his voice demanding total attention, Lord Northway promptly pointed out that Claire Orwell’s accuser had not filed any claims with Lloyd’s of London.

      “Your honor, Joseph Phillips, Esquire, of Lloyd’s of London waits just outside. He will testify to the fact that no claims have been made by Lord Nardees. May I add that Lloyd’s of London has insured the lord’s belongings for thirty-five years.” Lord Northway turned to Cecil Twiggs. “Over the last ten years, how many charges has Lord Nardees brought against his servants?”

      Twiggs blanched, looking to the bench for help and direction.

      “Answer,” said the judge with a dismissive wave of his hand.

      Twiggs spread the brief before him on the prosecution table. “Perhaps four accusations.”

      “Perhaps six,” Lord Northway softly corrected.

      “Possible,” said Twiggs. “I have only—”

      “Lord Northway, are you calling Lord Nardees a liar?” asked the judge. “That’s your defense?”

      “Not at all, your honor. I’m simply pointing out that perhaps a mistake has been made. Honorable people can disagree and—”

      “Approach the bench,” the judge interrupted.

      Lord Northway again stated, “Nardees has filed no claims on past charges. Perhaps the items Lord Nardees thought were stolen have only been misplaced. And subsequently found.” Lord Northway paused СКАЧАТЬ