Page 129 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“But it doesn’t quite do mejustice,” she said. “Not a fair rendering, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s a beginning.”
She raised her voice. “I’m nothing but a face and a few notes in your ledger, sir. Not even granted my two arms, two legs, two breasts...” She twisted around, smirking for the gallery. “Commonly known as the gentler sex.”
The crowd tittered their amusement. A certain barrister-cum-government-man had relayed his private conversation with the magistrate. She smirked at Fielding. The old crow’s eyes were fascinated. She was a shiny thing who would not go mutely to her fate.
Fielding offered a respectful nod. “I enjoy a good verbal sparring match as much as the next man, but this is a pretrial.”
“I beg to differ, sir. I am an entry in one of your books.Thatis my pretrial.”
“You object to my methods?”
“I do. Your motives for justice are worthy. Your methods, however, are ill-met.”
His brows arched. “Indeed.”
“The truth is in the details...” She nudged her chin at the open ledger. “But you have already painted me scurrilous. I doubt I will get a fair hearing.”
Fielding balked, his chair creaking. A door slammed open, flooding the chamber with new light. All eyes turned to the two men racing inside. Burton was one, Alexander the other. He rushed in, black robes billowing and a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. On his head was his barrister’s peruke. The gallery erupted in loud chatter, and her knees jellied when he pushed through and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her.
“You came,” she whispered hoarsely, hoping he would hear her above the chaotic voices.
“Never doubt that I will be the man you need,” he whispered back. “No matter the circumstances.”
Her heart galloped fast and hard.
“These are trying circumstances.” She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “The countess visited me late last night.”
Skin whitened around his mouth and he leaned over, speaking for her ears alone. “She also visited Whitehall yesterday.”
Fielding pounded his table with an open palm. “Order! Order!” The chamber quieting, he eyed Mr.Sloane. “This is a pretrial, Mr. Sloane. Your presence here is not necessary.”
“I am here in the interest of justice, sir.”
“Aren’t we all?” Fielding was droll. He consulted papers in front of him and said louder, for the gallery, “Miss MacDonald, you have been brought here on two charges: theft and violation of the Dress Act. What say you?”
“I am innocent of both charges.”
Fielding peered at her tattered gown. “A bold claim, considering you’re wearing plaid petticoats.”
“If it pleases the magistrate,” Alexander began. “I would like to address Miss MacDonald’s charges, beginning with the theft of thesgian-dubh.”
Fielding sat back in his chair. “This should be interesting.”
Alexander slapped a slim stack of papers on the table. “Here are sworn affidavits from Messrs. Berry and MacDaniel, vouching they did not find the missing knife anywhere on Miss MacDonald’s person.”
“Berry and MacDaniel. Do you accept the word of these two men?” Fielding asked slyly.
Alexander’s jaw twitched. “They are in Bow Street’s employ, are they not?”
“They are.”
Alexander was formal, adding another paper to the pile. “This is an affidavit from Viscount Redmont, a man of sterling character. He testified that Miss MacDonald spoke of thesgian-dubhbut he did not witness her stealing it.”
Fielding scanned the affidavits. “Compelling evidence, but the knife has not been found.”
“There were at least twenty people in the Marquessof Swynford’s library, sir. They would be just as culpable as Miss MacDonald. Some, in fact, were in the room longer than Miss MacDonald and therefore had more time to steal thesgian-dubh.”
