The lawyers’ club was the usual dark, carpeted, wainscoted bastion of male self-importance, the majordomo as pretentious as any at Stephen’s clubs in London.

“A quiet table, if any you have,” Sir Leviticus said.

“Very good, sir. Follow me.” The fellow collected two leather-bound menus and minced off with more dignity than the director of a state funeral. The scent of tobacco wafted from one of the reading rooms, while cooked beef perfumed the air nearer the dining room.

The whole place was tediously predictable, and Stephen’s appetite for steak and ale abruptly fled. He didn’t exactly miss London, and he certainly didn’t miss Love Nest Vale, but he missed something and someplace.

Or someone.

“Oh dear.” Sir Levi hesitated at the door of the dining room. “I suppose one ought not to jump to conclusions.”

“Jump,” Stephen said, remaining in the corridor and peering over Sir Leviticus’s shoulder. “What do you see?”

“Weatherby, Philpot, and Cranmouth, all at the same table. Again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, now that I see them together I’m reminded that they shared a meal a week or two ago. That made an impression at the time because they aren’t typically social, at least Weatherby and Cranmouth aren’t. Cranmouth takes his consequence from his ducal client, you see, and limits his associations accordingly. I am permitted to break bread with him by virtue of my knighthood, but I rarely do.”

Stephen withdrew into the corridor. “Do lawyers opposing one another typically confer this early in the litigation?”

“Not in the usual course. Negotiations as the hearing approaches are common, but one needs guidance from a client before taking that step.”

Rothhaven would not have guided Cranmouth to settle anything. Cranmouth’s marching orders were to fight the petition by any and every legal means. Steak and ale did not qualify as courtroom weapons.

“Can you have somebody with acute hearing take a table near them?” Stephen asked. “I do not like what I’m seeing, and I suspect Rothhaven would hate it.” While Constance would rid the world of a crooked solicitor or two. Or three.

The majordomo hovered a few feet away, tapping the menus against his palm. “If I might make a suggestion, sir?”

“Please,” Sir Leviticus said. “I trust your discretion, Monmouth.”

“Judge Framley takes his midday meal here without fail by one of the clock. I can seat him at the table next to Mr. Cranmouth’s. I believe you and His Honor are on amicable terms.”

“He’s a retired judge,” Sir Leviticus said. “We play the occasional hand of cards, and he is godfather to my eldest.”

“And here is His Honor,” Monmouth said. “Punctual as usual.”

Sir Leviticus and the judge conferred, Stephen pretended to examine the portraits on the walls—why did half-naked goddesses appeal to a gaggle of staid lawyers?—and then Monmouth was leading the judge into the dining room.