“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Zeke said, “but we’ll wait right here.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Kellerman said. She stood to close the door, but the shadowy outlines of the men were still apparent through the frosted glass. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said to Patrick. “The Five Points has a rather alarming reputation, and I didn’t feel comfortable coming alone.”
It was understandable. The Five Points was named after the intersection of five streets in the middle of urban squalor and ramshackle tenements. It was the most notorious slum in the city, ruled by rough Irish street gangs when Patrick arrived almost two decades earlier. In recent years, reform-minded New Yorkers had torn down some of the worst tenements, renamed the streets, and tried to give the slum a new reputation, but he could understand that a woman like Mrs. Kellerman wouldn’t feel comfortable coming to this part of the city.
“How can I be of service, Mrs. Kellerman?”
Instead of answering, she nodded to the plant on the windowsill. “You’ve been overwatering that marigold, which is a shame. Marigold leaves can be brewed into a wonderfully healing solution with astringent properties.”
He leaned back in his seat, wishing she would keep talking. Her voice was so gentle. It was calming and joyful at the same time. Soothing. “How do you know so much about marigolds?”
“In my deepest heart, I once wished to become a specialist in botanical medicine,” she said, a gorgeous shade of pink staining her high cheekbones. “I wanted to become the next Hildegard of Bingen, growing a monastic garden brimming with herbs and plants to cure the people who came to her hospital for hope.”
Patrick knew all about the medieval Benedictine nun. After all, he had a Saint Hildegard medal around his neck at this very moment. He always wore it beneath his shirt because he didn’t want people thinking he was a superstitious clodhopper, but he couldn’t help himself. He tugged the medal out from his shirt to show her.
“Hildegard is my patron saint,” he said. “I was born on her feast day, and I always liked the idea of a nun who could stand up to kings and popes.” Mrs. Kellerman didn’t seem the least put out by his saint’s medal, but it was probably time to get down to business. He tucked the medal back under his shirt. “Now, what can I do for you, Mrs. Kellerman?”
The warmth in her face cooled. “I’ve come to ask why a respectable lawyer would lower himself to represent a murderer like Mick Malone.”
It felt like a kick in the gut. Mick Malone was the seediest character he’d represented in his eight years as a lawyer, and he didn’t like that she threw it in his face.
“The jury found him not guilty,” he said simply.
“We both know that many factors went into that verdict, and none of them had anything to do with Mr. Malone’s innocence. No reputable man would have anything to do with him.”
Probably, but he wouldn’t betray a client by gossiping about him with a complete stranger. “And what makes you think I’m a reputable man?”
“Because you were educated by the Franciscans at Saint Boniface College. I know that you were a hairsbreadth away from taking vows into the priesthood and have performed free legal services for the church ever since. I know you volunteer at a Salvation Army soup kitchen every Saturday and are universally trusted by the people of the Five Points.”
“You’ve done your homework,” he said, his discomfort growing. She’d obviously sought him out over the Malone affair, and he saw no point in wasting time beating around the bush. “But I’d much rather discuss what brings you here today than my sad and stifled history with the Franciscans.”
“I’m disappointed you are representing Mr. Malone,” she said. “I was hoping you might reconsider the situation.”
“No.”
“I wonder what Father Doyle would think of your affiliation with Mr. Malone.”
“You know Father Doyle?” he asked in surprise. Father Doyle was his mentor at Saint Boniface and possibly the best man Patrick had ever known. The hardest thing about turning away from the priesthood was disappointing Father Doyle.
“Father Doyle showed me how to cultivate white willow bark and taught me its anti-inflammatory properties,” she said. “He is a saintly man, and I can’t imagine he would approve of his former pupil taking on such a disagreeable client.”
“It was Father Doyle who asked me to do it.”
That got her attention. “No!” she exclaimed in an appalled voice.
He held his hand up in a helpless gesture. “Ask him if you don’t believe me. I know the entire world thinks Mick Malone is guilty, but that trial happened long before you or I were old enough to know anything about it. He is entitled to tell his story, even if it wakes up the Blackstone sleeping dragon.”
“It’s already woken the sleeping dragon, which is why I am here to offer your client a thousand dollars to stop publication of his memoir and avoid a long and costly lawsuit.”
He shook his head. “I doubt he’ll take it.”
“The Blackstones will pay Mr. Malone’s attorney the same amount if his client accepts the offer.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. This was a tactic he hadn’t seen coming, but he couldn’t even think about accepting the deal. Could he? A thousand dollars was more than he’d ever earned on a single case. It would mean his mother could quit working extra shifts at the bakery.
But it would be a betrayal of a client. It was suddenly warm in the office and perspiration prickled beneath his suit jacket. He couldn’t do it.
“That seems like double-crossing my client, and I’m an upright man.” Which was sometimes a shame. Mrs. Kellerman was a stunning woman, tall and willowy and fit. He wasn’t free to pursue a married woman, but admiring her seemed fair game.
Her voice was cool as she kept up the pressure. “Frederick Blackstone will file a blizzard of lawsuits to stop publication of Malone’s book,” she said. “You can help your client avoid all that, and each of you can pocket a tidy sum. We can conclude this business by the close of business today.”
“Who sent you here?” he asked her. “The Blackstones?”
She nodded.
He stood. “Let me tell you what I think of the Blackstones and their mercenary techniques for extracting every drop of blood from the working classes. They slap their name on charities and toss around a few dollars, hoping to disguise decades of ruthless exploitation, and assume all is forgiven.”
“They toss around millions of dollars, and it must not have worked if you still have such a poor opinion of them.”
Patrick had known from the day he accepted this case that the Blackstones would come after him. This morning he’d learned that they filed for a preliminary injunction to stop the memoir, but he hadn’t expected a second salvo to come in the beguiling form of Mrs. Kellerman.
“Why did they send you?” he asked. “Why not a few of their high-powered lawyers?”
She laughed a little. “That was my grandfather’s first impulse, but we decided to try honey before vinegar.”
He froze. “We? You’re related to them?”
“My maiden name is Blackstone,” she said. “William Blackstone was my brother.” She waved a hand toward the shadowy figures of the men outside his door. “I’ve always had bodyguards. My father lived in terror that history might repeat itself, and he kept me sheltered until the day he died. Losing my brother was a wound that never fully healed for either of us.”