The Duke Wears Nada

by Barbara Devlin

  “But I have told you everything I can recall.” Daubing the perspiration at her temples, Lucy glanced at Damian, and he noticed the stiff set of her jaw and her rigid posture. What secret did she keep from him, and why did she not confide in him? “I know not what more I could add to my testimony that is not already in your file.”

  “Gentleman, we appreciate your dedication to the case involving Her Grace and Miss Teversham, and we know you are only doing your best for this family, to secure a conviction.” Damian stood and strolled to Lucy, where he settled his palm to her shoulder. “Perhaps we should adjourn for the evening.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but we have yet to address the possible defenses Miss Teversham may confront on the stand.” The prosecutor frowned. “There are various approaches, some unscrupulous and wholly without merit, which Sheldon’s solicitor may take, in order to save his client, and I would not have Miss Teversham caught off guard.”

  “Your Grace, why do you not check on my sister? And Blake may have need of you.” Damian almost fell over, when Lucy dismissed him with a casual wave. “Right now, I must focus, and Sir Ross and Prosecutor Berwick have only good intentions. Pray, let us be about our work.”

  “If that is your wish.” Yet he bristled at her aloof manner. “I apologize if I distracted you.” Bloody hell, did he have to sound so oversensitive?

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” With that, Lucy gave her attention to Sir Ross. “Shall we return to our business, gentlemen?”

  More than a little hurt by her apparent indifference, Damian exited the drawing room. In the foyer, he studied his reflection, shuffled his feet, and consulted his timepiece. When the long case clock in the hall signaled the hour, he perched on the bench near the main entry and stretched his booted feet.

  Despite his plans, nothing worked out as he intended, and Lucy still hid something from him. By his original calculations, they should have been betrothed for a fortnight, yet his bride eluded him. His ancestors were probably laughing in their graves.

  “What are you doing out here?” Blake skipped down the stairs, rushed past Damian, and flung open the door. “Where is Dr. Handley?”

  “No doubt, on his way.” As Blake uttered some semi coherent invective under his breath, Damian wondered if he glimpsed his future, fretting over Lucy, if he could get her to the altar. “How is Lenore?”

  “She says she is fine, but I suspect otherwise.” Blake speared his fingers through his hair. “I have made a decision.” Without warning, he pushed open the twin oak panels and charged into the drawing room. “Sir Ross, Prosecutor Berwick, while I comprehend the gravity of the situation, I cannot put Lenore and our unborn child in jeopardy, thus I will not permit my wife to give evidence. If you wish to proceed with the case, you must do so with Lucy’s testimony, alone.”

  ~

  The walls seemed to collapse on Lucy from every angle, and she was conscious of nothing save the sound of her heart beating in her ears, as she lingered in a holding room, sequestered from the gallery and the newspaper corps. Closing her eyes, she shut out the panic that threatened to unravel her fragile nerves, but the pain of the past nipped at her heels as she tried but failed to elude reality.

  “Miss Lucilla Teversham.” The bailiff, a grey-haired man with a kind expression, beckoned with a nod, and she stood. “We are ready for you.”

  “Thank you.” In her world, everything shifted in time with each successive step. Drying her damp palms on her blue jaconet dress, which she paired with a yellow spencer jacket, she recalled Sir Ross’s advice and revisited fonder times.

  With a clear and concise image of her father’s regal profile firmly entrenched in her mind, she marched into the filled-to-capacity courtroom, located Damian in the front row of the gallery, alongside Blake, with the entire compliment of the Brethren at the rear, and took her place in the witness stand, purposely avoiding a glance in the direction of Cornelius Sheldon, who perched at the side. On the rail sat a copy of the Book of Common Prayer, which she collected, as Sir Ross instructed.

  “Good morning, Miss Teversham.” The judge smiled. “Are you prepared to take the oath?”

  “I am, my lord.” She swallowed hard. “I swear by Almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “Please, state your name for the record.” The judge stared down his nose at her. “Then you may be seated.”

  “Lucilla Augusta Teversham.” After returning the book to the rail, she positioned herself in the chair and smoothed her skirts.

  “Now, Miss Teversham, although I am aware of your father’s lengthy and distinguished service to the Crown, I should like to begin with your time on the Continent, while General Teversham was assigned to lead the Third Battalion of the Sixtieth Foot Guards, with General Dundas.” Thus Crown Prosecutor Berwick launched his direct-examination just as he promised. “Were you aware that General Teversham’s longtime aide de camp, Lt. Cecil Snowley, fell at Barrouillet, of a bayonet wound?”

  “Yes.” As instructed, she offered succinct answers.

  “How did you learn of Lt. Snowley’s demise?” the prosecutor inquired.

  “Papa—that is, General Teversham informed my sister and I, in a letter.” Resisting the urge to say more, she clasped her hands in her lap and compressed her lips.

  “And did General Teversham often write missives?” Berwick inclined his head. “Or was that unusual?”

  “No, it was not unusual.” And she treasured the correspondence, which presented the only remaining connection to her sire. “My father sent directives at every opportunity, because he knew we worried about him.”

  “And did you have any prior acquaintance with the new aide de camp, Lt. Cornelius Sheldon, before he served General Teversham?” The prosecutor faced the jury. “Did you know the man, in any capacity?”

  “No, I did not.” And she wished they had never met.

  “Miss Teversham, do you recall your first encounter with the defendant?” As discussed during the mock trial, Berwick planned to establish the fact that Sheldon posed as Uncle Samuel, in order to show the intent to deceive began immediately.

  “I do.” In her mind, she recited her answers.

  “Can you please give the court an account of that moment?” Berwick smiled.

  “It was during the time my sister and I were guests of the duke of Rylan, at Elliott House.” Curling her toes inside her slippers, she clenched her gut. “One afternoon, a man calling himself Samuel Teversham, now known to me as the defendant, arrived to collect us, as our father wished, or so he claimed.”

  “Why did you accept him as family?” Anticipating a possible defense tactic, Berwick resolved to address the honest mistake, else Sheldon’s barrister could use Lenore and Lucilla’s acquiescence against them. “Why did you not question him?”

  “I had never met my Uncle Samuel, and Her Grace had not seen him since she was but a babe, so we did not know him, personally.” In the blink of an eye, she transported to that instant when she shook hands with Sheldon, in the foyer at Elliott House. “Our father always spoke highly of his brother, and we were raised to respect our elders.”

  “And that is why you did not suspect the defendant was a fraud with ulterior motives?” asked the prosecutor.

  “I object.” The defense barrister shot from his seat. “Leading the witness.”

  “Sustained.” The judge glanced at the prosecutor.

  “I withdraw the question, my lord.” Berwick smirked at the barrister, and Lucy admired the prosecutor’s astuteness, as he told her the judge would not allow her to respond to that particular inquiry, during her review. “Now then, take us through the incident that led you to Marylebone.”

  And so she began her slow, detailed descent into that dark and horrible chapter of her life, as prompted by the prosecutor’s chronological queries, retelling the events surrounding the kidnapping, the confinement in dark and dirty inns, the water laced with laudanum, the wife sale, and her eventual flight to
freedom.

  With care she recited her experiences, sparing no particular aspect, however insignificant, because the prosecutor assured her there were no trivial points. But a certain element caused intense distress, as she pondered her words.

  “By far, the worst moment of the ordeal was when I woke and discovered Lenore gone.” The loneliness, the sheer terror threatened to consume her, even then, and Lucy swallowed hard. “The defendant said he set her free, but in truth I believed her dead. Later, I learned he bartered her to be auctioned at an illegal wife sale, but His Grace, the duke of Rylan, liberated her with the aid of Sir Ross Logan.”

  “Where did you travel, next?” Berwick leaned against the rail of the jury box. “And how did you gain your freedom?”

  “Once Lenore and I realized we were being drugged, we drank naught but the water from the washstand pitcher and feigned sleep, but I believe the defendant uncovered our scheme.” Sifting through the remnants of her history, she closed her eyes and walked amid reflections of the past. The fetid stench of rotten food filled her nostrils, the itch of countless bug bites irritated her skin, and the chill of the musty room cut through her garb. “When the defendant moved me to Hounslow, I again suffered the strange effects and concluded he must have put the laudanum in my food, thus I ceased eating.”

  “And what happened then?” The prosecutor approached the bench.

  “On the final morning of my captivity, after the defendant and I broke our fast, I pretended to doze, and the defendant departed the tiny chamber in which I was confined, but he left the door unlocked.” Lucy thrust to the present and shuddered. “Terrified but determined to flee, I leaped from the bed, tugged on my slippers, grabbed my shawl, and tiptoed into the hallway, which was empty. At one end of the corridor, I found what appeared to be servants’ stairs, and I descended to a large kitchen, whereupon I startled a cook and two maids. An open portal offered the answer to my prayers, and I sprinted into an alley, which led to the mews. From there, I located the sidewalk, stopped a passerby, inquired after directions to the nearest authorities, and won my deliverance.”

  “You are very brave, Miss Teversham, and I thank you for your testimony.” Chief Prosecutor Berwick dipped his chin and turned to the defense barrister. “Your witness.”

  “That was a very interesting tale, Miss Teversham.” The tall, dark-haired barrister studied her, and she fidgeted beneath his narrow stare. “But is it not true that you formed a tendre for my client, and that is why he, in fact, let Her Grace, the Duchess of Rylan, go free, only to have her delicate condition taken advantage of by an unscrupulous opportunist, while the two of you planned a future, together, and thus he left the door unlocked, because he had no reason to suspect you would leave?”

  A chorus of murmurs circulated about the courtroom, and the judge banged his gavel. “Order.”

  “I beg your pardon?” It was as Sir Ross and Berwick warned—Sheldon’s barrister would claim anything to save the villain. “That is a lie.”

  “Are you sure, Miss Teversham?” The barrister sneered. “Remember, you are under oath.”

  “Indeed, I have no need of the reminder, sir.” Gritting her teeth, she inhaled a deep, calming breath; else her temper might undermine her. “Since I realized I had been deceived, in regard to the defendant’s true identity, never have I spent a minute in his company, of my own free will.”

  “So you insist you were maintained in Lt. Sheldon’s care, in opposition to your wishes?” The barrister clasped his hands behind his back. “That remains your position?”

  “Yes.” Then she bit her tongue against further explanation, as she believed a single-word response sufficed in the matter.

  “It might interest you to know that my client admits he administered the laudanum, to preserve your health, after you and Her Grace became ill.” The barrister faced the jury. “Indeed, Lt. Sheldon’s intentions were honorable, as he sought only to protect Miss Teversham and Her Grace.”

  “Honorable? Then why did he present himself as Samuel Teversham and take us from His Grace’s home?” Seething with unchecked fury, Lucy trembled. “Why did he not apprise us of his identity, from the first?”

  “Because my client was honoring General Teversham’s last request,” replied the barrister. “Of which I am sure you are aware.”

  Another wave of whispers swept through the courtroom, and the judge called the observers to quiet down or risk being expelled. During that brief delay, Lucy met and held Damian’s stare.

  “That is preposterous and false, because my father dispatched a final letter, in which he asked Lenore and I to return to London, posthaste.” She squared her shoulders. “At no time did he mention Lt. Sheldon, and my father certainly never intended for us to be held captive in a squalid inn in Marylebone—”

  “That is quite enough, Miss Teversham.” Visibly agitated, the barrister gave her his back. “I have but one more question.” He peered over his shoulder, and the hair at her nape stood on end. “If Lt. Sheldon is a ruthless criminal, as you insist, why did he not harm you or commit other heinous acts?”

  “He slapped my sister.” Lucy’s blood ran cold. “And you suggest that murdering my father, holding Lenore and I prisoner, and attempting to steal our inheritance does not constitute heinous acts?”

  “A minor outburst.” The barrister sniffed. “And Lt. Sheldon is innocent of the crimes of which you accuse him. Indeed, his manner toward you supports his account of the events, in that he never physically harmed you, did he?”

  The courtroom grew silent as a tomb, and she garnered the scrutiny of the gallery. Conscious of the multitude of stares, she wrung her fingers. So many possible replies danced at the tip of her tongue, but she could not bring herself to respond.

  “Miss Teversham, you must answer the question.” The judge inclined his head. “Are you unwell?”

  “No, my lord.” Yet she could not stop shaking. “In answer to your question, I do not know.”

  “Excuse me?” The barrister arched a brow. “What do you mean you do not know, Miss Teversham?”

  “I do not know.” The ugly truth unfurled in her gut, twisting and turning, until she could no longer withstand the pain. “But I am tormented by horrible nightmares, such that I am left to wonder what the defendant did to me.”

  “But you possess no direct knowledge of any injury?” the barrister stated.

  “I suppose not.” And it killed her to admit it.

  “No further questions, my lord.” The barrister returned to his seat.

  “I would redirect, my lord.” Chief Prosecutor Berwick stood and approached the witness stand. “Would you like some water, Miss Teversham?”

  “No, thank you.” Since she had not prepared for additional queries, she dreaded the unknown.

  Berwick cast an expression of sympathy. “Now then, what, exactly do you recall of potential abuse by the defendant—”

  “I object.” The barrister scowled.

  “My lord, the defense began this line of questioning.” Calm and collected, Berwick smirked. “I merely continue to explore the path along which he led us.”

  “I will allow it.” The judge offered a curt nod, and Lucy feared she might faint.

  “Miss Teversham, I want you to relax and take your time.” The prosecutor grasped the polished rail of the witness stand. “When you are ready, will you tell us what you can recall of your captivity, in relation to Barrister Hedgeman’s query?”

  “All right.” Despite her best efforts, the tears flowed. Again, she turned to Damian for strength, and he did not fail her, so she spoke directly to her dashing duke. “Given the laudanum that altered my senses, what I remember comes to me in bits and pieces, in night terrors, but they are as vivid and real as this proceeding.” Then she braced. “If I close my eyes, I can detect it, even now. There is the fetid breathe, which reeks of spoiled milk, cheap brandy, and stale cigars, the offensive touch of coarse hands, as he gropes my body, and the lurid suggestions, which no lady of cha
racter would dare repeat, whispered in my ear.”

  Another symphony of morose undertones coursed the gallery, and when the judge pounded the gavel, Lucy jumped.

  “Order.” The judge narrowed his gaze. “Quiet down, else I shall instruct the bailiff to clear the courtroom.”

  In that instant, Damian leaned toward Blake, made some comment, rose from the bench, and exited the chamber. So that was it. The love of her life rejected her, just as she feared. Crestfallen and broken-hearted, she sighed and wiped her cheeks. Later, she would have her cry.

  “Miss Teversham, have you anything more to add?” The chief prosecutor inquired.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “No further questions, my lord.” Berwick resumed his place at his table. “And the prosecution rests.”

  “Very well.” The judge checked his timepiece. “Given the late hour, we shall adjourn until tomorrow morning at eight-o’clock, and the witness is excused.”

  As before, the bailiff escorted her from the chamber and into a back corridor. Since Lucy knew the way, she broke into a run until she came to the door, which she flung open. There, standing at the window, waited Damian. Given she thought he abandoned her, she gasped in surprise, and in her mind she chastised herself for doubting him, yet he said nothing. Instead, he splayed wide his arms, and she flung herself at him.

  THE DUKE WEARS NADA

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In a private room at White’s, the Brethren of the Coast gathered to share a brandy, as they often did to mark momentous occasions or celebrate new additions to the large group of extended relations, but Damian was in no mood for felicitations. Given the quiet reflections and downcast expressions, he surmised they shared his melancholy state.

  “How is Lucy?” Trevor furrowed his brow. “I hesitate to ask, but Caroline and I are genuinely concerned, in light of the scandal sheets circulating London, in the wake of Sheldon’s conviction.”