Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 4)

by Vanessa Riley

  That phrase again.

  His attacker had said it, and so had Miss Calloway. Coincidence or calling card? Barrington brushed at his wrinkled waistcoat. Lack of sleep made him silly. Now he sought conspiracies, thinking the footpad who'd stabbed him was in league with the Dark Walk Abductor. He lifted his gaze back to Hudson. "Yes, anything for those you care about."

  "You are right, Norton. I would do just about anything for Arabella, but she's not silly or taken by fashions either."

  "When you run about town hunting the right silks and bonnets, I won't say I told you so, but I will think it. In fact, I'll practically shout it inside my brainbox."

  Hudson frowned for a moment. "Well, I hear you do things for those you love. You love the Pharaoh's daughter, don't you? I believe that is how you described Miss Tomàs."

  Barrington's fists clenched at such a stupid question. He tossed his head backwards upon the seat. "You know I do."

  "I remember when you agreed to go to war to please your grandfather, you said Miss Tomàs would wait for you."

  "Yes."

  "And you said she didn't mind all the hard work it would take to get your practice profitable."

  "Yes."

  Hudson leaned forward, no doubt for the kill, the stabbing scalpel of the doctor's argument. "And every time, you look in the mirror and see your father's face, the man who put his own desires above his family, what do you say to your wife?"

  Barrington straightened recapturing his cousin's gaze. He folded his convicted arms about his selfish chest. "Who is the barrister in the family?"

  Hudson chuckled. "That would be you when you're not stewing. I wasn't thrilled when you said you were going to marry Miss Tomàs. Though her father was the best of men, he was Spanish, not English. It's hard enough for us to straddle where we fit in society. I didn't think you had a chance with such a mixture."

  "Do you have a point? A valid one—"

  "I'm not done. You've made your blended family work. Even gained friends in unlikely places. Just because the trail is rocky now doesn't mean this isn't your path."

  Barrington blinked and wrinkled his nose again, but this time with suspicion. "What? Why say this now?"

  "I may not have loved like you, but I see it. You love that little woman. And she loves you. Why else would she have put up with a great deal of waiting and supporting you?"

  The blasted fellow sounded right, but that must be the battered hope dying in Barrington's chest. "What if she forgets that I love her? What if her malaise makes her not want our child?"

  Barrington wiped his face. He shouldn't have voiced his frustration, but his conviction was broken when Amora couldn't admit to wanting this babe. "I've saddled my wife with a difficult pregnancy. I guess that makes me selfish three times over."

  Adjusting his sleeves, Hudson cleared his throat. "Well, it's not like you can bear a child. And if you think she doesn't want the babe, then you are pretty stupid. I watched her when she finally settled. She cradled her stomach, absently rubbed her middle comforting the babe."

  He wanted to believe his cousin, but Amora's mental difficulties might be too much to overcome. He loosened his fist, dusted the knee to his breeches. "She had digestive problems from all the teas and elixirs you and the good pharaoh had her drink."

  Hudson slouched on his seatback. He looked wrinkled too. All but the vicar had paced and prayed for Amora's well-being. Where was the worm? And where was Miller? His friend was too weak to have simply left.

  "Norton, you have made a team of loyal people. Your man James is. And so is Vicar Wilson."

  The carriage stopped at the side of St. Georges. The great portico filled the windows.

  Wiping his spectacles, Barrington squinted at Hudson. "Why?"

  "Go inside and see the vicar."

  Bewilderment replaced the tiredness in Barrington's soul. He stood up and plopped on his hat. "I don't know what this is, but I'll not ask questions. I'll just go find out."

  "Cousin, sometimes that's best. James will ferry me to my lodging then come back for you. Have a nice chat."

  Nodding, Barrington climbed down then slogged into the church. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous for thinking the vicar's absence at Mayfair was happenstance. No, the man was glued to them all because Barrington gave him an opening. Would he ever be rid of the one man who could love and care for Amora better than Barrington?

  The admission made him nauseous. He gripped the back of a pew to remain upright. The thought of befriending the enemy made the nausea even worst, squeezing with the strength of a vise upon his innards.

  He'd do anything for Amora, for her health and happiness.

  Anything for her, including making a bigger fool of himself with her dear friend, the vicar.

  Grunting impatient thoughts about casting the man into a lake of fire or off the highest cliff, Barrington took a couple more steps down the solemn aisle of the great church, then dropped into a pew box.

  As if he'd been watching this display of indecision, Vicar Wilson appeared from a side. As he paced the length of the carpet runner, his hand clapped against the backs of the pew. Thud. Thud. With a lopsided grin, the vicar hummed.

  The man could have been one of Barrington's childhood acquaintances. The naughty ones who held juicy secrets close to the breast but made no efforts in concealment. Usually those secrets were the latest scandal involving Barrington's drunken father. What did Vicar Wilson know?

  Wilson stopped and tugged on his waistcoat with its sleek cut revers, then smoothed his dark jacket sleeves. "Awe, Mr. Norton, you came. Is Mrs. Norton any better?"

  Releasing a silent groan, Barrington caught the man's gaze. "Yes. You know that. I would not have left her side if she wasn't."

  The vicar's brow lifted as his smug smile grew. "Of, course. That is good of you. She needs your support."

  "What else can a husband do? And since I've been dropped here by some conspiracy with my cousin, do you think it is possible to rid the foul air betwixt us? Perhaps it is best if we have no more, no more—"

  "Distrust? Is that the word you are searching for?"

  Surely there was plenty to be had. The man had supplanted Barrington as Amora's confidante. And did he gain his extensive knowledge of the Dark Walk Abductor's victims from just interviewing them? Could he have made sense of rambling as varied as Miss Calloway's? "You had my cousin waylay me. Speak."

  "Mr. Norton, I am here to help your family. I think of them as my own. For their sake, we should be on better terms."

  Shrugging, Barrington lifted off his top hat, settled it against the curve of his knee, and stared straight ahead at the painting of The Last Supper. Even at this late hour, candles illuminated the canvas at the front of the church. Amora, the painter, the lover of light would enjoy it, but it just reminded Barrington of her dousing that candle at Bedlam and her painful contractions. "The Last Supper. Do you suppose the Christ was out of options, forced to eat with friends and an enemy?"

  "I'd like to think I am a friend. I don't wish to be an enemy. Your wife must think I am trustworthy or she wouldn't have shown me the escapee from Bedlam and potential murderer you liberated and stashed in your cellar."

  True, true, true. What else could a stupid friend and husband do? Barrington nodded. Tossing his hat aside, he leaned back and crossed his arms. "Let's be about this. Why have you summoned me here?"

  "I have Mr. Miller."

  He almost jerked up from the seat. "What?"

  "I've checked on your friend every day since I discovered him in the cellar. Whilst doing it, Mr. Solemn and I discussed how dangerous it was for your friend to be in your house."

  Barrington wanted to drop his face into a palm for a hard slap, but couldn't give the vicar the satisfaction. Instead, he shifted against the hard pew. "Yes, it was stupid, but unavoidable."

  "Sir, it would be the first place anyone would look, given your history of friendship to Mr. Miller and his sister." Wilson moved closer, only a pew or two away
from choking or punching distance.

  "How are you going to leverage this information, Wilson?"

  "Will you listen? Last Sunday, I heard a runner bragging about smearing the smug mulatto, takin' him down a peg. I knew I had to act. When you and Mrs. Norton left for the appointment at Bedlam, I conspired with your cousin to move Miller from Mayfair."

  Anger at himself for putting so much at risk battled Barrington's gratitude. He trudged to his feet. "Take me to Miller."

  The man nodded and led Barrington into a tiny dark room in the lower level of the church.

  Miller lay on a cot with blankets, snoring.

  Part of Barrington's cares dropped away. Miller wasn't wandering the streets fogged or dead again from a vigilante's attack. He put a hand on the vicar's shoulder. "Thank you."

  Sidestepping Wilson, Barrington sat on a stool by Miller's side. "Will you keep him here for a couple weeks? Long enough for his strength to be renewed to face the charges against him and for me to find the evidence to clear his name?"

  "I'll do what I can. Church has always been a place of sanctuary. I didn't know I'd be conspiring in St. Georges to do so."

  Gerald's weak eyes opened. He held up a shaky palm. "Take me now to magistrate. Caused too much…"

  Barrington clasped and stilled Gerald's wavering hand. "Not yet. You have to give me a chance to build your case. I'm a little slower at discovering people's innocence these days. Sleep and listen to the…good vicar."

  He stood and walked back into the hall. The musty smells of the almost century year old structure filled his nostrils as he leaned against the wall. His cousin, working with the vicar, could combat the ills a damp place like this could bring, but this was a much better place than Newgate.

  In silence, he and the vicar returned to the sanctuary.

  More tired now than before, Barrington dropped into his pew and retrieved his top hat. He rolled the brim, smoothing the nape betwixt his thumb and index. "Wilson, saying thanks is not enough. You allowed me to stay with Amora, keeping me from being dragged off to Newgate. Perhaps you are not all villain."

  "I'm not. I suppose seeing the love of your life being cared for by another can be crippling to a jealous man. But, what else must I do to prove my love for this family?"

  Such a foolish question to ask. Barrington couldn't request proof from anyone and who couldn't see how much the vicar had done for Amora and for him? "I'm grateful for all the encouragement that you've provided my wife. She's my heart. I'll accept her friends and come to better terms with you."

  "That's all I want, Mr. Norton. I know you care for her deeply. Things will be well."

  Care deeply? Barrington lowered his gaze from the vicar to the notches scratched into the pew in front of him. "The first time I saw her, she was painting. Her hair had loosened in the breeze. Her shawl and skirts fluttered like a hummingbird's wings, but she stood there painting as if lost to this world. For the first time ever, I wanted to be a part of her world not the one I was building. The long war made me forget and I made her live in mine."

  "As a mulatto, I suppose you feel you have to build another one. I don't think you've failed her. You, me, we all must do our parts for her now. That includes keeping you out of Newgate. We need you here, finding the real abductor. I know you can."

  If Wilson and Gerald weren't guilty, who was? Since bringing Amora and her mother to London, Barrington had acted out of order, doing things against what he felt would solve the problems betwixt himself and Amora. He closed his eyes and listened to everything that felt right and moral inside, excluding that small bit of hope constricting his gut. "Miller must be turned in. He must stand against the charges. No one else can be put at risk for hiding him. I will defend him, and through my defense find the culprit."

  "In a few weeks, he should be fit enough. Your cousin has told me how to administer his potions. I'll go with him and then send for you at the Magistrates."

  "I'll take him in a fortnight. You've done enough, Vicar." Barrington paused, then fingered his lips to make sure they would still work when he said his final peace offering. "Promise me that if things do not go well, if I'm jailed or killed because of this, that you will take Amora from here. That you will love her and raise my child if he lives."

  "Mr. Norton, we don't have to think the worst."

  "The scales are gone from my eyes. You are a decent and annoying fellow. The dark walk abductor has power and influence. I feel it. The crown wants a conviction. They do not care whose family is destroyed. I need that promise, Vicar."

  Wilson straightened, all the mirth leaving his countenance. "You have my word."

  "I once thought that time should spin backwards to save Miller, the man whose life was shortened stepping in the path of a bullet meant for me. But time can't be stopped, and it's running out for Mrs. Norton's abductor. I shall solve the mystery of it, and I shall catch the cretin who has caused so much pain and death. Surely, that will return my wife's peace. Her serenity must absolve my soul."

  "You do know she will have struggles with her sanity for the rest of her life? Can you help her? Or will you feel it another type of leash?"

  Barrington had prayed and stewed on this since Amora flung herself off that high cliff. Maladies of the mind like the ailments of the late king could be ever present, always in the background like a predator waiting for a slip of the guard, for a momentary weakness to strike. He stood, donned his hat and glanced at the still sitting Wilson. "It takes great strength to love someone who's ill. One has to be stronger when she does not remember your love and patience. Maybe even saintly, when she turns away, goes to strangers. I'm a very, very strong man. Good evening, Vicar."

  He trudged down the aisle and onto St. George's portico. The air was colder than before, causing the manured, off-putting scent of the streets to wane. He looked up at the stars in the sky and felt a strange peace. Maybe he'd been holding on too tightly to the plans in his heart. Letting go, thinking only of the next day and how he would bring hope to Amora, perhaps that was the way to keep this peace. It had to be. Barrington had no more options.

  Chapter Four: The Quest for Truth

  Two months confined within her Mayfair bedchamber with an easel and an unlimited supply of paint seemed like an incredible prison sentence to Amora, just for finding Sarah and for seeking the truth.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and squished her swollen toes into her slippers. Maybe she'd venture outside the town home today. Was that too much to ask? Could Barrington and her mother be against her going with Mrs. Gretling to the orphanage? How could anyone be against orphans?

  To be fair, she wasn't actually trapped in Mayfair. She could leave if she wanted to, she'd just have to get past Mama and Mrs. Gretling, and the enormous task of placating their fears of her falling…or worse.

  And if Barrington were home, she'd have to battle his quietness. Though she was safe and the babe thrived inside, he remained silent. He slept in her bed, made sure she was awake before he left for his day, and always made it in by 10:30. With the exception of his laughter and shared confidences, he gave her everything she'd asked of him.

  Did he fear another miscarriage?

  A knock on the door made her flinch. She pulled her robe tight. "Come in."

  Mrs. Gretling popped in with her polish rag. The scent of strong pine soap swirled from her bucket. "Good. You're up, ma'am. Does that mean the painting is done?"

  Amora lifted her gaze to the easel by her window. "Almost. You can take a peek."

  "Beautiful. The young lady is beautiful. Is she a friend from your old town?"

  The picture displayed a smiling young woman with well-kept blonde hair coiffed into a tidy bun. Amora captured how she must have looked before the monster took her. Maybe someday she'd be able to give the painting to her. Amora smiled wide at the thought of helping Sarah. "Yes. Miss Sarah Calloway."

  Mrs. Gretling's face pinched up. She dropped her cloth.

  "It's not finished. Are
you as critical as Mrs. Tomàs?"

  "No, ma'am. It's lovely. It's just that name is similar to one of his victims. I saw it in the paper. Her family must be mortified to see their name open for public talk."

  Amora dropped her head. She played with the ribbons of her robe. "Sarah's in the paper? Is she dead?"

  "No, Mrs. Norton. It just listed victims of the Dark Walk Abductor and the horrors he's done to them."

  "Then Miss Calloway must have this painting to bring her cheer. Something to keep her from being another lost soul, a name to be agonized or shamed. Women must stop paying for the monster's crimes."

  Mrs. Gretling put her palm over Amora's fisted one. "I didn't mean to upset you."

  Stifled, Amora wanted to scream. Instead, she folded her arm over her head, pinned braids scattered everywhere, like her mind. "If everyone continues to fear upsetting me, I'll end up in the bed next to Miss Calloway."

  Retrieving her rag, Mrs. Gretling backed up and shot to the door. "Sorry, ma'am. I think your mother wanted to know when you awakened."

  The poor maid flew out of the room.

  Amora chuckled on the inside at how fragile everyone thought she was. She couldn't be so easily broken. Barrington said she'd borne all the indignities the others had suffered. But was he also right in assuming her sanity would evaporate if she remembered being tortured by the Dark Walk Abductor?

  The memories of being taken had returned, every detail clear. Her tongue salted as she recalled the pungent taste of pig scraps. Everything, even the sounds of his steps coming to her in the dark, had cemented into her mind up until the monster struck her, blaming Amora for Nan Druby's escape. When would she recall the worst?

  Strength pulsed within her veins. She could weather it now, just as she could stand returning to the Priory. She wasn't so fragile. When would anyone see it?

  She flopped upon the pillow and allowed the song that had been feeding her spirit to rise from her chest. "Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come. 'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home."