"This is against everything you stand for. It must be a joke, Barrington. You'd never give up this easily."
"Easy?" He spun her into the corner, leaning into her until his lips hovered an inch above hers. "There is nothing easy about shattered dreams. Hopes of sharing a family with you ripped asunder. But, I can't support something that will send you into madness or destroy this life within."
Her warm pants fluttered his cravat, touching the exposed flesh of his throat. It was as if she'd reached for him. His breathing intertwined with hers as their gazes locked. Why couldn't he stop loving her as easily as she'd stopped caring for him?
She slipped an arm about his neck, lowering his head. Claiming his lips, she stepped fully into his surprised arms. Instincts tightened his hold. His heart kissed her back with the same fire her affection always erupted.
Yet, this kiss wasn't like her others. This felt hungry, wanton, dizzyingly desperate. Her palms wove about his chest, her fingertips sliding against the taut muscles of his back.
Kerosene, whale oil, good old tar and flint, nothing burned like a woman who knew what she wanted. "Bar, we can do anything together," she said in his ear. "Let's go to the Priory and return with answers."
Gasping for sanity, he pried away from her willing arms. "That's very wrong, Amora. Didn't the Pharaoh tell you about playing with matchsticks and torches?"
"Maybe we need to be on fire to burn away everything keeping us from being of one mind. We both need answers. We can do it together."
"There will never be another for me, but I can't hold a ghost. A ghost can't be a mother to this baby, and I refuse to take this child to nurse at Bedlam." He put a hand to his mouth. He regretted his tone, but not his words. "I'll return by 10:30. Please be here, but I'll understand if you're not here."
She clasped his waistcoat. "Wait."
A button broke free in her hand.
He frowned at her, but he didn't try to take it from her shaking fist. Maybe she was trying to keep a piece of him to take with her as she did what she felt she had to do. "May the Lord keep you."
"I said wait, Barrington."
With her other hand, she claimed his palm and placed it on her abdomen.
One soft kick and then a hard one vibrated her belly, vibrating his hand. Their babe.
He should be a Neanderthal and take her by her twisted bun, sling her over his shoulder and keep her in bed for the final months of her pregnancy.
But he was just a barrister. A man of laws and logic. He bent and kissed her forehead, then rubbed his son good-bye. "I wish you both well. I pray for your safety."
Rotating to the hall, he left her in his study and headed straight for the door, almost forgetting to gather up his top hat and greatcoat. He slowed his gait, hoping that she'd reach for him one more time and agree to put their babe over her need for the truth.
He made it to the carriage unimpeded.
Resigned, he climbed inside and closed his eyes. He had an appointment to look at shipping manifests for the Duke of Cheshire. That and visiting with Gerald Miller would keep him busy. Anything to keep from thinking about Amora not being at Mayfair when he returned.
Chapter Five: The Quest for Unity
Barrington sucked in a deep breath of the stale Newgate air. The trial of the century would begin tomorrow, and he still hadn't developed a clear strategy of how to defend Gerald. The man was less than helpful, falling asleep as he prepared him for testifying. "Gerald, can you—"
Snores interrupted Barrington. How someone could be at peace in the old prison was beyond his reasoning. Yet, there Gerald lay as if confident he would be acquitted in the Old Bailey tomorrow.
Barrington wrenched at his neck and started to pace. From the brick wall to the bars and back, he tried not to think of Hessing's grin as he left the offices today. The man smelled victory. All Barrington smelled was defeat. It clung to the foul dampness in the air.
He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his brow. He tried hard not to let the damp smell of the air and eerie quietness remind him of waiting with Smith for the man's execution. The handkerchief made it worse. It smelled of lilac.
Amora and the Pharaoh had left Mayfair. The day of their big argument, he returned on schedule before 10:30 to an empty house. He gave her what she wanted, the freedom to destroy herself. Oh, how he wished she'd chosen to stay.
"Lord, let her be well. Let the babe…"
No more of this malaise. He stormed over to Gerald's cot, put his hands on his friend's thin shoulders and shook him. "For the love of God, remember something about the abductor. His face, His name."
"C-Could you stop?" Gerald tugged at Barrington's hands, but nothing save the Christ could break Barrington's iron grip.
Gasping for air, his friend lunged forward. "Stop r-rattling my bones. Going to be ill. S-sorry Mrs. Nor-ton left."
Barrington flung the man back to the cot and backed away. It had been a hard couple of days. Preparing for difficult trials always gave him a certain level of anxiety. Nonetheless, he'd become immune to the taunts on the street of "Accomplice" or "Helper of Evil." Even the news clippings and notes from victims' families shoved under his door at Lincoln's Inn had become an old hack.
However, his innards did sorrow over the ones without slurs. The ones just asking why. Why the renowned barrister would try to thwart justice? "Sorry."
Gerald stretched out on his cot. The thin mattress seemed to swallow the equally thin man. "Has she w-written?"
"No. Too busy visiting and seeing the sites. Probably missing the orchards… the cliffs…the Priory." He rubbed at his temples trying to eradicate the headache that had been with him since coming home to his empty house, save the housekeeper. Mrs. Gretling tried not to make things worse. She made beefsteaks, polished all the wood, but switching her polite smile from pity-on-you to stupid-man did not help. Barrington felt stupid. "I gave her a choice, and of course she took the dangerous option."
He clapped his hands together, summoning his mind from despair. "I need something to thwart Hessing. He's determined to see you hang."
"Y-your mentor?"
"Yes. I'm sure he put the inflaming stories in the papers, too. Maybe it is best my wife has gone. Being in this chaos could not be good. Tell me again what you recall of being found with Nan Druby."
Sitting up, Gerald cleared his throat. "I remem-ber a man, an older one with Vicar P-Playfair hovering over me. Then Cynthia."
Barrington started to pace again. The cogs in his mind stuck on Amora started to move, shifting and aligning the facts. "The old vicar was with Mr. Johansson? He's not mentioned in any of the reports, just the farmer, Johansson. Are you sure?"
Gerald closed his eyes and grunted. "Yes, the farmer and Vicar P-playfair. V-vicar and Cynthia put me in a wagon, a drey to be exact."
"Playfair knew everyone. He even sent his cousin, Vicar Wilson, to see about the victims."
His friend shrugged as he leaned back against the cold cinder wall.
Pounding over to the window, Barrington saw the Debtor's platform. The view from this cell was farther away than Smith's. At least his friend could be spared the agony of hearing the deathly preparations. "Playfair knew everything about Clanville. Maybe he knew you to be innocent. That had to be why he helped Cynthia hide you. Did she ever mention Playfair's assistance?"
Barrington spun back, leaning on the brick sill of the window.
Gerald stared ahead. His light eyes seemed to bore into Barrington's chest.
"What is the matter, man? Are you going to be ill, Miller?"
"You're missing a button."
He looked down and found the third button missing on his waistcoat. He must've put back on the one Amora ripped. Almost all his clothes were grey or off-black. Easy to do. "Yes, one is torn."
Miller reached for a mug from his small table and took a big swig. "I took a b-button from the D-dark Walk Abductor."
Barrington stopped fidgeting with the frayed threads of
where the button would be. "Keep remembering. What happened to it?"
"It was in my palm. The indentation of it creased my palm. I don't know where it is. Norton, does this full story help? Does it do anything to save me?"
Barrington tried to put a smile on his face, put his lips wouldn't cooperate. "Every bit helps."
Gerald sat up and poured himself another mug. "You were never good at lying."
"When you get in the Old Bailey for the trial, I need you, my reserved friend, to be rowdy to show your innocence. Shout out questions. Ask for your freedom." Barrington plopped onto the bench.
Gerald's eyes widened as he peeked over the rim. "That will make the difference?"
"The jurymen and the judge will want to see that." Barrington kicked his feet out. "If none of the women testify against you, maybe I can convince the court that these charges are just hearsay. I could win this if I keep everything focused on the London abductions with no mention of the murder in Hampshire.
"You think you can do that, Norton?"
"If I were Hessing, I'd make sure that the testimony about the murdered girl being found at your feet be made known to the jury. That would convince them you are the Abductor. Once they establish that link, your conviction is assured."
Miller took another swig of his gin. He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve. "They'll hang me?"
"If you're not hung here, you'll be tried in a month in the Winchester assize. The witnesses finding you with Miss Druby... You'll be convicted and hung there." Barrington gazed at the knotted thread still holding a button. The strands had lost their purpose, but they still clung to the fabric. They still had hope. Lord, help Miller. Help me too.
"You think Mrs. Norton might've testified if she were here? Do you think she could save me?"
Barrington rubbed at his face, pushing away the tired feeling in his eye sockets. "She couldn't say for certain you didn't kill the maid, but the strain on her would be too much."
With a big gulp, Gerald drank the contents of his mug. He rose and moved back to the cot. "I suppose you can't risk your wife. H-hold to loving her, though she d-doesn't do what you want."
Barrington felt his lips curl up at how his friend offered him encouragement even though Gerald could be sentenced to die tomorrow. "Miller, what can I do for you? Since I don't have a miracle to offer."
Gerald nodded his head and tucked beneath his blanket. "Then open up that book and finish reading St. John."
The cell door opened as Barrington started to pull out sections of his war bible. "Beakes, what are doing here?"
Mr. Beakes's mouth puckered to a dot. It was an almost penitent look upon the brash man. "Remember when I said it wasn't personal? I meant it. But, this involves Mrs. Norton."
Barrington's hand fisted beneath the scriptures. "Go on."
The solicitor reached into his brown greatcoat and pulled out a ribbon-wrapped paper. "Hessing wanted me to wait until the last hour to give this to you, but I couldn't. He's calling your wife as a witness. Now I know why you've been squirrelly about this business. I'm sorry."
A tremor set in Barrington's cheek as he took it. "My wife is with child. She can't testify. She's with child. Doesn't he care?"
"He only cares about winning, but as soon as I found out, I came to let you know." Beakes turned and headed to the bars, but stopped. "Oh, none of my men beat you. Be careful, like I told Mrs. Norton, London wants someone to pay for the Dark Walk Abductor's crimes."
"You told my wife?"
"Yes, at Mayfair. She sent me to look for you."
Barrington leapt to his feet almost beating his solicitor to the bars. "Miller, get some rest. I'm going home."
"G-God's speed."
He turned back and nodded to his friend, then headed to find his carriage. The joy in his heart turned ice cold, freezing into an iceberg. What condition would Amora be in, and how would they survive her testimony?
Chapter Six: Love Returned?
Barrington looked out his carriage window at the passing brick residences. In another mile or two, James would dump him onto Mayfair's steps. Why had Amora returned? And would she still be there?
Blasted Hessing. Was his mentor so heartless or did he want Barrington's defense to collapse? He must know that Barrington would do almost anything to prevent Amora from testifying. He shook his head at the lack of decency or civility from Hessing. The man wanted a show as much as he wanted blood.
Tossing his top hat to the floor, he eased his head against the seat cushion. An answer would come, something that would save Miller and keep Amora safe. He had to hold on to his faith, even when things were dark. God had been with them upon the cliff and at Bedlam. He could also see them through this gloom.
Finally, the carriage slowed then halted. As one groom opened the door, James climbed down, probably out of habit. His man tipped his tricorn and climbed back to the roof. The extra servants were something to get used to, but the stakes made it unavoidable.
Had he known Amora would return, Barrington would have had the house flanked with grooms. He'd use every cent of his inheritance to protect her.
Scanning the windows of the house, he found only the lights of the parlor glowing. Images of Mayfair ablaze the early morn of her miscarriage filled his eyes, forcing a hard blink. That day was a lifetime ago. She was stronger. Perhaps the babe was, too.
Scooping up his top hat, he flexed his fingers about the brim. How did she take the news of being made to testify?
Barrington's heart raced as he plodded to the door. Everything within him wanted to scoop up Amora and hold her close. He seized his key and forced the door to fly open.
Nothing seemed out of place. Was she in bed? Had she gone? When the sound of Amora's lithe voice stroked his ear, his pulse slowed, then ticked up.
A conversation emanated from the parlor, two feminine voices.
The unease in his gut wouldn't settle until he saw his wife. Almost running, he hastened to the room.
His breath caught seeing Amora. It had been less than a week, but it felt as if an eternity had passed. Before he could utter a word, his nose wriggled with the horrible smell of chrysanthemum. There sat Amora opposite her enemy, Cynthia Miller.
He didn't know which emotion to exhibit. Happiness because his wife was safe, anger at Cynthia sitting in his home, or befuddlement at the ladies engaged in easy chatter.
A grimace tugged at his lips. Anger seemed the best course. "What is occurring here? Where's Mrs. Gretling? A footman?"
His wife tilted her head toward him. Her cheeks were pale, her lips almost smiling. Far from the agitation she normally showed around Gerald's sister. "I've sent everyone away. I wanted a chance to speak with Miss Miller in private."
Cynthia, dressed in clinging fabric, sauntered to him swishing her jezebel curves. "Mr. Norton," she pouted her lips. "I was at a loss myself receiving Amora's invitation, until she explained that you are separating."
"She did, did she?" He tugged off his gloves, tossing them with his hat to the show table out in the hall. "It's a private matter."
She smiled slyly and exposed her white teeth. The look had to be the equivalent of a female spider about to devour its mate. "I entered through the kitchen. None of your neighbors saw me."
He glimpsed at Amora who sat shrouded in an oversized shawl of silvery-blue knitted wool. Her expression of thinned pursed lips curled into a smile which sent a chill to his limbs. What was going on? His wife detested Cynthia. She'd be the last person to share marital difficulties. Oh, how he learned that lesson. Amora must be plotting something, probably something dangerous. The notion made his toes freeze within his boots.
Amora lifted her chin. "As I told Miss Miller, I no longer want to be the cause of your unhappiness. If I hadn't tricked you into marrying me, you would've been free to pursue her. This separation will make things convenient. I'm not fighting the attraction between the two of you any longer. At least I know her. Miss Miller will be good to our child when the babe is in
London."
A tear filled Cynthia's light eyes. "Of course, I will. I love children. I would've kept mine if it had been possible."
Either Amora had completely lost her mind or the woman had a plan. This time he'd ignore the angst twisting his soul and trust whatever crazy thing she concocted. Dear God, let her not have gone completely otherworldly. He braced against the wall and folded his arms. "This is a trying time."
Cynthia waved a handkerchief, patting her stained cheek. "I'd given up hope about you, especially when you left me to stew in Newgate."
Amora splayed the fringe of her shawl over her palm. "All to appease me, I'm afraid."
"Is it true that you wanted me, Barrington, and have only been putting on a façade for your reputation?"
Before he let the cold truth fly from his clenched teeth, Amora swiveled toward him, her violet eyes staring through him. "I told Miss Miller, we've been running from the truth. I want you to be happy with a woman who loves you, but I also told her you'd only accept someone who'd been completely honest."
"Honesty is a good policy." He shoved his balled fist behind his back. She was leading Cynthia somewhere and he'd follow her lead. He'd trust Amora. "Have you been completely honest, Miss Miller? I refuse to be with a woman who'd lie for her advantage."
With violet eyes penetrating his heart, his wife's voice became low. "Never for advantage, but maybe for fear."
Cynthia stepped into his shadow, placing her hand on his elbow. "You seem nervous."
"Tomorrow is a very big day. Your brother's life is on the line. I don't know how to save him."
"Go on, Miss Miller." Amora leaned forward. Her dainty slippers tapped against the floor. "Tell him."
Her voice dipped as she sang, "Ask me to forgive you."
He leveled his lenses. "I've done nothing wrong."
Cynthia leaned into him on tiptoes. "Well, do something now worthy of forgiveness."
"Mrs. Norton, I think you need to do a better job at selecting my mistress. This one is not taking the opportunity seriously. Miss Miller, take your coat and leave."
Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 4) Page 6
