"I'll do that." A pout filled Cynthia's face. "Mrs. Norton, it's good to see you. I've heard you've been busy spending time with handsome widowers."
"Rumors starting again." Amora's voice fell to a whisper. "Evil rumors."
His gut twisted. Lies had made him side against his wife before. Not this time. Pulling Amora closer, he leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Miss Miller, my wife is very generous, but her honesty and faithfulness should never be questioned. As a favor to me, tamp down any tittle-tattle you might hear. No one should taint her kindness."
A wide frown swallowed Cynthia's countenance. "I'll do that for you." She pivoted and left. The shutting of the doors sounded odd like a slam.
Amora released a heavy sigh and moved from him leaning on the rail. "Go ahead. Ask your questions about the vicar."
"The only question I have is about that kiss of ours."
She shook her head and seemed to stare at the brass sconce fastened to the wall bricks. Her fingers slipped into her reticule, and she tugged out a folded piece of foolscap. Her lips moved as if she chanted something. What was it?
Their moment had faded. Why couldn't he have kissed her before Cynthia made her wary again?
"Can we leave, Barrington? I thought that it would be easier tonight. Since you knew of the abduction, my fear of someone saying something to make you hate me was gone. I'm just not meant to enjoy balls…or anything. At least, I was of use to you tonight."
It felt as if Charleton darkened his daylights again. He was so close to heaven. "The dinner hasn't been served. I need you to be patient, just a little longer, for my mentor."
"You needing me." She chuckled as she smoothed her temples then paced to the balcony doors. "We should go back."
"Without your help, how will I find Sarah? The magistrate told me of two more women with first names of Sarah, each reported missing the summer of your abduction."
Her hand fell away from the knob, and she turned to him. "This is to delay me from returning to Clanville."
"If you leave, I won't be able to determine which one is your friend. I need you."
Her brow crinkled as if she thought long and hard over the matter. "It's probably another liar."
"No, these women are very much like you, taken by a dark force. I won't lie. I would love for you to stay and forget separating next week. I've lived like a hermit in my own home, hoping for a small piece of encouragement, but you haven't changed your mind. I understand, but this is bigger than you or me. It's a chance to bring justice by figuring out who the abductor is." He held out his arm to her.
She batted it down with her fan. "So we'll work together a little longer, then separate?"
"I am giving you power, Amora. Isn't that what you want? To be needed and to feel as if you have control. Help me find the fiend."
"I don't know what to do." She yanked a note from her reticule too quickly. It dropped onto the covered buckle of his shoe.
He reached for it and read, Remember to Be Aloof, Don't Sway. He crushed the paper and stashed it in his jacket. Maybe he should pen a few. "You don't have to answer now. There's a week before you are destined to Clanville. Perhaps we can locate one of them."
Large violet eyes lowered. "It's a little cold out here. We should go back."
"Of course." His shoes dragged. Leading her back to Mrs. Tomàs felt like miles. Then he spied the amiable vicar chatting and laughing with his mother-in-law.
His arms numbed as he helped Amora sit. Tramping over London locating hurt women would be far from romantic. The last time he could hold his wife with passion had just passed.
The vicar stood and came close. "Mr. Norton. There is a Mr. Beakes waiting for you in the foyer. He said the runners have found a location. Whatever does that mean?"
Might as well be now. Too much frustration pumped into his veins to stay at Hessing's ball. Barrington rubbed his eyes above his spectacles. Beake's note. He'd completely forgotten about it when the magistrate gave him two more Sarahs. "Excuse me, I must cut my evening short."
Amora gripped his hand. "One of the women? You found her?" She stood. "I should come with you."
Feeling as if the floor beneath him had opened and swallowed him whole, he closed his eyes for a second, then put her palm into Wilson's. "I want you safe. Vicar, take the ladies home for me."
A smile as wide and as irritating as possible filled Wilson's face. "It will be my pleasure."
He leaned close to his mother-in-law. "Mrs. Tomàs, I'll sign the formal separation tomorrow."
Not looking back, Barrington plodded to the foyer. London should've burned. As he gathered his things from the footman, he watched the dowager's sons arguing in a darkened hall. The musicians' loud play obscured their words, but the hand gestures, Charleton's wild fists, Clanville's thick gloves slapping the air. A very strong disagreement.
Not Barrington's concerns. Protecting Gerald Miller's memory, that's where he needed to put his efforts.
"Mr. Norton." Mr. Beakes ran toward him. "You didn't respond to my note, but I knew you needed to know. We found the man calling himself Miller. He's locked in Bedlam. We are going for him tonight. I'll await the runners, then seize him. You can meet us at the magistrate when we bring the fiend."
Beakes yanked the revers of his dusty dark greatcoat. "I've better news. I think this man's responsible for an old murder of a milkmaid from your part of England, Clanville. So it's not just fraud he'll be answering for."
He nodded as Beakes, all smiles, plodded with chest puffed out into the night. At least the impostor wouldn't hurt Miss Miller anymore. Gerald had to be smiling down on him for this, taking care of his little sister, protecting her from a possible murderer.
If only Barrington could see the fool's face when the runners seized him.
Maybe he could.
Tugging on his beaver dome, he formulated a plan. If James could get him to Bedlam first, he could see justice in action. The law was his salvation. Focusing on that and not drowning in the hopelessness of his marriage, that had to be a better use of his time. Perhaps, it'd give Barrington a face to darken to extinguish the flames burning within his soul.
Chapter Eleven: Choice and Consequences
Barrington tugged on his gloves and hat as he trudged away from the carriage. James parked at a distance to give Beakes and his men plenty of space. While his solicitor had always been fair-minded, the men he used weren't. Being caught between their thirst for violence and the zealotry wouldn't be prudent. And defending himself or striking out like he'd done with Charleton could prove deadly.
Fog had rolled in shrouding his angry heart. Good. Only lovers needed stars, not fools. Passing through the high stone gate and then trudging across the dirt lane, he began to rethink things. Vengeance was the Lord's, not an angry man's, one frustrated over the impending loss of his wife. He stood on the stone steps of the old Bethlehem Hospital and looked out at the cloudy black night at the grounds of Bethlehem hospital, Bedlam, as everyone called it. Beakes and his associates were nowhere to be found.
Good old James knew every short cut through London. The scent of refuse mixed in the thickening air, adding more misery to Barrington's miserable thoughts. The temptation to spend a few minutes with the villain before they dragged him off to the magistrate and then to foul Newgate prison cut through him again.
Flipping up the collar on his greatcoat and smashing down his hat brim to shadow his face, his fury flamed. With leather gloves concealing his hands, it wouldn't be so easy to separate him from Beakes's runners. No one would be able to note that one of Old Bailey's barristers stole the role of judge and jury. He slouched his shoulders and marched up the final step. The heavy door opened easily. He half expected to see a lunatic show of the patients, but that practice had been abandoned years ago.
Nothing but an austere dimly lit lobby greeted him.
A lad, barely up to his waist, swept the floor.
"Young man, I need to see an inmate." He held up a guinea.
The boy leaned his broom against the wall. "Sir, it's late. Most have settled."
A wail filtered from the dark hall in front of Barrington. The gut wrenching sound cut through his middle. "This won't take but a few minutes. Is your administrator here?" He took out another guinea.
The lad took the coins and stuffed them into his pocket. "No. I'm in charge at night. Do you have a name, sir?"
Barrington scratched his head. He wasn't going to toss his own or Gerald's name and dishonor his dead friend. He pulled out another coin. "I'm not sure, but he's related to Miss Cynthia Miller."
The lad's eyes widened. "The beauteous lady comes after her performances to feed 'm. Such a woman."
Cynthia was a remarkable lass, yet how could she be taken in so wholly? "Show me whom she visited."
Barrington headed toward the long hall, but the boy put a hand on his elbow, then opened a creaking door at the side. "No, sir. That way. Up the stairs."
Not with the rest of the crazed inmates? Barrington followed. His gut swirled with concern for his best friend's sister. Cynthia must be paying a great deal of money for this sham man. Heat roiled inside as his low heels pounded against the treads.
A failing wall candle lit their path as the fellow led him up several twisting treads to the second floor. This area was cleaner and quieter than the bowels of Bedlam.
His guide stopped in front of the third door in the corridor. "You won't have much of a conversation with him."
"Why?"
The boy unlocked a door. "He's barely awake, never speaks. Got to feed him most days. The singer pays me good to make sure of it. Go in."
"This won't take long." Barrington dropped another guinea into his guide's hand before pressing inside. "Go back down, forget I've been here. Things could get dicey as I talk to this man."
"I've got to see about the screamer." The boy left him.
Good. No witnesses. This was personal. The clod impersonated his friend, the man who died saving Barrington. It was better to have no one who could stop him.
He stepped to the door. His fingers pulsated within his leather gloves, every frustration of the past weeks wrapping about each digit. He wanted to punch through the wood, break it into shards like all his mistakes.
How dare someone impersonate Miller.
How dare someone hurt his poor sister.
How dare some fiend abduct Amora.
How dare she not forgive Barrington.
Explaining to the runners why this liar had fresh bruises wouldn't be too complicated. Those ruffians of Beakes wouldn't care.
Barrington pushed open the door. It flung wide and hit the wall with a thud, but no one moved inside.
A shadow hovered in the corner. The villain, the devil incarnate.
Fumbling in his pocket, Barrington found a flinty match and struck it against the wall. The ensuing light highlighted chains.
A hint of sulfur filled his nostrils as the glow between his fingers snuffed. "What's your name?"
The answering silence brought his blood from simmer to full boil. He reared back and opened the door fully. Light flooding from the hall illuminated a man in a long nightshirt, bare feet. His face hung low, still hidden in darkness.
How could someone sit chained in blackness? Was the man mad? How could a crazed person fool Cynthia?
Rocks of confusion collapsed upon his gut, crushing his logic. This must be some very twisted game. He marched closer and kicked the man's foot.
The fellow didn't move, didn't turn his head.
Was he dead?
Barrington stooped and angled the inmate's face to the light.
Vacant almost soulless eyes looked back at him, but air went in and out of the imposter.
Striking another match, he let the sulfur orange light highlight the liar.
The cleft in the chin.
The nose broken in a youthful indiscretion during a bar fight.
The match burnt Barrington's gloved fingers as it died. Wrenching his hand in the air save the leather, he stood tall and paced.
It couldn't be.
It wasn't possible.
But it was.
The man chained to a Bedlam wall was Gerald Miller. His dead friend lived.
"Nor…" The bag of bones blinked, wriggled a hand in the loose iron bracelet barely clinging to his wrist.
Pulse threatening to collapse, he backed away. He fled the room but stopped at the stairwell. What had he done? The runners would soon arrive for Miller. The man who saved his life was going to be tossed into horrid Newgate. In his crippled condition, it would be a death sentence.
But Beakes said this man was a killer.
Barrington shook his head, clearing his rattled reasoning. No way on God's earth could Gerald Miller kill. He was a lousy shot in the war, barely harmed a fly when they fished, and took a bullet to save Barrington.
His mind spun to the battlefield, the memory of that grisly day Miller died to him.
Barrington wiped sweat from his brow and thought of lovely Amora. She'd do anything to find her Sarah, and the renewed fear for her friend had made Amora sickly. Barrington had just condemned his.
Whatever this conspiracy was, the truth would die with Miller, well, die again with an innocent man he sent to Newgate.
Miller needed to vanish and quickly.
Barrington dashed back into the room. Working fast, he slid the man's boney arms from the iron shackles. With a grunt, he tossed him over his shoulder and carried him like a sack of flour to the stairwell.
With the breath he could muster from his stunned lungs, Barrington blew out the candle. Darkness collapsed upon everything. Feeling his way, he started for freedom.
Round, round, and down, Barrington lugged and hopped and crashed into the wall. Shaking off the sting, he made a final leap to the last stair tread.
Catching his breath, he pressed on the door as lightly as possible so the hinges wouldn't announce them. The crack exposed the foyer and the shadows of five men.
An impatient curse flew. Beake's voice.
The solicitor and four others stood a few paces from the stairwell. If they came this way, they'd catch Barrington.
Beakes's runners were ruthless. They'd fill Barrington with lead shots and probably Miller too. Those men would only see black skin, a thief deserving death, not a gentleman trying to save a friend. All Barrington's work to prove himself as an equal to any would be in ruins. The project Hessing's so aptly called him would be over. No winning legacy of hard work. All would be erased by this folly.
Heart gonging like cymbals, he waited and mouthed a prayer. Pass another way.
At a snail's pace they moved. One reached for the knob.
His lungs constricted, flipping out of his chest. He braced for the end. It was all over. Amora's protection, his career, his honorable name, everything.
Lord, please. I repent. Let them not kill Miller again in the crossfire.
"This way!" Beakes's harsh command stopped the knob from turning and the door from opening to reveal them. "The keeper is probably in his office."
The clop-drop knocks of boot heels faded. They must've gone down the hall.
Air barely forced itself into Barrington's deflated chest. He'd breathe later when Miller was safe. As silently as possible, he eased from the stairwell and flew through the door with his best friend dangling down his back.
They slipped into the blessed night and headed for the high walled gate surrounding Bedlam. On the other side was freedom. The moon glowed but God's foggy cloak shrouded them, hiding them from discovery. Where to go? What to do? The runners could find Miller missing any moment.
Pulse pounding. Head throbbing. Common sense shredding. Barrington's feet started to the gate. Back aching, hip locking, mind gone, he eased Gerald to the ground. "You have to walk to my carriage, man. We have to look normal on the other side of the wall."
The stench of horse manure and foul urine hit Barrington hard. He was a lad again, plucking his father from the
bushes behind the Clanville tavern. The man was too drunk to know he'd relieved himself fully dressed, too selfish to care about his poor mother or the Norton name.
But Barrington wasn't a boy. He was a man with more than a name to lose. He tapped Miller's face. "Can you hear me? Stay with me. I'll get you out of this."
The bag of bones nodded.
Tugging off his hat, Barrington put it atop the man's head then bundled him into his bulky coat. It swallowed Miller whole.
As he used to walk his drunken father, Barrington angled and supported his friend so passersby would think Miller was inebriated not an escapee from Bedlam.
"March, man, just like we're in formation."
Step after step, heart knocking at every noise, Barrington shepherded Miller through the gate and tugged him all the way to the carriage. Gasping, he waved to James. "Help."
His manservant bounded down from the driver's box and held open the door.
Barrington shoved and stuffed until Miller fell inside.
Sinking against the shut door, he gulped air. Amora's trust in him to do what was right, his career, his family name – Barrington had just lit a match and burnt it all down.
A hand covered his shoulder. He jumped.
It was his James, not Beakes.
His man's face held no smile. Large eyes hovered close. "Do you know what you are doing, sir?"
"No. Gads, no." Barrington wiped sweat from his brow, then tugged loose his cravat. "I fear I've just ruined myself. Get us away from here. Stay off the populated routes. No one can follow us."
James nodded and helped Barrington into the carriage.
Soon they began to move, the pace unhurried, steady as if nothing were wrong. Though Barrington wanted nothing more than to be miles and miles away, this was best to keep suspicion away.
In the dark with Miller prostrate on the floor, Barrington sat back on the seat, his gaze frozen to the window.
Beakes and his men didn't follow. No one trailed them. They'd been spared discovery, but for how long?
He pushed at his chest and ordered his heart to beat a normal rhythm, but like everything in his life, it didn't obey. "Miller, how? Why?"
Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 2) Page 12
