In the Barrister's Bed (2 page)

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Authors: Tina Gabrielle

BOOK: In the Barrister's Bed
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James swung around, his eyes cold. “Buy Wyndmoor Manor back.”
 
 
May 25, 1819
Wyndmoor Manor, Hertfordshire
 
There was a man outside her window.
Bella Sinclair had heard his footfalls, and the sound had her jumping out of bed like a skittish doe. An instant’s panic had squeezed her chest, and she’d thought Roger had come into her bedchamber.
But Roger was dead.
Thank the sweet Lord. Roger lay in a cold grave.
She flew across the room and pressed her back against the wall. It was a chilly May evening and the cold from the plaster wall seeped through her thin nightdress. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Taking a breath, she dared a quick glimpse out the window.
There. Just behind the azaleas, skirting the rosebushes. A black-dressed figure moved stealthily.
She doubted any other woman would have heard his movements, but years of practice had heightened her senses. Her hearing was attuned to the unwelcome sounds of a man’s stockinged footsteps, the creak of a floorboard at the threshold of her bedchamber.
Again she looked out the window, the curtains gripped in a clenched fist. With dismay, she realized she had lost sight of him. The full moon seemed bent on scudding from behind one dark cloud to another. The shadows below looked like stalking cats. She scanned the front terrace, the fountain, and the gardens beyond until she spotted him.
The figure made his way to the front door.
Wyndmoor Manor was empty save for Harriet, who was in her seventies. As she’d moved here only days prior, there had been no time for Bella to interview and hire additional servants.
Heart lurching madly, she grabbed the closest thing to a weapon she could find, a fireplace poker, and tiptoed out of her bedchamber. The hallway was dark as pitch, but she dared not light a candle. Early this morning she had explored the halls and rooms of the manor with the excitement of a child experiencing her first country fair. She knew the width and length of the hallway and the number of steps that led down the grand staircase. For the first time in seven years, a house felt like a home to Bella.
How dare any stranger invade here!
She felt for the unpacked trunks and crates that sat in the hall midway to the landing. She slipped down the stairs, her breath escaping her as her bare feet touched the cold marble vestibule. She darted behind the front door and clenched the poker tightly in both hands above her head.
An orange glow passed by the window of the door. The stranger had lit a lamp.
How odd.
The doorknob rattled.
Locked. She had been sure to lock it before retiring.
The intruder would be forced to break a window or force the lock. Blood rushed through her veins like an avalanche.
Then she heard the jangle of keys and the distinctive sound of a key sliding in the lock.
Impossible.
The dead bolt slid aside and the door opened. A dark cloaked figure stepped inside.
She swung the poker downward with all her might.
He moved so swiftly she barely had time to gasp before she was thrust against the wall and a hard body slammed against hers. The poker fell from her grasp and clattered across the marble floor. Her scream was cut off by a large palm pressed against her mouth.
“Don’t,” a masculine voice said curtly. “No screaming to bring your criminal acquaintances bearing down on me.”
He held the lamp high with his other hand, and she realized with alarm that he had managed to disarm her and pin her against the wall with one hand.
Fear and anger knotted inside her, and her heart thumped against her rib cage. Every solid inch of him was pressed against her. He was a tall man, broad and lean. The lamp lit half of his features, and she looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. Wavy jet hair framed his chiseled features. He shifted his weight, and she felt the muscled hardness of his body. His expression was taut, his jaw tense.
“I’m going to let you speak, but no screaming. Understand?”
She nodded, and he leaned to the side and kicked the door shut with a booted foot. Placing his lamp on top of a nearby crate, he released his palm from her mouth and rested it against her throat.
“Who are you?” she croaked.
“James Devlin, the Duke of Blackwood.”
A duke? Good lord, what was a duke doing at Wyndmoor Manor?
And yet, he had said the title stiffly, awkwardly, as if unpracticed in pronouncing it. Her mind raced and she wondered if he was truly a duke. Perhaps he was a local member of the criminal class who had heard of the new mistress of Wyndmoor and had come to pillage and steal whatever he could get his hands on. It made more sense. What duke traveled alone without a crowd of servants and a fancy, crested carriage?
His eyes raked her form, and she was highly conscious that she wore her nightdress without a wrapper. “Now it’s your turn. Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” he demanded.
“My name is Bella Sinclair. I am the owner of this manor.”
If she thought she couldn’t be more alarmed, she was wrong.
He arched a dark eyebrow, the expression making him appear even more sinister. “You’re lying. As of yesterday morning,
I
am the owner of Wyndmoor Manor.”
Chapter 2
Bella’s first instinct had been correct. James Devlin was not a member of the nobility, but a criminal.
She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and boldly met his hard stare. “I assure you, I’m not lying. Whoever you are—and I doubt that you are a duke—I demand you leave at once.”
His hand dropped from her throat. He stood inches away, and she felt the heat emanate from his body through her cotton nightdress.
There was a lethal calmness in his eyes. “You demand?”
Her pulse beat erratically at the threatening undertone in his deep voice. She knew she was in a precarious position, but instinct told her if she backed down or showed the slightest fear, he would swallow her whole.
“I will summon the constable,” she insisted.
“The constable? And pray tell me, Miss Sinclair, just how would you accomplish that?”
“It’s
Mrs.
Sinclair.”
“
Ah.
Where is your strapping husband?”
“Bella?” A voice sounded from the top of the landing. “I heard noises. Are you down there?”
No, not Harriet!
Anxiety spurted through Bella as an old woman dressed in a blue robe carrying a heavy candelabrum slowly descended the stairs.
“Do not trouble yourself, Harriet,” Bella called out. “It is only a lost gentleman, and he was just leaving. You may go back to bed.”
Bella turned to the stranger, her gaze imploring. “She is just an old servant. Please, if you are who you say, you will not harm her,” she whispered vehemently.
His brows drew downward in a frown. “I never intended to harm anyone.”
Harriet reached the bottom of the stairs and started across the vestibule. “A lost gentleman in the middle of the night?” She came close, holding the candelabrum high with both hands. Candlelight fully illuminated the man’s features.
The chiseled planes of his face were arresting and elegant at once. His dark curling hair was cut short, and his lips were firm and sensual above a strong chin. His eyes weren’t as dark as she had initially thought, but an extraordinary indigo. He needed to shave, but it was the middle of the night and most men would be in need of a razor, and the dark bristles only added to his rugged appeal. He was dressed in formfitting trousers and a white shirt that molded to impossibly wide shoulders.
Bella realized he was intently regarding her as well. His sharp eyes seemed to strip her of her nightdress, and she was thankful her unbound hair covered her breasts.
He bowed to Harriet. “Pardon the late hour. My name is James Devlin, the Duke of Blackwood. I had no idea the house was temporarily occupied.”
Harriet’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and she looked to Bella.
“Temporarily?” Bella said.
“The previous owner never mentioned renters.”
“Renters?” Bella said.
“Do you have a tendency to repeat people?” James asked.
“Only when they make little sense,” Bella snapped.
“You think I’m a burglar?”
“What else am I to think of a man breaking into my home in the middle of the night?” Bella retorted.
Harriet gasped; Bella held out her hand to silence her and confronted the man.
He drew his lips in a tight smile. “I didn’t break in. I lit a lamp and used a key. Have you ever heard of a burglar using a key?”
“You could have stolen the key,” she accused.
“I purchased Wyndmoor Manor yesterday morning. In my excitement to see the place, I rode here straightaway.”
“You must be mistaken, sir.” Bella refused to address him as “Your Grace” when he was as far from being a duke as she was from being a duchess. “I purchased Wyndmoor Manor three days ago.”
“From whom?” James asked.
“Sir Redmond Reeves,” Bella said.
“Interesting indeed since Reeves sold the property to me as well.”
“Again I insist that there must be a mistake. Why would Sir Reeves sell Wyndmoor Manor twice? Surely you purchased another property in Hertfordshire. Legal documents are complicated. Perhaps you misinterpreted them.”
His laughter had a sharp edge. “Now that is highly unlikely. I’ve been a barrister for over ten years. I can interpret a legal document while intoxicated.”
“A barrister! You said you were a duke. And to think, you accused me of lying!”
James sighed. “What I said was true. I am a barrister. I recently inherited my father’s title.”
“Hmmm. You really do think me a fool. What sane man would trouble himself by purchasing a small property such as Wyndmoor Manor so soon after inheriting a dukedom? Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to in London?” Bella asked.
A bright mockery invaded his stare. “Indeed. But my reasons do not concern you.”
Bella stiffened and placed her hands on her hips. “Prove what you say.”
“I shall return tomorrow morning with the deed to Wyndmoor.”
“Why did you not carry it with you?”
His voice carried a unique force. “As I said, I had no idea the house was occupied. Do not fret,
Mrs.
Sinclair. I left the deed at a local inn—known as the Twin Rams—as I was in need of a hot meal and a fresh horse. I will return tomorrow with the proper documents.”
He opened the door and turned back to glance at Bella. “I suggest you locate and procure your deed as well because this is the first and last night I will spend elsewhere. Starting tomorrow, I will sleep in the master’s chambers of Wyndmoor Manor.”
 
 
“He may truly be the Duke of Blackwood,” Harriet said.
Bella shook her head. “I cannot believe his story. It makes no sense.”
Bella sat on the edge of her bed in her nightdress as Harriet rubbed her shoulders. After Bella’s mother had died when she was just a babe, Harriet had arrived as Bella’s nursemaid. She had soothed Bella in the same manner when she had cried over a broken toy or a stubbed toe. Bella closed her eyes and tried to relax as Harriet’s fingers worked a knot between her shoulder blades. Only this time, Bella remained tense.
“Bella, luv, there was something about the man that makes me believe his story. I’ve known frauds before, including your late husband, but I don’t believe James Devlin is one of them,” Harriet said.
Bella’s deceased spouse had been the most talented of frauds. Roger had easily convinced Bella’s father to consent to their betrothal when she was seventeen, and Roger had concealed his evil nature from the rest of the world.
Only Harriet had remained loyal to Bella, for she knew Roger as the monster he had been.
“We must be prepared in case Blackwood shows up tomorrow with a deed to Wyndmoor Manor.”
Bella looked at Harriet. “But how? I have the deed.”
Harriet kissed Bella’s cheek and went to the door. “You’d best go find it, Bella,” she said, closing the door behind her.
A knot tightened inside Bella as she sat on the bed, her fearful and angry thoughts centering on James Devlin. After seven years of misery as Roger Sinclair’s wife, her husband’s death had finally freed her of the bondage of their marriage. Her relief had been short-lived, however, as she’d learned that her wealthy husband had not left her a shilling. Instead, he had bequeathed his entire fortune to the church. He had been hailed a hero in death, as in life.
Fraud. Charlatan.
But still Bella was free, and she would gladly accept poverty over forced servitude to her husband.
No one had suspected the cruelties Roger had inflicted on his pretty, young wife. He had quashed her budding ambitions as a writer—her one passion and desire in life—and he had often threatened to dismiss Harriet in order to control Bella. But his most dastardly deeds had been the incidents of physical abuse when he’d come to her bedchamber intoxicated.
Roger had not stopped there, however, and had successfully isolated her by spinning a web of lies and deceit about his young wife’s mental state. After his death, the townsfolk of Plymouth had been wary and distrustful of Bella. Even the vicar and his wife had turned their backs. Alienated from everyone, Bella had fled.
Her substantial dowry, which had aided Roger in building his investments and wealth, was gone, along with her mother’s jewels. Her mother had died when Bella was an infant, and her father had perished in a carriage accident after her marriage. Bella’s future had seemed precarious. Then she had received word that a great aunt had died childless and had left Bella with a tidy sum of money.
With Harriet by her side, Bella had planned to travel to London and start a new life in the crowd and bustle of the city. Along the way, she had stumbled upon Wyndmoor Manor and had instantly fallen in love with its rolling hills, grassy lawns, working fountain, and elegant manor house. She had pictured herself writing her articles here, free to send them off to any London paper of her choosing.
The closest town of St. Albans was only a day’s coach ride to the city, and she could receive newspapers and easily send and receive mail. Wyndmoor was small for a country property, only a hundred acres, but beautifully kept, and upon inquiry she had been thrilled to discover that the owner was willing to sell, and the rent from the tenants was more than sufficient to maintain the place.
A home at last. Financial independence at last. A life without fear at last.
Bella’s thoughts returned to the present. She rose from the bed and hurried across the bedchamber to a small trunk, the only remaining item from her mother. It was inlaid with an ivory and mother-of-pearl lid that was curved on the top and flat on the underside, and the workmanship of the trunk’s lid was exquisite. Bella stored a miniature portrait of her parents inside along with her books, notes, and unpublished articles and novels, and other important items. Placing the candle on the floor, she lifted the lid and searched until she withdrew a packet of legal documents tied with brown string.
Sitting on the floor, she clutched the papers to her chest and took a deep breath. She forced herself to calmly focus on her future until her courage and determination hardened like a rock inside her. She was no longer a young bride, easily intimidated and dominated. No man would ever take advantage of her or control her again.
Wyndmoor Manor was not just her home now, but her salvation.
And whether or not James Devlin was truly the Duke of Blackwood, if he believed he could easily take it all away, then he best be prepared for the fight of his life.
 
 
James stormed into his room at the Twin Rams Inn. The door slammed against the wall causing a cheap print to clatter to the floor.
His manservant jumped out of the chair in which he was sleeping. “What’s amiss?” Coates shouted.
James cursed. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”
“Waiting up for you.”
The candle Coates held burned low, and the room was dim. James stalked forward and promptly walked into an end table.
“Damn!” James cursed again and rubbed his bruised thigh.
Coates rushed to light a lamp.
“I need a drink.” James hobbled to the chair Coates had previously occupied and sat.
Coates hurried to pour a whiskey and handed the glass to James. “What happened tonight, Your Grace?”
“Don’t call me that! You’ve called me Devlin for the past ten years.”
An amused gleam lit Coates’s eyes. Indeed, Coates had been James Devlin’s manservant since James had completed his pupilage at Lincoln’s Inn and had become a barrister. Coates had found James’s new title as a duke quite humorous and loved to tease his master about the strange turn of events over the past two weeks.
“You were supposed to go to Wyndmoor Manor,” Coates said.
“I did.”
“And that’s why you’re in such a foul mood?”
“No. My mood is due to a female.”
Coates nodded. “That makes sense. Is a disgruntled husband or lover responsible?”
James scowled. He knew he had a reputation when it came to women. Simply put, James loved them. Famed courtesans, bored married ladies, lonely widows, eager female clients ... society had names for men such as he—rakes, rogues, and womanizers. His free-loving mindset had gotten him into trouble in the past, but he had successfully fought more than one duel with a disgruntled husband. James avoided the marriage-minded ladies of the
ton
like the plague, and he always found delight when uptight matrons ushered their virginal daughters from the room upon seeing him at certain society functions.
But that wasn’t what had occurred tonight.
“It’s not what you think, Coates. I entered Wyndmoor Manor only to find it occupied.”
“Occupied? By whom?”
“An infuriating female who claims she owns the place.”

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