Unveiling Love (11 page)

"Not your war, but something just as dark." James dipped his head. "Something evil."
 

"Well, you've said what you needed to say." Barrington reached into his desk for a quill and a bottle of ink. After jotting down a set of instructions, he offered the cut of foolscap. "Take this note to my solicitor early in the morning. I need him to have Miss Miller followed. She's afoot in something truly evil happening now. At least I can protect her."

"Yes, sir." James tucked the folded paper into his jacket. He lingered a moment, then pulled a silver tray from behind his back. A single piece of stationery lay on it. "This was spared."

The fragrance of burnt wood filtered from the page. Bringing it near, the lines of gray and black became clear. It was a sketch of a nightingale. A little smudged, edged with gravy, but beautiful. Barrington's heart pounded hard. "You found this? Where?"

"On the floor next to your seat. I think Mrs. Norton made it for you."

She'd started to sketch again. This would be the first time he'd seen anything of Amora's since he left to fight in the Peninsula. The hollow feeling in Barrington's chest deepened. His being late and her awakening in the dark gave her nightmares. Would it make her avoid the arts again?
 

"Goodnight." James lumbered through the threshold and shut the door.

Barrington exhaled. He opened a drawer and rummaged inside until he found the original sketch. The beautiful drawing she made for him, memorializing their first kiss.
 

He held the two images side by side. The new one favored the older one, but felt more somber. The eyes of the bird were vacant, with large soulless pupils. A difference of years. A difference in attitudes.

Barrington pounded his skull, anger at himself boiled over. Stewing over Cynthia's testimony about Gerald and Amora's two months away, he wasn't ready to come home. He chose to go with Hessing to discuss the law. All to avoid being where he was needed, where he should've been.

The sketches floated down from his palm, landing on the open Bible. He'd let Amora down, just like the night of the miscarriage.

And again God was nowhere to be found.

Amora paced inside her bedchamber. The Dowager Clanville's ball. How would she and Barrington endure it?
 

The satin of her slippers puckered about her toes as she spun and headed back to the window. The ride to the dowager's house might last an hour. What would she say? Another sorry just seemed tired, like wasted air. Well, maybe it would be his turn to say those words. Would he admit to an affair with Cynthia?

And if he did, what would she do? If she were her mother, Henutsen Tomàs, he'd be shot clean through. Amora rubbed her temples remembering her mother's temper and her accuracy with weapons.

 
She shook herself, hopefully forcing reason to rattle and show itself within her head. Cynthia's perfume didn't mean an affair, just that he'd seen her. Knowing the singer, she'd find ways to hang on to him just to leave her scent like a skunk.

Amora would make amends by being a perfect wife at this ball. The music and the gentle candlelight, dancing with Barrington…these things should keep her spirits high. James said to seek the light. A well lit ballroom could be the answer.

She folded her arms and slumped against the window. That wasn't what the good man-of-all-work meant.
 

Seeking light. Why? The Anglican's god hadn't forgiven her. Crying out against Him for taking Papa equaled an abduction. Not telling Barrington before they married equaled the loss of their child. When would her debts be canceled?
 

Sunday church service would be at the end of the week. Maybe those candles lighting the pews would work. Could Barrington's god offer a truce and not take anything else away?

Better yet, maybe Barrington will forget to go, like last week. It seemed as if he'd been finding ways to miss church. She wondered why.
 

Maybe she should seek out her mother's gods. Didn't nature take care of her, even feed her in evil's clutches? That would be Geb's domain, since he was god of the earth. Mother said his idols were wise and caring. Surely better to her than Papa's and Barrington's god. And Geb loved his goddess wife.

The knock at her door made her jump.
 

She steadied her hand along her simple pearl necklace and strengthened her voice. "Come in."

Barrington sauntered inside, elegant as ever in his fine onyx coat and white stockings. He stopped and gazed at her.
 

Hopefully, she looked well. She was wearing his favorite of her summer dresses, a light blue gown with plenty of lace on its bodice, and beading on the neckline.
 

"You look lovely." His hand went to his neck.
 

Why did he already don his hat? "When did you get home? I didn't see you arrive."

His gaze lowered. He picked at lint on his sleeve. "I've been here for a couple hours. I've been thinking about tonight. I don't want you unhappy or under strain."

"I'm
sorry
about last night." The s word grated her nerves.

He stepped close, bent and gave her a peck on the cheek. "You don't like these crowded events, so you don't have to go."

What? She hugged his waist, gripping him tightly. Joy warmed her insides. "We are staying in. Oh, Barrington. This is wonderful."

He pulled her hands away. The smile on his face disappeared, replaced by a tight line that formed on his lips. "No, I'm still attending. I know how miserable they make you and I don't want you burdened."

He meant to leave without her. She retreated and clasped her arms. "I don't understand. We always go to the Dowager's dinners."

 
"The woman depends upon me. Between her and my colleagues, the conversation about politics and trials, I won't be able to spend much time with you. Why should you fret when you can be safe at home?"

Pain struck her heart. This was about last night. "I won't throw the dowager's plates." She covered her mouth. That came out too harshly. "I won't bring shame upon you in public. I promise."

"I'm trying to be considerate and still meet our social obligations." He came near and lifted her chin. "Next week, I'm going to free my schedule. We'll travel to Cornwall."

She squinted, staring into his blank gray irises. Could he be serious? No work. No Cynthia. "Cornwall, where we had our wedding trip?"

"Yes. If I can arrange the same rooms, I will."
 

There were lines under his eyes. He seemed dour, anxious. She couldn't tell what he thought, but something wasn't right.

"Why, now? I've asked for us to go away a dozen times."

He stroked a loose curl from her chignon. "I want you to be relaxed. Perfectly calm and safe, like you were when we wed. Then you'll be able to tell me everything about your disappearance. I have to know. Maybe your nightmares will arrest if you share all the details.

"Everything about the abduction? All that I can remember?"

A brow popped up. He stepped away. "Yes, I need to know it. Once you tell me about the disappearance, we can put it behind us and come back united."

Why did he keep saying
disappearance
as if she hid as in a child's game? Her limbs shook as anger twisted her insides. She vanished but not by choice. Did Barrington not believe her?

He pulled her into his arms and snuggled her against the damask silk of his waistcoat. The shiny ivory buttons brushed her lips.
 

"All will be forgiven then, beefsteaks, beaus, everything." He kissed her forehead and pivoted to the door. "Don't wait up."

He left. She sank onto the chair next to her vanity. She should be happy not have to endure the thick crowds of the ball, but her fist closed. Barrington doubted her abduction. He didn't trust her anymore, especially in public.

Amora leaned her cheek on the cold glass. Three days ago, he held and kissed her, loved her as if they were beginning anew. Now what would she do? How long before he sent her away? Maybe that was what this trip was about? Mama was right. Barrington hated her because of the truth.

Going home to Mama was not something to wish upon an enemy. There was no place for her, and she couldn't be one of those wives who averted their eyes to their husband's dalliances for baubles. Defeated, she closed her eyes.

An hour or so later, Mrs. Gretling sauntered inside. "Ma'am, why ye still here? The master left some time ago. You're not feeling well again?"

Sitting up straight, Amora took a slow breath. Appear normal, that's what Mother would say to do. She pressed at the crease stamped on her cheek by the edge of vanity. "Can you help me out of this gown?"

 
Her abigail dropped the blankets she carried and folded her arms. "What are ye doing? Ye are his wife. Ye have to maintain a public face or every evil woman will try to stake a claim on Mr. Norton, including the songstress."

"My husband is in control of his actions." So unlike his wife. She tugged at one of the pins holding the tight twists of her curls.

Mrs. Gretling plodded near and pushed the pin back into the thick folds of her hair. "Ye have to go, ma'am."

Amora pressed her temple. She wasn't wanted, marked by incomplete memories past and lies. "He doesn't want me."
 

She put a hand to her lips. "So
sorry
..."

"Don't give up. Show him ye will fight for this marriage. Be his wife in private and in public."

"What are you talking about?"

The woman plodded to the closet and yanked out gray and pale gowns. "Ye've given up colors for him. Ye fret about disappointing him. Ye're dancing on eggshells. It's not good."

Mrs. Gretling neared and picked up the lacy shawl from the bed. "Ye have fire, Mrs. Norton. To toss a beefsteak across the room, ye got it."
 

She took Amora's hands. "It's in yer veins, but ye've been putting it to sleep. Yer mother says you're in line to the Pharaohs. Be your own Moses and free yourself. Maybe if ye let ye self be free, the nightmares wouldn't come anymore."
 

How could she regain his respect if she wilted all the time? She stood from the vanity and tugged on her gloves. "What if he orders me to go?"
 

Mrs. Gretling draped the shawl about Amora's shoulders. "I will be waiting outside. Even the short appearance will stop any rumors. And the master cares too much about what people say to do that. He'll know not to take ye for granted. Show him the Pharaoh in ye."

Proud like Mama? No, proud like Papa. He never hid, and if his life hadn't been stolen, he would have stopped the gossip. Together they would have walked through the village of Clanville with heads held high. He'd believed her, without question.
 

She'd go, not for Barrington, but for Papa. He didn't raise a Tomàs who hid from battle, one without fire. The girl who fought the monster couldn't be gone.

Barrington bent his head and talked more nonsense to some chattering miss. From witnessing Cheshire's disappointment to reliving his argument with Amora, he couldn't focus. No records of port had been located. The duke wasn't happy, and his devotion to finding answers for his duchess was palatable. New love was best.
 

Dying love was the worst. It dwarfed every thought and made every insecurity a man could possess grow.

Amora's frown saddened him. Excusing her from attending the Dowager's ball should've made her happy, but it didn't. Why couldn't he please her?

The wail of the violin drowned the young lady's dribble about a play or did she mention Prinny. Something with a P.

He'd never been so distracted. Months of planning for a son dashed and now this
abduction
business.

Who was the man with whom Amora disappeared? What did she mean,
what she could remember
? Getting her to admit the truth had to happen as soon as possible, or he might start having nightmares and throwing beefsteaks.
 

The thought that she might've fancied anyone else enough to run away with them stabbed at his vanity. His heart had been broken with her lie, so vanity was all he had left. It needed to be protected.

Trying to laugh at himself had become more difficult. The feeling of losing was difficult for a winning barrister. But Barrington wasn't stupid. He was losing Amora and he didn't know why.
 

Could the nightmares be bringing back her love for the man she ran away with? The affair turned dark, enough to traumatize her. There had to be something keeping her in bondage. Guilt couldn't account for all her fears, the unease in her spirit.
 

He released a strong sigh. No matter how it began, there was a blackguard out in the world who needed to be beaten to edge of his life for hurting Amora.

"Mr. Norton? Mr. Norton?" The blonde tapped his folded arms. "You haven't stated your preference?"

Oh, a nod wouldn't do. He relaxed his forearm, dragging them behind his back. "The first?"

"I knew you liked the theater." She smoothed the tufted sleeve, an indeterminate color of green or blush. Nothing like the blue Amora wore.

She looked so beautiful in his favorite of her gowns. The contrast of the lace trimming the pleats in her bodice and the slick sarcenet always made his fingers tingle. Maybe she could wear it to Cornwall. Maybe they could begin again. Could he truly forgive her?
 

Whatever the truth, an abduction or a scandalous seduction, he needed to know. James was right. Until things were resolved, dragging her to these events would not be well.

Barrington timed his exit from the chattering miss to the end of the musician's set and headed for air.

 
As he pressed on the balcony doors, the strains of an argument filtered through the crack. The sharp tones soon blended with the start of a pianoforte.

Barrington craned his ear. Who could so openly find disagreement at the Dowager's ball? He peeked through the curtains.