Unveiling Love (3 page)

"She only found out recently that she is of mixed races. Now, I need to give her as much information as possible. But this must be kept discreet. Not everyone is of an open mind. I thought surely you would be."

Barrington knew how narrow his world was. People sized up his race before anything else. That was why he pushed so hard for truth, for perfection. He'd long become the model for that one different friend, or the sole ideal the reformers proclaimed in fighting for the end of slavery or expanding education. Being the only was a heavy load, a gun cocked waiting to misfire.
 

Tugging on his tailcoat, Barrington hid his growing disappointment. "I'll think on it, your grace and send word."

Cheshire pounded closer. "It will be a great favor to me if you agree to take this upon yourself."

Barrington knew exactly what that meant. It was always better to have powerful allies than enemies. He nodded. "Yes, I will look into it. I cannot promise you anything."

"That's better than nothing. Thank you, Mr. Norton."

Barrington bowed and rotated. He walked down the corridor. It would have been nice to be singled out because of his abilities not his blood.
 

Yet, with ambition stirring in his veins, he'd use this assignment to prove his capabilities. The duke would see that Barrington was more than just in similar straits as the new Duchess of Cheshire.

When her husband reappeared at the entrance to the party, his face held a long frown; similar to the one he'd brought earlier to Mayfair. Amora's heart clenched. The meeting must not have gone well. What could she say to lift his spirits, to reassure him of his worth despite what the Duke of Cheshire said?

She rose from her seat to go to him. Forget this party. She'd tend to his spirits at home. They should leave now.

When she neared, he plastered his face with a short, tight smile. He surely meant it to keep her from fretting, but that never worked. She and anxiety were soul mates. "Are you ready to leave, dearest?"

His lips puckered as if to answer, but his gaze lifted. His eyes narrowed on someone. "Beakes?"

She turned and winced with frustration. His solicitor, Mr. Beakes headed directly toward them. The man embodied work, more time for Barrington to be somewhere else where he could be injured or worse.

Beakes rent his chocolate greatcoat, putting large gloved hands to his lapels. "Mr. Norton, you have to come with me. Smith. He's asking for you."

A long blast of air left her husband's nostrils. "Smith? I just left him this afternoon. Tell him I will see him in the morning before court."

The man tapped his foot, then shook his head from side to side. "He won't be alive in the morning. Well, not for long. He's going to the gallows tomorrow."
 

Barrington wrenched the back of his neck. His shoulders slumped. "That wasn't supposed to be for a month."

Beakes shrugged. "Change happens. What do I tell him?"

"Y-e-s. I told him, I'd come if asked. I'll return to Newgate after I drop my beautiful family home." Barrington's voice sounded strained, weighted with obligation. But at which part, Newgate or family? "In an hour or so, I'll visit him."

The solicitor stepped forward pulling at his saggy cravat. He looked very grim with bushy furrowed brows and downturned lips. "He says he wants to tell you that truth. You're not going to risk him changing his mind over a delay?"

What did that mean, and why did Mr. Beakes seem to point his beady eyes at her?

"I'll take Mrs. Norton home, right away for you." The sing-song voice of Cynthia Miller filtered near. The woman clad in a low clinging bodice of bright yellow traipsed near. Her ruby hair reflected the candlelight from the wall sconce. Not a tendril out of place on the vixen.

"How good of you." Barrington clasped Amora's hand. "Please understand. I'll be to Mayfair as soon as I can."

"It's not trouble for me to help, Mr. N-oor-ton." The breathless way Cynthia said his name made the flames in Amora's middle more acute. Would the singer's two-faced tricks to lure Barrington start again?

Forgetting the vixen, Amora reached up and caressed his cheek. She so wanted to be understanding. "Is it that dire?"

Her husband's light eyes had faded even more. He tugged at his lapel and adjusted the brilliant gold pin, his grandfather's gift for acceptance into Lincoln's Inn. "Smith lied to protect someone. If I'd known the truth, I could've helped. An innocent man is going to die in the morning. I have to go to him."

How terrible! Breathless, hurting for him, Amora drew her hand to her mouth.
 

"If I'd had more time to organize my notes the morning of the trial, I am sure I would've seen the lies. I would've made him admit it. If I'd left…" Barrington's voice became muffled. His Adam's apple shook as he coughed.

The unspoken words stopped her heart.
If he'd left Mayfair on time
. If he hadn't attended his needy wife. This killing would be her fault. When would deaths stop being her fault?

He slid his fingers about her palm and drew the union to his chest. "Please be understanding. If he must die, he should have the opportunity to admit to everything, to go to glory with a clean heart."

No, some secrets should die, never to be said aloud. Amora thought this, felt this everyday with every nightmare. "Will you be very late?"

Mr. Beakes tugged his shoulder. "Time is of the essence. I have to catch up to the runners. There will be another good criminal catch tonight."
 

Barrington shrugged, then kissed her forehead. "I'll try not to be too late, but this may take a while."

Cynthia gripped Amora's arm. "Run along, Mr. Norton, and don't forget my debut performance week's end. Though you are the busiest barrister, you and Mrs. Norton must attend. It would be like having my brother there." Her tone pitched then lowered like a sorrow-filled harp. "Yes, having Gerald back would be so nice. You must come."

Barrington's lips turned up, then his countenance blanked again. "You're a dear, a credit to your great, late brother, Gerald Miller. Miller was such a good man, but Mrs. Norton can tell you of my work ethic."
 

On that, Amora could write pages. "No one is as dedicated. Be careful."

"Always." After a kiss to her fingers, he let go of Amora's hand and followed Mr. Beakes.

As she watched her husband, the dedicated barrister, wade through the crowd, sadness whipped through her, spinning her mind like a cyclone. Her palm dropped to her abdomen. Would their family be a priority to him, or another jot on his appointment list?
 

This son wouldn't be in second place for his doting father. Could she truly be happy if at least something of hers took first place in Barrington's heart?

She blinked away the anxiety building inside her mind, pricking her conscience. He was doing what he felt he must for his career, for their family. With a short breath, she placed a smile to her lips to avoid inciting Cynthia's questions. With this baby, Amora and Barrington would be happy. They just had to be.

The guard fumbled with his heavy keys unlocking the iron door to Smith's cell. Barrington fumed. The gaoler was nowhere to be found, so no answers to why Smith's execution would be rushed. What had changed? And by whose orders?

Finally, the lock clicked. The guard flung the door open, allowing Barrington inside. Smith looked pale, white like the cuffs on Barrington's evening shirt. "You've come, Mr. Norton. I didn't think you would."

Barrington took off his hat and pitched it onto the table. "I am a man of my word. I'm here. Tell me the secrets that has sealed your fate."

The condemned fellow put down the Bible leaves. His fingers shook. "Does hanging hurt much?"

"Not for long. You'll hardly notice when you get the swing of it."

Smith's lips twitched in a half-smile as he nodded.
 

Trudging to the window, Barrington glanced at the finished platform. Smith's execution would begin at dawn. He fixed his gaze on the cart just outside the window bearing white hoods, the ones that would be draped on the prisoner before affixing the noose. As if a heavy weight sat upon his chest, he inhaled hard forcing air inside his lungs. "You asked for me. I said I would come. I left my wife to be here, so tell me now why you are dying? Maybe I could rouse the Lord Justice to stay this execution."

The rag thin man lifted red rimmed eyes to him. "Barrister, I think it's unfair to die for coining. They should save the noose for true villains like the Dark Walk Abductor."

The man still wanted to talk foolishness. Barrington could be escorting his wife home, enjoying holding her until she slept. Amora had looked so beautiful in her lavender gown, the soft neck frill that fluttered when they danced. It was pure happiness slipping his fingers against the sweet texture of the fine pearls beading her bodice, sculpting the gentle rounding of her abdomen.
 

She was finally to bear him a child, a son to father. Barrington would be nothing like his own drunken one. No, he'd be a source of pride, not constant ridicule. A sigh sputtered out, releasing a portion of the disappointments filling his lungs.

With a grunt, he stopped his woolgathering and turned his attentions back to Smith. "Coining is an offense against the Crown."

"And abducting and killing women, ain't?"

"All the laws must be obeyed, not just the ones we like. Believe me, if they find the fiend, and the magistrate's runners or the vigilantes don't tear him apart, he will see justice. But I believe it a fantasy like a ghost tale, made up to cover ghastly crimes or wanton runaways."
 

Smith's eyes widened. The man looked as if he'd choked on his tongue. "Ain't no fantasy. He's real. The crimes are real."

A tingle set in Barrington's ribs. His internal truth detector niggled. Smith wasn't dying for coining, but something worse. Folding his arms, Barrington decided to indulge him and softened his tone. "That's an old crime. No one's likely to pay almost two years out."

"He's been doing it for at least seven. Maybe more. Not sure if he stopped."

Barrington's ears perked up. His blood heated to full boil. "What are you talking about?"

"I was paid to help him. That's why I die tonight. And if I'd said more, my only brother, he'll die too. My brother is all I have left. That's why I lied. I do deserve death for what I've done, for being in league with the devil. But my brother, he's got a young family. Mouths to feed."

Barrington paced over to Smith and grabbed him up by the shirt collars, shaking the miserable man's bones until they rattled. "What are you saying? You are the Dark Walk Abductor?"

Struggling in Barrington's grasp, the man's head bobbled. "Not me. I don't know his name, but I was in his service."

This was madness.
 

Ramblings.
 

Lies.
 

Evil lies.
 

"Smith, you have me here to spit falsehoods in my face."

"Not lies. When I die, the proof is gone. I contacted him again a couple of months ago 'cause I needed money. He said he'd help. The next thing I know, the coins he gave me were fakes. They found tools in my flat. He sent a note saying he'd help with the charges."
 

Barrington tossed the man on the bench. "Where is this note? I suppose it's gone."

Smith nodded. Barrington's innards burned brighter than the sun, hotter than hell's fire. "This fantasy won't save you."

"I've done some bad things, Mr. Norton. All for coins. So it is fitting I should die for coining."

A hundred and five thoughts pressed Barrington's skull but only three could be uttered aloud and maintain his Christianity. "Why tell me now and set me on this fleeting chase? You should've kept it to yourself. Is this a final revenge on me for your conviction?"

"No. But if there's anyone who can figure it out, it's you. You're smart. I don't know who he is, but he has means. I saw him once, tall, gentlemanly looking. I'm about to pay for my years of silence, but you can make him pay for all the bad he's done."

Recognition of his talents from a condemned man wasn't the acclaim he sought. Nor was being saddled with another man's burden. Barrington already bore enough. Wiping at his forehead, he pivoted toward the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Smith. Thank you for wasting my time."

"The abductor took a woman the night of June 10th. No, the 11
th
, 1813." Almost gagging on his lies, Smith raised his voice higher. "He killed her that night, dumped the body in a ditch. There's got to be a record of her murder. I'm telling you the truth."

A date? That could be checked.
 

"Find him. Before he gets to my brother, too. He won't be satisfied with just me hanging."

The pleading, the confession warbling Smith's voice could not be ignored. Barrington eased his fingers from the bars and rotated to the prisoner. "How can you be so certain of the date?"

"I was there. I drove the carriage. Check the records. You'll see. A woman's body was found on the next morning on the route from London."

"Where were you headed?"

"South. I don't know where. I know he didn't want to kill her there. He had other plans. He--"

Barrington sliced the damp air with his hand. The motion silenced Smith as if he'd struck his windpipe. The perversion never needed to be mentioned outside of the courts. All had heard the rumors of the shameless treatment of the Dark Walk's victims. Were the horrid tales true?
 

He rubbed at the back of his neck and addressed the witness, perhaps the only one to these crimes. "So your testimony is that you contacted the Dark Walk Abductor. How did you do it?"

"I left a message with the barkeep near the docks asking for help, a little money to get on my feet. That's how we always contacted each other. He knows I have a brother. My brother and his wife will be targets."
 

Could Smith be telling the truth? And if he was, did that mean the villain still lived and had the influence to get to Smith, to erect this conviction?