Unveiling Love (10 page)

Cynthia clung to the lapels of his waistcoat. Fear laced her musical voice. "It's Gerald."

"What about your brother?"

She started to cry. "He's alive and in trouble."

Nothing would be better than for the man who saved his life to be alive, but it wasn't possible. Barrington pushed free. "What type of joke is this?"
 

"It's not a joke. He is alive."

His voice strangled. Anger wrapped and crushed his windpipe like a hangman's noose. "Gerald Miller is deceased. I was there when he was shot. He took a bullet meant for me."

"Did you see his last breath?" Sobs mixed with her words. "Did you watch them bury him?"
 

"No, the surgeon was pulling lead out of my hide." His heart ached for his lost friend. What he wouldn't give for this to be true? But it wasn't. "Cynthia, I will take care of this."

"Oh, Barrington." She kissed his cheek and tried to weave her arms about his waist.

He moved her hands and tilted her chin up. "I will find this pretender and turn the fiend over to the runners. He'll never bother you with these lies again."

"No. You mustn't. Gerald is alive, but he'll hang for what they accuse him of." She pulled away and dashed out the room.

Some blackguard had convinced her he was Gerald. Another evil man attempted to hurt a woman, one under his protection. He couldn't save Amora from her fiend. Someone she ran away with for two months. But he'd stop this one. Barrington would make sure the blackguard paid dearly, either through the courts or fisticuffs.

The sound of a creaking board forced a tremor up her spine. Amora wasn't alone in the pitch blackness. She stood and rammed into a wall. Clutching her knees, she sank deeper into the dark corner. No breathing, just hoping the monster hadn't heard her.

"Hello."
 

The muffled voice tried to coax her out of hiding. She willed her heart to beat slower. If she stayed hidden, he wouldn't touch her, not hurt her as he did Sar...

Her temples throbbed. Her lost friend's name sat on her tongue, but she couldn't remember any more of it.

She rubbed the vacant spot on her pinkie finger where Papa's ring once sat and tried to conjure up a plan. Something brave, worthy of the Tomàs blood flowing within her veins.
 

Thump. Thump. Boot heels stopped seven, no six paces away.

Pulse racing, she fingered the smooth wall hoping to pry loose a plank.

"Amora?"

Evil knew her name.
 

The hushed tone sent shivers flooding her skin. She pivoted, reached up and clasped the edge of a heavy flat object. Cold, stone.

"Stay back!" Her voice cracked. The intended warning sounded like a cat's purr.

The large shadow came closer.

She started hurling things--sticks, discs. Anything, she could fit within her palms. In the blackness, she couldn't discern the objects, but he wouldn't hurt her like the others, not without a fight.

"Stop it, Amora."

The swish of a match strike sounded and set a wall sconce ablaze.

She squinted as a cold hard knot filled her middle.
 

Barrington scraped at the gravy clinging to his jacket, chestnut brown on his stark onyx tailcoat. "What has gotten into you?"

Light-headed, Amora rose from her corner and scanned the littered dining room. A spent candleholder and smashed fruit covered the mahogany hardwoods. Splattered walls framed Barrington's 6' 2" limbs. The pale silver paper treatment now bore drippy dark splotches. A piece of potato slipped down to the floor like an oozing snail.

Barrington shook his head and pivoted away from the long table to yank the bell pull.

Mayfair. She was at Mayfair, their London townhome. A puff of relief fled her mouth as she tugged on the itchy neck frill of her gown.

"Answer me." The measured tone contrasted with his tight grip on his collar. He stripped off the tailcoat but even his cravat held stains. A portion of his short cut charcoal colored hair held a dollop of potatoes. He brushed it out with his wrist. "Amora?"

"Sorry." She rounded the dining table and rushed toward him. With a napkin from their spoiled dinner, she sponged his shoulder. "I thought you were ..."

"A burglar?" He grimaced. "I come home late and this is what I get."

Balling the cloth, she reached up and wiped the tip of his nose. Splatter even dotted his spectacles. Yet the plains of his face were smooth, seemingly devoid of emotion. Where was the man who held her yesterday as if he were desperate for her love?
 

The monster took that too.
 

What was next, her sanity?
 

Her eyes stung. "The candle must've gone out while I waited for you."

He wrenched the napkin away. Noisy air fled his nostrils.

His lips pressed together as he thumbed a smear of brown from his cheek. "I understand. All is well."

How could it be? She looked down at the cluttered floor. The sketch she made from spent coal ash, the first drawing in years laid in a pile of broken plates. Destroyed, ruined like their dinner, she couldn't give it to Barrington now.

He must be so tired of her excuses, her nightmares. She sighed. She was tired too.

Barrington lifted her chin. "Was it another dream about the two months you were abducted?"

How did he know how long? She hadn't told him.
 

He pulled her closer. "You can tell me. I won't judge you."

Chrysanthemum scent hovered in his cravat and along his waistcoat. The tart, Cynthia Miller had been in his arms, whispering her sordid gossip.
 

Bunching up her collar, she backed away. He went from loving Amora straight to Cynthia. Did they compare notes and laugh at her?
 

How foolish she was to believe things would change by telling him the truth. Everything had become worse. His wife, the liar, was enough to send him to willing arms.

He scooped wasted vegetables and beefsteaks onto a shard of the broken Wedgewood. His knuckles tightened about the fragment as if he hid anger. "Well if not tonight, then, when you are ready."

With a shrug, she stepped behind Barrington away from the strong arms that should enwrap her and chase away her fear. No, she couldn't admit to being scared and give additional fodder to his mistress confidante. She stooped and picked up broken plates.

Mrs. Gretling marched inside wearing her tartan robe, her graying auburn hair filled with curl papers. "What happened here?"

The housekeeper neared on all fours and took the sharp pieces of china from Amora. Her soft cherry eyes misted. "Don't hurt yourself, Mrs. Norton. I'll have this all cleaned up. Nothing like a good sleep to set things right."

The portly woman was so protective. But nothing would set things right, ever.
 

Barrington neared and lifted Amora to her feet. "Rest. I'll assist the housekeeper."

What could she say after pummeling him with beefsteak, and him smelling like chrysanthemums? She nodded and slipped from the room.

In the quiet hall, she leaned against the wall and watched the flicker of cranberry colored flames fluttering in a sconce.
 

James plodded at the end of the corridor lighting others. He stopped in front of her and lit the one over her head.
 

Within a blink, wonderful light showered her.
 

"Ma'am, if I'd known you had something special planned I would have gotten him home." The burly man bowed his head as if the floor was more interesting than the crazy woman who'd just caused another disaster for his employer.
 

He glanced up, "I would've done that."

His face, ruddy with flecks of henna along his jaw where a beard might grow, glowed in the brightness of the hall. His hair was ebony but hidden beneath the colored powder Barrington had him wear. It was such an old tradition, just like Grandfather Norton's servants. Yet, James never complained. He bore it all with grace.
 

He fingered his silver blue livery and straightened his posture. "Do you need anything?"
 

Nothing that even faithful James could fix. "I've made quite a muddle in the dining room." She pivoted to the stairs. The second level appeared dark and foreboding.

"Wait, Mrs. Norton." He placed a candle in her hand. "I haven't had a chance to light the upstairs yet. This will guide you."
 

Something, maybe understanding, simmered in his deep chocolate eyes.
 

"Thank you. I like the light." She took a step and held onto the railing.
 

"You have to do more than just like it. You have to seek it, fight for it to be in your life."
 

She pivoted and stared at him. Could James understand suffering? "I've no fight left."

"Ma'am?" James's strong voice made her blink and grip the stairs more firmly. "Should I get Mr. Norton?"

With a shake of her head, she charged up the rest of the stairs. Her eyes were too full of water to turn and say goodnight.

With Mrs. Gretling and James tidying up the dining room, Barrington trudged up the stairs to find his wife. He stripped off his fouled waistcoat, swiped a spot of gravy from his ear lobe and put it to his mouth. A hint of garlic and onions danced on his tongue. His wife had prepared his favorite, smothered beefsteaks. Pity it sat in Mrs. Gretling's rubbish bin.

Huffing air through his tight lips, he stood at Amora's sealed door and fingered the panels.
 

Ordinarily, he might've thought she acted out of anger, but the scowl on her countenance possessed wide eyes. Her skin felt clammy. She looked lost, frightened, very frightened. A waking nightmare?

He traced the door knob. Maybe tonight she would tell him she'd run off with a rake for over a month then changed her mind when Barrington arrived late.
 

From all the evidence, Amora's behavior and Cynthia's testimony, that had to be what happened. A sigh fled his lung's empty soul. What else had she not told him?

Wanton Intimacy?

A child borne of lust? Or another one lost?

No more staring at the wood like a witless fool. Answers were in the bedchamber. He shoved open her door.

"Barrington?" Amora bounced up from the floor. "I didn't expect you. You never visit when you are unhappy with me."

His old gut twisted again at the loneliness in her voice. His heart slumped bringing his shoulders too. "I wanted to see if you were well."

"I am." Her foot pattered near a candle set on the ground. What was she planning? To burn the house down?
 

No, she wasn't crazed. And the woman had never done anything out of spite. Not even throw food.
 

Waxy smoke filled his nostrils as he bent, picked up the candle, and set it on the bed table. "You don't need to be fearful or uneasy. I'm not mad any more, but is there more I need...to do?" The words,
more I need to know
, stung his tongue but he just couldn't offer them. He needed to take her away some place remote and safe. Somewhere he could absorb the whole of the sordid affair and figure out how to fix their marriage.
 

She counted her fingers. "I'll be better for the Dowager's ball. You'll be able to depend upon me, but let me be tonight. I need to be alone."

He'd forgotten about his patroness's event. He rubbed his brow. "You do know we can disagree without you looking as if everything were ruined between us."

"I suppose I am to be as accommodating with the things you do wrong." She pushed at her brow. "I just need to sleep. Good night, Barrington."

"You truly want me to leave? That is so unlike you. You usually need me to be about."

A loud sniff sounded. She mated her fingers together. "I realize now why you have to be alone."
 

The fear in her eyes had disappeared. It was replaced by something he couldn't determine. It felt lonely and dry. His own throat clogged. He had to look away. "Good night. Think no more of the beefsteaks. Thank you again for the kindness of it."

He popped outside and fled to the safety of his study. Something was changing between them. She was too upset to say, and tonight he lacked the strength to inquire.
 

How could he ask what else she'd hid from him? Did she only marry him to cover her shame?
 

James came through the door. His gray livery bore perfect creases, amazing after scraping up the Norton's meal. "Is everything well?"

"As well…" Barrington ran a hand through his hair. "See if Mrs. Gretling needs anything."

"Sir, I think…" The man buttoned his lips.

Sinking into his well-worn chair, Barrington waved. "Go ahead. Say your peace."

"You're not fine. Neither is Mrs. Norton."

But what could be done? Barrington swiped at his spectacles. "All incidents are to be forgotten. Make sure my evening coat is pressed. The dowager's ball is tomorrow."

"And Mrs. Norton? You will have her accompany you to an event she takes no pleasure in?"

"My wife should be at my side. It's part of the gift of marriage. For better or worse." This must be the
worse
part. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture, James."

His man yanked out the Bible hidden under the stacks of paper. "When was the last time you sought direction for anything?"

The book splashed open. Creased pages, dog-eared sections lay before him on the clear part of his desk. A few months ago, reading and worshiping started his routine. Now it just reminded him of loss, of failing Amora.

As if just touching the delicate leaves would singe his skin, he leaned back as far from the Bible as possible. "You shepherd me from appointment to appointment. You know my schedule. I've been very busy."

"The missus. She has a haunted look in her eyes, just like the injured militia I tended to coming back from the war. Something dark torments her."

Guilt over her faithlessness. Over a month gone with a rake. His heart ached as if it had just happened, but this wound was five years ago, in the past. He pushed at his brow. "She's never been to war."