The magistrate sighed, reading over the evidence in front of him as everybody waited with bated breath. He looked up at one point; eyes narrowed at Abigail and then continued to read.
Putting the papers aside, he faced the court.
“I have looked through the evidence and weighed the testimonies of all who have taken the stand today.” His eyes flicked towards the earl and Abigail’s heart sunk.
“Having done that, it is my opinion that Miss Abigail Thorne is guilt—”
“Before you continue with your verdict Your Honor, I should like to say something.”
Abigail turned, her body freezing in shock at this new development. There was a man standing at the door, distinguished, with salt and pepper hair, meticulously groomed. He was fairly tall, though not as tall as Percival, and looked vaguely familiar. He took a step toward the magistrate and then another. Abigail noticed he had a slight limp.
No.
All the blood drained from her face in disbelief. She looked back at her mother and uncle. The former looked scared while the latter looked resigned.
Did they know about this?”
“And just who dares interrupt the court?”
The man stopped right by Abigail’s chair, turning his head slightly to wink at her.
“My name is Reginald Sinclair, Your Honor, and I have evidence pertinent to these proceedings.”
If Abigail had been standing she would have fallen to the floor. Her mother’s hand on her shoulder, squeezing so tight it hurt, grounded her a little.
The magistrate frowned. “Reginald Sinclair? Why is that name familiar?”
Lord Huntington got to his feet. “It is because he is a notorious criminal, my lord, one who was presumed dead.”
Reginald Sinclair waved his hand airily. “Reports of my death have been vastly overestimated.” He turned to the earl. “Especially by old Benedict here.”
There was uproar in the courtroom at this blatant disrespect. Reginald stood nonchalantly, waiting for it to dissipate.
The magistrate banged his gavel and the room fell silent. “Perhaps you should explain yourself before I have you arrested for disrupting my court.”
Reginald bowed. “Gladly, Your Honor.”
He turned to face the gallery, filled with members of the press, the public and other interested parties. “Twenty-six years ago, Lord Huntington was done up and sought out cent per centers to recoup his losses. When he could not repay the loan, he went to his friend, Edward Montagu, for help. But Lord Huntington was punting on River Tick and His Grace was not a bottomless pit of charity. There was only so much he could do to help. Lord Huntington was angry with His Grace, they fought, and Benedict accused His Grace of deliberately withholding his help because of jealousy. You see, Montagu and Hoskins once vied for the affections of the same woman.” His eyes fell on Lady Huntington. “His Grace asked the Earl to leave and not return.
“Meanwhile, Lady Stanley became a widow with a young son and even though her late husband had left her a jointure, it apparently was not enough for her needs.”
There was a growing murmuring among the listeners. Reginald ignored them while Abigail watched open mouthed. There was a ringing in her ears.
My father is alive? He is here?
“They not only wanted to recoup their losses, but also to control His Grace’s finances, have access to his titles, and the properties that were not entailed. Furthermore, they wanted his son, as the next Duke, to marry Lady Rosaline in order that his descendants would be under their control. So they came to me, and asked me to kill the Duke and his wife.”
The uproar in the courtroom was at a crescendo. Reginald kept talking and the quietness of his voice did more to end the noise than all the magistrate’s banging on his gavel.
“It was that or lose all his property and have his family on the street. You see, he signed a paper with the impost takers, giving over his property in exchange for a large sum of cash. He managed to hold them off by paying them slowly with money skimmed off the Duke’s family income for years, with Lady Stanley’s compliance. But then, a twist in the tale; the son rejects Lady Rosaline and marries a commoner. They could not have that, so they made plans to frame the poor woman and get her out of the way.”
The magistrate seemed unimpressed by the new allegations and his face showed it. Abigail feared that her father—her father!—had just exposed himself for nothing. She could not stop looking at him. Her mother’s hand was digging into her shoulder. She might have permanent scars from how tightly she was holding on.
“That is not all.” The new voice had the whole court craning their necks to see who was speaking.
Abigail turned in time to see Percival’s eyebrow cock in surprise as his cousin walked down the aisle to the front of the court. The word of a gentleman would certainly hold more weight than that of a criminal.
“A few weeks ago, I sought my mother out at the Northcott townhouse. I entered the house without announcing myself because I knew there was no butler in residence at the time to let me in. I walked up the stairs to put down my bag and was taken aback to hear voices from my mother’s chambers. One was male and one was female and curiosity pulled me to see who they were. Imagine my shock when I beheld my mother, in flagrante with no other than the Earl of Huntington.”
There was shouting in the courtroom at this. Reginald stood next to Abigail’s chair, a smile on his face as he looked down at her.
“In spite of the circumstances, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He murmured quietly.
Abigail simply stared.
Henry continued to speak. “Much worse was in store for me because I heard them plotting the demise of the Duchess should their dastardly plot to frame her not work.”
Lady Stanley got to her feet. “Henry!”
He turned to face her. “I am sorry, Mother, but I could not just let this go on.”
The magistrate sighed. “Evidently, there has been a fair bit of chicanery going on here and in light of this new evidence, I have to declare the accused innocent of all charges.
Abigail slumped in relief.
“However, arrest Reginald Sinclair on the charge of murder.”
The guards got to their feet to catch the brigand and only then did they all notice that he had disappeared into thin air, using the commotion that followed the shocking declarations to slip away unnoticed.
Abigail got to her feet, turning to Percival, who reached her in two steps, enveloping her in his arms.
“Percival,” she whispered.
“I know, my dear. Hold on to me. I will take care of you.”
Epilogue
Eight Months and Two Weeks Later
Abigail clutched at her mother’s arm with a grip as strong as iron. “Aaah! It hurts, Mama, make it stop.”
“Shh, my darling. Just a little more. Push just a little more. His head is almost out.”
“I can’t, Mama! I can’t.”
“You can, darling. And you will. Your child is depending on you.”
Abigail let out a loud, piercing wail.
* * *
Percival paced the hallways restlessly while Philip and Reggie Sinclair watched him with amusement. “The baby is killing her.”
Reggie snorted derisively. “No one who is dying could possibly scream that loud.”
“We should have had a sawbones in residence. This is a terrible risk.”
Philip sighed, rolling his eyes. “Madame Shelby is a very capable midwife.”
“Then why is Abigail screaming so loudly?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with her pushing a baby out of her body.”
Both Reggie and Philip snickered with amusement at Philip’s comment. Percival turned around to glare at them.
“If you cannot take this seriously, perhaps you should leave.” He growled.
“And miss the birth of my first grandchild? You must be dicked in the nob.”
A beaming Joan emerged from the bedchamber. “The baby
is here. It’s a boy!”
A cheer went up in the hallway and Reggie promptly began to pass out cigars. At the end of the hall, the servants hovered anxiously, equally hungry for news.
“It’s a boy!” Joan said louder so that they could hear. A cheer went up and they disappeared to notify the kitchens.
“Can I see them?” Percival asked.
“Of course. Come with me.”
Percival followed her with trepidation, his heart pounding triple-time. Abigail lay crumpled on the bed, her hair every which way, face wet with sweat, and her night rail askew. She looked absolutely beautiful, her face radiant as she stared down at a little bundle in her arms.
She looked up as she heard his footsteps, fairly beaming at him.
“Look. It’s our son.”
Percival went to his knees in worship, staring from the boy to his mother, unable to fathom that one human being could contain so much love and not absolutely combust with joy.
“Our son…” he repeated, reverently reaching out a finger to touch his downy head. He made a sound and Percival jumped, snatching his finger back.
“Is he all right?”
Abigail laughed with joy. “He is perfectly fine. Would you like to hold him?”
Percival looked uncertainly up at Joan, not sure that this was a good idea at all.
“Go on.” She urged with soft eyes overflowing with tears, and Percival reached out carefully to take hold of his son.
“What shall we call him?” Abigail asked as Percival stared down in fascination at the small human being in his arms.
“We shall name him Edward for my father,” he replied, soft and sure.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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Wicked Temptations for the Seduced Duchess
About the Book
Because ultimately, love is stronger than any feud known to man.
Rebellious and willful, Lydia Bradford grows up listening to her father, Duke of Greenwick, recite stories about their feud with the Summerhills. When a striking young man suddenly lands on their doorstep, she is immediately enticed.
An obscure aggressor is out for his blood and Edward Godwin is running for his life. Waking up after a fierce attack, he finds himself in an unfamiliar manor. Unable to recall that he is, in fact, the Duke of Summerhill, he finds work there as a stable boy.
With his life threatened by the minute and his family looking for him, all clues lead to a mysterious woman who claims to be Edward’s secret lover...but that is only part of the riddle.
Forgotten but never undone, an olden mistake returns from the grave to torment them, making Lydia and Edward realize they are on borrowed time.
Chapter 1
I am being hunted like a common fox in the brush.
Edward dragged in harsh breaths as he forced the horse onwards. Darkness crept in shadowed tendrils from the horizon, where the sun was in the throes of its daily death. An inky haze swept across the sky, whilst the last bolds of blood-red and bronzed-orange sunset sparked up like dying embers.
He did not stop even as light was fading. He could never stop, not whilst the hunt was upon him.
He had noticed the rider on his path to Summerhill Hall, which now belonged to him. Indeed, the rider had stood between him and his home. There had been no choice but to ride away.
After his father’s tragic demise to the grip of this winter’s pneumonia, the full weight of the dukedom now rested on his shoulders. No easy task, made all the more difficult by the pursuit of an unknown enemy.
For his own part, he had never wanted the dukedom for himself. He lacked the maturity and the desire for responsibility, wishing it had fallen to his younger brother, James, instead. All he wanted was to hunt and gamble and indulge in the exploits of any young man. James had always been the one who sought power, and yet peerage dictated that the title should fall to the eldest…him, in this case.
Edward stared ahead, trying to pick out the shadow that lurked in front of the gates to Summerhill Hall. He had just returned from London, to find this figure waiting. Edward did not venture into the city much, but necessity had prompted him to pay a visit to an old debtor in London, whom he owed after an ill-fated game of whist. The rider did not seem to have good intentions. Fearing he might be apprehended, Edward turned his horse and headed through the countryside in a grip of terror.
The Summerhills were not well-liked, but Edward himself had not done anything to inspire ire in anyone he knew. Not that he could remember, anyway. And yet, he sensed that this rider intended to do him great harm.
In his brief glimpses at his assailant, he had noticed pistols flashing beneath the rider’s long, black coat. His would-be enemy wore a cloth over the lower part of his face to hide him from sight. That only increased Edward’s terror, for who would bother to mask themselves unless they meant ill will upon him?
“Faster, Silver!” he urged.
Edward dug his heels in and urged his silver gelding down an endless labyrinth of country roads. He had not passed anyone for at least an hour, though he feared it would do him no good, even if another rider were to come his way. If he stopped, even for a moment, he knew it might give his pursuer the chance needed to end Edward with one of those pistols. Wearing a mask, his attacker did not need to fear witnesses. “He wore a mask of black,” they would say. “I could not make him out clearly.”
I am riding for my life.
It was a stark and horrifying realization, but one he could not ignore. Worse still, Edward was not armed. If the rider caught up to him, he had no means of defending himself, save for his own bare hands. How far they would get him, he did not know, for he was not a born pugilist like his brother. He could fight when necessary, but he had always lacked the skill to win.
He rode endlessly, until complete darkness flooded the countryside. He could barely pick out the road ahead of him though Silver kept him on course.
To either side of him, vast, black fields stretched away to the limits of his view. The pale glow of the crescent moon barely cast any illumination upon his surroundings. How he longed for a full moon to light his way.
With every beat of his horse’s hooves, he heard it echoed in the distance by the thunder of his assailant. He was not relenting, and neither could Edward. One tumble, one misstep, and he would be done for.
Stay steady, Silver. For both of our sakes.
He charged onwards as the night’s cold air whipped at his cheeks. He could feel his horse tiring beneath him, its mouth frothing, and steam rising from the beast’s hide as it galloped on dutifully. Silver would not stop until he fell to the ground, but Edward worried how much longer the beast could keep up such a speed.
Then again, if his horse was struggling, his pursuer’s animal had to be too.
Who are you?
He turned over his shoulder once more but could see nothing in the darkness behind him. All he could hear were the hooves that echoed constantly, matching the rapid beat of his heart. He did not know why he was being trailed like prey, and he did not want to find out.
As he rode, he thought of all the enemies made by his father and grandfather but could not come up with any suitable adversary. After the shady past that had followed his grandfather, Francis Godwin, through and into old age, the ton had all but forgotten about the Summerhill dynasty. They had forgotten the unpleasantness with Alexandra Bradford, the Duchess of Greenwick, and shunned the Summerhills in favor of the elite who had not displayed such disgraceful behavior.
It had affected his late father when he had gone in pursuit of a wife, but he ha
d married well enough with the daughter of a Scottish Earl. News of the Summerhills had not reached so far north, and Edward knew he would do well enough for himself, when the time came for him to find a suitable lady.
He was handsome, with dark blonde hair and blue eyes, and a dusting of quaint freckles across his nose and cheeks. Plus, he had a tall height that many ladies admired. He was not as broad as some gentlemen, but he had encountered enough flirtation from fine ladies not to worry too much. Besides, he was in no rush to marry.
Spotting a fork in the road, Edward turned his horse down it and felt the change in the ground’s texture beneath his horse’s hooves. The hard-packed earth had given way to the spongy quagmire of oversaturated mud. Still, he pressed on, though he could no longer hear the beat of hooves behind him.
Secret Confessions 0f The Enticing Duchess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 29