Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 3)

by Vanessa Riley

  Barrington shrugged it off and took another hack at his dinner. "That is a good thing to strive for."

  Beakes grabbed his arm, stopping Barrington from taking another dehydrated bite. "Why help a deserter? I know a couple of runners who look forward to bringing him in. And when word gets out that you are in league with the villain, no one will help you."

  The grandfather clock in the corner chimed.

  Barrington shook free and pulled out his pocket watch. Ten o'clock. If he left now, he'd still be on time to Mayfair. For once, he was glad to keep Amora's schedule. Pushing to his feet, he dropped a coin in front of Beakes, then wiped his fingers on a napkin and tossed it down on the table as well. "Well, I'll make sure the next time I see Miss Miller or her brother, I'll tell them you want them to turn themselves in to the magistrate."

  "You don't pay, Norton. The meals are part of my membership."

  "My grandfather taught me to never owe anyone. Even things that are free cost you. Good evening, gentlemen."

  Hessing nodded, though a frown plastered his face.

  Barrington grabbed his hat from the entry and trudged out of the club. The low fog blocked the light of the stars.

  A hard set of footfalls sounded from behind. He spun but saw nothing. He picked up his pace.

  Rotating toward the mews, he trudged onward. When a shadow overtook him, Barrington realized his first mistake. He should've had James waiting for him directly.

  The second was turning his back to the door of the club.

  Before he could evade the blow, something heavy crashed into him. He tripped. Another blow to the base of his skull brought him to his knees. His glasses fell and shattered.

  Barrington pivoted to strike back, but a piece of pipe struck his shoulder knocking him forward. His chest bounced hard against the sidewalk. All the air pushed from his lungs.

  A faceless blob kicked his ribs. Pow. The blow landed soundly right into his hip. "For her!"

  Spittle flopped onto Barrington's face. He couldn't move. He lay with his hands over his skull, trying to protect himself.

  It was good he didn't kill the vicar today. Somebody needed to be with Amora to help raise his child in case Barrington couldn't. A knife blade stabbed him in his side, ushering in pure darkness.

  Chapter Six: A Peek in the Cellar

  Amora pulled the curtain back from the parlor window and stared outside. The fog shrouded her view of the street but there was nothing.

  No carriage.

  No horse team.

  No Barrington.

  She pattered down the hall to his study twice to check the clock on his mantle. It was well past 11:40. He'd never been out this late, not without sending a note. Where was he?

  Her head sagged. She paced again to the parlor, posture slouching. Once more, she wrapped her hands in the curtains and rented them wide. Stillness. Hazy fog blocked most of the light. Nothing to light anyone's path.

  How could he be so late? Barrington didn't break promises, even when he should. Her pulse raced, pounding harder and harder in the quiet town home. Something must've happened.

  She slipped the sheers through her fingers, pushed away from the window curtain and wound deeper into her shawl. Why did her mind work this way? He could be delayed with a client or laboring hard at Lincoln's Inn, not thrown into Newgate. Not hurt.

  He was fine. All was well with him. She started to pace again. Maybe she should paint. Images of trees, Vaux Hall's trees kept popping into her head. She sat down at the large canvas Samuel had retrieved from the attic, but couldn't bear to concentrate. She paced anew.

  She walked at least two miles within the parlor. Her pulse remained even until the gong of Barrington's clock. Another cruel, fretful hour passed and no husband had arrived. Guilt overtook her heart, giving it a mighty squeeze. She'd pushed him away. She'd disappointed him again and again. How could she expect he'd want to come back to her?

  But Barrington Norton was a man of his word. He didn't shift his thoughts like snow blowing in the wind. He was steady and loyal. She should never have treated him as if he had been an adulterer. She should never have pushed him to see how much his love would endure, never should have punished him because of her own failings.

  She shook her head and adjusted her nightgown about her ankles. Not knowing what to do, she traipsed to the stairs and sank upon the lowest one. Sitting here, she wouldn't miss him if he came from the mews or the front entry.

  Waiting for any noise, her thumb traced her belly in the same light manner Barrington did. His baby. She carried their baby!

  The night she told Barrington of being abducted, he held her, made her feel so loved, so accepted. They made another miracle.

  Her fingers trembled, vibrating the fringe of her creamy shawl. Would this baby survive to breathe air? Would she hold this one and feel his tiny heart beating against her bosom? Or would she shed those tears again as the doctor carried him away in soiled blankets?

  A sob stuck in her throat. Another week and this child would just about have outlived the last. Too much can happen in seven days, starting with his father not coming home, never coming home.

  Hyperventilating, she gripped her wrists. Calm down. For the baby, she needed to control her thoughts. Neither of them would survive if she didn't keep her panic at bay.

  After a long breath, she eased her back against the steps. She patted her abdomen and recalled Barrington's angry face from this afternoon. The tightness of his countenance seemed as if the muscles of his jaw would pop.

  But he was alive and well. That was the image she would keep in her head and her heart. "Your father's pretty mad at me."

  She loosened her robe, slacking the sash. "What are we going to do?"

  She distracted herself with counting. Thirteen boards between the edge of her toes and the dimmed wall sconces. It wasn't working. Where was he? What had stopped him from coming home to her?

  A noise creaked from behind. Her heart froze. The cellar door pushed from its frame, exposing an opening. A low moan spilled out.

  Her gaze whipped upstairs. Mama might awaken. Samuel or one of the children could hear. She popped up and pressed the door closed.

  The vicar had stayed to chat with Barrington, hoping he'd return sooner. Then he discovered Mr. Miller. Samuel had looked almost as mad as Barrington, but someone had to check on Mr. Miller after supper.

  What if Miller was in need of help? She looked again up the stairs. It was too late to get Samuel.

  She stroked the door with her fingers tracing the grain. A quick look couldn't hurt anything. Before her mind lost courage, she started into the cellar. Her bare feet slapped against the creaking treads as she descended.

  Samuel had left the sconces burning, so Amora's fears were abated at least for now. Her breathing leveled, her pulse calmed. She could do this.

  A moan…no, a man's tortured cry reached her ear. "Norton? Cynthia?"

  Though Amora could understand the words, the mournful tone sounded like a wounded animal. Was Gerald Miller in pain? Was he crazed?

  She paused mid-step, then straightened her shoulders. She didn't have the luxury of throwing stones, not when she needed answers. Why had she heard Mr. Miller's voice in her captor's cell?

  The answer would prove if the man was worthy of whatever trouble Barrington was in. She had to know.

  "Augh. Help." The moan sounded so harsh, so lonely.

  Amora planted her feet onto the cellar floor.

  A young boy slept outside the door. He was dark with freckles on his nose and a tangle of curly short cropped hair.

  She took off her shawl and wrapped it about him like a blanket. It wasn't chilly down here. Nevertheless, it should bring the boy comfort.

  A smile lifted her lips when he tucked himself into fabric. His small snore lifted the fringe.

  Miller moaned again. Then said, "Nort...on."

  She stood up, listening to the cries. Should a doctor be called?

  Sweat beaded on her bro
w. She'd call one of the leeching class, those evil doctors, if it meant helping someone in pain.

  The groaning became louder. "Nor…ton!"

  If she knew where her husband was, she'd tell. And if he were here, Barrington would be in the cellar, caring for his friend, insisting Amora return to her chambers like an obedient, fragile girl.

  She lifted her head and took another step toward the door. Even a delicate vase when broken had sharp shards. "It will be fine. This man won't hurt me."

  Even if Mr. Miller was in league with her abductor, he didn't sound as if he could cause any more harm.

  Capturing a breath, she pushed on the door.

  As the opening grew bigger, the light of the room illuminated Mr. Miller, emaciated and frail, lying on a mattress. With legs as thin as a fallen branch, he stared ahead. His feet, so small and shriveled, kicked against the blanket. This picture seemed so different from the thin but healthy man who lived in Barrington's shadow.

  Gerald turned his head toward her. He licked his dry lips. "Help…me."

  Heart beating fast, Amora entered and stepped closer. "You're safe here. You have to calm."

  With a limb seemingly out of control, waving from side to side, he grabbed her palm. His hands were leathered and chapped. "Thirsty."

  She broke free. His fingers dropped to the bed. With a quick pivot, she was at the door, but her tongue felt heavy.

  Salty and dry. The same way her mouth became after feeding upon the scraps her abductor left. She'd hoped the monster would return to his senses and free her and the others, or at least given them water. How odd to hope for the devil to come and to hope he repent or die, all at the same time.

  Thirst had dried her tongue then, so much so she couldn't cry anymore. And Amora had a lot of unshed tears. The monster had taken Sarah. She'd consented to his torture, so that he'd free her.

  The screaming, the howling memories in her mind, shook her arms. Amora lifted vibrating fingers to her temples to block out the remembered pain. A voice, mid-range and clear in tone sounded. It was Miller's voice.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the lump on the bed, but she saw him younger, as Barrington's friend, as a man who'd discovered where the abductor kept his victims.

  "You tried to save me and Nan Druby. You're no monster."

  With one look between his long auburn lashes into Mr. Miller's wet eyes, she saw the freshness of his confusion.

  "Druby." His tone sounded so mournful.

  Her heart broke for him. He was another victim, too. She put a shaky hand to her mouth. "You tried to save us, but something went wrong. Some water, I'll get you some water."

  She rushed to the bed table and poured milky medicine smelling liquid from a clay pitcher. Stretching on tippy-toes, she held the mug to his mouth.

  The liquid spilled down his cheek as he gulped. A few beads of it dribbled onto his muslin nightshirt. "Nor-ton?"

  "He's not here. You'll see him in the morning." He'd be back by then, right?

  Miller nodded. The pillow swallowed his skull, cradling the flattened part behind his ear. Her heart clenched. What else could she do to help?

  Whether it was her heart or lips that started singing first, she couldn't tell. But, she started to hum Barrington's song. "Amazing grace how sweet the sound."

  Miller closed his eyes. His lips twitched as if he repeated the word, sweet, then he settled.

  She wanted to press him for the location of her cell, but sat on her hands slowly singing the refrain.

  Miller knew where he'd found Nan Druby and her. And his testimony must be enough to convince Barrington that neither he, nor her abductor was the Dark Walk monster.

  She folded her hands, pulled her feet onto the low rung of the stool and continued to hum. Barrington would return soon. He'd get the answers. He just had too.

  Chapter Seven: What Will He Do For Her

  For her.

  Barrington struggled to move. He had to get to her. Amora. It couldn't be too late. He'd promised her. Oh, God let her be well and not in a panic.

  Something cold and wet hit his eyes. He tried to grab it but as he lifted his arm a burning sensation took hold of his chest. When the rag flopped again on his brow, he focused his energy on the thin flailing wrist mopping his face and caught it. "Amora, you're alright. Please be—"

  "Sir, I am not Amora. Please unhand me."

  "Yes, Norton." The heavier, autocratic voice sounded familiar. "I need you to unhand my wife."

  Barrington released the soft palm and tried to sit up but couldn't. "My glasses please."

  "They're broken, sir," the soft voice said.

  When the blur handed him the broken lenses, he slipped them on moving them to see through the cracks. His pride stung as much as his ribs. A musket hung atop a roaring fireplace. He wasn't at Mayfair, unless his mother-in-law with her Egyptian magic had transformed it into a stately room three times as large and had tossed in a wall of books for good measure. "What?"

  The duke of Cheshire and his wife hovered over him. "You're alright, Norton."

  The duchess tugged on her long sleeves and draped a frilly shawl over her thin limbs. "Mr. Norton, do you feel well enough for tea?"

  Tea? There was no time for tea. There was a thief out there who'd nearly killed him, and a wife at home who must be frantic. "No, Duke. Duchess. I mean, no tea."

  He tried to sit up from the sleek upholstered chaise. A whimper almost escaped from his mouth. He buttoned his lips, catching it. Barrington lay back tugging at his opened shirt. His fingers caught on the bandages wrapping his side. "I'm sorry, your grace. Duchess."

  "Cousin, you might want to stay flat for a while. You bled a bit, but nothing vital was permanently harmed. The duke had the good sense to leave the blade in you 'til I could fix you up."

  Barrington rocked his head to squint. Hudson leaned against the bookcase. At this, he closed his eyes again. "I'll just wait for the nightmare to pass."

  "It's not a nightmare," the duke said. "You are quite lucky. I saw you leaving. I went out the back of Brooks's to ask you of your progress on my project, only to frighten off a footpad attacking you."

  "Project? A mere pickpocket? No. An attempted murderer, and he cut you too, dearest."

  The duke stuffed his bandaged hand into his coat. "It's nothing."

  The duchess put a hand on her hip. "When is it something? When the threats to hurt you grow even more? You're taking too many risks."

  She walked over to him and put a hand to his cheek. "William, what will Mary and I do without you?"

  The anguish and love in the lady's voice was thick.

  The duke looked down, but grasped her palm within his. What could any husband say when their wives were right?

  Hadn't Amora always been frightened of Barrington staying out late? Didn't she believe this would happen, that someone would gut him in the streets?

  Barrington coughed and decided to help the man who'd saved him. "It was a thief, Duchess. Not someone upset over my or the duke's politics. He frightened him away. Thank you, Cheshire."

  The duke didn't appear to be listening. His gaze was locked upon the woman clutching at his lapels, filling his embrace as if no one else was in the room.

  Barrington looked away. He rifled over his person, palming his bruised rib. His money purse and Amora's present was still intact on his person. Duke truly must've frightened the thief away, unless it was no thief. What did he look like?

  Before Barrington could mouth any questions or objections, a heavy knock sounded.

  The duke smoothed his hair with his good hand, but there was blood on his jacket. "That must be someone from the magistrates."

  "Oh, Lord Justice will be very upset at this hour. I'd rather not face him."

  Cheshire nodded and went to the door. "I'll see what I can do."

  When he left, the duchess started pacing. "He's doing too much, trying to right a wrong that is not his."

  Barrington managed to sit this time. He tugged at
his soiled jacket, attempting to look as dignified as he could. "That's what a man does when he is in love."

  The floorboards knocked with his cousin's firm steps. He came closer. "Yes, fools and love. You think you can stand?"

  His head swam too much to attempt it without falling flat. "In a moment. Ma'am, would it be too much trouble for some of that tea?"

  She almost smiled as if needing an excuse to go see about her husband. "I'll return shortly."

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Hudson pounced. He leapt within a foot of the chaise. "So who is trying kill you? Was it over a white woman? I told you about messing with those light women."

  Barrington pulled his feet to the floor. "I'll ignore your foolish talk since it's obvious you patched me up. How bad is it and how are you here?"

  "You'll live." He flopped into a close chair. "Apparently you mumbled to the Duke and your man James to go get me. What a shock it was to find my paragon of a cousin steeped in trouble. So, who's having an affair? Not the little missus? I saw how angry you were when you dropped her to Mayfair?"

  "If I didn't owe you, I'd probably call you out. My vows our intact." Barrington took a breath and shifted as the world's greatest headache raged within his skull. "Married people can argue. They should be able to do so without censure, or friends and family trying to wedge them apart. They should always be able to forgive."

  Hudson reared back and laughed. "Who are you trying to convince? The bachelor in the room?"

  Yes, who was Barrington trying to sway? Amora may not love him, but she would love their child. He just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure she and the baby would be well. Did anything else matter?

  Chuckling, as if he knew he'd hit the right cord, Hudson sank deeper into the cushions. "I should've known something was amiss when James didn't return my little watch guard on time." He brushed the lapel of his dark coat. "You'd just come from Brooks's. Maybe someone didn't like coffee entering the front door of their creamy establishment. The help enters from the rear."