"Hudson, I don't know."
"Can it be a coincidence that you're rescued by one of the leading reformers trying to end slavery in England's colonies?"
Someone had tried to kill Barrington. The danger started to thaw in his head. Being so focused on Beakes and Hessing, what signs of evil had he missed? He shook his pounding brainbox trying to remember the face of the assassin.
"Well, whoever it was, thief, angry husband, or anti-reformer, they hit a rib when they struck. You're lucky. They were aiming for your heart." Hudson lowered his voice. "Stop whatever it is you're involved with and remain my favorite living cousin. I've no interest in a dead one."
"Neither do I, Hudson."
The door opened and the duchess returned with a tray of tea and biscuits. "Mr. Solemn, please have something to refresh yourself. You worked very hard stitching up Mr. Norton and attending my husband."
Hudson glanced in the direction of the duchess. "No, ma'am. And the duke and the barrister are old military men. They're used to field surgery."
"Mr. Norton, are you able to take some warm tea?"
Barrington lifted a tired palm to wave her off, but the duchess didn't seem to pay attention. Her gaze drifted from him to Hudson's direction. With a nod, he lifted his chin to the offered cup. "Ask your question. My cousin just finished with his."
She bit her lip and then adjusted her spectacles. "What is it like?"
Barrington balanced the cup within his shaking hands. "What is what like?"
She adjusted her spectacles. "To know who and what you are, from the beginning."
Hudson's forehead scrunched up. Though Hudson's own sister could pass for white, perhaps he hadn't seen a mulatto with such a high rank. Or one so open about it. "Does the reforming duke know? Or is this why he's so consumed?" He asked.
"My husband knows. Love conquered all, the differences and even the earnest misunderstandings. But, you two haven't answered my question. I didn't know that I was a black. I grew up being treated differently by my family and didn't know why."
Hudson pursed his lips and shook his head. "You clean up well."
Barrington groaned and set down the tea. "What my cousin should say, if he had any bit of sense, is that you are who you are. And you live each day in expectation of what more you can do."
Hudson stood. His head shook so much, Barrington thought it might fall off, roll along the floor and out the door. He crossed his arms over his silvery-gray waistcoat. "Tell her of the suspicions and constant reminders of not belonging. The threats for trying to live and do."
"I won't. I've made my way and so have you, cousin. We've both taken the opportunities that have been afforded and created ones that didn't exist."
"Even stolen them when necessary." Hudson's voice held both mocking notes and leftover hurt from their youth.
"So the duke knows and doesn't care." Hudson chuckled. "The great snowy-white liberator."
The duchess lifted her head. Poise radiated her pretty face. "Yes, my husband knows. And no, he doesn't care. I cared more. He saw me when no else did and he's given me love that overflows my heart. But he knows of the prejudice we may face so he's trying to make this world better for me and if he can't, he'll take the family abroad. He's willing to change his whole life. He loves me that much. And I love him enough to keep him from doing so."
Swaying, Barrington stood. Sheer will kept him from pitching over. He let the pain rush through him, ravaging its way all the way down his spine. He had to get back to Amora. That was all that mattered. But, could he do as the duke and change everything about his life to make Amora happy and secure? "Love is an opportunity, Duchess. One more need to take. Tell the duke, I am grateful. I'm in his debts."
"Well, I salute your opportunity, Norton, nearly being killed in an alley. Good evening, Duchess. We'll find our opportunity through the kitchen where all the other mulattos like me and pure blacks are expected to use. Norton, your man James awaits with your carriage out back in the mews."
Hudson stormed across the room and grabbed Barrington's arm. His anger at life hadn't dimmed. However, Barrington couldn't help him, just Amora. "Come on, Barrister."
How much was Barrington willing to give up to keep Amora well? And could he do so without the great love that Cheshire and his duchess shared?
Barrington leaned more of his weight onto his stocky cousin. "Thank the duke for me. I must get home to my wife."
Chapter Eight: Pharaoh-In-Training
Amora eased off the stool as a low snore left Mr. Miller.
The poor man looked so frail. His shaking had slowed the deeper he fell into sleep.
A hundred bitter questions were on her tongue. Where was she held? Why was Mr. Miller there? Did he see the monster?
The sourness was so thick. She fought against shaking his arm to awaken him. It wasn't good to disturb his rest, even for the truth. For the first time, she understood Barrington's battles. He loved truth, but he also cared for others.
She sighed and drew her arms about her. Perhaps tomorrow Mr. Miller would be better. It was only a few more hours till dawn. Surely her own nightmares could stay away too. Maybe she'd go upstairs and paint. The easel and canvas that Samuel had brought down called to her from the parlor.
Did she truly need to know tonight where the monster kept her? How could she bear it with no Barrington to hold her and keep her safe?
A chill wrapped about her limbs, shaking her newly stirred resolve. The formless monster of her memories didn't need a face tonight.
She slipped to the door and eased from the room. She took a final look, allowing her fingers to rest on the cold brass doorknob. Her soul was in knots. Where was Barrington?
With a shake of her head, she cleared her eyes of thieves and carriage accidents, all the logical things that could've harmed him. Then there were the irrational ones, like the monster finally killing him as he promised all those years ago.
That was silly. Crazy to consider.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness shrouding her.
She gazed toward the top of the stairs. The sconces were out. Had they died whilst she visited Miller or had they been snuffed?
Peering down, she noticed the boy had disappeared. Perhaps he snuffed them before leaving.
Fear made her toes cold. She shifted her feet as she rubbed her temples. The boy was real. The sconces had been lit or she would never had come down the stairs. This was real.
She cracked Miller's door open wider to add more light to her path, but it was still dark. If she waved her arms she could find the bottom rail and count treads until she made it to the top. She wasn't going to panic. She could do this without slipping headlong into fear.
The child inside her needed her to be calm.
Humming Barrington's song of grace once more, she moved a little. Her arms flailed searching for the staircase.
Before she could take two full steps, a shadow moved at the bottom of the stairs. It charged toward her, covered her mouth and captured her in arms of iron.
The stench of sweat and possibly blood surrounded her. She screamed into the muffling hand.
She punched and kicked and fought. No one was going to take her, not ever again. Power surged within her limbs. She kicked at the man's thick legs and hit at his chest until he whimpered and slid to the floor. The crack of light spilling from Miller's room exposed tawny brown skin and wide gray eyes.
"Barrington?"
It was him, writhing in pain on the floor. Heart in her throat, she fell upon him, pulling him into her arms as much as she could. "Be all right."
It took more than a moment for him to say anything. Instead, a shaking palm touched her cheek. He simply stared at her.
With a low groan, he cleared his throat. "I should know better than to sneak up on you."
She fell on him again. She hugged him tightly. It sounded as if he couldn't breathe. Maybe he couldn't. She arose and looked at him.
There were bruises on the side of his face. Even
in the dim light, she could see his shirt had stains. "What happened to you? Why are you so late? Don't you know I frighten thinking someone has taken you from me?"
He tugged her chin, smoothed his fingers over her lips and across her cheek as if trying to smooth away the fear surely etched upon her countenance. "I'm here now."
There wasn't just heat in his eyes. Something richer made the gray pools turn into molten silver. She looked back to his cut open shirt. "Where were you?"
"I was set upon by a footpad. I'm fine. But…"
"But what?"
"May I just hold you? One more time. I almost didn't come home."
His admission echoed in her ear. It penetrated her chest deeply and rattled around the void she allowed to live inside. She didn't want to be empty. She didn't want to lose Barrington.
She sank into his arms, resting against him.
His tucked about her. A whisper left him that sounded like, "I'm home."
It was half-dark. Barrington smelled horrid. And yet, she'd never felt safer. He was alive. No one took him away.
Not enough time passed before he moved. He shifted her to his side and sat up with a loud groan.
"Amora?" His tone toughened becoming accusatory. "What are you doing down here? I thought I was catching an evildoer."
She popped up and sat alongside him. "Mr. Miller started crying. He called for you. I had to help him before he woke the whole house. It's not just Mama here. The vicar and his children stayed. He saw that I was very distraught when you left."
"You should've sent Wilson down here and taken no risks. You promised me."
"You promised to be home on time. I sent the vicar earlier, when you didn't come home at 10:30."
Barrington huffed, a combination sounding of disapproval and pain. "What did he think of our guest?"
She played with a button on her husband's waistcoat remembering Samuel questioning Barrington's competence. "He's quite upset."
A heavy breath steamed from Barrington's lips. "I'm upset with myself, too. I'm bringing not only scandal to us, but danger. What am I going to do?"
She folded her arms. She wouldn't argue with him, not with him half-lying on the floor. She glimpsed the top of the stairs. "Let's get you up. Do I need to find James?"
"No. He's dropping my cousin and his charge to their lodgings." Barrington tried to garner the power to stand, but his hip didn't seem to want to obey.
He must be hurting. It was so like him to not say so.
She offered him a hand.
He stared at her for at least a minute before he grasped her fingers. Slowly at first, then with more energy, he rose using her strength as leverage. Wincing in the dim light, he laid his back against the wall. "How is Miller?"
"He quieted with a drink of the milky water. Being thirsty is terrible. It can make everything hurt. Your tongue burns."
"Like with the pig scraps your abductor fed you." Barrington's head dipped, his words spilled out. "I don't care how thirsty Miller is. He could've hurt you."
She put a palm to his chest. Her pinky sliding into bandaging. He was hurt badly. "Barr, what happened?"
"Help me out of here. I want you away from him."
She wanted to protest, to prove to him she'd figured more things out by coming down here. But there was no room in his command for discussion. She nodded, acquiescing to the fact that he'd never see her side of things.
He draped his arm atop her shoulder. She helped him to the stairs. Slowly and carefully, they made it tread by tread.
Maybe she was a help to him. Maybe not, giving her short height to his. But the higher they got, the slower he became and the more she could feel his weight bearing down upon her.
That's when it struck her. Though he wouldn't voice it, he did need her. "You call Mama stubborn."
"Must be rubbing off living with both of you."
Tiring herself, they reached the main floor of Mayfair. He lumbered past her as she closed the cellar door.
She turned toward him and gasped.
The bright light of the hall exposed the beating he'd taken. Blood matted his jacket and his shirt. The bruising on the side of his head made her heart tremble. Her deepest fears were coming true.
He pulled at his coat as if self-conscious. A box fell from his pocket.
He winced as he tried to pick it up. She grabbed it for him. "What is this? Why would a thief leave jewelry behind?"
A grimace filled his silent face.
"Why are you carrying jewels? Where were you?" She opened it and exposed bits of folded paper. There were notes twisted like the ones she used to remind herself of things. "I don't understand."
"On the balcony at Hessing's party, I saw the messages spill from your reticule. I thought I'd pen you a few to encourage you."
She unfolded one. More than a conqueror. Another said, Trust your heart. Another, Trust Barrington. Her eyes dampened.
"Say something, Amora. I know things are wrong between us. If it's too personal or if it makes you sad, you don't have to keep it."
"It's the best gift." Part of her wanted to leap into his arms and kiss him, but right now he looked as if he'd fall over.
Clutching his gift to her bosom, she licked her lips and looked away from the searching look in his eyes. "Are you going to tell me what happened? Or do you not trust me enough to handle the truth?"
He shook his head then clasped the wall as if he needed to steady himself. "I trust you, Amora. Just like those bits of paper say. But, this is bigger than that. Someone tried to kill me."
"I knew it. Like I always knew it. He said he would."
"Amora, who said they'd kill me?"
She put a hand to her mouth. That awful taste of fear had returned to her tongue. She withdrew her fingers to her side and squared her shoulders. "The monster. As he taunted Sarah about her father dying, he taunted me about killing you."
"He knew my name. He knew Sarah's father. The devil knew his victims."
Barrington turned from her, muttering things she couldn't quite make out. He hobbled over and sank upon the stairs. "That's why you fear my being out late. It wasn't to control me or being in want of attention. It was him. Again, he's lodged between us."
He put his hands to his face and righted his broken spectacles. "No more. He's taking no more. You hear me, Amora? No more."
She came to him, kneeling at his side. "I don't want him to have anything else either."
Grunting, he drew her up to his side, so that she shared the step. "Lying on the street, thinking about dying helped me make up my mind about our marriage."
"By yourself?" She wanted to tug away, but not when she'd almost lost him. Hearing his heart pounding in her ear was too sweet. "And what have you decided?"
"Those blasted papers your mother is peddling will be burned. I won't give up my rights and let my child go. My career's falling apart, everyone at the Lincoln Inn thinks I'm an adulterer, and you can't wait to leave London. I won't lose another thing, not one more thing."
His low tone vibrated like when he grieved his grandfather. She knew Barrington's lecturing voice. This wasn't it. "Listen to me." He reached for her hand and slipped their linked palms to her abdomen. "You're carrying my child. My son or daughter will not know a month, a week, if I can help it, a day without hearing my voice. I want to be the rock upon which they anchor themselves, like Grandfather and good old Mr. Tomàs. You won't…you can't deprive me of that. As close as you were to your own father, you know what it means to a child. You know what it means to have a father's love."
The word sorry rose in her throat. Even if she clenched her teeth, she couldn't stop the hated word from leeching out. "Sorry. I'm so sorry for inciting Cynthia."
He slipped a little more on the step. "I still think my gifts are more thoughtful than yours."
Barrington, trying to be humorous, had just told her she couldn't leave London. "But Tomàs Manor is so much better than here to wean a baby."
He craned his neck to t
he ceiling. "I have rights as to where my family will be."
She'd feared him putting her away, but she'd never thought he'd use his authority to separate her from their baby. Her breath came in pants. "You would take... this child from me?"
A hundred different emotions washed over his cheeks. He put his hands on her shoulders as if he'd shake her, but he drew her against him again. "Never. I wouldn't hurt you or our baby, but I'm not going to be led in this spiral chase anymore. You don't know what you want, and you keep forgetting who I am."
He released her and leaned back as if the next tread would right his spine. "Our marriage will remain intact, if only in name. But, we can work together to rear this miracle. You and this child will be with me. We can do this together for our family's sake."
"What happens if I can't bring this one to be birthed?"
He ripped at his coat. "You will be well because I now understand. I'll do everything to put you at ease and make sure you're healthy and secure."
Her brow furrowed. She was just another burden upon his broad shoulders. "You didn't think about involving me in this decision? I don't have a say?"
"Frankly, you've told me all I need to know. I had to decide how much I am willing to change." He teetered and slouched further. His motion was awkward and stiff. "I needed to be comfortable in the notion that if I must abandon London, even practicing law, I could do so and have no regrets."
Abandon London? Leave the law? So many times she'd wanted that, but it wouldn't solve anything. He'd resent her more. "You love practicing law in London."
"I love you…your dream of a family. I'll do what I must, including turning in my best friend."
"But, he's not guilty. You'd be sentencing him to death. And I remember. He came to save Nan Druby and myself."
He squinted at her, then shrugged his shoulders. "I can't talk of this anymore." He launched up and swayed. "I'm going to go to bed."
She slipped his arm over her shoulder again and guided him to the next step. "You can't. Your bed is occupied."
His thin smile disappeared. "Wilson couldn't wait to take my place."
"No." Concentrating, she aimed his foot to the successive tread. "The Wilson children are sleeping in your chambers. It was the closest to mine and to these stairs."
Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 3) Page 8