"Such a funny man, you obviously do not understand nature or the need for comfortable appointments for rooms."
"Like false gods? Or notions that make one depend on wooden things?" Samuel asked his questions with a lilt. It almost made his sarcasm palatable.
Mama bristled, but lifted her chin and headed to the door. "Come along, Vicar. Amora, take this time in a quiet house to talk with Mr. Norton."
The vicar shrugged as his smile grew. "She is right about a few things. If you won't talk to me, talk to him."
Samuel and Mama left. The door closed softly behind their gentle squabble. Quiet overtook the lower level. Only the swishing of Amora's brush against the side of her cup sounded, that and the noises of her broken memories. She'd been painting the Priory when the monster came.
Recognition fired her brainbox. She gasped. The Priory! The old Norman relic stashed at the edge of the forest. Was that where she'd been held? Yes. That was it. Peeling off her muslin smock, she headed to the hall. Barrington had to know immediately.
Clang, clang! Someone wrapped the knocker on the front door. It couldn't be Mama or Mrs. Gretling. They'd push inside. Her breathing hitched, shaking her loose grip on her nerves. Could it be Mr. Beakes coming to take Barrington away?
Amora hugged herself even as she chastised her weak thinking. Cowardice wouldn't save brave Barrington. It hadn't found her lost friend Sarah either. No, weak thinking had cost her too much.
Leveling her shoulders, she marched to the entry. Hiding quaking palms, she opened the door.
She groaned inwardly. Not her. Anybody but her.
Cynthia Miller stood there twisting her reticule along her finger. "May I come in?"
Before Amora could slam the door, Cynthia stuck her fingers into the door jamb. "Please. I came to see you. You're my only hope."
The woman slithered inside. Sedate, in a heavy onyx drape, her dress wasn't alluring or colorful. Why was she dressed as if she was in mourning?
When had she ever done anything without causing a show? "What show is this for? Mr. Norton isn't feeling well enough for your shenanigans."
"I'm here to beg. I need to know where my brother is. Surely, you can help me."
The woman was mad, simply mad. Why should Amora do anything for the strumpet who'd tormented her these past few years? The woman whose lurid presence tainted Barrington's pristine reputation. Ignoring her own part in the debacle, she focused on the anger pulsing, fisting within her chest. "Harlot, get out of my house."
Eyes widening, Cynthia wrung her hands then drew a handkerchief out of her flopping reticule. "I am sorry. So very sorry. I know I have no right to ask—"
"Then why are you here? You're not my friend."
"Gloat. Slap me." She took Amora's hand and put it to her jaw. "Do it. Then tell me where Gerald is."
So tempted to drawback and let every ounce of her frustration discharge through her fingertips in the world's loudest slap, Amora broke free. A laugh bubbled out of her lips. "You love to play the victim. Bat your emerald eyes or toss a pouty look, and you expect the world to do your bidding. I know real victims. You do a disservice to them all."
"You suffered once, and then everything was restored to you. I suffer all the time."
Seething, uncaring of the height disadvantage, Amora marched to her. "What do you mean?"
Cynthia bit her lip. "I was talking about your being separated from Barrington for so long. That's all." She closed her palm as if she protected something. "I've had to seize every opportunity to better my station. I snatched up what I could get."
Amora's stomach turned. She clenched her fingers. The vixen had known of her abduction all this time. How?
The singer stormed past her, whipping into the parlor. Bright red tendrils spilled from her chignon as her gaze settled onto the new painting.
The woman pivoted. Tears dribbled down her rouged cheeks. "I just want to see my brother!"
There wasn't time to determine Cynthia's complicity with all the noise she made. Amora pointed to the door. "Miss Miller, leave."
"I'm not budging, not until Barrington tells me where he took Gerald. I know he stole him from Bedlam. What would happen to his reputation if that became known?"
"Yes, I wonder what would happen to my reputation?"
Cynthia's head jerked toward the hall. Her snide features melted away as her mouth fell open.
Barrington stood at the threshold. A crisp white shirt peeked from behind his onyx waistcoat. The fine silver threading of his vest reflected candlelight, giving his muscled frame radiance.
A wince showed on his lean cheek as he folded his powerful arms. "I suppose Gerald and I will share a cell at Newgate, but he won't be there for long. He'll hang for the murder of a Clanville milkmaid, Nan Druby."
Eyes wide, the woman gasped as she looked at Barrington. "What happened to you?"
The dark blue circle along his jaw made him seem battle-hardened, impervious to anything. He tweaked the metal rims of his new glasses, sliding them further upon his nose. "It's of no consequence. Go and spread your truth or lies to the magistrate. Make sure to tell how you know Miller didn't strangle Nan Druby."
"Gerald didn't kill her or anyone." Sobbing, Cynthia rushed close to Barrington. "I'd never hurt you. I'm just in anguish over not knowing where my brother is."
He side-stepped her as if she had leprosy. "Leave now as my wife commanded or prepare to watch Miller swing at Debtor's Door. At least with the white hood covering his face before the execution, you won't see the look of betrayal in his eyes."
She backed up to Amora and dumped guineas into her palm. "Use this and put him on a ship to Australia or the Americas, somewhere they won't find him. I'll go with him, too. Amora, you'll never see me again. That should make you happy."
Done with trying to keep her temper restrained, Amora tossed the money back at her, sending the singer scrambling for the bouncing coins. "The truth must reign, no matter what. I know that now. Leave my home, leave my marriage and be gone!"
Barrington leaned against the doorframe, his split lip curled up. "You heard Mrs. Norton."
The vixen spun and stormed to the door. "I'll never forgive you, any of you."
Cynthia left. Her slam of the door shook the hall sconces, causing the light to flicker, but none lost its flame. Amora hadn't either. Getting closer to the truth girded her.
Barrington held out his hand to her. "Well, let's see what my formerly dead friend has to say."
Amora pivoted. She squinted at him. "Formerly dead or formerly your friend?"
He wrenched the back of his neck, his gaze pinned on her new canvas. "Well, he's breathing now. Come along."
Chapter Ten: Finding the Past
Barrington gripped her hand, filled his aching lungs and opened the cellar door. He dreaded this moment. "I don't suppose there is a way I can dissuade you from coming?"
Her eyes held determination. Her chin lifted as she towed him forward. "No."
It wasn't a good idea to take her downstairs.
It wasn't good that his palm warmed holding onto hers.
It wasn't good that she'd witness him ripping at his friend or killing him if he harmed a hair on her head.
He dragged to a halt, his low heels digging into the last tread. "How can you be so sure of Miller's innocence? You don't remember the whole of it. You've suppressed the events."
She poked him in the chest right above his bandages. "What are you not telling me, Barrington?"
He shrugged and kept moving until they reached the door. His heart pounded as he took the knob, but he couldn't turn it. "What if all your memories return and you become strained. We could avoid this if you don't hear Miller's testimony?"
Her lips pursed. There was fire in her eyes. "Barrington Norton always seeks the truth. Why not now?"
How could she not understand what his quest for truth had already cost? What it could cost them? He took her hand within his and almost pressed them against her abdomen. "I won't l
et this man hurt you. I'm supposed to protect you."
"I'll be fine." She kept their hands linked, but used her other hand to open the door. "The truth must reign. No more secrets. I can't live with any more secrets."
As he followed her inside, he couldn't quite agree. Denial looked pretty good right now.
Dressed in a pair of James's old liveries, Gerald sat up. The faded blue jacket swallowed the man. His eyes seemed so vacant within the rag thin face. "Norton. Did-n't do it."
Barrington eased Amora onto a stool. He lifted his arm anchoring his fingers to the revers of his waistcoat. "Miller, let's start with how you are alive. I saw you take the bullet that was headed for me. I witnessed you fall, the blood oozing from your chest. Before I could give you aid, another blast ate into my hip. I couldn't get to you."
Gerald worked his gums. His lips twitched before he said, "Yes."
The affirmation sounded weak and soon evaporated in the quiet. A quiet that surrounded Barrington with the noises of that awful morning in the Peninsula.
Cannons fired in the distance.
Grunts and yells of fallen comrades whipped up and down in the fast wind. The scent of butchered flesh, torn off limbs, and death smelled fresh.
"I saw…" His voice broke. "I saw them cart your body off before losing consciousness. Gerald, you saved my life. You were dead, all for saving me."
"Yes, Nor-ton."
His hands shook with frustration, Norton planted his feet inches from the bed. "It was a torment to know you died in my stead. Why induce such mourning to my soul? Why didn't you find me?"
His friend blinked and licked his pale lips. "Yes."
Miller's tone was soft, babe-like. "Yes. Shot." He tapped his shoulders and pried open his shirt, exposing a bullet wound. "Woke in farmhouse. B-Before burial. I fled."
Amora sat at the edge of the stool. Though her countenance was smooth, she rocked a little as if impatient. Well, Barrington thought, she had her own truth to hunt.
He shifted his stance to keep his feet from scooping her and taking her far from here. He couldn't. She needed her answers more than anything else. "Miller, why didn't you come back to camp? The colonel might have sent you home anyway."
"Cynthia. Fam-ily need me." Gerald coughed and shook his thin frame. "Only one to help."
Though he could understand protecting his family, a harsh sigh seeped from Barrington. "You could've found me, sent word somehow. The day still haunts me."
A soft palm gripped his tight fist. He jerked, realizing too late that it was Amora.
"I didn't know you harbored such feelings. You could've shared them with me." She held onto his clenched fingers.
He couldn't respond. How does a man tell of his nightmares? And even if he could, what happens when his wife's were darker?
She released him and edged to the bed. "Mr. Miller, tell him about finding me."
His friend lay back and flung an arm over his head, as if the candlelight pained his eyes. He rocked for a moment then settled. "The aches. They come, go."
Impatient, Barrington paced. His low heels knocked an uneven gait against the floor. "Upon slinking back from the war, how did you find my fiancée and Miss Druby?"
Gerald struggled for a breath, shaking. He puckered his mouth and wrinkled his brow. "Hate me because I deserted?"
Hate wasn't what stewed in his gut. The thick stew turning and twisting inside was guilt. Miller followed him to the war. If Barrington hadn't been seeking additional ways to please his grandfather, he would never have agreed to enlistment. Miller wouldn't be in this trouble and Barrington would not have left Amora unprotected.
He wiped his hands along his waistcoat, but the guilt remained on his palms, thick and sticky. "I loved you like a brother, Miller. I would've gladly taken that bullet. But if you hurt my wife, nothing will keep me from breaking you with my own hands."
"Never. Never hurt. I found."
"Where, Mr. Miller?" Amora gripped the sides of the bed. Her fingertips dug into the mattress.
Gerald coughed, reached for a mug and sipped. "Dark place with creaking floorboards."
Barrington froze. Every abandoned or seldom-rented house of Clanville crammed his skull. "Was it an old cottage?"
Gerald shrugged. His gaze locked upon Amora. "I heard her below."
Unable to stop himself, Barrington seized the lapels of his friend's coat and raised him up. The mug flew from Gerald's hands, sprinkling water everywhere, but mostly on Barrington's new spectacles. "You heard Amora? Was she crying?"
"No. Told my Nan, refuse…the beast."
Barrington closed his eyes and released him. "My brave girl. Then what?"
Gerald slouched against a pillow. His face became more ashen. "Couldn't pull off the chains."
Barrington braced against the wall. "You left her? How—"
"I told him to." Amora's small voice penetrated his soul. "It was Nan's turn. The monster was coming for her that night. She'd agreed to do whatever he wished. She'd agreed... It was the only way to be re…released."
Her words had drowned within her quiet sobs, but she wiped her chin and stood up straight. "The monster made each girl consent to his depravity. Then he'd take them away. He took Sarah. I still hear her screams some nights."
That is what Hessing's notes said of the Dark Walk Abductor's victims. Charred fury filled Barrington, constricting his lungs, gripping and breaking the restraint he'd mastered all his life. He leaned back against the wall, hoping not to punch at the limestone and break his hand.
He forced air in and out of his mouth, but nothing could rob him of the image of Amora being humbled by her monster. Amora had to be one of the Dark Walk Abductor's victims. Would she survive knowing all of the truth?
Would the baby?
With a deep sigh, Gerald sat up, his thin legs dangled over the edge of the bed. "Didn't do it. Believe me."
Gerald's tone sounded honest, but was that just Barrington's broken spirit listening, hearing things that salved his soul?
Anything had to be better than imagining her screaming from too early of a quickening, of her crying over another child lost.
Barrington put a hand to his neck. The vein on the side pulsed. "Is it your testimony that Miss Druby was alive when you freed her? That you never took her or helped any other do this evil?"
Gerald's large eyes widened. He stared in Barrington's direction. "Yes." A clear, strong announcement.
The man spoke the truth. Barrington felt it in his bones. A piece of his heart glued back into place. His beloved friend wasn't the monster or in league with the monster. Thank God. "What happened to you?"
Gerald lowered to the bed. "Big man. I fought him, ripped his coat." He closed his fist as if he held something in it, then lowered his arm to the mattress. "Ripped a button. Bricks dropped on me."
"He's a victim, too." Amora's face pivoted toward the ceiling. She wasn't crying, but chanting. She said, "Bricks. Brick falling."
His gut ached to pull her into his arms, but she needed to sort through her memories without him coddling her, depriving her of strength. Yet, Barrington's skull burned with questions. "If Gerald didn't free you, how did you escape? Do you remember?"
Amora looked so distant, everything inside him broke again.
"I don't know, Barr."
Someone opened the chains on her pen. If it wasn't Miller, then the abductor did. Barrington ran a hand through his hair and walked over to Amora. All the other women were released after being abused. Was that Amora's fate? Was that why she couldn't remember?
Barrington knelt before his wife, took her palm and placed it against the rapid beats of his chest. "What did he do to you?"
She closed her eyes. "I don't know. I hear the screams. Bricks falling all around."
Her eyelids popped open. She grabbed his waistcoat. "Footsteps pounded behind me. His voice was low as he cursed. I was to blame for what he did to Nan. He hit me and I fell against an altar… Altar?"
Forget the ch
asm between them. She needed his strength. He scooped her up until her trembling ceased. "I knew this was a bad idea. 'Tis too much for you."
"Not if it means I can see the clues hidden in my mind." She pushed at his chest and stepped free, almost leaping to Miller. "I was painting the Priory the day I was taken. Did you find me at the Priory?"
That old Norman relic? The Priory sat near Grandfather's lands. Barrington swiped at his brow. "The dilapidated monastery at...at the edge of Norton property? We used to play in that thing as children. Miller, think, man. You're the only one to confirm where she and the others were held."
Gerald opened his mouth then closed it. He punched his head. "Don't know."
Barrington grabbed his hands and stilled them against the mattress. "Easy, my friend. You've given us enough."
The bosom buddy of his youth turned his sorrow-filled eyes toward Barrington. It felt like a sword in his gut, tearing at his conscience for doubting him. "Then, you believe…me."
"Yes, I do. When I find the monster, it will prove your innocence. I'll help you get your life back."
A small smile formed on Gerald's face as his eyes dimmed.
"Rest, Miller. The villain's face might come to you. You're the only one who can say."
Amora looked at Gerald then toward the doorway. She ran.
Barrington scampered after her praying she wouldn't trip on the stair treads. "Sweetheart, wait!"
She pounded onto the main floor.
Where was she going? Was she in pain? He struggled up the final step, his hip aching with each footfall. He had to catch her, had to reason with her before something tragic happened. "Wait!"
His wife, his heart, pivoted from the main threshold and slid into the parlor. By the time he got to her, she stood frozen in front of her easel. Placid, with her arms folded, her gaze seemed transfixed upon the canvas.
With slow careful steps, he approached her and put his hands upon her shoulders. His fingers falling into the soft lilac capped sleeves of her gown. "Whatever you are remembering, we can face it together."
"There is one who knows. Sarah. The woman in Bedlam the vicar told us about. If she is my friend, she'll be able to tell you where we were held. She can give you proof if my monster is the Dark Walk Abductor."
Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 3) Page 10