Unmasked Heart_A Regency Romance_Challenge of the Soul

by Vanessa Riley

Barrington took a step. Then, as if it dawned upon him that he'd be leaving her, he turned and extended his hand. "This will only take a few minutes."

  She took his arm and allowed him to lead her back to her seat.

  He kissed her forehead, then disappeared into the crowd.

  She should be used to this by now, but every time he left, it felt fresh, cutting a little deeper. Someday he wouldn't return. Then the blade would run clean through.

  The servant behind her coughed. He tried muffling the repeated cough by turning his face into his sleeve.

  The poor dear thirsted. A dry throat scorched and sore was almost the worst. Amora lifted a finger, summoning him. When the boy popped near, she pushed her glass of water towards him.

  Kneeling, the young servant choked and sputtered. His mouth trembled. "I…I couldn't, ma'am."

  Flipping her fan, she covered him from the glare of onlookers, then slid the goblet into the servant's hands. "I insist. It's never good to be in want."

  A smile bloomed beneath brightening blue eyes and blonde lashes. He downed the liquid. "Thank you, ma'am. Please don't tell."

  Amora nodded. The one thing she'd learned well was keeping secrets.

  Barrington walked behind the servant toward the duke's study. Could his heart hold both joy and sadness? Amora tried to appear supportive, but those eyes of hers said everything, more than he wanted to know. Did she have to think of this as an example of him choosing his work over her again? Did she not know what the duke's support would mean for his career? Imagine London's first mulatto judge.

  "This will only take a few moments." He said the words under his breath and tried to make sense of the apprehension she'd cast onto him. Perhaps being with child made her more anxious. Five years of barrenness might do that, too.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Norton. Did ye say something?"

  Barrington shook his head and returned his focus to Cheshire and the dimly lit corridor. The sound of the music was squelched as if the walls had smothered it within a minute of this trek.

  A rush of joy raced up his spine, tightening the knots of expectation in his neck. Battling every day to become the man known for finding and winning with truth had come to fruition. All the questions of his appointment to Lincoln's Inn had been trampled by a perfect court record. Now the Duke of Cheshire, one of the lead reformers in Parliament had need of him.

  The servant pointed down a final hall. "The door at the end, sir."

  The man bowed and returned to the party, leaving Barrington to take the final leg alone. What did the duke have to discuss and why do so in such privacy, away from all his guests, even his servants?

  Getting close to the door, Barrington found it cracked. Voices stirred inside.

  "Gaia, I know you are nervous about tonight. Don't be. You are beautiful. The ton will love you, my new duchess."

  "William, I should be with Mary. Your daughter said her first words. Mute for so long. You don't know my joy."

  "I've prayed for this." His tone sounded of a father's pride, loud and hopeful. "But our daughter will have her new mother tomorrow. Tonight at the ball, I need my duchess."

  From the small slit between the double doors, the lady, the new Duchess of Cheshire, leaned into the duke. "I will try harder to do this public show for you, if that is what you desire."

  The duke chuckled. His tall form enveloped her. "For now. But, later tonight in our chambers, I'll need my wife."

  She backed away. Her gauzy gown billowed with each step of retreat. "William, you… I will…be so tired. Mary needs…"

  The tall man folded his arms against his waistcoat. "You seem to be avoiding the subject of our chambers. I can be a jealous man, but I didn't think that tendency would be stirred from your devotion to Mary. Gaia, do I not make you happy?"

  She pushed back into his arms. "More than anything. Yes. But I…I like just us three. A baby may come. It's so dangerous. My mother died—"

  "Gaia, you are a strong woman. When it is time, all will be well." The duke dipped his head to his new bride.

  Barrington removed his spectacles and knocked on the door. He didn't like eavesdropping, or interrupting this moment of privacy, but he needed to tend to his own wife.

  The duke came to the door and opened it wide. “Duchess, I will see you in the main hall. Go mingle with our guests. Find your aunt and sister, but stay out of… I'll be along in a moment."

  The lady was pretty with spectacles that glowed. Her face dimpled as she clasped the duke's hand. She was younger than he'd expected and more tan, more so than Amora's creamy cheeks. Neither had the milky-white complexion his fellow barrister's boasted of in their wives. Neither's tone was as indicting as his own.

  When she swept by him, Barrington saw the crinkly pattern of her shiny bun, the slight flare to her nose. He knew why the duke wanted to talk privately. His stomach knotted from his deflated ego. Barrington marched inside and waited for the man to confess it.

  Cheshire closed the door. "Mr. Norton, I am glad you've come tonight. I've a matter that only you can help with. I'm trying to find records on a relative of my wife's. You've been able to locate all types of documents and secrets."

  Barrington looked over his lenses at the man who was almost his height. "I don't typically locate missing items unless it is a part of a crime." He pivoted and moved back to the door. "I can recommend my solicitor, Mr. Beakes."

  "It has to be you. No one else will be as sensitive."

  Barrington wasn't about games. The truth plain and simple was the best course. He rubbed his chin and turned. "Why would that be? I have a feeling this hasn't anything to do with my trial record."

  Cheshire brushed the buttons of his waistcoat. "You are perceptive, and you are known to be a man who can find truth. That is what I need for my wife."

  "Then say it plainly. For every moment I'm here, my wife is without me. All who I work for understand I need the complete truth or I cannot help. I despise lies and deception."

  The duke squared his shoulders. "My wife is like you. She is a mulatto. I need to find out what happened to the man whose blood she shares. I want shipping records or even a bill of sale uncovered."

  Bill of Sale? "The duchess's father was enslaved?"

  "She only found out recently that she is of mixed race. Now, I need to give her as much information as possible. But this must be kept discreet. Not everyone is of an open mind. I thought surely you would be."

  Barrington knew how narrow his world was. People sized up his race before anything else. That was why he pushed so hard for truth, for perfection. He'd long become the model for that one different friend, or the sole ideal the reformers proclaimed in fighting for the end of slavery or expanding education. Being the only was a heavy load; a gun cocked waiting to misfire.

  Tugging on his tailcoat, Barrington hid his growing disappointment. "I'll think on it, your grace and send word."

  Cheshire pounded closer. "It will be a great favor to me if you agree to take this upon yourself."

  Barrington knew exactly what that meant. It was always better to have powerful allies than enemies. He nodded. "Yes, I will look into it. I cannot promise you anything."

  "That's better than nothing. Thank you, Mr. Norton."

  Barrington bowed and rotated. He walked down the corridor. It would have been nice to be singled out because of his abilities not his blood.

  Yet, with ambition stirring in his veins, he'd use this assignment to prove his capabilities. The duke would see that Barrington was more than just in similar straits as the new Duchess of Cheshire.

  When her husband reappeared at the entrance to the party, his face held a long frown; similar to the one he'd brought earlier to Mayfair. Amora's heart clenched. The meeting must not have gone well. What could she say to lift his spirits, to reassure him of his worth despite what the Duke of Cheshire said?

  She rose from her seat to go to him. Forget this party. She'd tend to his spirits at home. They should leave now.

  Whe
n she neared, he plastered his face with a short, tight smile. He surely meant it to keep her from fretting, but that never worked. She and anxiety were soul mates. "Are you ready to leave, dearest?"

  His lips puckered as if to answer, but his gaze lifted. His eyes narrowed on someone. "Beakes?"

  She turned and winced with frustration. His solicitor, Mr. Beakes headed directly toward them. The man embodied work, more time for Barrington to be somewhere else where he could be injured or worse.

  Beakes rent his chocolate greatcoat, putting large gloved hands to his lapels. "Mr. Norton, you have to come with me. Smith. He's asking for you."

  A long blast of air left her husband's nostrils. "Smith? I just left him this afternoon. Tell him I will see him in the morning before court."

  The man tapped his foot, then shook his head from side to side. "He won't be alive in the morning. Well, not for long. He's going to the gallows tomorrow."

  Barrington wrenched the back of his neck. His shoulders slumped. "That wasn't supposed to be for a month."

  Beakes shrugged. "Change happens. What do I tell him?"

  "Y-e-s. I told him, I'd come if asked. I'll return to Newgate after I drop my beautiful family home." Barrington's voice sounded strained, weighted with obligation. But at which part, Newgate or family? "In an hour or so, I'll visit him."

  The solicitor stepped forward pulling at his saggy cravat. He looked very grim with bushy furrowed brows and downturned lips. "He says he wants to tell you that truth. You're not going to risk him changing his mind over a delay?"

  What did that mean, and why did Mr. Beakes seem to point his beady eyes at her?

  "I'll take Mrs. Norton home, right away for you." The singsong voice of Cynthia Miller filtered near. The woman clad in a low clinging bodice of bright yellow traipsed near. Her ruby hair reflected the candlelight from the wall sconce. Not a tendril out of place on the vixen.

  "How good of you." Barrington clasped Amora's hand. "Please understand. I'll be to Mayfair as soon as I can."

  "It's no trouble for me to help, Mr. N-oor-ton." The breathless way Cynthia said his name made the flames in Amora's middle more acute. Would the singer's two-faced tricks to lure Barrington start again?

  Forgetting the vixen, Amora reached up and caressed his cheek. She so wanted to be understanding. "Is it that dire?"

  Her husband's light eyes had faded even more. He tugged at his lapel and adjusted the brilliant gold pin, his grandfather's gift for acceptance into Lincoln's Inn. "Smith lied to protect someone. If I'd known the truth, I could've helped. An innocent man is going to die in the morning. I have to go to him."

  How terrible! Breathless, hurting for him, Amora drew her hand to her mouth.

  "If I'd had more time to organize my notes the morning of the trial, I am sure I would've seen the lies. I would've made him admit it. If I'd left…" Barrington's voice became muffled. His Adam's apple shook as he coughed.

  The unspoken words stopped her heart. If he'd left Mayfair on time. If he hadn't attended his needy wife. This killing would be her fault. When would deaths stop being her fault?

  He slid his fingers about her palm and drew the union to his chest. "Please be understanding. If he must die, he should have the opportunity to admit to everything, to go to glory with a clean heart."

  No, some secrets should die, never to be said aloud. Amora thought this, felt this everyday with every nightmare. "Will you be very late?"

  Mr. Beakes tugged his shoulder. "Time is of the essence. I have to catch up to the runners. There will be another good criminal catch tonight."

  Barrington shrugged, then kissed her forehead. "I'll try not to be too late, but this may take a while."

  Cynthia gripped Amora's arm. "Run along, Mr. Norton, and don't forget my debut performance week's end. Though you are the busiest barrister, you and Mrs. Norton must attend. It would be like having my brother there." Her tone pitched then lowered like a sorrow-filled harp. "Yes, having Gerald back would be so nice. You must come."

  Barrington's lips turned up, then his countenance blanked again. "You're a dear, a credit to your great, late brother, Gerald Miller. Miller was such a good man, but Mrs. Norton can tell you of my work ethic."

  On that, Amora could write pages. "No one is as dedicated. Be careful."

  "Always." After a kiss to her fingers, he let go of Amora's hand and followed Mr. Beakes.

  As she watched her husband, the dedicated barrister, wade through the crowd, sadness whipped through her, spinning her mind like a cyclone. Her palm dropped to her abdomen. Would their family be a priority to him, or another jot on his appointment list?

  This son wouldn't be in second place for his doting father. Could she truly be happy if at least something of hers took first place in Barrington's heart?

  She blinked away the anxiety building inside her mind, pricking her conscience. He was doing what he felt he must for his career, for their family. With a short breath, she placed a smile to her lips to avoid inciting Cynthia's questions. With this baby, Amora and Barrington would be happy. They just had to be.

  CHAPTER TWO: CONFESSION AND OMISSION

  THE GUARD FUMBLED with his heavy keys unlocking the iron door to Smith's cell. Barrington fumed. The gaoler was nowhere to be found, so no answers to why Smith's execution would be rushed. What had changed? And by whose orders?

  Finally, the lock clicked. The guard flung the door open, allowing Barrington inside. Smith looked pale, white like the cuffs on Barrington's evening shirt. "You've come, Mr. Norton. I didn't think you would."

  Barrington took off his hat and pitched it onto the table. "I am a man of my word. I'm here. Tell me the secrets that has sealed your fate."

  The condemned fellow put down the Bible leaves. His fingers shook. "Does hanging hurt much?"

  "Not for long. You'll hardly notice when you get the swing of it."

  Smith's lips twitched in a half-smile as he nodded.

  Trudging to the window, Barrington glanced at the finished platform. Smith's execution would begin at dawn. He fixed his gaze on the cart just outside the window bearing white hoods, the ones that would be draped on the prisoner before affixing the noose. As if a heavy weight sat upon his chest, he inhaled hard forcing air inside his lungs. "You asked for me. I said I would come. I left my wife to be here, so tell me now why you are dying? Maybe I could rouse the Lord Justice to stay this execution."

  The rag thin man lifted red-rimmed eyes to him. "Barrister, I think it's unfair to die for coining. They should save the noose for true villains like the Dark Walk Abductor."

  The man still wanted to talk foolishness. Barrington could be escorting his wife home, enjoying holding her until she slept. Amora had looked so beautiful in her lavender gown, the soft neck frill that fluttered when they danced. It was pure happiness slipping his fingers against the sweet texture of the fine pearls beading her bodice, sculpting the gentle rounding of her abdomen.

  She was finally to bear him a child, a son to father. Barrington would be nothing like his own drunken one. No, he'd be a source of pride, not constant ridicule. A sigh sputtered out, releasing a portion of the disappointments filling his lungs.

  With a grunt, he stopped his woolgathering and turned his attention back to Smith. "Coining is an offense against the Crown."

  "And abducting and killing women, ain't?"

  "All the laws must be obeyed, not just the ones we like. Believe me, if they find the fiend, and the magistrate's runners or the vigilantes don't tear him apart, he will see justice. But I believe it a fantasy like a ghost tale, made up to cover ghastly crimes or wanton runaways."

  Smith's eyes widened. The man looked as if he'd choked on his tongue. "Ain't no fantasy. He's real. The crimes are real."

  A tingle set in Barrington's ribs. His internal truth detector niggled. Smith wasn't dying for coining, but something worse. Folding his arms, Barrington decided to indulge him and softened his tone. "That's an old crime. No one's likely to pay almost two years out."<
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  "He's been doing it for at least seven. Maybe more. Not sure if he stopped."

  Barrington's ears perked up. His blood heated to full boil. "What are you talking about?"

  "I was paid to help him. That's why I die tonight. And if I'd said more, my only brother, he'll die too. My brother is all I have left. That's why I lied. I do deserve death for what I've done, for being in league with the devil. But my brother, he's got a young family. Mouths to feed."

  Barrington paced over to Smith and grabbed him up by the shirt collars, shaking the miserable man's bones until they rattled. "What are you saying? You are the Dark Walk Abductor?"

  Struggling in Barrington's grasp, the man's head bobbled. "Not me. I don't know his name, but I was in his service."

  This was madness.

  Ramblings.

  Lies.

  Evil lies.

  "Smith, you have me here to spit falsehoods in my face."

  "Not lies. When I die, the proof is gone. I contacted him again a couple of months ago 'cause I needed money. He said he'd help. The next thing I know, the coins he gave me were fakes. They found tools in my flat. He sent a note saying he'd help with the charges."

  Barrington tossed the man on the bench. "Where is this note? I suppose it's gone."

  Smith nodded. Barrington's innards burned brighter than the sun, hotter than hell's fire. "This fantasy won't save you."

  "I've done some bad things, Mr. Norton. All for coins. So it is fitting I should die for coining."

  A hundred and five thoughts pressed Barrington's skull but only three could be uttered aloud and maintain his Christianity. "Why tell me now and set me on this fleeting chase? You should've kept it to yourself. Is this a final revenge on me for your conviction?"

  "No. But if there's anyone who can figure it out, it's you. You're smart. I don't know who he is, but he has means. I saw him once, tall, gentlemanly looking. I'm about to pay for my years of silence, but you can make him pay for all the bad he's done."

  Recognition of his talents from a condemned man wasn't the acclaim he sought. Nor was being saddled with another man's burden. Barrington already bore enough. Wiping at his forehead, he pivoted toward the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Smith. Thank you for wasting my time."