Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 2)

by Vanessa Riley

  Disappointment must be his ally. It was definitely hers.

  "Look at you." He leaned close stroking her cheek, letting his fingers dance upon her lips. "This has upset you too much."

  His touch lingered as if he'd kissed her. She pulled away and scampered to a far corner.

  He held up his hands. "I didn't mean to. Actually, I did."

  A small part of her wished he had tempted her. Her mind needed to be anywhere else, focused on something that could dissolve the pain, even for a moment.

  He sank deeper into his seat and folded his arms. "I could have James take a longer route if you'd like. No sense rushing back to your mother. I wonder what decorating ideas are awaiting us. Perhaps new drapes, wall coverings in hues I can't see. Or maybe her Isis idols strewn in the parlor. Perhaps I should bring an ax, a Yahweh ax."

  So typical of him, to assume a moment of despair brought on a full-fledged flight of despondency. She bristled and laced her fingers together. "I suppose a true victim of abduction needs a moment to gather her wits, otherwise I might find an attic or a bell tower."

  He lifted his palms in the air again. His waistcoat swung wide exposing his grey shirt. James had removed all of Barrington's shiny buttons to observe full mourning of the King.

  Funny how she missed the sound of his jingling brass. She was more sad at how everyone had to conform than at the King's passing.

  He lowered his arms and tugged at his waistcoat. "I'm on your side, Amora. I don't know why someone would lie."

  Gaping at his soft enunciation of the word, she couldn't let it go unchecked. She sat up straight and glared at him. "But you thought I did."

  The sound of his shifting boots pierced the silence.

  Her omission was a lie and once confirmed a liar to Barrington, always a liar. She'd never be anything more than a victim or a perjurer.

  She siphoned a breath into her empty chest and refused to become upset at him for thinking so little of her. In two months, this part of her life would be over. He'd grant her a separation, and she'd go build a safe world back at Tomàs Manor. "It's fine, Barrington. I don't want to fight. We've got to make the most of this time to find the real Sarah."

  The clip-clop of horse's hooves pounding along the streets vibrated the carriage. The shadows of a low sun encroached the window. Would they make it to Mayfair before it became dark? Maybe she could ask Barrington to light the lantern. "Barrington, could you—"

  "Yes. Yes, I did think you lied."

  His words sounded tight but small like a whisper, as if she'd forced him to admit the truth.

  She rubbed her hands together, preparing for his frosty rebuke. "It's good to say things plain."

  "Is that what you want me to do, brand you a liar, a person given to falsehoods? Does answering this plain way yield another black mark in your heart, the place where forgiveness doesn't live? At what point do I join the five-year forgiveness list like your mother? I must have something to look forward too."

  She blinked at him unable to absorb the anger wetting his words. "I have no list."

  "Yes, you do. Everyone does. We all make judgments as to who may enter their heart and who cannot." He dusted his knee as if a speck sat upon his onyx breeches. "It's best to know upon which list I hang."

  If words could be naked, unclothed with polite sentiment, not carefully put together as a valet or lady's maid would do, then Barrington's had divested of everything, completely stripped bare in an emperor's parade of rawness.

  "Isn't that right, Amora?"

  Hardly able to breathe, she looked away from his twitching cheek, his smoldering eyes. Her fingers shook, not from fear, more so at the realization that she'd broken something inside him and didn't know how to fix him.

  Maybe it wasn't possible to help another if one was broken too.

  "What say you, Mrs. Norton? That is your title, though you are resigned to it."

  Those eyes of hers felt raw as if they had a tear to offer, but she couldn't. A desert-like soul has no water. "I…I just wanted to be honest. I was wrong to have deceived you."

  "Deceit? Which one, the abduction business or the keeping of me in sickness and in health as long as we both shall live?"

  The cold air of the carriage swirled about her seeming to suck away her strength. Feeling small, as if the seat would swallow her, she looked down and shuffled her slippers. He'd changed his mind. He wasn't going to let her go. Forever imprisoned to his opinions, there was no room for Amora.

  She tugged at her arms trying to hold on to her might, her will to be free, to know her own mind. Steadying herself she lifted her chin. "You agreed to a formal separation. Barrington Norton is a man of his word. Please do not take back my hope."

  He pried off his top hat and fanned his head. "No."

  Sending the brim sailing to his seat, he stretched out. "Remember what it means to me to make a promise?"

  "I did keep my promise to you. I was faithful while you were at war."

  "Can't you understand why I had doubts? I returned and you were so different, fretful of the dark, no painting or music - all masking your lack of trust, this insidious secret. Why Amora? How could you hide something so monstrous? Did you think I would blame you? How could I ever condemn you?"

  "I, I tried—"

  "Tried what? Tried to keep me from knowing your deepest pain. Did you think I was satisfied with only the pieces of you, you offered?" His voice lowered. "Five years, you walled off everything from me, but fear."

  A groan left him. The temper that he'd kept locked away, surely growled for freedom. "Tell me, did you think of this monster every time I touched you in surprise? Was he in your thoughts whilst I slept at your side? Would he take my place when I arose early to work? The vicar said you talked of the monster when you miscarried. So he was there in my stead, presiding over our child's death."

  Seething anger rippled over his face.

  She wanted to close her eyes to his pain, the disappointments which were her fault, but her thoughts on the inside were worse. "I hoped marrying you, going on with life would take the memories away. Mama said you'd never marry me if you knew. I was desperate to try to live past this."

  "Yes, the good pharaoh knows best. Her opinion weighed more than our pitiful love."

  He sat back and started to chuckle. Could he have lost his wits too?

  "My best friend jumped in front of me and took a bullet meant to kill me, all because every private word we shared was of my coming home to you. How in love I was. How foolish of me. I don't think his sacrifice sufficient. Why return to a woman who neither trusted or loved me enough?"

  "Barrington—"

  "The doubts I had of our impulsive engagement were all well confirmed." He leaned forward. "Did you get some joy out of using my promise to free you from your mother and cousin? Now you are running back to the pharaoh."

  Daggers diced up his words, slashing i's, impaling t's, all smoting her chest. The power he reserved for the Old Bailey's, he'd unleashed on her. She felt wounded and ashamed, never thinking she'd hurt him like this, never imagining she'd make his eyes cloud with agony, but she did. Patching together her warbling breath and hoping her voice held strong, she asked, "If my family betrayed me, why, why would you be different?"

  His fist punched at his heart. "We are alike, misfits in this world. I wanted to fit your missing pieces. You were supposed to fill mine. Little did I know it was a losing trial, decided before the hearing. How much love could there have been in your heart if your opinion of me was so easily swayed?"

  She opened her mouth then closed it. She felt herself slipping back into that place of defending her actions, of his opinions meaning more than hers. It was easy to do with Barrington exposing his honest heart. She forced her fingers to still and become like heavy stones in her lap, not rising to stroke his chin, not reaching for him to make his pain go away. "Rumors changed your thoughts. Cynthia whispered in your ear and you assumed I'd had an affair with Mr. Charleton."

 
"The year we became engaged was chaotic. My father died drunk in a brothel. Then my brother, the heir, was stricken with cholera just before his unit deployed. Grandfather signed me up to take his place before I could blink. In the middle of this turmoil, I fell hopelessly in love with a vibrant artist. For goodness sake, I can't even see half the things you painted."

  His tone wasn't filled with regret. No, it was still white hot, searing her flesh, her conscience. "You're livid for loving me? I didn't force you to feel so much for me."

  Barrington pumped one fist against the other. "I'm angry because you didn't love me enough. If you had, you would have told me all. You deprived me of being a better husband to you. In sickness and in health. Remember that vow? This omission has offered me a shell of the girl who once meant everything. I hate being cheated, even more than being told lies."

  "Be a better husband? With all of your court duties? It bothered you to be on my schedule. I think you called it a leash to James."

  "No, but I thought it." With a loud huff, he wiped at his face though sadness remained, twitching the cheek that announced the aches of a throbbing hip, or numbness at his grandfather's passing. "I'm not Mr. Tomas. I won't be ruled by a pharaoh, but at least your mother truly loved him. To be loved thoroughly and completely would make a man slay dragons, move mountains."

  His tone slowed as the carriage turned onto their street. "But you couldn't love me that much."

  Amora had nothing to say, nothing to make him feel better. Marriage didn't make her whole. It didn't take the monster away.

  Yet, her insides were too busy dying a little more at how unfair this marriage had been to Barrington. She couldn't even give him a child to make it better for him.

  He nodded, then picked up his hat twisting the brim within his palms. "When Miss Miller fed me rumors, I thought it was the truth. It nourished every doubt I had of us. If only I had known the truth. I could have been so much better, more considerate. I would have moved every mountain to keep your love."

  "I did love you, Barr, but I can't remember what that feels like anymore. Love can't be this constant stew of hurt."

  "I'm not looking for some grand declaration, but don't make all of our problems my fault. If we have any chance of…" He rammed backwards and slid his top hat over his eyes. "We won't be effective at piecing together this mystery, if you can't tell me everything. It definitely won't work if I am continually punished for my own wrongheaded conclusions and you find no fault with your own."

  The carriage stopped. He popped up, opened the door, and helped her down. "Go inside."

  "You're not retiring?"

  "I'm heading to the Lincoln's Inn. It's barely seven. I will be back at Mayfair before 10:30. I am a man of my word. Know that at least."

  He leaned against the carriage, and stayed there until she made it up the steps and across the threshold. She dashed to the window in time to see him join James atop their carriage and take the reins.

  Barrington had never told her anything like that, about feeling unequally yoked. Hadn't she shown him love? She'd fretted over him, and constantly wanted him near. Didn't that count for something?

  She put a hand to her mouth, those truthful fingers trembling. Maybe it didn't. She'd accepted his proposal all those years ago because she did love him, but the years apart were hard. Then her abduction changed everything. Over these last five years of marriage, had she reached for him out of fear or love?

  Her heart sank low as she remembered craving his presence, needing his strong arms to snuggle her against him, to prove the nightmares weren't real, that she wasn't still trapped in a dank cell. Fear had been the driving force of everything, not love.

  Barrington was a smart man. He knew the difference.

  Chapter Eight: An Honest Drive

  Two months to woo a wife, find a missing person, and capture a killer was an incredibly short period of time. No days should be squandered brooding, but that is exactly what Barrington did. He took two weeks to sulk over making a fool of himself to Amora in their outing to Whitby's. A man shouldn't admit but to three feelings: hunger, sleep or lust. This touchy feely stuff about love and not enough love, that should be left to poets.

  Barrington was no poet, just a barrister who'd won his first case since his return to London, one with mounds of paper and books stacked to the ceiling, covering his desk at the Lincoln's Inn.

  Beakes found an obscure coroner's notes about a young woman's partially nude body found on the side of the road. She'd been strangled, the date matching Smith's description, June 11, 1813.

  It still didn't prove Smith had been in league with the infamous Dark Walk Abductor, but he had worked for a murderer. Someone that potentially had the means and influence to arrange Smith's being apprehended with the coining evidence.

  Shoving his papers an inch, Barrington wanted to flop upon the expanse of his desk. He had a bigger case to solve, or come to terms with. Reading through the accounts of the Dark Walk Abductor's true victims sounded a lot more like Amora's story. Could her monster be the Dark Walk Abductor?

  If this was true, she suffered more cruelly than he could ever have imagined. Chains, beatings, abuse. He shook the filth from his thoughts and headed out of his office to his awaiting vehicle. This would be an early day. He couldn't bear to read another statement of misery and not punch through a wall.

  Listless, he trudged up the cobblestone path to Mayfair's door just shy of sunset. Amora should be pleased. Though his thoughts of winning her back pretty much died with his outburst, he still needed to make sure she didn't become anxious. It was immaterial that she didn't suffer as he did from this oppressive feeling of longing.

  He couldn't stop thinking of her, remembering the turn of her countenance when she didn't correct him, nor the sound of her tossing in her bed from his adjoining chamber.

  Annoyed with himself, he dragged across Mayfair's threshold and offered the smiling Mrs. Gretling his hat, coat, and gloves. "What have Mrs. Tomàs and Mrs. Norton done today? Picked new curtains, burned the Norton furnishings? Set up a temple in the mews."

  The housekeeper set his articles down on the show table. "Not much today, but a great many vendors arrived measuring things." She eyed him and pointed to his head. "Sir, you—"

  A wave of laughter came from the parlor. A child's giggles?

  Since when did his town home have children? Plodding toward the noise, a little girl rammed into him with a dripping paintbrush in her hand.

  An indeterminate color splashed his breeches.

  She fingered her spiraling curls as her lips slumped into a frown. "Sorry, sir."

  His angry heart melted a little at the penitent look the child offered. The vicar's daughter would steal hearts one day. Hopefully, she'd know what to do with them once she had them. He took out a handkerchief and mopped at the stain. "Is there a master work of art associated with that brush, Miss Rebecca?"

  The cherub smiled and tugged him into the room. "Mr. Norton, come see what Mrs. Norton taught me."

  He let the gleeful girl lead him to the sofa where Amora sat. A light colored gown nestled her limbs, sculpting her long neck. In her arms snuggled a babe. She looked calm and natural. A pain stabbed at his gut and stretched to his unloved heart. If only their child had lived, that would've given her joy. Amora needed more joy.

  With the lift of her chin, she offered a smile. "It's not dark yet and you're at Mayfair." Her eyes widened as the babe cooed. "Yes, look at the man in the horsey wig."

  He touched at his hair and felt the stiff tufted curls of his court headpiece. Reaching up, he pulled off the thing and stashed it in his tailcoat. "I've been wearing it since the morning session at the Old Bailey."

  "Are you rushing for a reason, Barrington?" Amora's eyes stretched wide, proud almond shaped wonders gleaming. "Has the magistrate offered more Sarahs?"

  "Not yet." He hadn't bothered the man since the last disastrous outing. Barrington needed more from Amora, more about the abduction. There had to
be a clue in the way she was taken that would separate her circumstances from all the Dark Walk Abductor's victims. Lord, he needed there to be two villains, not one. He shook his head. What a prayer to pray?

  Shuddering again on the inside from mentally putting Amora's abduction together with those heinous crimes, he forced himself to survey the room. There was nothing new, just an easel behind the sofa. Mrs. Tomas's Isis idols stood watch on the mantel. Perhaps, he needed to set a Bible beside it or get Wilson to bring over a cross or that Yahweh ax, so he could chop down the pagan to bits.

  Alas, that wouldn't do well for the truce. His mother-in-law hadn't been so prickly. Let the pharaoh build her pyramids or drapery. He hadn't exactly been a model for Christianity, jumping to accusations and condemning his own wife. No, he needed to live more of his faith to sway anyone.

  The little girl's tugs led him to the easel. Risking getting more paint on his clothes, he picked up the canvas and released the perfunctory oohs and aahs. "Ah, Miss Rebecca your art is lovely.

  He squinted and stretched his eyes. "What type of fruit is in the bowl?" Setting it down, he fiddled with his glasses, as if that would provide clarity.

  "They're limes. Mrs. Norton made me work on shading. Limes in a clover green bowl on an emerald-colored tablecloth."

  Green upon green, upon green. Yes. Amora hated him. He rubbed his brow. "Everything looks the same as yesterday, neat room, pretty wife, and handsome mother-in-law." He plodded to the fireplace and tapped a garniture vase next to the others, centering it in spite of the fourteen-inch high wooden god. "Almost perfect."

  Amora burped the baby then handed him to her mother. "Then to what do we owe the pleasure of this change in your schedule?"

  He leaned against the mantle and folded his arms. "Time is wasting. I need more information to make progress on our project."

  "I'm a project?"