In the Barrister's Bed

by Tina Gabrielle

  “What can we do to help?” James said.

  Sheridan looked to Bella. “I understand your deceased husband was Rupert Sinclair’s twin. Were they identical in appearance?”

  “They bore a strong resemblance to one another,” Bella said.

  “If you can provide a portrait or sketch of your husband, I can show it to my runners. They can keep an eye out for Rupert,” Sheridan said.

  Bella paled a shade. “I’m sorry. I do not have a portrait or any likeness of my husband’s image.”

  “Then I have a man on staff that is excellent with sketches. Can you give a solid description of Rupert?”

  “Of course. I’ll do my best to recall every detail that may be of assistance,” Bella said.

  “I’ll be certain my foot patrols see the sketch,” Sheridan said.

  The magistrate turned to James. “Mr. Stone tells me you are also here on legal business. Why would a new member of the upper crust bother himself with barrister responsibilities?”

  “My stable lad was wrongfully arrested this afternoon at a marketplace in Covent Garden.”

  “Ah, I see. If you vouch for him as a duke, I’ll have the boy released later today,” Sheridan said.

  “Thank you. I’ll send a man to fetch the lad.”

  “I’ll do it,” Brent said. “You have enough concerns with Rupert Sinclair roaming the streets.”

  Sheridan walked them to the door and called for an assistant. Seconds later a uniformed man appeared and introduced himself as the sketch artist and escorted Bella down the hall.

  Sheridan gave Brent a sideways glance before returning his attention to James. “London is a large city, but rest assured, Your Grace, the government has eyes everywhere.”

  James shook Sheridan’s hand before the magistrate returned to his office and shut the door.

  James was left alone with Brent.

  “What was that about?” James asked Brent.

  Brent shrugged. “I thought to act in some way. Treason has never sat well with me.”

  James was not fooled by Brent’s nonchalance. There was something disturbing about his longtime friend that James couldn’t quite identify. Brent had always been secretive about his past. Others may have found it disconcerting, but James had never been bothered by it. But this was different. Brent was different.

  Willing to help Bella, yes; yet a strange undercurrent, a leashed dangerousness, simmered in Brent’s piercing blue eyes.

  Brent turned and—just as quickly as it had appeared—the flash was gone, and in its place returned the respectable and reserved barrister.

  “I never meant to insinuate you weren’t as cunning as Jack or Anthony,” James told Brent.

  “I know.” Reaching out, Brent clasped James’s shoulder. “But I want to do whatever I can to help.”

  It was dark outside by the time Bella finished with the sketch artist. James studied the drawing, memorizing each line of Rupert Sinclair’s face—the square wall of his forehead, the stubborn jut of his chin, the slightly crooked nose.

  James had wondered if Bella’s husband had looked exactly like his twin. Throughout his legal career, James had encountered more than one set of twins—either clients or witnesses for the prosecution. Several pairs, he recalled, had been identical in appearance, and others, had displayed little resemblance to each other. But Bella had said Roger and Rupert Sinclair had looked alike.

  As for her not having a portrait of her husband, James wasn’t surprised. If any had existed, she’d probably left them behind or destroyed them.

  Bella pushed back her chair from the writing desk she had spent the last hour huddled over with the sketch artist. She stood and rubbed her lower back, the strain of exhaustion written on her face. She rubbed her eyes, and James suspected they burned from concentrating on the artist’s work as Rupert Sinclair’s image had slowly come into focus.

  James dropped the sketch on the table. “You’re exhausted.”

  Bella opened her mouth to protest, but was stopped short when her stomach growled. Her face burned brightly.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  “Not too long,” she said defensively. “I had dry toast and tea this morning.”

  “There’s a pleasant inn off the beaten path called the Harvest Post. I’m friendly with the proprietor, and the place serves good food and wine.”

  When she looked like she was going to continue to argue, he said, “Don’t try to deny you’re hungry. I’m famished as well. And the inn is a short ride away.”

  “Now that we’re in town, it’s inappropriate for us to intimately dine together without a chaperone.”

  “Don’t be concerned. The Harvest Post is on the outskirts of London on an isolated road. It’s hardly the type of establishment to be visited by the haute ton.”

  She let out a sigh of resignation. “All right.” She turned to fetch her coat, which hung over the back of her chair. “I suppose if the place is as out of the way as you suggest, there is no risk that we will be seen.”

  They stepped outside to where his driver waited at the corner, and James helped her into the carriage.

  The journey to the inn did not take long. Soon the city street lamps faded and the wheels of the carriage slowed and swayed on the dilapidated cobblestones of the rural road. The well-lit inn shone like a welcoming beacon in dimness.

  The proprietor of the Harvest Post greeted James warmly. Farnsworth had been embroiled in trouble with his business partner, and James had settled the dispute between the partners, freeing Farnsworth to run the inn on his own.

  Exchanging pleasantries and laughing with James, Farnsworth himself escorted them to the inn’s sole private room. A waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine, and James ordered the inn’s specialty, a hearty rabbit stew, for both himself and Bella.

  After tasting the first forkful of stew, Bella’s eyes closed in delight. “Mmmm. This is delicious,” she murmured.

  His mind burned with the erotic memory of the first time they made love—of Bella sprawled naked across the snooker table, strands of her luxurious dark auburn hair in vivid contrast to the green felt, her eyes half closed and her lips parted in pleasure.

  James watched, enthralled, as she drained her wineglass, then licked a lingering drop from her full lip with the tip of her tongue.

  He busied himself with refilling her glass, then cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the important issue at hand rather than the desirable woman across from him.

  “Tell me,” he said. “When did Rupert Sinclair first contact you?”

  “Weeks ago in Wyndmoor’s stables. He confronted me there before ... before he attacked Bobby and shot you. I haven’t seen him since the stables. Except ...” She twisted her napkin in her lap. “Except, he had left a note on my pillow the night we dined together at Wyndmoor. He wanted to meet for me to hand over the ledger. My bedroom window was shut and locked. I’ve no idea how he gained entry.”

  “That was the night you asked me to pay you for the deed to Wyndmoor?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I never found the ledger and I had no choice but to flee.” Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “He threatened to harm you a second time.”

  Again she sought to protect him. His heart hammered, and his breath burned in his throat. He truly would enjoy killing Rupert Sinclair.

  “I’m even more convinced my plan is sound,” he argued. “You must live with me until Sinclair is arrested and you are no longer in danger.”

  “I’m still uncertain. What of your grandmother, the dowager duchess?” Bella asked.

  “Do not concern yourself with her. The Park Street mansion is enormous. One could wander for days without seeing anyone but a servant. You can have your own wing if you prefer.”

  When she made to protest further, he said, “I’m sending for Harriet, remember? She can act as your chaperone.”

  “Surely the dowager will see through such a ruse.”


  “I don’t care what she believes. I want you safe.”

  For a long moment, she looked back at him. “No one has ever concerned themselves with my safety before.”

  “Then allow me to be the first. You cannot run from Rupert indefinitely. The man must be brought to justice for his crimes.”

  “Which ones?” she asked. “His past treasonous actions or for shooting you?”

  “Both. My only regret is that your spouse expired before he could be held accountable for his abominable treatment of his beautiful wife.”

  She stilled, her hand resting on the stem of her glass. The candlelight brushed her elegant features—her heart-shaped face, her catlike green eyes, her wildly tempting lips. She was breathtaking and maddening at once. An arousing combination. The air thrummed with awareness between them.

  Awareness and unmistakable anxiety.

  Her voice was a tremulous whisper. “Whatever do you mean by Roger’s ‘abominable treatment’?”

  James leaned across the table, his eyes locking with hers. “Make no mistake, Bella. My investigator was thorough. He spoke with the Plymouth townsfolk. Your husband was the worst type of man, and spread lies of your frail mental state. We both know you are anything but frail and are of strong, sound mind. But it was his abuse of his beautiful wife that was truly vile. He was a sick man, and his death was a far too easy escape for his crimes.”

  A flicker of relief flashed across her features before her eyes lowered to her glass.

  James wasn’t fooled and knew the reason. She feared his investigator had stumbled across the additional rumors—that she was responsible for Roger Sinclair’s death. James didn’t care if she had pushed the drunken fiend down the stairs or not. God knew, he would have done it for her had her villainous husband lived. But he kept his knowledge hidden. She need not face everything, not now, when he desired her cooperation.

  “Roger had an obsessive and addictive nature,” she said, meeting his gaze. “He was consumed with amassing a fortune, by whatever means necessary. When trade with France ceased, the demand for French goods heightened, and he realized the money to be made. He started small with French brandy, lace, and perfume, but his greed soon took over and he began exporting munitions. He was addicted to brandy as well, and when it came to me ...” She swallowed, then went on to say, “He was fiercely jealous. First of my writing, which he immediately prohibited, then of any attention I received from the women and men in Plymouth. I lived in fear of his volatile temper and his abuse, and through his threats against the one person I cared for he ensured I never ran away.”

  “I’ve observed his type in my legal practice. Demented souls who cannot be rehabilitated. Many are addicts of alcohol or opium, others respectable tradesmen with dark secrets and violent tendencies. Rupert Sinclair shares your husband’s traits. We can work together and see this through to the end. But you must agree to live under my roof,” he said.

  She inclined her head. “If that’s what you truly wish, then I’ll go with you.”

  Profound relief swept through him. He raised his glass, and said, “A toast then, to our agreement.”

  She drank, and he was quick to refill her glass.

  There was a low knock on the door. The waiter entered to remove their plates, and James ordered more wine. Dessert was served, strawberries with Devonshire cream. Bella visibly relaxed and seemed to enjoy his company, just as he enjoyed hers.

  Which was entirely foreign. Women had always served a single purpose in his life thus far—mutual pleasure. He wasn’t immune to Bella’s charms in that regard. Even now his gaze was repeatedly drawn to her luscious mouth as she licked the cream from each strawberry. The dessert was a concoction to arouse and inflame him. Yet it was her keen intelligence and courage that drew him and prompted this fierce possessiveness.

  Eventually the conversation slowed. She yawned, then stretched.

  James pushed back his chair. “I don’t want you falling asleep in your chair, Bella. We should head home.”

  He helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly and smiled up at him with heavy lids.

  He chuckled. “You’ve had too much wine.”

  “Don’t be a ninny, James. I’m certainly not drunk, just relaxed.”

  He rolled his eyes. “A ninny? No one has ever accused me of such a crime.”

  She giggled, then threw his words back at him. “Then allow me to be the first.”

  Chapter 29

  Bella leaned on James in the carriage. Since arriving in London, the stress had worn on her, but now she had a defender. A powerful duke on her side, a man who had stolen her heart. She could share her burdens and cease looking over her shoulder in fear of Rupert’s retaliation for her not finding the ledger he so desperately sought.

  The carriage wheels rolled over a rough patch of country road, and James pulled her more firmly against his side. The hardness and warmth of him was comforting and arousing at once.

  There were complications, of course. This time, she had agreed to live under his roof. But in her wine-induced state, she pushed her worries aside.

  Bella looked up at him, her cheek brushing his coat. “How can I ever repay your kindness?” she asked.

  His hawklike gaze looked fierce in the carriage lamplight. “A kiss is sufficient.”

  Yes, she thought and raised her chin.

  “But we should not, Bella.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “You’re inebriated.”

  “I am not,” she huffed. “I’m merely a bit tipsy. You said diversion would work to ease worry, remember? I’m only following your suggestions.” She raised her lips to within an inch of his.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Serves me right,” he ground out. “A woman who can argue like a barrister.” He pulled her close, and his head lowered....

  Just then a loud crack sounded outside, and the carriage jerked to a sudden stop.

  “Stand and deliver!” a voice boomed outside.

  James sat upright. “Christ! It’s highwaymen.”

  “Highwaymen!”

  James reached beneath the bench seat for a knife—a wicked-looking four-inch blade that he slipped into his boot.

  Fear spurted through Bella. She had heard of highwaymen, pirates of the rural roads who preyed on vulnerable carriages at night. Never had she thought she would fall victim to one.

  Her gaze flew to the window. It was dark, save for the torches held by the robbers. There were two ... no, three ... men, one mounted on a horse. Their driver was on his knees, a look of terror on his pale face as a highwayman held a knife to his throat.

  “Do they know you are a duke?” she whispered.

  “For certain. No doubt they’ve targeted the ducal crest on the side of the carriage,” James said.

  Seconds later, the door was jerked open. A large, bald man holding a club the size of which she’d never seen stared at James. “Get out of the carriage. And empty yer pockets.”

  Heavens! It was the size of a tree branch, yet the man held the club with ease in a meaty fist, as if it weighed no more than a small branch.

  “You’re making a grave mistake,” James said in a hard voice.

  “Me? I don’t think so, me lord.” The man jerked his head toward Bella. “The chit stays inside. Ye get out. Now.”

  “Stay here, Bella,” James commanded before hopping down and closing the door.

  Icy fear knotted inside Bella, and she strained to see out the window. The ruffian holding a knife to their driver began to search his pockets. The third highwayman stood apart from the rest, clearly the leader. He wore a hooded cloak and was of average height. A terrifying thought struck her.

  Could it be Rupert Sinclair?

  James threw a purse at the feet of the bald man. “Take it and go.”

  Bella watched as the leader raised his hand and made a quick slicing motion across his throat. A signal to kill James?

  No! her instincts screamed out.

  Without furthe
r thought she flew from the carriage and flung herself at the bald man’s arm. She was no match for him, and he struck her across the face and threw her like a rag doll. Her head split in pain as she fell to the ground.

  James had a fiery, angry look that was completely unfamiliar to her. With lightning quick reflexes, he reached into his boot and came up with the blade in his hand. His eyes were hard and merciless as he slashed the arm of the bald highwayman and then hurled the knife at the ruffian who held the driver. With an eerie swoosh, the blade struck the man in his gut.

  “Let’s get out of ’ere!” the leader shouted.

  From where she lay, she saw one of the ruffians turn and flee and heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding over the dirt road.

  “Bella! Look at me!”

  She turned to find James beside her on the ground. Her head hurt; every movement ached like the devil.

  “They were going to kill you,” she mumbled.

  He gently gathered her into his arms and stood. “No, sweetheart. I was ready for them. You risked your life. Why?”

  “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

  James cradled Bella in his arms inside the carriage. He had told his driver to rush to the Park Street mansion.

  “I’ll be fine,” Bella insisted. “The brute struck my cheek. I’ve suffered worse in the past.”

  Lord! What hell had she lived through? Roger Sinclair was lucky indeed that he was already six feet underground.

  As for tonight, when the highwayman had struck Bella and thrown her to the ground, his heart had slammed into his ribs. Bloodlust had consumed him, and he had attacked with murderous intent.

  She had risked her life when she had left the safety of the carriage. James stared down at her upturned face in wonder. She may have been emboldened by the wine, but he knew it was her courage that had made her leap from the carriage and throw herself at the hulking criminal. She could have been killed, taken from him before he could truly make her his.

  His voice was harsher than he intended. “You shouldn’t have left the carriage.”