Authors: Vanessa Riley
Tags: #Regency Romance, #Regency Suspense, #IR, #BWWM, #Multi-cultural
Unveiling Love
Saving a Marriage or Winning the Trial of the Century
Chapter One: London, England August 4, 1819
Chapter Two: Confession And Omission
Chapter Three: The Pain and Promise of Choices
Chapter Four: Something's Keeping You From Me
Chapter Five: Truth Should Set You Free
Chapter Six: Covering Darkness
Chapter Seven: No, Not Ready to Party
Chapter One: London, March 1, 1819
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Unveiling Love
A London Regency Suspense Tale: Episode I
Vanessa Riley
Dear Lovely Reader,
Unveiling Love is a serialized historical romance or soap opera told in episodes. Each episode averages three to eight chapters, about 18,000 to 30,000 words. Each episode resolves one issue. Emotional cliffhangers may be offered, but the plot, the action of the episode, will be complete in resolving this issue.
My promise to you is that the action will be compelling, the romance passionate, and the journey like nothing you've read before. I will tell you in the forward the length. This episode, Episode I, is eight chapters long, 30,000 words. Enjoy this Regency Romance.
Vanessa Riley
Winning in the courts, vanquishing England's foes on the battlefield, Barrington Norton has used these winner-take-all rules to script his life, but is London's most distinguished mulatto barrister prepared to win the ultimate fight, restoring his wife's love?
Amora Norton is running out of time. The shadows in her mind, which threaten her sanity and alienate Barrington's love, have returned. How many others will die if she can't piece together her shattered memories? Can she trust that Barrington's new found care is about saving their marriage rather than winning the trial of the century?
This is the first Regency Romance of four.
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Dedication
I dedicate this book to my copy editor supreme, my mother, Louise, my loving hubby, Frank, and my daughter, Ellen. Their patience and support have meant the world to me.
I also dedicate this labor of love to critique partners extraordinaire: June, Mildred, Lori, Connie, Gail.
Love to my mentor, Laurie Alice, for answering all my endless questions.
Love to Sharon & Kathy, they made me feel the emotion. You're never second place in my heart.
And I am grateful for my team of encouragers: Sandra, Michela, Felicia, Piper, and Rhonda.
Books by Vanessa Riley
Madeline's Protector
Swept Away, A Regency Fairy Tale
The Bargain, A Port Elizabeth Tale, Episodes I-IV
Unveiling Love, A London Suspense Tale
Unmasked Heart, A Regency Challenge of the Soul Series
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Copyright © 2016 Vanessa Riley
Published by BM Books
A Division of Gallium Books
Suite 236B, Atlanta, GA 30308
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943885-09-1
Barrington Norton:
a barrister by trade, he is a free-borne mulatto gentleman of a wealthy black merchant's daughter and a landowner's ne'er-do-well son.
Amora Norton:
the wife of Barrington Norton. She is of mixed blood, the daughter of an Egyptian woman and a wealthy Spanish apple merchant.
Smith:
a man convicted of coining.
Cynthia Miller
: a songstress and sister of Gerald Miller.
Gerald Miller:
Barrington's best friend who saved his life during the Peninsula War.
Mr. Beakes:
Barrington's solicitor.
Vicar Wilson:
a minister serving at St. Georges.
Duke and Duchess of Cheshire:
the newly married William St. Landon and Gaia Telfair
Mrs. Gretling:
an abigail to Amora.
James:
a man-of-all-work to Barrington.
Mr. Charleton:
a rival of Barrington from their youth.
London, England August 4, 1819
Barrington Norton loathed Newgate prison. The caustic smells, the cackles of the men driven mad awaiting release, the curses of the one's sentenced to die, many of whom he'd condemned — all churned his innards.
He popped off his top hat and fanned his face. Thinking and rethinking this visit twisted his resolve, tearing through his flesh like hot lead shots. Perhaps he should've headed home to his wife's fretful arms.
Hating indecision, he donned his hat again and climbed out of his carriage. He couldn't in good conscience forgo the opportunity to save an innocent life.
He shuttled toward the prison, away from his man-of-all-work. Good old James would slow him down offering wretched cockney wisdom. It was good to laugh. This just wasn't one of those days. Delay could antagonize Amora, shifting her into another of her strange moods, shooting a hole into all the good work he'd done these past months. He'd been on schedule, sent notes over the slightest changes. She seemed more at ease, more tolerant of his court work. That had to be good, even if he felt leashed.
The gaoler opened the massive door. "Barrister, what brings you here? Court finished hours ago. We're setting up the Debtor's Platform for tomorrow. Coming early for a good seat?"
"No. Spectators at an execution is reprehensible. Death is not a game for sport. I'm here to see Smith. Take me to him."
With a raised brow, the gaoler frowned then turned toward the long hall leading to the bowels of the prison. "This way, Mr. Norton. Smith's not on the list for tomorrow's ropes. Curious, ye wanting to see him."
Barrington followed. The sour scent of urine hit him, reminding him of years long past. Bad years. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped his face, savoring the hint of lavender. Amora's fragrance. A symbol of their blooming love, of easier days.
Married for five years, engaged for three, things weren't the same as the day he spied her painting in the Tomàs Orchards. He wasn't the same either, changed by war and the positioning of London politics.
The gaoler stopped and unlocked an iron door. He stepped in front of Barrington. "Smith's in here. Mighty funny, ye trying to save the man ye convicted. Is that fickleness a custom for you people?"
Barrington glared at the man. He made his tone tight, a notch below menacing. "What do you mean my people? Did you mean mulattos or barristers?"
"Ah…I ugh, meant no disrespect. Barristers."
Barrington stepped around the gaoler. "Yes, that's what we barristers for the crown do. We fight for truth."
The fellow didn't retort with a more open slur. He shrugged and closed the cell behind Barrington as he went inside.
Smith lay on a small cot. He jerked up and raised his fists, storming towards Barrington. "Came to gloat?"
The words he'd struggled over still hadn't materialized. He coughed and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.
"What do you want, barrister?" He lunged closer and shook his knuckles near Barrington's face. "Get out of here, you half-breed, before I darken your daylights."
Barrington didn't move, staring, daring him to strike. Every muscle strained, pulling tight, tight, tighter, burning all the way to the missing bullet in his hip. "You let yourself be convicted for coining. You let the runners charge you with counterfeiting money. You let the sentence fall, started to dispute it, then stopped. I need to know why you chose to die."
Smith lowered his hand. His jowls dropped. His eyes drifted to the left.
Barrington knew that regret-filled look. It shoved his gut from hot indignation to sweet winning. He hovered over Smith using his height to crowd and corner him against the block wall. "They're building the hanging platform for the morning's executions. Hear the hammering. Pound. Pound. P-OU-ND."
He mimicked the sound again, exaggerating the echo, as if it were Justice Burn's gavel knocking against his desk. "Your name is not on the list this time, but it will be in a month. Tell me what you are hiding, and I'll get the sentence re-examined. I am your one chance to live."
Smith pushed past him and sank onto the mattress. "I have friends. They're going to help me, not the man who put me here."
"Unless these friends come forward and confess, you will die. Die with the truth. Whoever made you look guilty will die laughing."
"You and your smooth words. They will save me? You're dressed for a fancy party, barrister. Take your top hat and go."
Slam. A board or the platform's trap door must've fallen outside. It might as well have been the bailiff shutting up the doors to the Old Bailey. Barrington lost the argument. He turned and almost pressed upon the cell bars. Instead, he fished in his pocket and dropped onto a rickety table a couple of leaves of a Psalm, pages taken from the Bible he took to war. "If you don't trust my words, here's something that can save you. If you change your mind, send for me. I'll come."
Smith didn't move.
This visit was hopeless. A waste of precious time, time meant for Amora. He knocked on the bars to be let out. There wasn't a blasted thing Barrington could do. An innocent man was going to hang.
Amora Norton waited for the servants to clear her dinner setting as she sat next to her husband in the grand ballroom of Lord and Lady Cheshire. The soft strain of the violin's concerto caressed her ear as nineteen men with poufy powdered wigs and shiny blue liveries made the plates laced with garlicky fish remnants disappear.
Tonight, no shaking dread, no shivers of isolation seized her lungs, just a small swish of joy swirled at her middle. The pressure that pricked her high in the stomach eased when she shifted to the left against the dark stiles of her chair. Still not quite pain free, she pushed back in her dinner chair only to have its scrolled feet squeal and announce her restlessness.
Her husband continued his conversation with the gentleman on the other side of the crisp white tablecloth. Thank goodness he hadn't noticed the noise. Disappointing Barrington would ruin everything.
He'd been late to arrive at Mayfair, their London residence, but still wished to drag her to this ball. A deep frown marred his face. The stewing in his grey eyes whispered he needed care. She'd give him that, and more.
This proud man was her world, her anchor in shadow-filled London. So Amora didn't question him. She made him his favorite tea, wore his favorite bland dress. By the last course, the smelly fish, his mood had lifted.
The sultry tone of the songstress, Cynthia Miller, floated in the air, the lyrics haunting, soulful, man-snaring. She must be exhibiting to catch some new lover as she'd done for the beaus in their small Clanville village.
"Amora. Amora, dear."
Wanting to pinch herself for dwelling on the tart and not her husband's tall form, she blinked and looked up at Barrington. "Yes?"
Barrington's hands covered hers.
Her breath stopped, then curled in her throat. "Yes, Barrington."
"You are so beautiful, Mrs. Norton."
Shyly-smiling, she caught his gaze, counted the slow rises of his chest. Could he see how hard she'd worked to be pleasing? "I want to be for you."
Like a slow, distant wave, the chairs were pushed away from the tables. A set formed. Would they dance? Usually he'd go politic or leave Amora for time with his patroness. "Do you think the floor is chalked? Can you see over the crowd?"
"My dear, what if we find out? Do you feel well enough to dance?"
"Yes."
Her pulse ticked to the timing of the violins. She came to his side savoring the crisp smell of his bergamot soap. The scent hung about his broad shoulders, wrapping him with appeal that stole everything -- good-sense, decorum, and the desire to stay at this ball.