Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (36 page)

He nodded. “So I’ve learned. The damnable—excuse me. The thing of it is,
I did
take the jewels to Paris and
I did
sell them there. Paid Tibbitts from the proceeds. I haven’t the least idea how the jewels got back to England, much less how they came to be among my things on that packet bound for Calais. When the guards said they needed to search for contraband, I let them into my cabin without a qualm.”

Clarissa’s mind was working like a treadle. “Did Tibbitts know you had actually stolen the jewels?”

Emory shrugged. “I wasn’t fool enough to admit it, but he must have suspected as much. He was damned impudent about it! Said my part scarcely counted alongside what he meant to exact from Hadrian. Having had time to think about it these last days, I suspect I’ve been Tibbitts’s gull.”

“Indeed, I think you are right,” Clarissa answered. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to obtain the jewels Emory sold in Paris and then plant them in his possession so that they could be found. At every turn the path led back to Tibbitts. From what she knew of the man, he seemed fully capable of exacting revenge against Emory for the injury inflicted by Hadrian. “You do know Tibbitts paid men to assault your brother?”

Emory nodded. “Hadrian told me. He also did say Tibbitts hired a professional duelist to challenge me. I didn’t believe it then. Now …”

The sound of footfalls echoed again in the corridor.

Emory rose to his feet. “That will be Hadrian.”

Clarissa came to her feet and reached up to replace her hood. “He must not find me here. Nor must you tell him that you’ve seen me. You must promise.”

“Very well, though I don’t—”

She gave it only a second’s thought, and then she lowered her veil.

“ ’Pon oath!” Emory stared at her. “Mrs. Willoughby?”

She nodded. “Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect?”

“That last day, when you dropped your things”—he pushed his hands through his hair—“I did wonder, but—” He looked up at her. “Why?”

“It’s too complicated to explain now.” She glanced at the door as she recognized Hadrian’s voice, growing ever stronger, and moved close to whisper in Emory’s ear, “I love your brother, Emory, but I’m here to help you. If Hadrian suspects, we shall be lost to each other. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you mustn’t say anything to anyone. I will—”

The key scraped in the lock and then the hinges cried as the door swung open.

Clarissa flung her arms about Emory’s neck, saying in her best gutter imitation, “Thank
ye,
yer lordship! ’Tis rare a girl earns ’er keep so agreeably.” She backed a little away from him and ran her hand lightly across his chest. “And such a fine gen’men ye be.” She bent forward and kissed his startled face. “So-oo strong.” She jingled the coins in her pocket. “And so-oo generous. ’Ta, luv.” Without a glance in Hadrian’s direction, she pushed past the two men who had entered the cell and stepped out into the hall.

Even as she hurried down the corridor, she heard Hadrian’s voice raised in exasperation. “So this is how you spend my coin!”

Smothering her laughter in the folds of her cape, she made good her escape.

The courtroom was full. The galleries overflowed with the well dressed and the curious. Ladies and gentlemen, who ordinarily would never have considered attending a trial, had waited for hours in a queue hoping to obtain a place on the rough wooden benches in the rafters of the Old Bailey. There were many Ramsbury family friends in the crowd. Some wore expressions of sympathy, others exhibited skepticism; all were animated by avid curiosity.

Clarissa watched the jury file in, the prosecution, Mr. Blackburne’s barrister, and then the accused. Emory was dressed in the latest fashion. His beard was gone, but his prison pallor appeared to have accelerated during the intervening week since she had spoken to him. His green eyes and dark hair seemed too vivid against that pale skin. But there was no denying his beauty. The gallery’s chorus of
oohs
and
aahs
accompanying his entrance was testament to it. Once he had taken his place in the accused box, the bailiff ordered the court to rise.

The judge came in last. Looking impressive in his robes and shoulder-length wig, Lord Howard took his place on the bench. He did not, Clarissa noted with misgiving, look at all like a man disposed to be lenient. She knew that cases in which a member of the nobility appeared as the defendant often brought out the righteous indignation of a legal system which reproached the accused, whether guilty or innocent, for simply having brought notoriety upon his class.

Only when the court was seated did Clarissa allow herself a glance at the man she loved.

Lord Ramsbury sat in the first tier of seats directly across from her, grim faced but perfectly composed. His legs were casually crossed and his chin was propped by a hand. His hair was a little longer, wilfully curling forward on his brow. Immaculate yet reserved, his demeanor suited a man whose force of personality unerringly drew attention to himself.

Love and pride and compassion swelled in her chest until Clarissa could hardly draw breath. Was she the only one who noticed how tautly his bronze skin was stretched over his cheekbones and brow? Or that his once-green gaze had become almost pure silver. That gaze shimmered and shifted as it passed with chilling disinterest over the crowd.

She knew the instant he located Tibbitts, who sat in the row directly ahead of her. His gaze was like the glint of sunlight on a slashing blade. She remembered his Arabic name,
Shaitan.
How fitting. Had there ever been so formidable a man? Then she heard Tibbitts chuckle, and the hair on her neck lifted.

A moment later Tibbitts turned to his younger companion and she overheard him say, “That’s her, beside the mother. The pretty chit in the blue. Lady Jane’s her name. Mind the face. She’ll be in need of a bit of comforting once her brother’s been sentenced as a common criminal.”

The man next to him nodded and turned to reveal the profile of a roughly handsome Toff. “Good as done, guv’nor. And a pleasure ’twill be.”

Tibbitts’s next words were spoken so low that she caught only the final two, “… Ramsbury squirm.”

Clarissa went cold behind her bonnet veil. Dear God! This trial was not about the humiliation of Emory, but about inflicting shame upon his brother. Though he was guilty of the thefts, Emory had been manipulated into his predicament. Tibbitts’s real victim was Hadrian. Now he intended to turn his hatred upon another member of the family and watch Hadrian’s reaction.

Her gaze was riveted on the man across from her, but Hadrian had looked away to speak to his mother. Surely there was hope for Emory if the truth could come to light in this courtroom. Hadrian would know what to do. But how to warn him?

She glanced anxiously around the crowded space. If she left her seat, it would be instantly taken. She had seen the size of the throng waiting just outside the doors in the hope that someone would exit or need to be taken out. No, she must stay and await her moment. With a trembling hand she touched the bundle in her pocket. Some intuition had made her bring it, but she did not know how to throw doubt upon Emory’s guilt without risking her own arrest.

She sat tensely through the long and tedious opening remarks made by both sides. There was the usual court loquaciousness in which the prosecution promised a scandal the proportions of which could only be understood in terms of the reckless disregard for common decency and national values shown by the accused: another example of the reprobate and unregenerate system of aristocratic excess. The defense painted a picture of a young and well-mannered gentleman in turmoil, a dupe to vices gotten beyond his control, a repentant sinner who had seen the light.

Clarissa nibbled her lip when they were done, quite convinced that Emory’s defense was not up to the fire-and-brimstone tactics of the prosecution.

That opinion seemed to be shared by many as she overheard the man behind her say, “He’ll swing for certain, don’t they change barristers.”

“This lot ’ll give ’im no better than even odds to a spell in Botany Bay,” came a woman’s reply.

In trepidation, Clarissa lifted her gaze to the man who sat motionless and expressionless across from her. How silent and unperturbed Hadrian seemed. Could he not sense the mood of the courtroom, or was he unmoved by it? She could not believe that he did not care what happened to his brother, so she took instant heart in the speculation that Hadrian knew things she did not.

Yet as the trial proceeded with witness after witness—the troops who searched the ship’s cabins, the corporal who actually discovered the jewels, the constable who arrested Emory, a number of elegantly dressed and appropriately tearful ladies of the
ton
who identified their jewels from the recovered cache—Clarissa became more and more restless as the spectators grew more vocal in their murmurings. Even Emory looked a little forlorn, as though a guilty verdict were all but assured.

When she could stand it no longer, she again looked at Hadrian for moral support, but his nonchalance had become a stiff and intensely burning rage. His eyes were on Tibbitts, but she felt the full impact of the overflow of that emotion, and it made her nerves scream with a nearly unbearable anxiety. If only she could distract the court! A delay would give her the chance to tell Hadrian what she had learned.

She did not stop to think of the consequences. She only knew she must act before Emory was called to the witness box and confessed his guilt. She tapped Tibbitts on the shoulder.

When he turned to her the obvious lascivious pleasure with which he viewed the proceedings shocked her. Still she bent to him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Pardon, monsieur,”
she began in a flawless French accent. “But I must, must, speak with the prosecution. Can you effect it, monsieur?” She patted his shoulder.
“C’est trés important!”

Tibbitts’s brows rose skeptically. “What matter can there be in this courtroom that affects you, madame?”

“I know this one, the accused. In Paris. I’d know his handsome face anywhere.”

Tibbitts smiled unpleasantly. “May I be so bold as to suggest that what you know of him is not to his advantage?”

“A man like that? This handsome aristocrat? Monsieur,” she said with unmistakable censure.

“I will see what I can do, madame.” He turned back and with the help of his companion produced paper and pen.

She could not see what he wrote, but with a wildly beating heart she saw the note being passed forward toward the prosecution’s table. The note was opened by one of the Attorney General’s panel of solicitors and scanned; then his head jerked round in search of her.

Feeling that she might faint, Clarissa lifted her hand in the barest sketch of a wave. Knowing that she would absolutely fade away if she saw Hadrian’s reaction, Clarissa kept her gaze averted from both Blackburne brothers.

The young man immediately nudged his partner, whispered to him, and then passed him the note. And thus the note passed through five officers of the court until finally it was the Attorney General himself who was gazing up at her.

When the defense finished examining the witness who stood in the box, the prosecutor rose from his seat and said, “Milord, if it please the court, I should like to call forth a final witness before the prosecution rests.”

The judge frowned. “Your list of witnesses has been run through. Was there an oversight?”

“New information had just come to light, milord. If you would rather I wait and introduce this testimony at a later—”

“That will not be necessary,” the judge said curtly. “But keep it brief, Lord Ackley. I do not intend this trial to run on wheels.”

“Very good, milord. Will the court please call the lady in black.”

The barrister turned to indicate Clarissa and a chill struck her so swiftly that her legs began to shake. Dear God! What was she going to say or do? Then she saw that Mr. Tibbitts had risen to offer her his arm. She rose and took it, leaning heavily on him.

This is the moment,
a little voice cried in her head.
You think you are so clever, then prove it!

It took only a second to plant the lavaliere in Tibbitts’s pocket. It took exactly two more for her to realize that if she could not pull off this mad scheme, she would doubtless be sharing a corridor in Newgate with Emory Blackburne for a very long time.

With all eyes on her, Clarissa walked unaided to the witness box and took the prescribed oath.

“Now, if you would,” Lord Ackley said, “please state your name for the record.”

Clarissa lifted her veil. “I am Mrs. Clarissa Willoughby.”

A buzz swept the courtroom but the prosecutor ignored it. “Please tell us, Mrs. Willoughby, if are you acquainted with the accused, Mr. Emory Blackburne?”

Clarissa cast a shy smile at Emory, who was staring at her with a slack jaw. “Yes, I am, quite well.” For the sake of her nerves, she dared not spare his brother a glance. But she could feel those silvergreen eyes on her, and marveled at her ability to remain standing.

The prosecutor smiled pleasantly. “Would you care to expound upon the nature of your relationship with the accused?”

“I know him well enough to know that he would not steal without due cause; one might even call it coercion owing to blackmail.”

The reaction from the spectator boxes was immediate. The room erupted in a din of simultaneous conversation, forcing the judge to call sharply for order.

“What do you mean by blackmail, Mrs. Willoughby?” Lord Ackley continued when the noise had subsided. “Were you a victim of some scheme of extortion by the accused?”

“Certainly not,” Clarissa snapped. “I am referring to the villainy of another man, one who has attempted to make a victim of Mr. Blackburne.”

The reaction was no less intense as a new wave of conversation swept the room. She saw Emory jerk with surprise and kept her gaze on his astonished expression to give her heart. No less than his future now depended upon her.

The judge struck his gavel, then said, “See here, Mrs. Willoughby. Do you mean to tell this court that you have new information pertaining to this trial?”