The Highwayman (30 page)

“I'm sorry for disappearing, Carlton. I realize the trouble and angst it must have caused not just you, but everyone here. It is unfair to you, especially after the evening we spent together.” She remembered the kiss, the proposal. If she'd accepted it right then, would she still be alive? “I was—am in danger. Say what you will about Dorian Blackwell, he did save my life.”

Morley flicked an uncomfortable glance at Gemma Warlow before he said, “You could have come to me.
I
would have kept you safe.”

Farah realized she must tread these waters carefully, for the sake of everyone involved. “I wasn't given that option. And I'm not sure that you could have, given the circumstances.”

“But—Dorian Blackwell? You belong to
him
now? The marriage is legitimate?”

Farah knew he was asking if it was consummated and she blushed as she nodded, unable to say a word.

“
Why?
He's a monster. A murderer. I thought you were smarter than this. Better than the likes of
him
.”

A surprising protective defensiveness swelled in her breast for her criminal of a husband. “You don't know him, Carlton.”

The disgust returned to the inspector's clear eyes. “God, Farah, listen to yourself! You sound like a bad clich
é
.”

The words hurt because he meant them. Farah didn't mind losing Morley's romantic attentions, but losing his respect was one of the hardest things she'd had to face in a long time.

“Maybe I do,” she murmured. “Maybe I am. But you don't understand what's at stake here, Carlton. Through Blackwell, I have the chance to regain something very precious that was taken from me a long time ago.”

“And what's that?”

“My past.”

He snorted, circling behind his desk and buttoning his collar. “Be a little less vague, if you please,” he asked crisply.

“It will all make sense in time,” Farah said gently. “But time is something you must grant us. You have no legal call to keep us here. If Dorian hadn't fought off those river pirates I'd probably be dead, or worse.” The truth in her words sent a cold shudder down Farah's spine.

Anger seemed to drain from Morley's shoulders and he paused in the middle of retying his necktie, looking nothing more than tired and sad. “Do you love him?”

Farah had to look away. Her eyes found Gemma, who seemed just as interested in the answer. Her feelings for Dorian had become increasingly complex and opaque. But, as Morley had pointed out, she'd only known him four days. She'd begun to care for Dorian. To understand him. No. They were a long way from understanding each other. She was grateful to him. Wanted to help him and heal him. The
desire
to know and understand the enigma that was her husband drove her to hope for good things to come of whatever future they were to have together. Though he'd barely touched her body, he'd definitely left a mark on her heart. But … Love?

“I couldn't say.” It was the most honest answer Farah could give him. “But I do know that although I like and respect you a great deal, I don't love you, and that you don't love me.” She said this gently, the words devoid of cruelty or pity. “Accepting your proposal would have been a mistake. We both would have come to regret it, in time.”

Morley finished tying his cravat and shrugged into his suit jacket, his attention on the discarded certificate of marriage on his desk. Picking it up, he studied it once more. “Perhaps you're right. You are a woman with more secrets and shadows than a man in my position could live down.”

Distressed, Farah frowned. She'd never thought of herself in that way. It was Dorian Blackwell who owned the secrets and shadows, not she. Though, thinking back, she could count more than a few rather large secrets. They'd just been a part of her for so long, she'd begun to think of them as the truth.

Because the real truth had been not only painful, but dangerous.

Somewhere along the way, she'd lost Farah Townsend completely, and had become Mrs. Dougan Mackenzie.

Morley stepped around his desk and pushed the paper into her hands, slapping his finger against her name on the certificate. “Townsend?” He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “As in, the about-to-be-inaugurated Countess Farah Leigh Townsend? What is all this about? Some scheme you cooked up with your delinquent of a husband?”

“Don't be cruel, Carlton,” Farah reprimanded sharply. “You'll lose the moral high ground.”

“It would still be a long way to fall to reach
his
position.”

“Maybe so,” Farah conceded. “But regardless of all that, I was born Farah Leigh Townsend, and through the name of Blackwell, I'll be able to reclaim my title and my birthright.”

“Do you realize how impossible that sounds? They found the missing Farah Townsend weeks ago. She's already met the Queen of England.”

A familiar fear bubbled in Farah's middle. She wrapped one arm around herself as though to contain it, and met Morley square in the eye. What if this was a mistake? What if they failed? “The woman everyone knows as Farah Leigh Townsend is an imposter.”

“Prove it.”

“That'll be easy,” Gemma cut in with a lift of her dirty shoulder. “Every whore in East London knows she's Lucy Boggs from 'er picture in the paper. More'n a few of us planned to blackmail 'er when she came into 'er money.” Gemma cut off when she noticed both Farah and Morley were staring at her with twin expressions of incredulity.

Farah regained her voice first. “What—what did you say her name was?”

“Lucy Boggs. She's a whore, same as I, only younger and prettier. Was picked from the streets to work at some uppity place on the Strand called Regina's. Next thing we 'ear, she's a bloomin' countess in all the society papers.” The wounded prostitute guffawed a few times, not appearing to feel the pain in her swollen lips and cheeks. “If Lucy Boggs is nobility, I'm the bloody Virgin Mary.”

“Gemma!” For the second time that night, Farah threw her arms around the woman. “You may have just saved the day!”

“Awright, awright…” The woman shrugged out of her embrace, uncomfortable with the genuine show of affection. “Can't 'elp you out there in the real world. No one would take the word of a lot of cocksuckers like us over that of 'er magistrate 'usband, Mr. Warrington.”

“What about Madame Regina, herself?” Farah asked, both her excitement and trepidation building in tandem. “As Lucy Boggs's employer, wouldn't her word have some clout?” She looked back at Morley who stood over them with his arms folded and a rather dazed expression frozen on his features.

Shaking his head as though to clear it, he didn't look at Farah, addressing Gemma, instead. “Miss Warlow, if you'd give us a moment alone. Mr. Beauchamp will give you tea and something to eat until the surgeon is available to see to your injuries.”

“Fank you, Chief Inspector.” Gemma flicked a concerned one-eyed look to Farah, who nodded, before sliding off her chair and stepping out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Morley shook his head, looking at her as though he'd never seen her before in his life.

“She's right, you know. Everyone knows it's too easy to pay a prostitute, or a madam, to do or
say
anything you like.”

“I do realize that. We'll go about it in a different way.”

“The official Queen's Bench decision on the case is tomorrow morning.” Morley pointed at a discarded newspaper on his desk.

“Don't remind me.” Farah held a hand to her fluttering stomach. This all seemed to be happening with the speed and inevitability of a runaway locomotive. The miraculous recovery of a very fake Farah Leigh Townsend. Escaping Warrington in the Yard. Her abduction and subsequent marriage to the Blackheart of Ben More. Returning to London. And tomorrow she would claim her birthright.

“All this time?” Morley asked. “A countess? Why didn't you…? How long did you…? What happened?”

“That is a very long story.” Farah moved her hand to her head, a needling ache prickling behind her eyes.

“One that involved Dorian Blackwell?”

“Interestingly enough, yes, in a roundabout way.” She sighed and stood, bringing herself closer to Morley's handsome, downturned face. Heart clenching, she reached up to his jaw. “I promise to explain when all of this business is handled.”

Recovering from his shock, Morley closed his eyes, but then backed away from her touch and retreated to his territory on the opposite side of the desk. “In reality, I was never officially more than your employer. Regardless of what I said before, you don't owe me an explanation.” He took in a deep breath, picking up a file and staring at it, though Farah was certain he couldn't even read the name in front of him at the moment. “How do you propose to reclaim your legacy?” he asked genially. “I assume Blackwell has some nefarious plan?”

Farah smiled a little. “All I have to do is prove that I'm the real Farah Townsend. I lived her life as a child, I'll know things about my parents, my home, my past, that the imposter couldn't possibly know. I only have to convince the court.”

“It'll take more than that, I fear.” Morley shrugged. “Paperwork. Documents like records of birth and records of where you spent your childhood as an orphan.”

Farah blanched. “How did you know I was an orphan?”

He gave her a droll look and she realized the idiocy of the question before he answered.

“Farah,
your
childhood,
your
miraculous resurrection, has been all the society papers have reported on for weeks.”

Farah had heard, of course, but she rarely wasted her time reading the society papers when there was a book to be had.

“I could help you,” he offered without looking at her. “As you know, the records commissioner's office is attached to this building, and since it is the middle of the night I could—”

“Mr. Blackwell already has that well in hand.” Farah grimaced.

Morley's eyes narrowed and she could almost hear him thinking. “When we brought him in, somehow he…” Morley squeezed the bridge of his nose and growled. “I should have known. It was too damned easy an arrest for the likes of him.”

He looked up at her and they shared a knowing, frustrated chuckle over the infuriating man to whom she was now married. And just like that, the tension between them was dispelled, and the past became the past. A melancholy idea of what might have been and could never be.

“I'll release your husband and his valet,” Morley said on an exhausted sigh. “But that doesn't mean I'm still not watching his every move.”

“I know.” Farah gave in to the impulse to hug him, but kept it brief and distant, for both their sakes.

“You're a good woman, Farah. I've always admired you.” Morley paused, a muscle in his jaw working to hold something back. “If he ever hurts you—hell, if he makes you unhappy in any way, come to me. I'll sort him out.”

Farah felt every ounce of tenderness she put into her smile. “Thank you, Carlton. And, you were wrong, you know, about only being my employer. You were—are also a very dear friend.”

He gave his desk a wry smile. “Don't twist the knife any further.”

“Good-bye,” she murmured, reaching for the tarnished, well-used handle of his office door.

“Farah.”

She turned back at the serious tone in his voice. “Yes?”

“Look into Madame Regina's. You happen to know the owner quite intimately.”

“I don't. I've never met Madame Regina,” Farah said.

“She's just the proprietor.” An amused smile quirked his lips. “The owner is your husband, Dorian Blackwell.”

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Farah had never felt so small and insignificant in her entire life. She'd been to the Royal Courts of Justice innumerable times in her career with the Yard, and walked past the impressive Gothic white-stone building on her way to work every day. But her presence had always been part of the silent workings of the legal process, on hand with documents and such. Never had her voice echoed in the hall of Her Majesty's High Court, and
never
in front of the Queen's Bench.

It amazed Farah that even here, in the imposing buttressed stone of the great hall, men, women, and nobility alike avoided the path of Dorian Blackwell. Though the hall bustled with more members of the
ton
and agents of the crown than Farah had ever seen, she and her husband were still able to make a rapid pace.

Up until the previous year, the King's Bench had held its court in Westminster Hall, as it had since the eleventh century. Now, by royal writ of Queen Victoria, herself, the King's Bench became the Queen's Bench and moved from Westminster to the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand. Though, as it had for hundreds of years, the High Court of Justice remained the epicenter of the sovereign's official word and royal administration in the realm. The office of lord chief justice had long since replaced the presence of the regent at court proceedings, and as such became one of the most powerful seats in the empire.

Farah found it difficult to look anyone in the eye as all who'd gathered followed their progression toward the Chambers of the High Court. The byzantine cathedral feel of the great hall intensified as voices hushed upon their approach. The hush wasn't full of reverence, but curiosity and speculation.

Farah was certain her heartbeat could be heard by all as she watched the intricate geometric designs of the marble floor disappear beneath the billowing skirts of the midnight silk dress Madame Sandrine had delivered late last evening.

The prior night hadn't done much, if anything, to dispel the anxiety tightening an iron band around Farah's lungs. Once she'd collected her husband and Murdoch from the reception sergeant at Scotland Yard, they'd taken a cab to Dorian's luxurious terrace in Mayfair. The blood had been wiped from his face, but it still stained the crisp collar of his shirt and darkened his already black jacket.