The Highwayman (32 page)

At least someone was enjoying themselves.

“Madame Regina is prepared to testify that she has employed this woman who claims to be Farah Townsend as Lucy Boggs in her establishment some five months, before turning her employ to Warrington for a large sum.” Dorian gestured to the sheaf of paper in the woman's silk-gloved hand.

Warrington pounded the table, but barely restrained himself.

“Is this true?” Justice Whidbey asked of the woman known as Madame Regina.

“It is, my lord,” she purred in a sultry Italian accent. “I have brought you the documents of legitimacy I demand from my employees, and also the receipt for money exchanged between Mr. Warrington and me.”

Whidbey held out his hand for them, and she glided toward him, handing over the crisp, official papers.

Warrington's lawyer stood. “This is a joke. This story, these documents, they could both be forgeries produced by the infamous Blackheart of Ben More and this purveyor of filth and sin!” He gestured to Regina, who only quirked one dark eyebrow.

“He makes an excellent argument, Blackwell,” Lord Chief Justice Cockburn stated.

“I suppose he does.” Blackwell gave a very serious, meaningful look to Whidbey and Cockburn, ignoring Rowe. “Madame Regina has many,
many
stories to tell. Who's to decide whether they're truth or slander?”

Was it her imagination, Farah wondered, or did the two men behind the bench pale a little? Had Dorian just issued a veiled threat to the highest judiciary branch of government in the British Empire? In front of
everyone
? Farah felt like she might be sick.

In the silence that followed, Dorian gestured to another woman in the pew. “If you're in need of another witness, how about this one?”

Another rumble of surprise mirrored Farah's inner feelings as a stooped old woman in a black-and-white habit shuffled toward them. “Sister Margaret?” she breathed.

“Its Mother Superior now,” the woman corrected in her unmistakable crisp tone of cold piety.

Farah narrowed her eyes at the woman, remembering all of the harsh words and even harsher beatings she'd piled upon Dougan. Farah didn't want to look at her, couldn't fathom why the crotchety nun would speak in her defense.

“That is your witnessing signature on the death certificate of Farah Leigh Townsend dated seventeen years ago, is it not?” Dorian asked in a voice that had lost all of its prior mockery or even brash arrogance. His gloved hands fisted.

“Aye,” she affirmed.

“Explain to the court, then, why you falsified this official document,” Dorian ordered, returning the nun's sharp look with a jagged one of his own.

“She was a precocious, heathen child.” Though the nun referred to her, she spoke of Farah as though she didn't stand right in front of her. “She always followed the troublemakers and ruffians, one in particular, who had the very devil in him.”

“He did not,” Farah defended.

“He killed a priest!” the woman hissed. “Even ye canna deny that. Ye were there in my arms whilst he did it. Screaming his name like a possessed banshee.”

“You knew that priest was a—”

“That isn't relevant,” Dorian interrupted them both, his voice hard and cold. “What is pertinent to the moment is that you knew Farah Leigh Townsend
wasn't
dead.”

“She ran off after that devil Dougan Mackenzie when the police took him away.” Margaret sneered. “I had fifty other children in my care. I couldna risk the reputation of Applecross over one missing girl. And so, yes, I falsified the document at the request of Sir Warrington.” She pointed her gnarled, arthritic finger at the man.

Those congregated in the courtroom gasped, and turned their collective heads toward the accused.

“Lies!
I
married Farah Townsend! The Northwalk fortune belongs to me!” Warrington exclaimed, leaping up again. “Tell them, Farah, tell them who you are!” With crazed eyes, he shook Lucy's shoulders with bruising force, and she uttered a soft cry of fear.

The lord justice's gavel pounded a deafening repeat against the dais. “I warned you, Warrington, you will be removed at once!” He motioned to the queen's guard who seized a shouting Warrington and removed him from the room.

“I will have what's mine! I will have justice!” Warrington threatened. “Farah, prove your worth! Prove to them who you are!”

Lucy stood, her blue eyes wide with fear and tears, looking like she wanted to bolt.

The chief lord justice pointed his gavel at her, his large head swiveling on his almost comically diminutive shoulders. “The next word spoken out of turn will earn the speaker a week behind bars, is that understood?”

Lucy nodded mutely, and the court's notice seemed to return to the nun in tandem.

“Tell me,” the lord chief justice began. “You might be stripped of your habit and honorable name within your papist church for your lies. Not to mention the likelihood you'll be brought up on charges of fraud. Why come forward now?”

Sister Margaret glanced at Dorian before answering. “When one lives as long as I have, one realizes it is almost time to face God and answer for my sins. This is one less mark against my soul. I care not for earthly things. I only want peace with the Lord.”

“And it is your sworn oath that the woman standing before us here is Farah Leigh Townsend?” Justice Rowe asked, gesturing to Farah.

“Yes, she hasna changed in almost twenty years.” The nun flicked a glance full of hatred at Dorian. “Still canna resist the draw of the devil.”

A tremor sliced through Farah at the old woman's words. Dougan had called himself a demon the first time they'd met. If that sweet boy had been a demon, then Dorian Blackwell certainly was the devil.

And Farah was, indeed, helpless to resist his dark allure.

“I'll admit, Blackwell.” The lord chief justice eyed them both. “I rather don't know what to make of this. Two women claiming to be the Countess Northwalk. Each of them married to a self-serving scoundrel. I'm almost convinced to grant your wife's claim. But I'm not sure it would hold up if appealed to the lord high chancellor, or Her Majesty.”

Dorian lifted a large shoulder in a debonair gesture. “Anyone who knows me knows I would marry no imposter. My lords,
this
was Farah Leigh Townsend, now Farah Leigh Blackwell. Of that I am certain. Tell me what you require for further proof, and I'll provide it to you.”

Justice Rowe stood, reaching beneath his wig to itch at his scalp. “I can settle this,” he declared. “With your permission, my lord chief justice.”

“By all means.” Cockburn gestured for him to continue.

The French army could have invaded London and the congregation still would have remained where they sat, silent and riveted on what was to happen next.

“Both of you approach,” Rowe ordered, pointing to the carpet in front of his bench.

Palms drenching the inside of her gloves, Farah worked her throat over a desperate swallow that pushed against the gem-encrusted collar of her fine dress. She hoped to look more dignified than she felt as she walked the few paces to stand in front of Justice Rowe. Or below, rather, as the seats of the High Court were intolerably high.

A rustle of skirts told her that Lucy Boggs now stood next to her, but Farah didn't dignify her presence by acknowledging her.

“Answer me this one question, and I'll recommend to this court and to Her Majesty that your title and lands be returned to you.” Though he spoke in a conversational register, his voice carried through the silent hall.

He narrowed his eyes at Farah. “You referenced my thirtieth birthday party in which you were in attendance at Northwalk Abbey.”

“Yes, my lord,” Farah rasped.

“Which one of you can recall the birthday present I gave you that year? I'll provide a hint to jog your memory, it was inside that little jewelry box with a painted ballerina on it. I recall little Farah Townsend's fondness for ballerinas.”

Farah's heart sputtered and died. She frantically searched her memory. When that produced nothing, she searched the face of the justice in front of her, who seemed as cold and stoic as Dorian. Her breath began to fail her. This couldn't be. Her future couldn't be slipping through her hands because of the faulty memory of a five-year-old girl. She looked back at Dorian, who studied her intently. What she read in his face almost caused her to faint.

It was the closest thing to helplessness the Blackheart of Ben More could convey.

Turning back to look up at the three imposing wigged men, she couldn't form the words that would crush her credibility in front of all these people. Tears burned in her eyes. A stone of terror and loss formed in her throat, threatening to choke her. Oh, if only it would hurry!

“Yes?” Rowe prodded sharply.

“I—I—” A hot tear spilled from the corner of her eye and burned a trail down the side of her face. “My lord, I do not recall receiving such a gift on that birthday or any birthday. From you or—or anyone else.”

Farah couldn't stop a glance at Lucy next to her, whose blue eyes now glittered with malice and victory. “It was a trinket, my lord,” she guessed in a prim voice, her gaze searching the man's face with obvious assessment. “My childhood memories are vague, so much has happened since then, and I am recovering from a head wound.” She held a lace glove to her forehead with an overdramatic flare “But it was a necklace, wasn't it? One that sparkled, or a bracelet?” She shrugged her shoulder with a coy blink of her lashes. “I was so small and my memory shoddy due to the injury, you see, so I simply can't remember which.”

Farah had to swallow convulsively. It was a good guess, as guesses go. Convincing and probable, if not likely. The excuse of the head wound was a good one.

Damn it,
why couldn't she remember? Why had she failed so utterly? A jewelry box? Ballerinas? She'd been such an active girl that any jewelry she'd been given would have been lost or broken right away. It was Faye Marie who'd loved—

“My
sister,
” she gasped, then louder. “My sister!” She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. “My lord, I beg pardon of you, but you're mistaken. I believe you gifted that treasure box to my older sister, Faye Marie.
She's
the one who loved ballerinas. I was obsessed with—”

“Pegasus.” The old justice's eyes melted from cold to kindness. “It was a trick question. I'd forgotten your birthday was so close to mine, and shared my spice cake out of pure guilt.” His lined face wrinkled as he smiled with a fond memory. “You were a kind little soul, unspoiled for a girl raised in such wealth. You forgave me instantly and informed me that spice cake was, indeed, your favorite present ever received.”

Farah began to tremble, great quaking shivers of relief making her legs unsteady. Dorian was there, his strong, gloved hands propping her shoulders up.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure to whom she was speaking as the room tilted and swayed. “Thank you.”

“You have your father's shock of light hair and your mother's lovely gray eyes,” the justice continued. “I've been half convinced it was really you since you walked into the courtroom.”

The lord chief justice cleared the surprise out of his throat before rapping his gavel to silence the wave of whispered exclamations echoing in the hall. “Nothing is final until I have the writ of the Queen,” he said. “But I don't think I'm presumptuous in offering my congratulations,
Lady
Farah Leigh Blackwell, Countess Northwalk.”

“Thank you, my lord justice!” Farah's face split into a smile so wide it made her cheeks ache. She turned to Dorian and threw her arms around him. “Thank you!”

He stiffened inside her embrace and she remembered herself, pulling away quickly. She didn't dare look up at him just then, remembering he was still angry about something. Reaching for him in this public forum couldn't have helped the situation.

“Arrest this woman, Lucy Boggs, and hold her for investigation,” Rowe commanded.

The lord chief justice leaned over his desk toward Farah. “May I ask you, Lady Blackwell, just where you have been all this time?”

“I—took a job at Scotland Yard under an assumed name,” she answered honestly.

“Why in God's name would you do that?” he asked with an incredulous laugh.

Dorian cut in. “My lord, I've brought two more witnesses who would speak to an evil conspiracy on the part of Sir Warrington. Lady Blackwell was in hiding because she knew he was a threat to her life. My agent Christopher Argent and Inspector McTavish of Scotland Yard are both willing to testify that Warrington approached them about payment for the assassination of Lady Blackwell. I request he be arrested—for his own safety as well as hers,” he added.

“So ordered!” The lord chief justice banged his gavel one last time. “And may I add my congratulations to you both on your nuptials?”

 

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

Dorian looked out of the third-story window of his London home and pondered the storm clouds gathering over Hyde Park. He'd tried to open the window and let in the cool wind of the approaching storm, but the ancient, wrought-iron lock handle had been stuck in the upright position for so many decades it may as well have been welded.

He ached for Ben More. For the concealing mists and the untamed sea. For the cold stone fortress whose halls he haunted at night like a restless spirit. There were too many people down there in the city. Too much color and noise, pleasure and pain, need and want and movement. Chaos in its purest form. So many suffered bereft of care. So many lived without a name. So many died,
everyone
died.

Even the powerful Dorian Blackwell. Though he'd made a name that was recognized in every corner of the realm and beyond, one day fate would pay him back for all the trouble he'd caused. And the empire would churn on, expanding and accumulating. Perhaps reaching to encompass the world, somehow. It wasn't impossible. With their intrepid and enterprising cousins across the pond to the west, and their far-reaching interests in the east, perhaps in a hundred years or so, they'd all be connected. The economy would expand. Telegraphs would improve. Technology advance. And the world would become a small and manageable place, nothing but a ball trapped in the hands of greedy men like him until they closed their fists and crushed it.