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CHAPTER 1
May 10, 1819 London, Old Bailey Courthouse Honorable Barnard Bathwell, presiding
"You're a bastard by birth. How could you inherit anything?"
"Me father wanted me to 'ave it," Pumpkin O'Dool explained.
"So you just broke into your stepmother's home and took this?" Prosecutor Abrams strode forward, a gold pocket watch dangling from his fingers.
"Well, I knocked first, I did," Pumpkin claimed. "She peeked through the curtains and saw me and never opened the door."
"And yet you still took the watch. Your illegitimacy prevents you from inheriting property from your father," Abrams argued.
James Devlin jumped to his feet from behind the defense table. "Objection, my lord. Mr. O'Dool's illegitimacy is not in question. What is in question, however, is the missing will. If the prosecution had exerted as much effort in locating the will as it did in prosecuting a grieving son, we wouldn't be in court today."
Judge Bathwell, a squat fellow whose bewigged head barely cleared the top of his perch, drew his lips in thoughtfully and looked to Abrams. "Has the prosecution any idea where the will is?"
Prosecutor Abrams shook his head. "No, my lord. The solicitor that drafted the will is deceased. The original was given to Mr. O'Dool's stepmother. It has not been found."
"No doubt stuffed under her mattress," James drawled.
"Objection!" the prosecutor shouted.
Six of the twelve members of the jury guffawed; two others eyed the prosecutor with a critical squint.
And that's when James Devlin knew he had them.
Juries disliked overaggressive prosecutors more than thieves. Pumpkin O'Dool was an impoverished bastard and without a written will saying otherwise, he was entitled to nothing.
No one understood this more than James.
But at least Pumpkin O'Dool wouldn't be sentenced to death today.
Sunlight poured in from the windows and heated the crowded courtroom. The spectators' gallery was packed with observers seated on wooden benches, and the air thrummed with excitement. Commoners in worn dresses and patched corduroy jackets sat beside wealthy merchants and nobility in fine gowns and tightly tied cravats. Women avidly fanned themselves as the temperature in the room rose with each passing minute, and perspiration formed on the men's foreheads, like water beads on good butter.
All were drawn to the Old Bailey. They had come to witness a man sentenced to hang, only to now champion his cause. Court, like the theater, contained the extremes of man's behavior.
James turned his attention to the twelve members of the jury. A mostly rough lot, he had initially thought. One of the jurors had a battlefield of wrinkles, none of which were laugh lines. Another juror had hands dyed the color of dark coffee and an unkempt beard. A tanner, no doubt. And yet another was barely twenty, with golden curls and the face of a cherub.
A trill of feminine laughter and a shout turned his head. Pumpkin's stepmother, a heavyset woman with dyed red hair and painted lips like a thread of scarlet, sneered at Pumpkin O'Dool from the front row. A balding man with a drinker's veined face sat beside her, his thigh brushing her skirts.
Hardly the grieving widow. She wasted no time in finding a lover, James thought.
The stepmother's features twisted into a maddening leer. Raising a finger, she pointed at Pumpkin and shouted out, "Thief! Cur!" She then turned to stare at James and eyed his black barrister's gown and wig with disdain.
James cocked an eyebrow, and his lips twitched in amusement.
The remainder of the trial consisted of Prosecutor Abrams arguing the deficiency of a will and James emphasizing the stepmother's motive for the will not to be found followed by three witnesses who testified as to Pumpkin's "upstanding" character.
In the middle of Prosecutor Abrams's closing, a shadow of annoyance crossed the judge's face. "That will be enough from both barristers. As it is time for luncheon and all relevant evidence presented, I ask for the gentlemen of the jury to consider their verdict."
It was the jury's fifth verdict of the morning with a half a dozen more trials to conclude before the end of the day. They gathered in the corner, their faces animated as they gestured wildly at one another. They whispered, yet every few words could be heard across the courtroom from "guilty" to "bastard" to "harsh sentence."
Three minutes later, the foreman, a middle-aged alchemist with eager brown eyes behind thick spectacles and a stained shirtfront, stood. "We the jury find Pumpkin O'Dool not guilty of housebreaking and theft."
Pumpkin O'Dool cried out with joy; his grin reached from ear to ear as he shook James's hand. Spectators shouted encouragement at the verdict and jeered at Pumpkin's stepmother.
The woman rose and departed the courtroom in a huff, her lover rushing to keep up with her.
A court clerk passed the pocket watch to James, who in turn handed it to his client. "The jury believed your story that your father wanted you to have this," James said. "Now stay out of trouble, Pumpkin. And don't get caught selling that watch or 'walking' into any other dwellings."
Pumpkin winked. "The watch is the least my old man could do fer me. Ye understand, don't ye?" Yes, I do. Only I won't even get a bloody watch from my father, James mused.
Judge Bathwell's gavel rapped as a prisoner in shackles was led forward by two guards. James nodded at Abrams, whose vexation at losing was quite evident by the prosecutor's unfriendly, thin-lipped stare. Abrams turned away, pressed to prepare for the next case. Not a second was wasted at the Old Bailey.
James gathered his papers and made to leave the courtroom, aware of every eye in the spectators' gallery following him. It was rare for a criminal defendant to be represented by a barrister, let alone to win against the Crown's prosecution.
James reached the double doors when a voice stopped him.
"A word, Mr. Devlin."
He turned and looked down into the eyes of an old woman who sat in the last row. Dressed in a gray gown with a large onyx brooch that resembled an enormous spider pinned to her shoulder, she sat stiffly on the wooden bench, her hands folded in her lap.
It can't be, he thought.
Yet the unmistakable scent of her perfume — a cloying floral fragrance — wafted to him.
The Dowager Duchess of Blackwood.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Is that any way to greet your grandmother?"
He chuckled a dry and cynical sound. "It's been years since I've seen you, so yes."
Her expression was one of pained tolerance. "You always were rudely straightforward."
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"I've come with grave news. Your father is dead."
James stiffened. He shouldn't care, and yet he felt a sharp jab in his gut as the knowledge twisted inside him.
Bitterness spilled over into his voice. "You needn't have delivered the news personally, Your Grace. A note would have sufficed."
She glanced around the courtroom, her lips tight and grim, before returning to look at him. "We need to speak privately. Is there a quiet place in this circus?" James regarded her with a speculative gaze. There was a client consultation room, but damned if he would cloister himself in the small room with her until he knew what she was after.
"Is that necessary?" he asked.
"My carriage then?"
The consultation room suddenly held more appeal. He could walk away when he chose. "Follow me." He inclined his head, and she stood to her full height of five feet.
She was a formidable woman, with noble bloodlines and the bearing of a queen. With her shrewd eyes, her steel-gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, and the ramrod posture of a British brigadier, James had witnessed both debutantes and titled lords cowering at her aura of respectability and propriety.
They walked side by side out of the courtroom, James's tall frame towering beside hers. The hallway of the Old Bailey was bustling with activity, barristers dressed in black gowns ushering witnesses to and from courtrooms. Clerks carrying stacks of briefs and litigation documents scurried to their assigned judge's chambers.
Halfway down the hall James stopped before a door with a brass nameplate labeled CLIENT CONSULTATION. He opened the door and held it as the dowager duchess marched inside.
The room was lined with bookshelves containing well-used law books. A battered desk sat in a corner and wooden chairs occupied the rest of the space. Unlike the crowded, overheated courtroom ripe with the odor of unwashed bodies, the air in the small consultation room was stale and dusty. She glanced at her surroundings with haughty distaste before choosing a chair. James seated himself opposite her.
"Is there not a cushioned chair in this place?" she asked.
He ignored her and took off his barrister's wig. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and exhaled before looking in her indigo-blue eyes, the exact shade of his own. "What is so imperative that you visit me in person and request to speak privately?"
"I told you, your father is dead."
"And I'm sorry for that, Your Grace. I assume my half brother, Gregory, is busy dealing with the responsibilities of inheriting the dukedom."
"Gregory is not the new duke."
"Whatever do you mean?" "You are the new Duke of Blackwood."
For a heart-stopping moment he stared and wondered if he had heard her correctly. Then the truth dawned, and he laughed bitterly. "What joke do you play?"
"This is no joke."
"May I remind you, Your Grace, that I am a bastard by birth."
Her aristocratic nose rose an inch higher — a feat he would have previously believed impossible — at his choice of words. "So we had all believed. But circumstances have come to my attention. Your parents were legally wed before you were born."
Again he merely stared, at a loss for words. James prided himself on his composure. Very little shocked him whether in the courtroom, in his chambers at Lincoln's Inn, or in the bedroom. But this woman had managed to render him speechless twice in one minute.
What game did she play?
She sat forward in her chair and looked at him intently. "It's true. Your father confessed to me on his death bed. I've always known that your mother was a parlor maid and she had run off with your father when he was seventeen. I had accounted it to drunken stupidity on your father's part after coming home on holiday from Oxford. Only days ago did I learn he had legally wed the girl at Gretna Green. Your mother died four months later, birthing you. Your father returned home and dutifully did as I bid and married your stepmother. She birthed Gregory before she too died. So you see you are the legitimate son, the new Duke of Blackwood."
He knew his mother had been a maid, of course. His grandmother and half brother, Gregory, had cruelly and repeatedly reminded him of that fact in his youth.
"You need to take over your responsibilities at once," she said, her tone authoritative.
"After years of being shunned by the family as the bastard, you now tell me it has all been an inaccuracy, and I am to step up to my responsibilities?" he asked incredulously.
"It was an unfortunate mistake."
An unfortunate mistake? Could she truly be even colder than he had believed?
"Don't be so ungrateful, James," she said tersely. "I saw to your every financial need. Your clothes, your tutors, the best education at Eton."
James sat very still, his eyes narrow. "How did he die?" "It is of no consequence now."
"How?"
She gave an impatient shrug. "He was leaving his solicitor's office after selling off one of his country properties when he collapsed. He died a week later when his heart gave out."
"Which one?"
"Pardon?"
"Which country estate?"
"Wyndmoor Manor."
"Why would he sell Wyndmoor?"
A hint of exasperation flickered across her face. "Why does it matter?" It mattered to him. Wyndmoor Manor was the only safe haven he had known as a boy, the only place the old duke had ever treated him as a true son. But he refused to explain himself to the woman sitting before him.
James rose in one fluid motion, intent on leaving and putting as much distance between himself and his grandmother as possible. The collar of his barrister's gown felt as if it was cutting off his supply of air, and he needed time to digest the shocking news. His hand touched the doorknob.
"Well? As my grandson and the legitimate Duke of Blackwood, what do you plan to do first?" she demanded.
James swung around, his eyes cold. "Buy Wyndmoor Manor back."
May 25, 1819 Wyndmoor Manor, Hertfordshire
There was a man outside her window.
Bella Sinclair had heard his footfalls, and the sound had her jumping out of bed like a skittish doe. An instant's panic had squeezed her chest, and she'd thought Roger had come into her bedchamber.
But Roger was dead.
Thank the sweet Lord. Roger lay in a cold grave.
She flew across the room and pressed her back against the wall. It was a chilly May evening and the cold from the plaster wall seeped through her thin nightdress. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Taking a breath, she dared a quick glimpse out the window.
There. Just behind the azaleas, skirting the rosebushes. A black-dressed figure moved stealthily.
She doubted any other woman would have heard his movements, but years of practice had heightened her senses. Her hearing was attuned to the unwelcome sounds of a man's stockinged footsteps, the creak of a floorboard at the threshold of her bedchamber.
Again she looked out the window, the curtains gripped in a clenched fist. With dismay, she realized she had lost sight of him. The full moon seemed bent on scudding from behind one dark cloud to another. The shadows below looked like stalking cats. She scanned the front terrace, the fountain, and the gardens beyond until she spotted him.
The figure made his way to the front door.
Wyndmoor Manor was empty save for Harriet, who was in her seventies. As she'd moved here only days prior, there had been no time for Bella to interview and hire additional servants.
Heart lurching madly, she grabbed the closest thing to a weapon she could find, a fireplace poker, and tiptoed out of her bedchamber. The hallway was dark as pitch, but she dared not light a candle. Early this morning she had explored the halls and rooms of the manor with the excitement of a child experiencing her first country fair. She knew the width and length of the hallway and the number of steps that led down the grand staircase. For the first time in seven years, a house felt like a home to Bella.
How dare any stranger invade here!
She felt for the unpacked trunks and crates that sat in the hall midway to the landing. She slipped down the stairs, her breath escaping her as her bare feet touched the cold marble vestibule. She darted behind the front door and clenched the poker tightly in both hands above her head.
An orange glow passed by the window of the door. The stranger had lit a lamp.
How odd.
The doorknob rattled.
Locked. She had been sure to lock it before retiring.
The intruder would be forced to break a window or force the lock. Blood rushed through her veins like an avalanche.
Then she heard the jangle of keys and the distinctive sound of a key sliding in the lock.
Impossible.
The dead bolt slid aside and the door opened. A dark cloaked figure stepped inside.
She swung the poker downward with all her might.
He moved so swiftly she barely had time to gasp before she was thrust against the wall and a hard body slammed against hers. The poker fell from her grasp and clattered across the marble floor. Her scream was cut off by a large palm pressed against her mouth.
"Don't," a masculine voice said curtly. "No screaming to bring your criminal acquaintances bearing down on me."
He held the lamp high with his other hand, and she realized with alarm that he had managed to disarm her and pin her against the wall with one hand.
Fear and anger knotted inside her, and her heart thumped against her rib cage. Every solid inch of him was pressed against her. He was a tall man, broad and lean. The lamp lit half of his features, and she looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. Wavy jet hair framed his chiseled features. He shifted his weight, and she felt the muscled hardness of his body. His expression was taut, his jaw tense.
"I'm going to let you speak, but no screaming. Understand?"
She nodded, and he leaned to the side and kicked the door shut with a booted foot. Placing his lamp on top of a nearby crate, he released his palm from her mouth and rested it against her throat.
"Who are you?" she croaked.
"James Devlin, the Duke of Blackwood."
A duke? Good lord, what was a duke doing at Wyndmoor Manor?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "In the Barrister's Bed"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Tina Sickler.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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