In the Barrister's Bed. Tina GabrielleЧитать онлайн книгу.
and went to the door. “You’d best go find it, Bella,” she said, closing the door behind her.
A knot tightened inside Bella as she sat on the bed, her fearful and angry thoughts centering on James Devlin. After seven years of misery as Roger Sinclair’s wife, her husband’s death had finally freed her of the bondage of their marriage. Her relief had been short-lived, however, as she’d learned that her wealthy husband had not left her a shilling. Instead, he had bequeathed his entire fortune to the church. He had been hailed a hero in death, as in life.
Fraud. Charlatan.
But still Bella was free, and she would gladly accept poverty over forced servitude to her husband.
No one had suspected the cruelties Roger had inflicted on his pretty, young wife. He had quashed her budding ambitions as a writer—her one passion and desire in life—and he had often threatened to dismiss Harriet in order to control Bella. But his most dastardly deeds had been the incidents of physical abuse when he’d come to her bedchamber intoxicated.
Roger had not stopped there, however, and had successfully isolated her by spinning a web of lies and deceit about his young wife’s mental state. After his death, the townsfolk of Plymouth had been wary and distrustful of Bella. Even the vicar and his wife had turned their backs. Alienated from everyone, Bella had fled.
Her substantial dowry, which had aided Roger in building his investments and wealth, was gone, along with her mother’s jewels. Her mother had died when Bella was an infant, and her father had perished in a carriage accident after her marriage. Bella’s future had seemed precarious. Then she had received word that a great aunt had died childless and had left Bella with a tidy sum of money.
With Harriet by her side, Bella had planned to travel to London and start a new life in the crowd and bustle of the city. Along the way, she had stumbled upon Wyndmoor Manor and had instantly fallen in love with its rolling hills, grassy lawns, working fountain, and elegant manor house. She had pictured herself writing her articles here, free to send them off to any London paper of her choosing.
The closest town of St. Albans was only a day’s coach ride to the city, and she could receive newspapers and easily send and receive mail. Wyndmoor was small for a country property, only a hundred acres, but beautifully kept, and upon inquiry she had been thrilled to discover that the owner was willing to sell, and the rent from the tenants was more than sufficient to maintain the place.
A home at last. Financial independence at last. A life without fear at last.
Bella’s thoughts returned to the present. She rose from the bed and hurried across the bedchamber to a small trunk, the only remaining item from her mother. It was inlaid with an ivory and mother-of-pearl lid that was curved on the top and flat on the underside, and the workmanship of the trunk’s lid was exquisite. Bella stored a miniature portrait of her parents inside along with her books, notes, and unpublished articles and novels, and other important items. Placing the candle on the floor, she lifted the lid and searched until she withdrew a packet of legal documents tied with brown string.
Sitting on the floor, she clutched the papers to her chest and took a deep breath. She forced herself to calmly focus on her future until her courage and determination hardened like a rock inside her. She was no longer a young bride, easily intimidated and dominated. No man would ever take advantage of her or control her again.
Wyndmoor Manor was not just her home now, but her salvation.
And whether or not James Devlin was truly the Duke of Blackwood, if he believed he could easily take it all away, then he best be prepared for the fight of his life.
James stormed into his room at the Twin Rams Inn. The door slammed against the wall causing a cheap print to clatter to the floor.
His manservant jumped out of the chair in which he was sleeping. “What’s amiss?” Coates shouted.
James cursed. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”
“Waiting up for you.”
The candle Coates held burned low, and the room was dim. James stalked forward and promptly walked into an end table.
“Damn!” James cursed again and rubbed his bruised thigh.
Coates rushed to light a lamp.
“I need a drink.” James hobbled to the chair Coates had previously occupied and sat.
Coates hurried to pour a whiskey and handed the glass to James. “What happened tonight, Your Grace?”
“Don’t call me that! You’ve called me Devlin for the past ten years.”
An amused gleam lit Coates’s eyes. Indeed, Coates had been James Devlin’s manservant since James had completed his pupilage at Lincoln’s Inn and had become a barrister. Coates had found James’s new title as a duke quite humorous and loved to tease his master about the strange turn of events over the past two weeks.
“You were supposed to go to Wyndmoor Manor,” Coates said.
“I did.”
“And that’s why you’re in such a foul mood?”
“No. My mood is due to a female.”
Coates nodded. “That makes sense. Is a disgruntled husband or lover responsible?”
James scowled. He knew he had a reputation when it came to women. Simply put, James loved them. Famed courtesans, bored married ladies, lonely widows, eager female clients ... society had names for men such as he—rakes, rogues, and womanizers. His free-loving mindset had gotten him into trouble in the past, but he had successfully fought more than one duel with a disgruntled husband. James avoided the marriage-minded ladies of the ton like the plague, and he always found delight when uptight matrons ushered their virginal daughters from the room upon seeing him at certain society functions.
But that wasn’t what had occurred tonight.
“It’s not what you think, Coates. I entered Wyndmoor Manor only to find it occupied.”
“Occupied? By whom?”
“An infuriating female who claims she owns the place.”
James handed Coates his empty glass. Coates promptly refilled it and handed it back to James who took another swallow.
“But how is it possible that she owns the manor? It took you days to track down the gentleman in Hertfordshire whom the old duke had sold Wyndmoor Manor to, and I was beside you when Sir Redmond Reeves finally signed the deed over to you,” Coates pointed out.
It was true. After James had learned that Sir Reeves had been the purchaser, he’d had to search for the man throughout Hertfordshire before finally catching up with him.
“It’s not possible. The lovely lady is an imposter.”
“She’s lovely? I’m beginning to understand why you didn’t throw her out,” Coates said.
“She claims to be Mrs. Sinclair, yet I saw no sign of a husband, only an elderly, female servant. If Mrs. Sinclair was married, I would have expected her husband to have come charging down the stairs after me.”
“She could be a widow.”
“A widow or an accomplished actress or both.”
“You think she lied about owning Wyndmoor Manor?” Coates asked.
“I do. And if by chance she presents me with a deed, I’ll be able to tell if it is a forgery.”
“What will you do either way?”
An image of Bella Sinclair crystallized in James’s mind. Large green eyes, delicately carved facial bones, full lips, and a mass of dark auburn hair that shimmered in the candlelight. She had been wearing her nightgown and although the white cotton had covered every inch of her body from her neck to her wrists to the tips of her bare toes, he’d have to be a monk not to notice she was voluptuously curved. Her full breasts had burned through