“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.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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.
Her husband had yet to utter more than a crisp, monosyllabic reply to the myriad of questions, gratitude, and apologies she’d showered upon him.
“Are you all right?” she’d asked.
“Quite.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
“You saved our lives at the docks, you know.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for involving you in such a dangerous misadventure. But Gemma and I are supremely grateful for what you and your men did.”
“Hmm.” Once his pathetic communication dissolved to nonexistent, Murdoch had picked up the conversation on his behalf.
“Think nothing of it, lass,” he’d soothed, casting a dark look at Blackwell. “We’ll get Miss Warlow on the way in the morning.”
“I’m just glad I was able to persuade Chief Inspector Morley to release you so quickly. I couldn’t bear the thought of your incarceration overnight, or longer.”
“Ye canna know how much we appreciate it.” Murdoch had patted her hand in a fatherly gesture.
At that, Blackwell had leaned forward, unlatched the door to the cab, and leaped out before the driver had fully come to a stop. He disappeared into the night and Farah had not seen him again until he came to collect her and Murdoch the following morning to convey them to court.
Murdoch had assured her again and again that their short time in the strong room had been not only uneventful, but rather amenable. “The bobbies were fair and civil, and Dorian even conversed with one of his contacts, though I didna catch what was said.”
“Then why is he so upset?” Farah had asked.
Murdoch shrugged and regarded her with a little pity. “Canna say, lass, just that Blackwell has his moods sometimes. Doona fash yerself over it. Just get some sleep, we’ve a big day tomorrow.”
Sleep had been next to impossible, even in the elegant, luxurious bed. Finally, Farah had drifted into a restless sort of limbo, tossing about in the darkness, her stomach rolling and her jaw clenching as images of the past haunted her dreams. Her father’s pale, waxy face at his wake, the cheeks sunken in from dehydration brought on by the devastating illness. Warrington, who’d seemed like a giant to a seven-year-old, bending down to inform her of their engagement. Sister Margaret’s intimidating robes and wimple. Father MacLean’s thin, lascivious mouth. Dougan’s dark eyes and sharp features. Small and symmetrical, twisted with boyish mischief and incessant curiosity.
She’d called out to him in her dreams, begged him to run. To survive. To live on so she didn’t have to face this horrid world with only a dark and broken man beside her.
“I’m right here,” Dougan had crooned through her dream, his face sad and fierce. But his voice. His voice was nothing like she remembered. It melted into something dark and cavernous. A man’s voice. Sinister, dangerous, and smooth. Like brimstone gliding over ice.