You’re not here, Farah had thought as she felt herself sinking into the void of oblivion. I’m so lost. So lonely. So—afraid.
“Sleep, Fairy mine. You’re safe.” A slight tickle at her scalp told her that Dougan had wound his finger into a ringlet, pulled it softly, and watched it bounce back into place before winding it again. Like always.
He was here. She was safe.
She’d slept then, and awoke with the crisp, salted tracks of dried tears running into her hair.
Farah knew she should be thinking on the enormity of what was about to happen as they stood in front of the gilded doors of the High Court. But she found herself studying Dorian’s profile, interrupted by the black strap of his eye patch, and wondering if Dougan ever featured in the terrors of his dreams.
Or if she did.
She wanted to cry out for him to wait when he reached for the doors to the courtroom, but she forced herself to remain stoic. Like him. If Dorian Blackwell could maintain his composure after everything he’d been through, she could, too. Throwing her shoulders back and steeling her spine ramrod straight, she tilted her chin a notch above stubborn to pretentious.
Eschewing polite behavior, Dorian preceded her into the courtroom instead of holding the door open for her.
Farah couldn’t have been more grateful.
Proceedings had already begun, and Farah realized with a start they were technically committing an act against the crown.
An astonished hush blanketed the dark wood of the stately High Court room. Those who crammed the pewlike benches turned back at their entry, very much like an audience at a church wedding. Except, no one was pleased at their arrival. The kindest expression Farah could find was one of shock. It all disintegrated from there to disapproval, disbelief, and in some cases, outrage. She followed him up the wide aisle, the thick burgundy carpet muffling her steps.
“Mr. Blackwell!” bellowed a smallish man with an inappropriately large head made all the more bulbous by a long, curled, snowy wig. He sat behind the tall dais, the middle of three such attired men, his station dignified by the silver seal affixed to the middle of his black robes. “What is the meaning of this impudence?”
Of course Lord Chief Justice Sir Alexander Cockburn was acquainted with Dorian Blackwell, or at least knew him on sight. The justice had a reputation for sport, adventure, socializing, and womanizing. Though he was something of a legal genius, it was a subject of much contention how the Scotsman had risen to such an illustrious position with his besmirched reputation.
Farah stared at the broadness of her husband’s back with stunned amazement. Did Dorian have anything to do with Lord Chief Justice Cockburn’s stunning career trajectory? It wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
“My lord.” Dorian executed a formal bow in a manner that could arguably be called mocking. “May I present to you the Right Honorable Farah Leigh Townsend, Countess Northwalk.”
An audible gasp echoed through the courtroom and beyond, as some of the crowd outside the doors pressed forward behind Farah to witness these highly unprecedented happenings in an already high-profile case.
“This is an outrage! I demand these insolent criminals be arrested at once!” Harold Warrington perpetually appeared to have just sucked on a lemon. In spite of that, he had the handsome and hearty form of someone born to farmer’s stock rather than the historically incestuous aristocracy. An infamous hedonist, his skin and hair hadn’t fared well against the years of overindulgence, but his stature evoked that of Goliath as he surveyed the court with the air of a royal rather than the civic servant he was.
The sharp rap of a gavel pierced the bench, but it was not the lord chief justice who’d employed its use. The man to his left sat behind the nameplate of Justice Roland Phillip Cranmer III, though everyone knew Justice Cranmer had recently and mysteriously gone missing.
Farah recognized the face behind the gavel as Sir Francis Whidbey, a newly appointed justice of the High Court. He exchanged covert glances with her husband as he addressed Sir Warrington. “Sit down, Warrington. I’ll remind you that you’re not a member of the peerage as yet, and are still an officer of this court who should know better than to speak out of turn!”
Farah was acutely aware that she and Dorian had only just committed that selfsame act, but she wisely kept her own counsel. Besides, she couldn’t have spoken if commanded to at the moment. So much for her self-possession.
Dorian approached the bench without being invited, which elicited more gasps and even brought the two red-coated queen’s guards posted at the edges of the bench rushing to restrain him.
“My lords, I have here official documents supporting the validity of our claim.” He brandished a file of paperwork he’d pulled from his coat. “Including Lady Townsend’s birth certificate, church records of her years at Applecross Orphanage, the falsified record of her death, and also—”
“Where did you obtain these records, Blackwell?” the lord chief justice demanded, holding up his hand to stay the guards.
“I also have included a copy of our marriage license.” Blackwell blithely ignored the justice’s question. “The importance of which we can discuss later.” He threw a look to the assembly that had a ripple of ironic laughter passing around the room.
“Impossible! I have a legal and binding betrothal contract signed by her father!” Warrington exploded to his feet, ignoring the grasping entreaties of his wigged lawyer.
The third justice leaned forward. “And so you’ve claimed that you have already married her, Warrington. So, why the objection?”