“You—you’re right, my lord.” He motioned to a dainty, well-dressed blond woman at his elbow with wide and vacant blue eyes. “This is my wife, Farah Leigh Warrington, Countess Northwalk. Formerly Farah Leigh Townsend. How dare you try to usurp her birthright, you conniving liar!” Warrington turned his wrath toward Farah, his already ruddy skin taking on the patina of a tomato.
Farah, however, was transfixed by the third justice, recognition storming through her that had nothing to do with her past seventeen years as Mrs. Mackenzie.
“Rower,” she breathed, reading the nameplate in front of his wizened face.
“Speak up, lady,” the lord chief justice commanded.
Farah glided toward the face from her past that was lined with two lost decades of age, but still had very much the same piercing eyes and severe features. “You are the Baronet Sir William Patrick Rowe, whose estate is in Hampshire,” she said. The crowd strained to hear her low voice; such was the silence that a loud breath could be heard grating out of someone’s lungs. “You—you were a lieutenant in the Queen’s Rifle Brigade under my father, Captain Robert Townsend, Earl Northwalk. You sculled together at Oxford, and my father called you ‘Rower.’”
The man in the wig looked stunned and narrowed his eyes at Farah. “Come closer,” he ordered.
Farah approached the bench. “I remember your thirtieth birthday party,” she murmured to him, “because you were kind enough to share a piece of spice cake with me, as it was my fifth birthday on the day after. Yours is September twenty-first, I believe. And mine is September twenty-second.”
“Good Lord,” Justice Rowe exclaimed, peering into her eyes with a similar recognition. “I do remember that!”
“Anyone could have attained that information!” Warrington protested. “Don’t let this—this renowned brigand and his doxy make a mockery of this esteemed court!”
“I’ve heard enough out of you, Warrington!” the lord chief justice warned. “Next outburst and I’ll have you banished from this courtroom!”
Warrington’s red color intensified to a purple hue, but he sat, shaking with barely leashed rage.
And not a little bit of fear, Farah assumed.
Lord Chief Justice Cockburn turned back to Dorian, affording Farah less than a cursory glance. “Mr. Warrington has a point. He’s provided documents identical to those you have and has the added superior claim. He was steward to the late Earl Robert Townsend and trustee of his estate. He’s known Farah Townsend since birth, and has a long-standing betrothal contract. What cause have we to doubt his wife’s claim to the Townsend legacy?”
Farah glared at Lucy Boggs, who was silently twirling a ringlet, obviously fabricated by a curling iron, around one anxious finger.
“I have witnesses, my lords.” Dorian swept his hand to a pew at the back of the court.
Warrington’s lawyer finally objected. “This is highly irregular and I would like to request that we meet in chambers to discuss how to further proceed.”
“Bollocks!” Warrington’s chair scraped against the floor as he leaped to his feet once more. “There is no reason to delay this any further. Blackwell has fabricated witnesses and I want a chance to refute them. After almost twenty years I have uncovered the missing Northwalk heiress and I demand to be granted what is mine!”
Justice Whidbey turned his hawklike face toward Warrington. “Don’t you mean, for your wife to be granted what is hers?” he queried. “Surely you know that when one is not born a peer of the realm, as husband to a countess, one’s title as earl will be a courtesy only. One would be called ‘Lord’ and granted stewardship of the properties, but the other rights and privileges of peerage will only be granted your heir and issue.”
Farah gaped, turning a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder at Blackwell. He stood at the mouth of the aisle with his hands clasped behind him, seemingly unaffected by the justices’ words.
His sable eye met hers and Farah gasped. He knew. He’d known all along that he wouldn’t be granted the rights and privileges of nobility. He’d gone to all this trouble, played this dangerous and complicated game of chess, possibly even manipulating the seats of the High Court of England, to help her reclaim her birthright.
And for what?
Certainly his name would be prefixed with “Lord,” but as far as she could tell, that didn’t come with half the power and esteem his wealth and reputation already afforded him.
Why had he done all this? What was his intention?
“We’ll hear your witnesses, Blackwell, but let me warn you that you stand on unsteady ground with this court. You and this lady are very much in danger of egregious consequences.” The lord chief justice gave them each a practiced warning glance.
Warrington glared daggers at her, but allowed his lawyer to wrestle him into his chair.
“So it has ever been, my lords.” Dorian bowed at the waist and then turned to the pews in the back with a sweep of his arm. “Let me present to you Signora Regina Vicente, sole proprietor of a rather popular gentleman’s club here along the Strand.”
A tall, stately woman in a grand dress of dark plum stood and excused herself to make a procession up the aisle toward them. Her caramel skin and exotic bones proudly stated her Italian heritage, and she looked like a bronzed Roman goddess in a sea of pasty Brits. Her train was as long as any countess’s and her dark eyes sparked with intelligence and mirth.