A tremor sliced through Farah at the old woman’s words. Dougan had called himself a demon the first time they’d met. If that sweet boy had been a demon, then Dorian Blackwell certainly was the devil.
And Farah was, indeed, helpless to resist his dark allure.
“I’ll admit, Blackwell.” The lord chief justice eyed them both. “I rather don’t know what to make of this. Two women claiming to be the Countess Northwalk. Each of them married to a self-serving scoundrel. I’m almost convinced to grant your wife’s claim. But I’m not sure it would hold up if appealed to the lord high chancellor, or Her Majesty.”
Dorian lifted a large shoulder in a debonair gesture. “Anyone who knows me knows I would marry no imposter. My lords, this was Farah Leigh Townsend, now Farah Leigh Blackwell. Of that I am certain. Tell me what you require for further proof, and I’ll provide it to you.”
Justice Rowe stood, reaching beneath his wig to itch at his scalp. “I can settle this,” he declared. “With your permission, my lord chief justice.”
“By all means.” Cockburn gestured for him to continue.
The French army could have invaded London and the congregation still would have remained where they sat, silent and riveted on what was to happen next.
“Both of you approach,” Rowe ordered, pointing to the carpet in front of his bench.
Palms drenching the inside of her gloves, Farah worked her throat over a desperate swallow that pushed against the gem-encrusted collar of her fine dress. She hoped to look more dignified than she felt as she walked the few paces to stand in front of Justice Rowe. Or below, rather, as the seats of the High Court were intolerably high.
A rustle of skirts told her that Lucy Boggs now stood next to her, but Farah didn’t dignify her presence by acknowledging her.
“Answer me this one question, and I’ll recommend to this court and to Her Majesty that your title and lands be returned to you.” Though he spoke in a conversational register, his voice carried through the silent hall.
He narrowed his eyes at Farah. “You referenced my thirtieth birthday party in which you were in attendance at Northwalk Abbey.”
“Yes, my lord,” Farah rasped.
“Which one of you can recall the birthday present I gave you that year? I’ll provide a hint to jog your memory, it was inside that little jewelry box with a painted ballerina on it. I recall little Farah Townsend’s fondness for ballerinas.”
Farah’s heart sputtered and died. She frantically searched her memory. When that produced nothing, she searched the face of the justice in front of her, who seemed as cold and stoic as Dorian. Her breath began to fail her. This couldn’t be. Her future couldn’t be slipping through her hands because of the faulty memory of a five-year-old girl. She looked back at Dorian, who studied her intently. What she read in his face almost caused her to faint.
It was the closest thing to helplessness the Blackheart of Ben More could convey.
Turning back to look up at the three imposing wigged men, she couldn’t form the words that would crush her credibility in front of all these people. Tears burned in her eyes. A stone of terror and loss formed in her throat, threatening to choke her. Oh, if only it would hurry!
“Yes?” Rowe prodded sharply.
“I—I—” A hot tear spilled from the corner of her eye and burned a trail down the side of her face. “My lord, I do not recall receiving such a gift on that birthday or any birthday. From you or—or anyone else.”
Farah couldn’t stop a glance at Lucy next to her, whose blue eyes now glittered with malice and victory. “It was a trinket, my lord,” she guessed in a prim voice, her gaze searching the man’s face with obvious assessment. “My childhood memories are vague, so much has happened since then, and I am recovering from a head wound.” She held a lace glove to her forehead with an overdramatic flare “But it was a necklace, wasn’t it? One that sparkled, or a bracelet?” She shrugged her shoulder with a coy blink of her lashes. “I was so small and my memory shoddy due to the injury, you see, so I simply can’t remember which.”
Farah had to swallow convulsively. It was a good guess, as guesses go. Convincing and probable, if not likely. The excuse of the head wound was a good one.
Damn it, why couldn’t she remember? Why had she failed so utterly? A jewelry box? Ballerinas? She’d been such an active girl that any jewelry she’d been given would have been lost or broken right away. It was Faye Marie who’d loved—
“My sister,” she gasped, then louder. “My sister!” She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. “My lord, I beg pardon of you, but you’re mistaken. I believe you gifted that treasure box to my older sister, Faye Marie. She’s the one who loved ballerinas. I was obsessed with—”
“Pegasus.” The old justice’s eyes melted from cold to kindness. “It was a trick question. I’d forgotten your birthday was so close to mine, and shared my spice cake out of pure guilt.” His lined face wrinkled as he smiled with a fond memory. “You were a kind little soul, unspoiled for a girl raised in such wealth. You forgave me instantly and informed me that spice cake was, indeed, your favorite present ever received.”
Farah began to tremble, great quaking shivers of relief making her legs unsteady. Dorian was there, his strong, gloved hands propping her shoulders up.
“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure to whom she was speaking as the room tilted and swayed. “Thank you.”