Gayle Wilson – His Secret Duchess (страница 11)
So she had prayed through the remaining days of the winter and in the weak sunshine of the arriving spring for her son’s safety. The prosperous merchant who had been injured in the incident and who had brought the indictment against her was certainly her social superior, even if he was engaged in trade. There was no one she could turn to for help against his accusations. She had made her appeal for help once before, and it had gone unanswered. There was no one to speak for Mary Winters—and, of course, there never had been.
The hall where the trial was to be held was crowded with curious spectators. The sensationalism of the testimony about the attempted rape had lured onlookers from miles around, it was even said from as far away as London.
Mary had spent a sleepless night attempting to prepare herself for the ordeal of listening publicly to the lies Marcus Traywick had devised. Although at one time she had hoped that Traywick’s appearance to prosecute his claim might allow her a glimpse of her son, she had come to recognize that the merchant’s refusal to allow the child to be questioned was far better for Richard—and, of course, damning for her own cause.
Richard, had he been allowed to give evidence, would undoubtedly have corroborated her version of the events. But having her son forced to sit in open court and listen to the proceedings would be horrifying. If she could not devise a plan to free him from Traywick’s control, it would be better that she suffer whatever punishment the courts might give than to have Richard exposed to that sordidness.
She had not expected the size of the crowd. Although she attempted to remain outwardly composed, she could feel the avid eyes of the curious examining her features. Finally the proceedings began and then swirled around her, voices coming at her as if in a dream.
She allowed herself no outward reaction to the sight of Marcus Traywick’s brutally scarred profile. He had lost weight, his wool suit fitting loosely over his thick body. His yellow-brown eyes flicked over her once with contempt, and then he listened to the proceedings without again glancing her way. He never even looked at her as he repeated the same lies he had been telling since the morning the constable arrived at the house to find him fully con scious, suffering agonies from his burns, and insanely furious.
There were no witnesses to give testimony other than the constable, Traywick, and the doctor who had eventually been called to treat the merchant’s injuries. As she had been led to expect, Mary was not given an opportunity to speak.
When it seemed that they were done with questioning the witnesses the prosecution had presented, Mary attempted to address the judges, splendidly robed and wigged, whose job it was, she had always supposed, to bring English justice to the district. She was quickly and harshly instructed by the chief justice to cease speaking. She was even informed that it was not in the interest of the proceedings to listen to the accused.
“But surely, my lord Justice, it is in the interest of this court to hear the truth,” Mary avowed calmly, despite his orders. “Have you not come here to seek the truth?”
“We have come here to hear the testimony of your accuser, and you would do well to remember that you are not the injured.
“Since it is
“If you speak again, I will be forced to ask the constable to remove you.”
“Then at least I should not be made to hear Mr. Traywick’s spiteful inventions against my character.”
“Silence!” the justice roared. Apparently he had never been challenged in a session of the assizes before—certainly not by a criminal. To his mind, her boldness seemed to argue the truth of her prosecutor’s allegations better than any testimony that had been given against her. “We are not interested in anything
“Then perhaps you might be interested in what I have to say.” The deeply masculine voice came from the back of the hall, and in the silence that had fallen after the justice’s outburst, its calmness gave the words a power they might otherwise not have had.
Heads turned and eyes shifted to find the man who had spoken. Mary Winters alone among the throng did not attempt to see the speaker. From the first syllable out of his mouth, there had been no doubt in her mind as to his identity.
“And you, sir? Who are you to disturb the proceedings of this court?” the lord chief justice asked. His question was as harshly demanding as when he had spoken to the accused.
“Forgive me, my lord Justice. My name is Vail,” the tall, golden-haired man in the back of the courtroom announced calmly.
The words might have been a thunderclap, for the effect they had. The chief lord justice’s mouth sagged, and an excited buzz of comment wafted through the assembly. It was a name that was familiar to all in this district, one of the oldest titles in England, and the man who bore it now was both enormously wealthy and powerfully influential, especially given the makeup of the current government There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he would, indeed, be listened to.
The Duke of Vail was dressed in his customary black, the somberness of his attire broken only by his spotless white cravat. The stickpin that nestled in the starched lawn appeared to be the only piece of jewelry he wore. Not even a signet ring gleamed on the long, elegant fingers that rested, relaxed, on the gold head of an ebony cane.
“It seems, my lord,” Vail said, “that there has been a mistake.”
“A mistake,” the judge echoed, attempting to find again the authority that had been stolen from him by this interruption of one of the most mysterious members of the nobility.
“Not only are the charges against the accused patently ridiculous, but this court has no jurisdiction to hear any accusation that might be brought against this woman.”
“May I ask why not, Your Grace?” the judge questioned, more comfortable now that the argument seemed to have moved onto legal grounds. Perhaps Vail was suffering under some delusion about the situation.
“Because this court has no authority over Mary Winters.”
“Indeed, Your Grace? And may I be so bold as to ask again—and why not?”
A smile disturbed the firm line of the Duke of Vail’s well-shaped mouth. His gray eyes sought for the first time the heart-shaped face of the accused, and despite her intent, Mary Winters’s eyes met his.
“Gentlemen, I have the honor of presenting to you the Duchess of Vail.”
Had he confessed to carrying out the attack on Traywick himself, the effect would have been less startling.
“The Duchess of Vail?” gasped the lord justice, in the midst of the resulting uproar.
It was noted by very few that the proud head of Mary Winters was, for the first time, allowed to lower, and her eyes closed briefly. It might be supposed by those who had thought to gauge the reaction of the accused that she was praying, giving thanks for this miraculous intervention. That was not, of course, the case.
Nick was well aware of Mary’s reaction, because he had been watching her. And in spite of his belief that he had steeled himself to ruthlessly carry out this desperate plan, he found that he was shaken by that small gesture.
“We were married in her father’s church in April of 1815,” Nick went on. “I am afraid that, like most husbands, the exact date of that ceremony has slipped my mind.”
Unlike the London aristocrats, this crowd had little trouble reading the duke’s tone, and there was open laughter at the confession.
“Indeed?” the chief justice said faintly.
Marcus Traywick was on his feet, the first to realize the implications of this disastrous turn of events. “Surely, my lord Justice, you don’t intend to entertain this nonsense,” he shouted. The puckered and discolored scar on his cheek had flushed with unbecoming color, almost pulsing with the force of his anger.
“Since I am unaccustomed to having my word called nonsense, I suggest that Mr. Traywick might wish to…reconsider his objection,” Vail suggested. It was clearly a warning. It was apparent that His Grace believed that no one, not even the king’s justice, would need to verify the accuracy of any claim he chose to make. Mary Winters’s mouth moved slightly, almost a smile, and then was still.
Vail was perfectly correct in his reminder that one did not challenge such a nobleman’s word with impunity. Traywick might be rich by the standards of the district, but he was a pauper compared to the Duke of Vail, and in the arenas in which this man functioned, the merchant was powerless.
“I demand to see a record of this wedding. Mary Winters has been my servant for more than six years, and this is the first I’ve heard any claim of marriage,” Tray wick blustered.