Gayle Wilson - His Secret Duchess

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. You are not the one seeking justice in this case.”

“Since it is my freedom that is at stake, my lord, I am indeed the one seeking justice,” Mary argued reasonably. “Which, if you listen to the lies that have been told here today, I shall not find in this court.”

“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 you may have to say,” the lord chief justice continued, imbuing his tone with all the authority his position gave him.

“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. Be brave, Mary, my heart, he thought, but nothing of the sudden emotion he felt was revealed in the classically handsome features.

“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.

“I am not surprised,” Vail said calmly. “I so seldom discuss my affairs with provincial nobodies.

Traywick blinked. His mouth opened and closed like that of a dying fish, but it seemed he had trouble thinking of some suitable comeback for that biting comment.

“Surely, my lord Justice,” the merchant said, turning to plead his case to the judge instead, “you cannot possibly entertain the notion—”

“I give you my word as a gentleman,” Vail interrupted, “that this marriage occurred, exactly as I have stated.”

“But even so, Your Grace, I am afraid that without some existing record—” the lord chief justice began.

Vail turned his head slightly, and in response his London barrister moved from behind the duke, walking toward the table that had been set up for the justices. In his hands he carried an enormous leather-bound volume, whose age was obvious.