His Secret Duchess

“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.

“If I might, my lord Chief Justice, I would be pleased to show the court the record of the marriage of His Grace, then Lord Stanton, to Mary Winters, the accused,” the lawyer said deferentially.

With the Duke of Vail standing at his back, he might well have spoken to the king himself, but his courtesy was appreciated. Here, at last, was someone skilled in according the king’s justice the deference with which he should be treated. Mollified, the judge inclined his head.

The barrister laid the book on the justices’ table, and then opened it to the last page. None of them appeared to notice when Traywick moved to peruse, as they did, the record he presented.

“And the dates?” the lord justice questioned. With one long white finger he traced the date of the entry above the marriage record in question. “How do you explain that there are more than thirty years between the previous entry and this?”

“Apparently, the vicar who officiated recorded the marriage in the older of two parish registers. Irregular, perhaps, but perfectly legal, I assure you, my lord Justice.”

“Then, if the witnesses are here present to verify—” the judge began, only to be interrupted, most respectfully interrupted, by the duke’s lawyer.

“It is unfortunate that both witnesses are now deceased, my lord Justice. Tragically deceased when their yacht sank in a storm while crossing the Channel.”

“And the priest?” the judge questioned, the first hint of doubt creeping into his tone.

“Alas, the vicar has also passed to his deserved reward.”

“How convenient,” said Traywick, his voice vicious with sarcasm. “Surely, my lord, you must see that this is all a hoax designed to trick the court Improper register, all the witnesses dead, and yet these two would lead us to believe that a true marriage took place seven years ago and has been kept a secret since. This is mere trickery, my lord,” the merchant said. “An attempt to allow this woman to escape justice.”

The judge pursed his lips, obviously swayed by the argument, but he was not given long to consider its merits.

“I would remind my lord Justice of a legal point about which he is most certainly informed,” the London lawyer said smoothly. “The entire purpose of recording marriages began as an attempt to put an end to the legal entanglements caused by the clandestine unions so frequently entered into by our ancestors.”

“Of course,” the justice agreed.

“It was found that actions brought by one party against the other in such a union tied up the court’s time, which might better be spent on more important judicial matters.”

Again the judge inclined his head in agreement. All of this was commonly known legal history, and although he was not certain of the barrister’s point, it was intellectually entertaining to find a well-informed mind in such a provincial proceeding.

“But since that is not the case in point, therefore—”

“Not the case—” The justice interrupted, having lost the thread of the argument somewhere, only to be cut off himself.