34. The Return of a Precious Memory #2
Justice Holroyd rapped on his gavel once more. “This court will recess until after luncheon to await the officers’ return. Miss Harrington, you are excused—for now.”
“She’s tricked you!” Rudi was spluttering, purple-faced. “She’s a fraud—a liar!”
“Mr. Pettigrew-Hill,” intoned the judge, standing to leave the bench.
“Explain to your defendants that if the lady’s key fits the lock, coupled with a correct detailing of the interior of their establishment, your client’s denials will fall on deaf ears.
And if the accused cannot keep his composure, he will not be returning for the afternoon session. ”
Lucinda, rising from the witness box, sent a look of quiet confidence toward Alex. He did not speak, but the look he gave her—dark, anguished, fiercely proud—was more eloquent than any words.
Miles, slouching beside him, let out a sigh. “I don’t think my nerves shall recover from this.”
But when the court reconvened, Justice Holroyd looked grim, announcing that the constables had not yet returned. “We will not waste the court’s time in idle waiting. I wish to proceed with questions of my own for Miss Harrington.”
Once again, Lucinda sat ramrod straight in the witness box, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
“Miss Harrington,” began the judge, “I wished to reconvene when the disbelief surrounding your statements could be settled. Nevertheless, we shall move forward, granting Lord Creswell the respect and credibility befitting a distinguished barrister of his standing.”
Lord Creswell, standing at the prosecution desk, gave a humble nod and took the compliment wholly for himself rather than reaffirming any confidence he had in his witness.
The Admiral leaned over to Johan and whispered, “What a popinjay!”
Johan gave the faintest snort as Justice Holroyd began his questioning.
“Once inside the gaming hell, Miss Harrington, you found the animal and protected it from further abuses. How did you extricate yourself and the animal from a locked room?”
“Due to my injuries, sir, it is all a little hazy but I am certain that I picked the lock and retained the key as I left. I thought that if no one could get into the room then no one could know I had escaped.”
The judge blinked. “You picked the lock?”
She inclined her head modestly. “A trick I learned in childhood.”
“How singular,” he murmured, taken aback.
“It was not a particularly sophisticated mechanism, My Lord—and Mr. Bittermann had left the key in the housing.”
The judge peered at her. “What a surprising young lady you are, Miss Harrington. One hopes you’re not representative of the modern female class. How long were you confined?”
“It may have been several hours—I truly cannot say, My Lord.”
He sighed. “And what happened next?”
“I woke in my bed the following morning,” she said quietly. “I remember nothing of the hours after escaping the storeroom except—” She hesitated, visibly troubled. “Except that…that…”
A rush of memory washed over her. Suddenly came recollections of the drastic measures she took to flee.
Her stumble through the passageway in a haze, and the relief of falling into Lord Sinclair’s arms, seeking refuge where she ought not.
As if reliving it again, she felt the exhaustion, the dull, insistent pounding in her head.
She put a hand to her head, recalling the impropriety of hiding in a closet with him, before stepping out onto St. Martin’s Lane dressed as a porter.
How Alex had carried her to his carriage—unchaperoned, disheveled, and too spent to do anything but collapse.
Placing a hand over her thumping heart, her gaze shot instinctively to Alex sitting at the prosecution table.
His brows furrowed. He leaned toward Lord Creswell, to prompt the man to intervene, but the opposing counsel saw this as his cue.
“Objection, My Lord, the witness is clearly fabricating a story. If I may—”
Justice Holroyd held up a hand. “No you may not, Mr. Pettigrew-Hill, sit down. Miss Harrington will tell the court what happened next.”
She turned bewildered eyes toward the bench and found no mercy in the judge’s inquiring look.
“I—I do not quite recall,” she said at last.
“Which means you do not quite forget.” The judge’s expression darkened. “I shall ask you once more: how did you and the dog come to leave the gaming hell?”
Lucinda’s throat went dry. Why—oh why had she not remembered earlier this crucial precious memory?
Alex adored her! Every murmured endearment, every tender assurance in that stifling closet rushed back upon her.
She remembered the strength of his arms pulling her close.
She wanted to flee into those arms now. But it was too late.
Into the silent, expectant courtroom, where all eyes were on Lucinda, strode a distinguished man in a top hat, his heels ringing out against the stone floor. He paused, uncertain by the inactivity and silence of the court.
Lord Creswell shot to his feet. “My Lord, I must insist that the constable be sworn in immediately. His testimony is of the utmost urgency.”
The judge, perturbed by the interruption, sighed. “Very well. Miss Harrington,” he said severely, “you are excused for the present, but do not leave the courthouse. You may step forward, constable.”
Everyone watched as the officer placed Lucinda’s sketch and key on the clerk’s table. Beside them were the cleaved dice and the two green bottles, each bearing a matching label with red writing curving across their surfaces.
Lilith Bittermann muttered into her brother’s ear, “Now we are doomed, you fool.”
The officer removed his hat and proceeded to the witness box, allowing room for Lucinda to descend the last step.
Her emotions in disarray and her limbs unreliable, she stumbled on the last step—one knee giving way before catching herself.
The constable caught her arm, for which she murmured her gratitude, eyes averted from both the gallery and prosecution table.
Rather than return to her father’s side, she turned on her heel and quit the courtroom in haste, disappearing into the corridor beyond.
Alex Sinclair watched her departure with a keenness that bordered on pain. He turned his head slightly and whispered to Miles, “Stay here.”
Lady Marlstone leaned over Lucinda’s vacated seat and whispered urgently to Sir John, “I must go to her. She looked so upset.”
Sir John caught her hand gently. “Wait.”
Their gazes turned to the tall figure of Lord Sinclair rising and moving to leave the courtroom. A silent, understanding look passed between him and the admiral before he exited.
“I assure you,” Sir John said, smiling, “she will not be unattended for long.”