35. A Reputation Lost for Justice
A Reputation Lost for Justice
The heavy oak door of the courtroom groaned shut behind Lucinda, its echo reverberating along the paneled corridor and up to the vaulted ceiling.
The passageway beyond was dimly lit, the cool air contrasting with the stifling tension she had just escaped.
The judge’s voice, so stern a moment ago, faded into a murmur.
At the end of the wide passage, Lucinda sank onto a long wooden bench in an alcove. Under a tall, arched window in quiet solitude, she pressed her palms to the bench’s edge, as though she might anchor herself to something solid amid the sea of memory that had suddenly overtaken her.
She had done the right thing—of that, she was quite certain.
Yet the assurance afforded her little solace.
By tomorrow, her name would furnish gossip for every parlor in Mayfair.
She would be torn to ribbons by the society matrons who lived for such morsels, and dissected by debutantes who had never known a moment of decision.
She had become a cautionary tale—a byword for indiscretion.
But it was not the impending scandal that troubled her most. She could laugh at the scandal.
What did she care for such stuff? It was not fear of ruin that had silenced her in the courtroom.
It was a memory. A darkened cupboard. A breath against her cheek.
Alex’s low, steady voice, his arms around her first protective and then tender in confession.
What use was it to recall what had been said in the stillness of that hidden space? She was no longer a suitable bride for anyone, least of all the newly returned Lord Sinclair—so debonair, rich, and fashionable.
Had she but recalled their shared tenderness sooner, she would never have been so reckless with her reputation.
Marriage and family were prospects she dismissed when unattached to any particular man.
If she had remembered Alex’s declaration, it would have stayed her tongue, preventing her from ever getting involved in the case.
She hammered the bench beneath her palms, berating herself for not recalling it sooner.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, light and deliberate. Alex paused at the alcove’s entrance, his gaze lingering on her. She did not need to look up. The silence stretched between them until, at last, she broke it.
“What have I done, Alex?”
He took a step closer. “You did what was right.”
A hollow laugh escaped her. “Right, perhaps. But at what cost?”
“You championed innocence at great personal cost. It is a rare quality, Miss Harrington, and one I admire you for.”
Lucinda blinked. “You admire me?” she repeated, as if the notion were absurd.
He smiled. “Since the day you out-fished me at Harrington Lake, it’s been quite unavoidable.” Alex remained still, sensing the deeper meaning behind her words. “I’ve always admired your spirit, Lucinda,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But truly loving you overtook me far too late in life.”
She turned eyes bright with unshed tears toward him. “And I’ve just ruined everything for us.”
Alex was silent for a moment. “It came back to you, then?”
Lucinda’s fingers curled against the wood. “Yes.”
“I suspected as much,” he said.
“It struck me all at once,” she said, a hand raised to her temple. “I was quite undone.”
“I saw.” He sat beside her, elbows on knees, the picture of calm intensity. “Tell me, Lucinda—was it only memory that silenced you in court? Or was it perhaps…regret?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He reached for her hand, curling his fingers over hers where they lay against the bench. “You think yourself ruined. You think all is lost. But tell me truly, Lucinda—when the memory returned, did you wish it had not?”
She swallowed. “No. Never.” Her heart gave an improper leap. “Do you recall what you said that evening in the closet?”
“Every word.” His voice was raw. “What do you remember?”
“I remember how you looked at me in the dark. The way you held me tight against my fears. That you made me breathe when I couldn’t. You wished you hadn’t been gone and aspired to be with me always.” She looked at him lovingly. “You even promised to be my knight.”
“The look you gave me in that closet, Lucinda, could have sustained me for a lifetime. I came very close to reminding you of it the morning of the arrest,” he admitted.
“Oh, how I wish you had!”
“Why? Would it have meant more to you?”
“I would never have testified if I had known.” Her throat tightened. “You should’ve seen the glares from the gallery.” She let out a short, humorless laugh. “And they don’t even know about my disguise. I’m sorry Alex, but it’s over, I have made myself infamous.”
“Infamous to some. Remarkable to others.”
“I cannot imagine a reputable household in Town or country that will receive me now.”
“Then they do not deserve you. You are no different in my eyes, Lucinda. Your truthful words championed the defenseless. In my estimation, you’ve only risen higher.”
Lucinda swallowed, her throat dry. How many times had she imagined what it might feel like to be the subject of his unwavering attention, the focus of his quiet intensity?
How often had she dismissed such foolish thoughts, scolding herself for indulging in sentiment when he had been so long absent on the Continent?
And yet, here he sat—his gaze unguarded, his voice warm with tenderness.
The moment was fractured by the sharp rap of heels upon the flagstones.
Lord Creswell did not storm down hallways—he was far too refined—but he moved with purposeful energy.
At his approach, Lucinda and Alex stood, the easy closeness they had shared on the bench dissolving into composed attentiveness.
The barrister’s disapproval was evident before he even spoke.
“Miss Harrington,” he said like one acknowledging an affliction rather than a once-cherished acquaintance. “Lord Sinclair, a moment with you both, if I may.”
Lucinda braced herself, fully anticipating a summons back to the witness box.
“The court proceedings are at an end,” he announced. “Justice Holroyd relinquishes you from further questions, Miss Harrington. He has instructed the jury to withdraw to deliberate. The court is in recess.”
Lucinda blinked. “I don’t have to answer any further questions?”
Creswell gave a faint shrug. “The judge deemed it unnecessary. Your earlier testimony had already damned the Bittermanns thoroughly.”
Alex frowned. “You sound disappointed, Creswell.”
The barrister frowned. “Two things I despise are loose ends, and surprises.” He turned censorious eyes on Lucinda. “Speaking of which—Miss Harrington, may I ask why you never informed me about the existence of a key?”
“Because I did not remember it until this morning. It only came back to me as I dressed and happened to see the key again. There was no time to tell you.”
Creswell studied her a moment longer. “I see.” His tone suggested he saw far more than he cared to say. “You may expect some consequences, of course. I did what I could to soften the particulars, but—” He rolled his eyes at Lord Sinclair. “One can only do so much.”
Alex’s posture shifted. “Then perhaps, sir, the fault lies not with Miss Harrington but with those who would sooner condemn a lady for her honesty than applaud her for it.”
Creswell regarded him with mild disdain, as though he had yet to grasp the true nature of the world.
“A touching sentiment, Sinclair, but one I fear will do little to spare her. Words are an easy currency, it’s actions that hold weight, and Miss Harrington’s actions were—” He trailed off delicately, allowing the silence to complete his meaning.
Lucinda lifted her chin. “I regret nothing, my lord.”
“That, Miss Harrington, remains to be seen.” With a gentlemanly inclination of his head and a surety of his superiority, Creswell turned on his heel and strode down the passage, leaving only the chill of his disapproval in his wake.
Lucinda resumed her place on the bench. “Well,” she murmured, “that was bracing.”
Alex, however, did not appear amused. His gaze was fixed upon her, unreadable, his expression of such intent thoughtfulness that she felt the warmth rise to her cheeks.
She cleared her throat. “He’s right, of course. Marriage is quite out of the question for me now.”
“You say that as if it were a tragedy,” Alex observed. “Whereas I find it rather a relief.”
She turned to him in surprise. “A relief?”
He took a step closer. “Indeed. It simplifies matters considerably.”
She blinked up at him, searching his face. “Simplifies what?”
A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face—but only for a moment. Then he reached for her hand again, this time with unmistakable purpose.
“My dear Lucinda,” he said softly, “it means that when I ask for your hand, I no longer have to worry that someone might come along and make you a better offer.”
Her heart was riotous against her ribs. “There has never been an offer I would rather have than yours, Alex.”
He smiled and brought her gloved hand to his lips with no regard for propriety.
A voice called from down the passage, “Lord Sinclair—a private word, if I may?”
Alex sighed, looking to the ceiling.
She smiled. “You’d better go to him, my Lord, he’s your barrister after all.”
“Not for long,” he muttered, turning to obey the summons.