He Said Yes Page 14

  If only she could make him understand explain that she yearned for his embrace, longed to have him hold her. Just hold her. Perhaps then she could sleep. But she knew him well enough to know that if she flung herself into his arms for a good cry, he would misunderstand and they'd be right back where they had started. She couldn't allow that to hap­pen. Her pride was as badly dented as his. Tomorrow she would be forced to stand before a public audience, strangers greedily waiting to see if she'd be found guilty.

  "Do you want me to stay?" Marshall asked seeing the ap­prehension in her eyes. He was still angry enough to thrash her, but she looked tired.

  "I had thought to retire early," Evelyn said knowing she was taking the coward's way out.

  It wasn't like her, but then, she hadn't been herself of late. The anger at being labeled a thief, the anxiety of awaiting a trial, and the avalanche of emotions that had started with the marquis's first kiss were all taking their toll. The last decent night's sleep she had had was when she'd been at the lodge in Southwark. Marshall had been there with her then, sitting in the chair, watching over her. Since moving into the house, she would retire, only to lie awake, staring at the ceiling, pondering the peculiarity of their relationship.

  "If you prefer being alone, I will take my leave."

  "Please, don't be angry," she said standing as well. "It isn't that I want to be alone. You've been so kind so gener­ous. It's only—"

  "Only what?" he demanded. My God the woman could make him lose his temper faster than anyone he'd ever known. "I warn you, Evelyn, my patience is wearing thin. I have tried to understand taken your feelings into considera­tion, but that doesn't change the fact that you want the same thing I want. I can feel it every time I touch you."

  Evelyn kept her expression neutral. She had said all there was to say.

  "So we are back to that, are we? Very well, if you insist on being stubborn. I have no desire to remain where I am ob­viously not wanted" Marshall said. He'd made an ass of himself once, getting drunk and crying on Granby's shoul­ders like some besotted fool. Not again. "Good night," he said. "I will call for you in the morning. Sleep well, Miss Dennsworth."

  Hands clenched in the folds of her dress, Evelyn forced herself to watch him leave, forced herself to admit the truth that one day he would walk out of her life never to return. She opened her mouth to call him back, then shut it again. It was better this way.

  Ten

  The next morning arrived with the gray bleakness of driz­zling rain and thick clouds that mixed with the fog to create a wet, soggy blanket over the city. Evelyn had been awake for hours, unable to sleep, wishing for the morning to be quickly over while at the same time she dreaded each minute that passed fearing the day might be the last one she spent beyond prison walls for a very long time.

  She bathed then dressed in her best clothes, a dark brown suit. The short-waisted jacket was worn with an ivory-colored blouse. She wouldn't be as ostentatiously dressed as Lady Monfrey, but neither would she embarrass herself. Choosing to wear her hair up, she added pearl earrings that had once been her mother's, then looked in the mirror and pronounced herself as ready to meet fate as any woman could possibly be.

  She was having tea in the parlor, too nervous to eat even a bite of the toast and jam Mrs. Grunne had added to the tray, when the marquis arrived. The sound of his voice as he bid the footman a good morning filled Evelyn with a longing so deep and painful she had to fight against tears. She had spent a good portion of the night wishing she hadn't dismissed him so quickly last evening. With her pride intact, she had lain awake thinking of him instead of sleeping in his arms, which was what she truthfully preferred. Near dawn she had rebuked herself for being so prideful, but there was nothing she could do to reverse her actions.

  "Good morning," Marshall said upon entering the room.

  Suddenly, Evelyn had a sharp recollection of how he had smiled at her that first day in Madame La Roschelle's shop. Instinctively, she got up and walked to him—right into his arms.

  Marshall didn't question what had prompted the action; he held her close, savoring the feel of her, praying the day's rain had the power to wash all their problems away. "Everything will be all right. Mr. Portsman will bring both authority and discernment to the courtroom, setting this dreadful business aside, once and for all. You must trust in that."

  Evelyn lifted her face and met his gaze.

  "No doubts," Marshall said firmly. "And no downcast looks. Where is the woman who sent me packing without so much as the blink of an eye? Face Lady Monfrey with half as much tenacity and all will be well."

  "I will try, my lord."

  "Then we had best be on our way. Do you have a cloak?"

  "Yes," she said reluctant to leave his embrace.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, walking with her into the foyer where Grunne was waiting with the cloak. Marshall draped it over her shoulders, pulling up the hood to keep her dry before they stepped outside. Rain was still falling, and the early morning sky gave no sign that it would stop anytime soon.

  Once they were in the carriage, Evelyn stared out the window, unsure what to say for fear that words would break the fragile truce between them. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, refusing to give in to the dread the uncer­tainty she still had to face.

  Marshall remained quiet as well. He had left Evelyn last night and returned home to find even more problems await­ing him. His stepmother's depression was becoming impos­sible to ignore; even Winnifred and Catherine were becoming worried. Another visit from the physician had gleaned no more assurance than the previous visit had brought. Lady Waltham was mourning her husband as if she wanted to join him in the graveyard. Marshall had tried speaking with her, but she had simply stared at him, her ears and heart closed to any semblance of logic.

  He had escaped to the library where after several hours of jumbled concentration—his mind being filled with thoughts of Evelyn, as well as his family—he had reached what he hoped would be a redeemable solution for all of them. Of course, the basis of his plan depended upon the magistrate abolishing the charges against Evelyn. Once that was done, he would set things in motion.

  They arrived at Mr. Portsman's office on schedule. The rooms were quiet, dulled by the lack of sunlight, but neverthe­less comfortable. Once they were seated the young lawyer wasted no time in realfirming what he expected. "You are to answer only what I ask of you, Miss Dennsworth. Do not elab­orate, and please disdain from using overly emotional terms. Do not fidget, or wrench your hands. Look at the bench when you are answering a question posed by the magistrate, and meet my gaze when replying to my inquiries. Simply answer the questions as honestly as possible, and leave the rest to me."

  "I'll try," she said.

  "Excellent," he replied giving her a charming smile, be­fore turning his attention to the marquis. "I will escort Miss Dennsworth from here to the Bailey."

  Marshall's reluctance was obvious. "Surely no one will notice if she leaves my carriage. There is no crest on the door, and I doubt we will encounter any of my parliamentary friends this early in the morning."

  "I will be fine," Evelyn said, forcing a smile to her face.

  "I shall wait in the outer office," Portsman announced as he closed the thin leather pouch that contained the legal doc­uments he would need for the day.

  Once they were alone, Evelyn stood up. "You know he's right."

  "I know," Marshall replied sounding for all the world like a disgruntled child.

  It was then that Evelyn knew why he was being so hesi­tant about leaving her. He wanted to kiss her goodbye and regardless of his usual confidence wasn't entirely sure how to go about it. She solved the problem for him.

  "Would you kiss me?" she asked moving to stand before him. "A long kiss, if you please. One that will last through the trial."

  Marshall smiled. For some unknown reason, this woman seemed to have the ability to feel his thoughts as vividly as he felt them himself. He pulled her into his
arms.

  The kiss was just as she asked long and lingering, deep and arousing. It was all Evelyn could do not to cling to him, to let go of the tears she had fought all morning. When the kiss finally ended she took a shaky breath and smiled up at him.

  "Promise me you will not come into the Bailey."

  "Damnation woman, but you ask a lot of me," Marshall gritted out. "I would not have you face this alone."

  "I am not alone," she replied. "Mr. Portsman is with me. He will escort me back here, and we shall return to Lambeth Road to resume the argument that is not yet finished between us."

  Marshall shook his head. "You will be the end of me, Miss Dennsworth."

  "I doubt that," Evelyn said regaining some of her former flippancy. Then because time allowed nothing more, she kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered then moved away before he could stop her.

  Marshall fisted his hands at his sides and watched her leave. After half an hour of pacing Portsman's office, he'd had enough. He walked outside, grateful to discover that the rain had stopped. A brisk east wind was blowing off the Thames, shaking belated raindrops off the leaves. Jerking off his greatcoat, he commanded his driver, a man by the name of Emerson, to do the same.

  "Milord?"

  "Your coat, Emerson, and be quick about it."

  Having served the family for a good many years, enough to know that the marquis was an indomitable man in his own right, Emerson took off his coat and handed it to his em­ployer.

  "If memory serves, there's a coffeehouse around the cor­ner," Marshall said slipping his arms into the coat. The two men were close in height, but Emerson's shoulders weren't nearly as wide. It would have to do, just the same. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out several coins. "Buy yourself a pint of hot cider. I shan't be gone long."

  Marshall turned and walked briskly toward the Central Court of the Old Bailey.

  The chamber was large, with high ceilings and darkly paneled walls. The gallery was crowded with people, pressed together like fish in a vendor's wagon. Marshall could smell them, their clothing dampened by the morning's rain. He tugged the driver's coat closed concealing the fine broadcloth of his jacket and the embroidered silk of his vest. Pulling up the collar to cover as much of his identity as pos­sible, he stood in the back of the balcony that overlooked the courtroom.

  Portsman was already there, looking perfectly at ease in his black robe and white wig. Rivenhall sat behind the bench, wearing the same attire, his thin face appearing al­most gaunt with the judicial wig flapping about his ears. The magistrate would forfeit his seat after the morning adjourn­ment, giving way to a higher judge who would hear more se­rious matters, those that could easily result in a death sentence.

  Lady Monfrey sat near the bench, at a mahogany table. Lord Monfrey was nowhere in sight, but Marshall recog­nized the young man sitting next to the plaintiff. He was the couple's youngest son, a vain young man who expected his father's wealth and reputation to carry him through life.

  Marshall's gaze was torn away from the overweight social matron when the doors at the far end of the court opened to reveal Evelyn, escorted by a bailiff. She stared straight ahead walking gracefully toward the dock where she would be required to stand until Rivenhall rendered his decision. A jury would hear the case, but it was the magistrate who would determine the sentence.

  The man in front of Marshall jostled for position, as did most of the men in the courtroom, each wanting a closer look at the lovely young woman accused of theft.

  Marshall watched and listened as Rivenhall read the charges. For a man who looked more like a black-robed scarecrow than an administrator of the law, his voice was ex­tremely loud carrying to every corner of the room. Upon finishing, he looked toward Evelyn.

  "Are you prepared to accept the charges against you, Miss Dennsworth?"

  "I am not, my lord" she replied. "I am innocent of the crime."

  The barrister seated to the right of Lady Monfrey stood and the trial began. He was an elderly man with a broad fore­head and small, deep-set eyes. After a lengthy speech that depicted Lady Monfrey as so distressed over the loss of her beloved brooch, she was unable to speak without bursting into tears, he addressed the jury, reaffirming the charges and accusing Evelyn of stealing the brooch, citing the low wages of a shop girl as sufficient cause.

  After finishing, the barrister retired to his seat, not both­ering to call a single witness. His arrogance didn't go unno­ticed by the man standing next to Marshall. "Bloody puffed-up peacock," the man said in a raspy voice.

  Marshall silently echoed the opinion.

  The next hour convinced him that if he should ever have to stand before the law, he wanted James Portsman at his side. The young man skillfully cut through the pomp and cir­cumstance, summoning Lady Monfrey to the witness box. Dressed in a bright yellow dress that was better suited for entertaining in the parlor than testifying in a courtroom, the plump lady looked more like a fat parakeet than a victim.

  Once Portsman had finished questioning Lady Monfrey, getting the facts from her so dexterously that she didn't real­ize she was admitting to nothing less than snobbish specula­tion, he dismissed her from the witness box. Her own barrister having no questions, the court moved on.

  The next person questioned was the constable who had taken Evelyn into custody after searching Madame La Roschelle's shop.

  "Are you saying that you thoroughly searched both the dress shop and Miss Dennsworth's personal apartment and found nothing?" Portsman asked.

  "That's right," Constable Wilverton told the court. "Went back the next day and had a second look, just to make sure. There weren't no brooch. Nothing more than what you'd ex­pect to find in a young woman's room, clothes and a few trinkets."

  "What of her person?" Portsman asked. "Did you search Miss Dennsworth before taking her into custody?"

  "Aye," the constable said. "I went through her apron and the pockets of her skirt. Madame La Roschelle saw to the rest, behind one of the fitting curtains." "Thank you, Constable."

  Portsman then turned to question the accused addressing Evelyn with the same respect he had shown for Lady Monfrey. She recited the day's events with precision and clarity, making Marshall's heart swell with pride. He knew she was terrified inside, knew she felt humiliated and hurt by being forced to defend herself, and yet not a hint of it showed. She appeared as well composed as a saint, sure of herself and her innocence.

  When it came time for Evelyn to be questioned by her lady­ship's barrister, she stood with the same unwavering confi­dence, not giving in to the man's baited remarks. Not once did she measure her words or hesitate to reply in a clear, firm voice. She spoke the truth, and everyone heard it. When she finished Marshall half expected to hear a cheer go up from the crowd; she had won the heart of everyone in the court­room.

  Lady Monfrey sat at the plaintiff's table, red faced and clearly upset that the supposed thief was, in fact, an elo­quently spoken young woman whose father had maintained a respected parish for thirty of his sixty-two years, a com­mon woman who carried herself with the regal grace of a queen, and who hadn't once hesitated to look her accuser straight in the eye.

  The jury took less than ten minutes to reach a verdict of not guilty.

  The sound of Rivenhall's gavel coming down in dismissal was drowned out by a noisy protest from Lady Monfrey, who was quickly quieted by her barrister. The lady looked ready to split her corset as the barrister and her son hauled her from the room, while Portsman graciously thanked the court for its wisdom.

  Marshall watched as the lawyer helped Evelyn down

  from the dock platform, speaking to her for a brief second before handing her over to the bailiff who escorted her out of the chamber. Wanting to be by her side as quickly as possi­ble, Marshall pushed through the crowd. He found her at the bottom of the colonnade, near the curb, looking lost.

  "Marshall!" she said using his given name because he caught her completely off guard.
Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

  "Come along," he said not caring if all of London saw him take her arm and escort her down the street. "It's going to rain again. I don't want you catching a chill."

  A coatless Emerson was waiting by the carriage. Marshall gladly surrendered the driver's missing garment, then quickly ushered Evelyn into the carriage. "I will leave word with Portsman's clerk that I once again have you in custody," he said. "Wait here."

  Evelyn sat in the carriage, listless now that the trial was finally over. It had been horrible, standing in the dock, having everyone studying her, waiting to see if she would slip up and say something the barrister could use against her. Even Rivenhall had stared at her as though he had never seen her before, though of course he had. Portsman hadn't varied from their chosen path, asking exactly what he had told her he would ask, waiting for her to answer, then moving on to the next question. Lady Monfrey had stared at her the entire time, her hawkish gaze growing more uncomfortable, more accusing, as the proceedings came to a close.

  Evelyn leaned her head back and rested it against the cushioned seat. She closed her eyes. She was free now. Free to leave the house on Lambeth Road free to make her way back to Sussex or another village. Try as she might, she couldn't help but think of Marshall, of saying goodbye to him. The mere thought of never seeing him again was enough to start the tears flowing.

  "None of that," he said, climbing into the carriage. "It's a day to celebrate."

  She offered him a weak smile. The next thing she knew she was being scooped up and onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, holding tight when she tried to wiggle free.

  "No. I will hold you and you will cry, and then there will be no more tears. Is that understood?"

  "You just told me not to cry."

  "I have recently discovered that telling you to do one thing results in you doing just the opposite," Marshall said with a long sigh. "Besides, having you cry on my shoulder suits my purposes perfectly at the moment, so please indulge yourself."