Wyndmoor Manor yesterday morning. In my excitement to see the place, I rode here straightaway.”
“You must be mistaken, sir.” Bella refused to address him as “Your Grace” when he was as far from being a duke as she was from being a duchess. “I purchased Wyndmoor Manor three days ago.”
“From whom?” James asked.
“Sir Redmond Reeves,” Bella said.
“Interesting indeed since Reeves sold the property to me as well.”
“Again I insist that there must be a mistake. Why would Sir Reeves sell Wyndmoor Manor twice? Surely you purchased another property in Hertfordshire. Legal documents are complicated. Perhaps you misinterpreted them.”
His laughter had a sharp edge. “Now that is highly unlikely. I’ve been a barrister for over ten years. I can interpret a legal document while intoxicated.”
“A barrister! You said you were a duke. And to think, you accused me of lying!”
James sighed. “What I said was true. I am a barrister. I recently inherited my father’s title.”
“Hmmm. You really do think me a fool. What sane man would trouble himself by purchasing a small property such as Wyndmoor Manor so soon after inheriting a dukedom? Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to in London?” Bella asked.
A bright mockery invaded his stare. “Indeed. But my reasons do not concern you.”
Bella stiffened and placed her hands on her hips. “Prove what you say.”
“I shall return tomorrow morning with the deed to Wyndmoor.”
“Why did you not carry it with you?”
His voice carried a unique force. “As I said, I had no idea the house was occupied. Do not fret, Mrs. Sinclair. I left the deed at a local inn—known as the Twin Rams—as I was in need of a hot meal and a fresh horse. I will return tomorrow with the proper documents.”
He opened the door and turned back to glance at Bella. “I suggest you locate and procure your deed as well because this is the first and last night I will spend elsewhere. Starting tomorrow, I will sleep in the master’s chambers of Wyndmoor Manor.”
“He may truly be the Duke of Blackwood,” Harriet said.
Bella shook her head. “I cannot believe his story. It makes no sense.”
Bella sat on the edge of her bed in her nightdress as Harriet rubbed her shoulders. After Bella’s mother had died when she was just a babe, Harriet had arrived as Bella’s nursemaid. She had soothed Bella in the same manner when she had cried over a broken toy or a stubbed toe. Bella closed her eyes and tried to relax as Harriet’s fingers worked a knot between her shoulder blades. Only this time, Bella remained tense.
“Bella, luv, there was something about the man that makes me believe his story. I’ve known frauds before, including your late husband, but I don’t believe James Devlin is one of them,” Harriet said.
Bella’s deceased spouse had been the most talented of frauds. Roger had easily convinced Bella’s father to consent to their betrothal when she was seventeen, and Roger had concealed his evil nature from the rest of the world.
Only Harriet had remained loyal to Bella, for she knew Roger as the monster he had been.
“We must be prepared in case Blackwood shows up tomorrow with a deed to Wyndmoor Manor.”
Bella looked at Harriet. “But how? I have the deed.”
Harriet kissed Bella’s cheek and went to the door. “You’d best go find it, Bella,” she said, closing the door behind her.
A knot tightened inside Bella as she sat on the bed, her fearful and angry thoughts centering on James Devlin. After seven years of misery as Roger Sinclair’s wife, her husband’s death had finally freed her of the bondage of their marriage. Her relief had been short-lived, however, as she’d learned that her wealthy husband had not left her a shilling. Instead, he had bequeathed his entire fortune to the church. He had been hailed a hero in death, as in life.
Fraud. Charlatan.
But still Bella was free, and she would gladly accept poverty over forced servitude to her husband.
No one had suspected the cruelties Roger had inflicted on his pretty, young wife. He had quashed her budding ambitions as a writer—her one passion and desire in life—and he had often threatened to dismiss Harriet in order to control Bella. But his most dastardly deeds had been the incidents of physical abuse when he’d come to her bedchamber intoxicated.
Roger had not stopped there, however, and had successfully isolated her by spinning a web of lies and deceit about his young wife’s mental state. After his death, the townsfolk of Plymouth had been wary and distrustful of Bella. Even the vicar and his wife had turned their backs. Alienated from everyone, Bella had fled.
Her substantial dowry, which had aided Roger in building his investments and wealth, was gone, along with her mother’s jewels. Her mother had died when Bella was an infant, and her father had perished in a carriage accident after her marriage. Bella’s future had seemed precarious. Then she had received word that a great aunt had died childless and had left Bella with a tidy sum of money.
With Harriet by her side, Bella had planned to travel to London and start a new life in the crowd and bustle of the city. Along the way, she had stumbled upon Wyndmoor Manor and had instantly fallen in love with its rolling hills, grassy lawns, working fountain, and elegant manor house. She had pictured herself writing her articles here, free to send them off to any London paper of her choosing.
The closest town of St. Albans was only a day’s coach ride to the city, and she could receive newspapers and easily send and receive mail. Wyndmoor was small for a country property, only a hundred acres, but beautifully kept, and upon inquiry she had been thrilled to discover that the owner was willing to sell, and the rent from the tenants was more than sufficient to maintain the place.
A home at last. Financial independence at last. A life without fear at last.
Bella’s thoughts returned to the present. She rose from the bed and hurried across the bedchamber to a small trunk, the only remaining item from her mother. It was inlaid with an ivory and mother-of-pearl lid that was curved on the top and flat on the underside, and the workmanship of the trunk’s lid was exquisite. Bella stored a miniature portrait of her parents inside along with her books, notes, and unpublished articles and novels, and other important items. Placing the candle on the floor, she lifted the lid and searched until she withdrew a packet of legal documents tied with brown string.
Sitting on the floor, she clutched the papers to her chest and took a deep breath. She forced herself to calmly focus on her future until her courage and determination hardened like a rock inside her. She was no longer a young bride, easily intimidated and dominated. No man would ever take advantage of her or control her again.
Wyndmoor Manor was not just her home now, but her salvation.
And whether or not James Devlin was truly the Duke of Blackwood, if he believed he could easily take it all away, then he best be prepared for the fight of his life.
James
