In the Barrister's Bed

by Tina Gabrielle

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

A barrister determined to claim his inheritance meets his match in the woman who intends to keep it in this Regency romance that “will have you swooning!” (Sabrina Jeffries). A bastard by birth, James Devlin lives on his own terms—until a twist of fate reveals that he is the true Duke of Blackwood. Though he swears to hold on to his freedom, Devlin is keen to take back his childhood home. But once at Wyndmoor Manor, he discovers a hitch in his plan in the form of widow Bella Sinclair. Her hot-blooded claim to his home is amusing . . . and arousing. Which is why Devlin isn’t leaving until he takes possession of the house and everything in it, starting with his stubborn adversary . . . After years of living under someone else’s thumb, Bella Sinclair is finally free to live the way she chooses. So when the duke barges into Wyndmoor Manor and declares it rightfully his, Bella is filled with righteous fury. She’s not about to give up her haven without a fight, no matter how determined the duke is—or how sensual the battlefield. But once she’s sharing a house with the beguiling barrister, Bella finds she’s in danger of losing everything—one stolen kiss at a time . . .

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

“You’re a bastard by birth. How could you inherit anything?”

“Me father wanted me to ’ave it,” Pumpkin O’Dool explained.

“So you just broke into your stepmother’s home and took this?” Prosecutor Abrams strode forward, a gold pocket watch dangling from his fingers.

“Well, I knocked first, I did,” Pumpkin claimed. “She peeked through the curtains and saw me and never opened the door.”

“And yet you still took the watch. Your illegitimacy prevents you from inheriting property from your father,” Abrams argued.

James Devlin jumped to his feet from behind the defense table. “Objection, my lord. Mr. O’Dool’s illegitimacy is not in question. What is in question, however, is the missing will. If the prosecution had exerted as much effort in locating the will as it did in prosecuting a grieving son, we wouldn’t be in court today.”

Judge Bathwell, a squat fellow whose bewigged head barely cleared the top of his perch, drew his lips in thoughtfully and looked to Abrams. “Has the prosecution any idea where the will is?”

Prosecutor Abrams shook his head. “No, my lord. The solicitor that drafted the will is deceased. The original was given to Mr. O’Dool’s stepmother. It has not been found.”

“No doubt stuffed under her mattress,” James drawled.

“Objection!” the prosecutor shouted.

Six of the twelve members of the jury guffawed; two others eyed the prosecutor with a critical squint.

And that’s when James Devlin knew he had them.

Juries disliked overaggressive prosecutors more than thieves. Pumpkin O’Dool was an impoverished bastard and without a written will saying otherwise, he was entitled to nothing.

No one understood this more than James.

But at least Pumpkin O’Dool wouldn’t be sentenced to death today.

Sunlight poured in from the windows and heated the crowded courtroom. The spectators’ gallery was packed with observers seated on wooden benches, and the air thrummed with excitement. Commoners in worn dresses and patched corduroy jackets sat beside wealthy merchants and nobility in fine gowns and tightly tied cravats. Women avidly fanned themselves as the temperature in the room rose with each passing minute, and perspiration formed on the men’s foreheads, like water beads on good butter.

All were drawn to the Old Bailey. They had come to witness a man sentenced to hang, only to now champion his cause. Court, like the theater, contained the extremes of man’s behavior.

James turned his attention to the twelve members of the jury. A mostly rough lot, he had initially thought. One of the jurors had a battlefield of wrinkles, none of which were laugh lines. Another juror had hands dyed the color of dark coffee and an unkempt beard. A tanner, no doubt. And yet another was barely twenty, with golden curls and the face of a cherub.

A trill of feminine laughter and a shout turned his head. Pumpkin’s stepmother, a heavyset woman with dyed red hair and painted lips like a thread of scarlet, sneered at Pumpkin O’Dool from the front row. A balding man with a drinker’s veined face sat beside her, his thigh brushing her skirts.

Hardly the grieving widow. She wasted no time in finding a lover, James thought.

The stepmother’s features twisted into a maddening leer. Raising a finger, she pointed at Pumpkin and shouted out, “Thief! Cur!” She then turned to stare at James and eyed his black barrister’s gown and wig with disdain.

James cocked an eyebrow, and his lips twitched in amusement.

The remainder of the trial consisted of Prosecutor Abrams arguing the deficiency of a will and James emphasizing the stepmother’s motive for the will not to be found followed by three witnesses who testified as to Pumpkin’s “upstanding” character.

In the middle of Prosecutor Abrams’s closing, a shadow of annoyance crossed the judge’s face. “That will be enough from both barristers. As it is time for luncheon and all relevant evidence presented, I ask for the gentlemen of the jury to consider their verdict.”

It was the jury’s fifth verdict of the morning with a half a dozen more trials to conclude before the end of the day. They gathered in the corner, their faces animated as they gestured wildly at one another. They whispered, yet every few words could be heard across the courtroom from “guilty” to “bastard” to “harsh sentence.”

Three minutes later, the foreman, a middle-aged alchemist with eager brown eyes behind thick spectacles and a stained shirtfront, stood. “We the jury find Pumpkin O’Dool not guilty of housebreaking and theft.”

Pumpkin O’Dool cried out with joy; his grin reached from ear to ear as he shook James’s hand. Spectators shouted encouragement at the verdict and jeered at Pumpkin’s stepmother.

The woman rose and departed the courtroom in a huff, her lover rushing to keep up with her.

A court clerk passed the pocket watch to James, who in turn handed it to his client. “The jury believed your story that your father wanted you to have this,” James said. “Now stay out of trouble, Pumpkin. And don’t get caught selling that watch or ‘walking’ into any other dwellings.”

Pumpkin winked. “The watch is the least my old man could do fer me. Ye understand, don’t ye?”

Yes, I do. Only I won’t even get a bloody watch from my father, James mused.

Judge Bathwell’s gavel rapped as a prisoner in shackles was led forward by two guards. James nodded at Abrams, whose vexation at losing was quite evident by the prosecutor’s unfriendly, thin-lipped stare. Abrams turned away, pressed to prepare for the next case. Not a second was wasted at the Old Bailey.

James gathered his papers and made to leave the courtroom, aware of every eye in the spectators’ gallery following him. It was rare for a criminal defendant to be represented by a barrister, let alone to win against the Crown’s prosecution.

James reached the double doors when a voice stopped him.

“A word, Mr. Devlin.”

He turned and looked down into the eyes of an old woman who sat in the last row. Dressed in a gray gown with a large onyx brooch that resembled an enormous spider pinned to her shoulder, she sat stiffly on the wooden bench, her hands folded in her lap.

It can’t be, he thought.

Yet the unmistakable scent of her perfume—a cloying floral fragrance—wafted to him.

The Dowager Duchess of Blackwood.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Is that any way to greet your grandmother?”

He chuckled a dry and cynical sound. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you, so yes.”

Her expression was one of pained tolerance. “You always were rudely straightforward.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’ve come with grave news. Your father is dead.”

James stiffened. He shouldn’t care, and yet he felt a sharp jab in his gut as the knowledge twisted inside him.

Bitterness spilled over into his voice. “You needn’t have delivered the news personally, Your Grace. A note would have sufficed.”

She glanced around the courtroom, her lips tight and grim, before returning to look at him. “We need to speak privately. Is there a quiet place in this circus?”

James regarded her with a speculative gaze. There was a client consultation room, but damned if he would cloister himself in the small room with her until he knew what she was after.

“Is that necessary?” he asked.

“My carriage then?”

The consultation room suddenly held more appeal. He could walk away when he chose. “Follow me.” He inclined his head, and she stood to her full height of five feet.

She was a formidable woman, with noble bloodlines and the bearing of a queen. With her shrewd eyes, her steel-gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, and the ramrod posture of a British brigadier, James had witnessed both debutantes and titled lords cowering at her aura of respectability and propriety.

They walked side by side out of the courtroom, James’s tall frame towering beside hers. The hallway of the Old Bailey was bustling with activity, barristers dressed in black gowns ushering witnesses to and from courtrooms. Clerks carrying stacks of briefs and litigation documents scurried to their assigned judge’s chambers.

Halfway down the hall James stopped before a door with a brass nameplate labeled CLIENT CONSULTATION. He opened the door and held it as the dowager duchess marched inside.

The room was lined with bookshelves containing well-used law books. A battered desk sat in a corner and wooden chairs occupied the rest of the space. Unlike the crowded, overheated courtroom ripe with the odor of unwashed bodies, the air in the small consultation room was stale and dusty. She glanced at her surroundings with haughty distaste before choosing a chair. James seated himself opposite her.

“Is there not a cushioned chair in this place?” she asked.

He ignored her and took off his barrister’s wig. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and exhaled before looking in her indigo-blue eyes, the exact shade of his own. “What is so imperative that you visit me in person and request to speak privately?”

“I told you, your father is dead.”

“And I’m sorry for that, Your Grace. I assume my half brother, Gregory, is busy dealing with the responsibilities of inheriting the dukedom.”

“Gregory is not the new duke.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You are the new Duke of Blackwood.”

For a heart-stopping moment he stared and wondered if he had heard her correctly. Then the truth dawned, and he laughed bitterly. “What joke do you play?”

“This is no joke.”

“May I remind you, Your Grace, that I am a bastard by birth.”

Her aristocratic nose rose an inch higher—a feat he would have previously believed impossible—at his choice of words. “So we had all believed. But circumstances have come to my attention. Your parents were legally wed before you were born.”

Again he merely stared, at a loss for words. James prided himself on his composure. Very little shocked him whether in the courtroom, in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, or in the bedroom. But this woman had managed to render him speechless twice in one minute.

What game did she play?

She sat forward in her chair and looked at him intently. “It’s true. Your father confessed to me on his death bed. I’ve always known that your mother was a parlor maid and she had run off with your father when he was seventeen. I had accounted it to drunken stupidity on your father’s part after coming home on holiday from Oxford. Only days ago did I learn he had legally wed the girl at Gretna Green. Your mother died four months later, birthing you. Your father returned home and dutifully did as I bid and married your stepmother. She birthed Gregory before she too died. So you see you are the legitimate son, the new Duke of Blackwood.”

He knew his mother had been a maid, of course. His grandmother and half brother, Gregory, had cruelly and repeatedly reminded him of that fact in his youth.

“You need to take over your responsibilities at once,” she said, her tone authoritative.

“After years of being shunned by the family as the bastard, you now tell me it has all been an inaccuracy, and I am to step up to my responsibilities?” he asked incredulously.

“It was an unfortunate mistake.”

An unfortunate mistake? Could she truly be even colder than he had believed?

“Don’t be so ungrateful, James,” she said tersely. “I saw to your every financial need. Your clothes, your tutors, the best education at Eton.”

James sat very still, his eyes narrow. “How did he die?”

“It is of no consequence now.”

“How?”

She gave an impatient shrug. “He was leaving his solicitor’s office after selling off one of his country properties when he collapsed. He died a week later when his heart gave out.”

“Which one?”

“Pardon?”

“Which country estate?”

“Wyndmoor Manor.”

“Why would he sell Wyndmoor?”

A hint of exasperation flickered across her face. “Why does it matter?”

It mattered to him. Wyndmoor Manor was the only safe haven he had known as a boy, the only place the old duke had ever treated him as a true son. But he refused to explain himself to the woman sitting before him.

James rose in one fluid motion, intent on leaving and putting as much distance between himself and his grandmother as possible. The collar of his barrister’s gown felt as if it was cutting off his supply of air, and he needed time to digest the shocking news. His hand touched the doorknob.

“Well? As my grandson and the legitimate Duke of Blackwood, what do you plan to do first?” she demanded.

James swung around, his eyes cold. “Buy Wyndmoor Manor back.”

There was a man outside her window.

Bella Sinclair had heard his footfalls, and the sound had her jumping out of bed like a skittish doe. An instant’s panic had squeezed her chest, and she’d thought Roger had come into her bedchamber.

But Roger was dead.

Thank the sweet Lord. Roger lay in a cold grave.

She flew across the room and pressed her back against the wall. It was a chilly May evening and the cold from the plaster wall seeped through her thin nightdress. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Taking a breath, she dared a quick glimpse out the window.

There. Just behind the azaleas, skirting the rosebushes. A black-dressed figure moved stealthily.

She doubted any other woman would have heard his movements, but years of practice had heightened her senses. Her hearing was attuned to the unwelcome sounds of a man’s stockinged footsteps, the creak of a floorboard at the threshold of her bedchamber.

Again she looked out the window, the curtains gripped in a clenched fist. With dismay, she realized she had lost sight of him. The full moon seemed bent on scudding from behind one dark cloud to another. The shadows below looked like stalking cats. She scanned the front terrace, the fountain, and the gardens beyond until she spotted him.

The figure made his way to the front door.

Wyndmoor Manor was empty save for Harriet, who was in her seventies. As she’d moved here only days prior, there had been no time for Bella to interview and hire additional servants.

Heart lurching madly, she grabbed the closest thing to a weapon she could find, a fireplace poker, and tiptoed out of her bedchamber. The hallway was dark as pitch, but she dared not light a candle. Early this morning she had explored the halls and rooms of the manor with the excitement of a child experiencing her first country fair. She knew the width and length of the hallway and the number of steps that led down the grand staircase. For the first time in seven years, a house felt like a home to Bella.

How dare any stranger invade here!

She felt for the unpacked trunks and crates that sat in the hall midway to the landing. She slipped down the stairs, her breath escaping her as her bare feet touched the cold marble vestibule. She darted behind the front door and clenched the poker tightly in both hands above her head.

An orange glow passed by the window of the door. The stranger had lit a lamp.

How odd.

The doorknob rattled.

Locked. She had been sure to lock it before retiring.

The intruder would be forced to break a window or force the lock. Blood rushed through her veins like an avalanche.

Then she heard the jangle of keys and the distinctive sound of a key sliding in the lock.

Impossible.

The dead bolt slid aside and the door opened. A dark cloaked figure stepped inside.

She swung the poker downward with all her might.

He moved so swiftly she barely had time to gasp before she was thrust against the wall and a hard body slammed against hers. The poker fell from her grasp and clattered across the marble floor. Her scream was cut off by a large palm pressed against her mouth.

“Don’t,” a masculine voice said curtly. “No screaming to bring your criminal acquaintances bearing down on me.”

He held the lamp high with his other hand, and she realized with alarm that he had managed to disarm her and pin her against the wall with one hand.

Fear and anger knotted inside her, and her heart thumped against her rib cage. Every solid inch of him was pressed against her. He was a tall man, broad and lean. The lamp lit half of his features, and she looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. Wavy jet hair framed his chiseled features. He shifted his weight, and she felt the muscled hardness of his body. His expression was taut, his jaw tense.

“I’m going to let you speak, but no screaming. Understand?”

She nodded, and he leaned to the side and kicked the door shut with a booted foot. Placing his lamp on top of a nearby crate, he released his palm from her mouth and rested it against her throat.

“Who are you?” she croaked.

“James Devlin, the Duke of Blackwood.”

A duke? Good lord, what was a duke doing at Wyndmoor Manor?

And yet, he had said the title stiffly, awkwardly, as if unpracticed in pronouncing it. Her mind raced and she wondered if he was truly a duke. Perhaps he was a local member of the criminal class who had heard of the new mistress of Wyndmoor and had come to pillage and steal whatever he could get his hands on. It made more sense. What duke traveled alone without a crowd of servants and a fancy, crested carriage?

His eyes raked her form, and she was highly conscious that she wore her nightdress without a wrapper. “Now it’s your turn. Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” he demanded.

“My name is Bella Sinclair. I am the owner of this manor.”

If she thought she couldn’t be more alarmed, she was wrong.

He arched a dark eyebrow, the expression making him appear even more sinister. “You’re lying. As of yesterday morning, I am the owner of Wyndmoor Manor.”

Bella’s first instinct had been correct. James Devlin was not a member of the nobility, but a criminal.

She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and boldly met his hard stare. “I assure you, I’m not lying. Whoever you are—and I doubt that you are a duke—I demand you leave at once.”

His hand dropped from her throat. He stood inches away, and she felt the heat emanate from his body through her cotton nightdress.

There was a lethal calmness in his eyes. “You demand?”

Her pulse beat erratically at the threatening undertone in his deep voice. She knew she was in a precarious position, but instinct told her if she backed down or showed the slightest fear, he would swallow her whole.

“I will summon the constable,” she insisted.

“The constable? And pray tell me, Miss Sinclair, just how would you accomplish that?”

“It’s Mrs. Sinclair.”

“Ah. Where is your strapping husband?”

“Bella?” A voice sounded from the top of the landing. “I heard noises. Are you down there?”

No, not Harriet!

Anxiety spurted through Bella as an old woman dressed in a blue robe carrying a heavy candelabrum slowly descended the stairs.

“Do not trouble yourself, Harriet,” Bella called out. “It is only a lost gentleman, and he was just leaving. You may go back to bed.”

Bella turned to the stranger, her gaze imploring. “She is just an old servant. Please, if you are who you say, you will not harm her,” she whispered vehemently.

His brows drew downward in a frown. “I never intended to harm anyone.”

Harriet reached the bottom of the stairs and started across the vestibule. “A lost gentleman in the middle of the night?” She came close, holding the candelabrum high with both hands. Candlelight fully illuminated the man’s features.

The chiseled planes of his face were arresting and elegant at once. His dark curling hair was cut short, and his lips were firm and sensual above a strong chin. His eyes weren’t as dark as she had initially thought, but an extraordinary indigo. He needed to shave, but it was the middle of the night and most men would be in need of a razor, and the dark bristles only added to his rugged appeal. He was dressed in formfitting trousers and a white shirt that molded to impossibly wide shoulders.

Bella realized he was intently regarding her as well. His sharp eyes seemed to strip her of her nightdress, and she was thankful her unbound hair covered her breasts.

He bowed to Harriet. “Pardon the late hour. My name is James Devlin, the Duke of Blackwood. I had no idea the house was temporarily occupied.”

Harriet’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and she looked to Bella.

“Temporarily?” Bella said.

“The previous owner never mentioned renters.”

“Renters?” Bella said.

“Do you have a tendency to repeat people?” James asked.

“Only when they make little sense,” Bella snapped.

“You think I’m a burglar?”

“What else am I to think of a man breaking into my home in the middle of the night?” Bella retorted.

Harriet gasped; Bella held out her hand to silence her and confronted the man.

He drew his lips in a tight smile. “I didn’t break in. I lit a lamp and used a key. Have you ever heard of a burglar using a key?”

“You could have stolen the key,” she accused.

“I purchased 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 rollin. . .