The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,121
illicit affair resulting in the existence of a child, a child known to the victim to be his own son. Therefore, the charge of child stealing with intent to deprive Captain Nicholas Finn, the father of said child, should stand. We believe also that the second count for like offense, only stating the child to be taken by fraud, has also been proved.”
The judge looked to Bart. “And the defense?”
Bart stepped forward. “We believe the prisoner to have acted in a way consistent with his generous nature. We have established the prisoner has a relationship with the woman in question, and the relationship has been blessed in the eyes of the Church and documented legally in the annals of this great nation. We also argue that the prisoner believes himself to be the father of the child and is committed to providing the child with a loving home. A home with two parents who have sworn to love each other unto death.”
The judge nodded. “Let the jurors present their verdict, then.”
A commotion clamored as the jurors banded together to make their determination. Con did his best not to sag against the rail of the bar. He was still too raw to risk looking at Elizabeth. How he wanted Bart’s pretty speech to be true.
It wasn’t. There were only lies.
Yet he wasn’t alone. Bart walked over to stand by him. He didn’t attempt to talk. And he didn’t judge.
Half an hour passed. Plenty of time for Con to consider he’d married a lying, selfish swindler who hadn’t even had the conscience to tell a dying man that he might have saved himself the effort of being beaten—assuming the thugs would have believed him, or that he’d have had a chance to get a word in edgewise. He doubted it would have mattered, actually. Nevertheless, she should have told him. If only he’d known he was in possession of a considerable sum! He might have writhed with fever feeling less of a failure when it came to his family. Not that any discovery on entailed land benefitted him directly, but at least he could have died knowing none of his brothers would be forced to make black deals with prostitutes simply to keep their guts intact.
Now he did know, and it was a cold comfort. He was so angry, he could burn the entire Bailey down. His devastation at her betrayal far outdid his fear of being transported—for her child! God, he was a fool. An idiot ten times over. And all this time, they’d been sitting on a bloody fortune.
He pounded his fist against the bar. Pain shot through his hand. He welcomed it. Was that why she’d married him without question? Because their family was no longer wretchedly poor? Surely a woman like her could never have too much money at her disposal.
A juror rose. The courtroom fell silent. The man cleared his throat. “For the charge of child stealing, we find the prisoner: Guilty.”
The word rang in his ears. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
“For the second charge of fraud, we also find the prisoner guilty.”
Con couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t speak. Not even a squeak could pass through the constriction of his throat. Guilty. Guilty.
“Noooooooooo!” a woman shrieked. Elizabeth.
“The jury recommends three months’ hard labor on the river.”
Con stood immobile. Three months. Three months in the dankest, darkest cell possible, shoulder to shoulder with criminal swine. Rolling on a river of refuse and incarcerated with the waste of a thousand other men. He’d be lucky to come out alive.
He almost retched.
He forced his head up and swiveled to see his brothers in the gallery. They’d come to their feet. Tony had Elizabeth’s upper arms in a death grip, as if she’d tried to haul herself bodily over the rail and he’d only just stopped her. Her beautiful face was a pale, heartbreaking ivory streaked with tears.
The Recorder slammed his gavel down, and Con knew true bleakness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ELIZABETH HAD SCANT HOURS until Constantine was to be moved from the Old Bailey back to Newgate, where he would be held until he could be taken to the hulks. She pushed her way through the crowded corridors until she found the bail dock. An armed warden hovered at the entrance. She paused before he could realize she was headed for him. She had to collect herself, or Constantine would never hear her apology.
Three months. It could easily have been longer. She ought to feel fortunate. But the thought of him imprisoned, held away from her