Hope filled Blayne to the brim as he listened to Mr. Richmond. He’d not dared believe he actually stood a chance of acquittal, and yet, the solicitor had found a cunning way to beat his uncle. Provided Blayne was willing to make one last sacrifice.
Unfortunately, as luck would have it, the solicitor returned the following morning with unwelcome news.
“I was denied a meeting with the Chief Judiciary,” Mr. Richmond informed Blayne with regret. “In other words, I was unable to issue a plea to have you released on grounds of unjust imprisonment. To make matters worse, a trial has been scheduled for Thursday next week at the High Court of Justiciary. I’m sorry.”
Blayne could only stare at him while an unwelcome sense of defeat crawled through him. “Sounds like I’ll be needing a barrister then.”
“Indeed. I’ve already spoken with a colleague of mine. Mr. Walsh is the finest defense barrister you’ll find this side of Hadrian’s Wall. After explaining your situation, he believes you could have a chance of winning.”
“Thank ye, Mr. Roberts. If ye dinnae mind, as one last request, I’d like ye to ask Miss Russell to come and see me again.” It surprised Blayne a bit that she hadn’t been back yet. He missed her.
“Right.” Mr. Roberts shifted his feet. “Turns out the prosecutor has barred you from receiving visitors.”
“What?”
“I thought you’d been informed.”
No one had told him a bloody word. Blayne scowled. “Perhaps ye can pass on a message then?”
“Of course.”
“Just tell her I love her and that I’m prepared to do all I can to end this nightmare.”
Mr. Roberts pressed his lips together and nodded. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”
As soon as Mr. Roberts was gone, Blayne slumped back onto the bench in his cell and lowered his head to his hands. He’d hoped to avoid a public spectacle where he’d be questioned about the past while a crowd of onlookers watched. Already, the papers would probably be in the process of notifying the public. Bruce Callanach’s murderous son returns to stand trial.
Blayne scoffed and tried to think of Charlotte – of her lovely smiles and the welcoming warmth of her embrace. The kisses they’d shared and her stalwart support. Her declarations of love.
His heart beat soundly against his chest. He’d give up whatever he had to for her – deny his true identity and walk away from the right to his inheritance. It was the only way in which he could be assured a future with her – the only way to avoid being charged with murder and hanged. And besides, what did a manor and some coin matter anyway? He’d lived without all of that this long, he’d easily continue to do so in years to come.
The only thing of any importance to him was her, so if remaining Blayne MacNeil for the rest of his days was what was needed in order for them to marry, then there was nothing more for him to consider.
Satisfied with the decision he’d made, he entered the courtroom on the appointed day with his head held high. Murmurs raced from corner to corner. Blayne ignored it all and sought out the one person who could provide him with reassurance.
Charlotte’s gaze snared his, a slight – almost imperceptible – nod followed. Blayne’s chest expanded in response to her support. It felt as though an invisible thread existed between them, binding them as one – a joint force against the rest of the world.
Forced to turn away from her in order to take his place before the judges, Blayne caught a glimpse of his uncle. A smug smile pulled at the man’s mouth. Clearly, Seamus finally had Blayne precisely where he wanted him.
“Let’s keep this brief,” the prosecutor, introduced by the clerk as Mr. Shedwell, intoned. “Ye’ve all heard the charges against the man ye see before ye. Mr. James Callanach murdered two men. Stabbed one to death and struck down the other. I’m sure many of ye recall the brutal event.” Murmurs of agreement followed this statement. “But rather than face the consequence of his actions, the coward ran.”
Blayne forced his gaze back to Charlotte in search of calm. She raised her chin and smiled, offering him a much needed reprieve from the accusations laid against him and the anger he harbored toward himself.
“Now, he’s back. And I say we see him punished so his poor uncle can finally have the justice he deserves.” Mr. Shedwell gestured toward his right while cheers of agreement erupted throughout the room. “Mrs. Archer. If ye’d be so kind as to give the court yer testimony.”
“Silence,” one of the judges, introduced as MacNally, shouted when the cheers continued. “If ye would, Mrs. Archer.”
Blayne steeled himself for what the former housekeeper would say. “That night, when it happened, one of the footmen alerted me to some right awful goings on upstairs. The poor boy – Mr. Dunn, was his name – could barely speak on account of the horror he’d seen. When I arrived at the scene, all I could see was blood. There was so much of it, it registered before I noticed the bodies.”
“Do ye ken who committed the crime?” Mr. Shedwell asked.
“Aye. It had to have been Master James, didn’t it? After all, he was the only one who was missing. It’s hard to believe an innocent person would run.”
“I quite agree,” Mr. Shedwell said. He motioned for the next witness, and then the one after that, until five testimonies had been provided.
In Blayne’s opinion, none proved a thing, but then again, they didn’t have to. According to the law, it was up to him to show the court that there was no basis behind the charges and to prove his own innocence. He waited calmly for Mr. Walsh’s turn.
The barrister eventually stood. He took a moment to study those present, then said, “As I understand it, Mr. James Callanach has been charged with stabbing his mother’s lover to death, after which he apparently struck down his father with the use of a candelabra. Is that correct?”
“I dinnae ken where ye’re going with this, Mr. Walsh,” Judge MacNally said. “I trust ye’re not wasting our time?”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Walsh said.
Judge MacNally grunted and indicated the clerk who’d read the charges. “Ye may answer the question.”
“Aye, that’s correct,” the clerk said.
“Well, in that case,” Mr. Walsh said, “I suggest we end this farce of a trial before it goes any further, because according to Mr. Seamus Callanach’s own testimony, which I’ve located a record of”—he produced a piece of paper which he handed to Judge MacNally—“Mr. James Callanach has been dead and buried these past nineteen years.”
Gasps of outrage filled the courtroom.
“That’s a damned lie,” Seamus shouted while pointing an angry finger at Blayne.
“In fact,” Mr. Walsh persisted, his voice rising amid the noise, “the man sitting there, wrongfully accused, is Mr. Blayne MacNeil, a London tavern owner with nae connection at all to the Callanachs beside the fact that he happens to come from the same country.”
“Ach, for Christ sake,” Judge MacNally muttered. He handed the piece of paper over to the other two judges so they could see it as well. “Did no one think to confirm the accused man’s identity?”