The Rose of Winslow Street (16 page)

Libby tried to step around Michael, but he shifted to block her progress. “I will find a safer place for Libby to spend the night until your temper has cooled. No woman should be subjected to a man who is under the rule of anger.”

Libby wanted the ground to open up so she could sink beneath the soft, warm cocoon of the earth and be spared her father's blistering response. But he surprised her. Rather than retaliate, her father drew himself a little taller, and from the four-foot height of the porch, he was able to look down his nose at Michael Dobrescu.

“Under the rule of anger?” he scoffed. “I am no barbarian who storms into houses and grabs what he wants. I am a man of civility. Throughout my entire life I have embraced the wisdom of a solid education and a refined culture. These things may seem alien to you, but they are prized in America.”

Michael said nothing, but he flicked a glance to the book splayed upon the grass, then back to the professor.

The silence lengthened. Libby still felt like shriveling from mortification, but Michael stood with the confidence of a man who had nothing to fear. Finally Jasper stepped around her father and walked down the front steps. “Libby, there is a dinner plate in the warming oven for you.” He looked at Michael. “I would like to offer you dinner as well, but I think it best not to pour fuel on simmering flames.”

Michael nodded his head. “I understand.”

“Libby has always been safe in my house, and today is no exception,” Jasper said. “No harm will come to her under my roof.”

Michael turned his gaze to her, question in his eyes. Instinctively, she knew Michael was willing to protect her from whatever physical or emotional danger might harm her. She wished he had not witnessed her father chastise her like a disobedient dog, but all her father's sound and fury amounted to very little. He would never physically harm her, and she had long ago built up a concrete shell to protect against the sting of his words.

“My father's anger will blow over soon,” she said quietly. “And you should go back to your children.”

Michael took a step closer to her. He was as dirty and grubby as she, but a warm strength radiated from his face as he looked down at her. How was it possible for a man to be so big and imposing, and yet seem so gentle? When he cupped the side of her face with his hand, she gazed up at him without flinching. The caress of his thumb against her cheekbone was so tender she had to brace herself from turning her face closer into his palm.

“Please know that whatever happens in the courtroom, I care for you, Libby.” The words were so gently spoken she could hardly hear them, but still they sliced straight through to her soul.

She felt like a piece of her was leaving with Michael as he walked alone down the street.

B
y the time of the court hearing, Libby was still in disgrace and her father had forbidden her from sitting with him at the litigant's table, only a few feet away from Judge Frey. She sat instead beside Regina in the front row of the gallery, where she had a bird's-eye perspective of the packed courtroom below. Everyone in Colden had come to the hearing, anxious to see Professor Sawyer regain lawful possession of his house. Almost like in a wedding, the benches behind her father filled with his supporters from the neighborhood, while the rows behind Michael Dobrescu's table were empty. As the appointed hour drew near, the townspeople became less discriminating, and soon every seat in the courtroom was taken. When the standing room along the walls was filled, spectators clustered outside the windows, which had been opened to provide a bit of relief from the heat.

At her father's table were his lawyer, Mr. Auckland, and a gentleman Libby had never seen before. She was certain he was a stranger to Colden, for she would have remembered anyone who dressed so exquisitely. The young man's cravat was wickedly dashing, but not something worn in a village like Colden. Her father was smiling as he traded quips with his lawyer and the strange newcomer. Whatever her father learned in Washington must have been good news, because yesterday she had heard him laughing with the old librarian late into the night.

Of course, whatever he learned had not been shared with Libby. “You are liable to go blather it to the gypsies,” he had snapped at her. “You can learn about what sort of man you have been cavorting with in court alongside the rest of the townspeople.”

Dozens of times people approached her father's table to shake his hand and clap him on the back. It could not have been a more stark contrast to Michael Dobrescu's table, where he sat with only a single lawyer. Wearing the same battered leather jacket he always wore, Michael looked utterly alone and friendless. She knew her father was going to win this case, and her stomach clenched at the thought of what was going to happen to Michael and those children.

Judge Frey walked into the courtroom and everyone stood, a hush settling over the assembly as the showdown was about to commence. He took his seat behind the raised desk, adjusted his robes, and banged his gavel. Libby's legs felt like rubber and she was grateful when the judge motioned for the crowd to sit.

“We have a difficult case to settle,” Judge Frey said. “The last will and testament of Constantine Dobrescu was properly filed in this court and sent to his heirs in Romania, but the sale of the house on Winslow Street was not properly executed. The Dobrescu heirs therefore have the right to contest Professor Sawyer's title to the house.”

Her father's lawyer, Mr. Colberg, rose to his feet. “Your Honor, rather than discussing the complicated legal intricacies, we would like to present evidence that the man claiming to be the Dobrescu heir is an imposter. We have amassed indisputable evidence.”

The judge's eyes grew round. “
Indisputable
, you claim?”

“I have written evidence, photographic proof, and a living witness who can testify that this man is a fraud.”

Excited chatter rose from the spectators in the courtroom, and the judge banged his gavel. “Your motion is out of order, but I will allow you five minutes to present your evidence. If you can prove this man is an imposter, there is no need to proceed with this hearing.”

“Excellent.” From beneath the table, Mr. Colberg lifted the fat book with the ornate leather binding that Libby had seen earlier. Opening to a specific page, he laid it before the judge. “This book chronicles modern European aristocratic families, and you are looking at a portrait of the 9th Duke of Vlaska, the older brother of the old Cossack.” He brought forth another photograph from the file on his table. “And here is a photograph of the current Duke of Vlaska. As you can see from the inscription, this photograph was taken in March of 1871 upon the young man's elevation to the title. As is the custom, the photograph and the announcement of a new duke was sent to all the capitals in Europe and to Washington, D.C., where it was on file at the Library of Congress. The man wearing the ermine robe is Enric Dobrescu, the 10th Duke of Vlaska. He is standing alongside his wife, Sophie. The youngsters in the photograph are the duke's children. The man in this courtroom is clearly an imposter.”

Libby's gaze flew to Michael. The flexing of the muscle in his jaw was the only sign of his tension. Libby reached out to clasp Regina's hand as she watched the judge scrutinize the picture. Three times the judge stared at Michael, then back at the photograph, his brows lowering in concentration. Finally, he set the photograph down and addressed Michael.

“The appearance and demeanor of the man in this photograph are entirely different from the man I see sitting before me.” He held aloft the picture so Michael could see it. Everyone in the courtroom leaned forward, but it was impossible to see much of anything from a distance. The judge raised an eyebrow. “Are you claiming to be the man in this picture?”

“I am claiming to be the oldest son of the 9th Duke of Vlaska,” Michael said calmly.

Her father's lawyer stepped forward. “Your honor, I have a witness here who can testify that this man is an imposter. Dominic Sterescu is a Romanian citizen who is currently serving as an agent for American companies exporting goods to eastern Europe. He attended college alongside the current Duke of Vlaska, and he is prepared to testify that he has never seen the man in this courtroom. Mr. Sterescu?”

The elegant young man Libby noted earlier rose to his feet, adjusting the fit of his satin waistcoat. Mr. Sterescu nodded to the judge, then turned to face Michael. After a moment he turned back to the judge. “I shared an apartment with Enric Dobrescu, the current Duke of Vlaska, when we were both students at the University of Bonn,” he said in an accent that was identical to Michael's musical cadence. “For two years we lived together and I consider him a great friend. Never have I laid eyes on the man who is in this courtroom.”

Michael spoke a rapid stream of Romanian, startling the crowd and causing Mr. Sterescu to turn to face him. When Mr. Sterescu responded in the same language, the judge banged the gavel.

“Only English will be spoken here,” he warned. “Mr. Dobrescu, whatever questions or statements you wish to make to the witness must be in English.”

Michael rose to his feet, towering over the witness, but his demeanor remained calm and self-assured. “Have you ever visited the Duke of Vlaska at his home in Gardisau?” he asked.

Mr. Sterescu shook his head. “I have never had the privilege.”

“Then you know little of the duke's family?” Michael asked.

“I have met his wife, Sophie. I never met his children.” He nodded to the photograph that was still on the judge's raised podium. “They certainly appear attractive, as I knew Enric's children would be.”

Michael nodded. “Those are all the questions I have,” he said, and took his seat again.

Libby almost fell off her chair. Surely he could not leave the conversation at that! She glanced at Regina, but she seemed as bewildered as she. The judge looked annoyed as he directed another question at Michael.

“Mr. Dobrescu, if you have some validation as to your identity as the 10th Duke of Vlaska, I need to hear it immediately. Otherwise I am prepared to rule in Professor Sawyer's favor.”

Libby held her breath and the courtroom went silent. “I am the oldest son of the 9th Duke of Vlaska,” Michael said. “My uncle's will specified his house was to go to the duke's oldest son. I am the duke's illegitimate son, and I was recognized as such by my father.”

A murmur raced through the courtroom. To admit to illegitimacy was shocking, but Michael made his pronouncement proudly and without hesitation. Libby blinked. She knew what it was to carry a shameful secret, and she envied Michael's ability to speak his truth with no trace of embarrassment.

The judge looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Courts generally only recognize legitimate children for purposes of inheritance. Unless a will makes specific reference to include illegitimate offspring, I believe your brother is the legitimate heir.”

Mr. Dobrescu's lawyer, who had been silent up until then, finally rose. “Your honor, at the time of Constantine Dobrescu's death, the current duke was not yet born. On the day the old Cossack died, the
only
child of the 9th Duke of Vlaska was Michael Dobrescu, who is sitting here in this courtroom today. Michael was eight years old at the time of his uncle's death. His younger brother would not be born for another three years. Michael Dobrescu can be the only heir.”

Her father shot from his seat, his hand vibrating in rage as he pointed across the courtroom. “He could be anybody's by-blow. We have no idea who this man is.”

“I have proof,” Michael said in a firm voice.

Libby felt the air leave her body in a rush. As much as she wanted her father to win the case, she had loathed the possibility that Michael could be an imposter. His being the illegitimate son of the duke could be a perfect explanation for his curious mix of sophistication and rough-hewn demeanor. A weight of anxiety settled around her as she watched Michael step forward to present his evidence to the judge, certain that he was telling the truth. He laid a document before the judge.

“This is the registration of my birth at the family's chapel in Gardisau. My father granted permission for me to share the Dobrescu name. This is the signature of my mother, and this is the signature of the 9th Duke of Vlaska. The word below his signature,
tată
, is Romanian for ‘father.' I am sure Mr. Sterescu can testify to that.”

At the behest of the judge, Dominic Sterescu came forward and confirmed that the document was an official church record of a birth, with the 9th duke's signature above the line for father. Not that any of this was persuasive to her father or his lawyer.

“Your Honor, that document does not prove this man is Michael Dobrescu,” her father's lawyer said. “We suspect this man's entire family to be a den of thieves and gypsies. They have not comported themselves like civilized people. Items have gone missing from the Sawyer household. This man may be an imposter who worked on the Vlaska estate and stole that birth certificate.”

Michael was still standing beside the judge's table. He picked up the photograph of the current duke and laid it beside the book containing the picture of the man he claimed to be his father. “These men both have a distinctive peak in their hairline,” he said. He brushed his own hair straight back from his face. “I have the same marking. As do my sons. All the people of the Dobrescu family have this distinctive trait. You see from the picture that even the children of my brother have this same hairline.”

Libby stilled while she watched the judge examine the photographs. She remembered the time she studied the 9th duke's portrait and noticed that pronounced tiny peak in an otherwise straight hairline. It was unusual, but hardly proof of paternity.

The judge agreed with her. “Mr. Dobrescu, I cannot award a house based on such a quirk. We have laws and rules for these things, not supposition.” The judge dragged his hands through his hair in frustration and flipped about the documents accumulating on his desk. Then he stilled. He picked up the photograph of the current duke and his family.

“Who is this girl?”

Libby saw Michael's shoulders tense. “That is the duke's sister, Lady Mirela Dobrescu. She is also my half sister.”

“Is she the girl who is here in town with you?”

“She is.”

A flurry of excited voices filled the courtroom and the judge leaned back in his chair in satisfaction. “Then someone go fetch her and we can solve this little mystery right away.”

If the girl in the photograph of the current duke's family was prepared to vouch for Michael's identity, it would be almost impossible to refute her testimony. Libby swung her head to look at her father, whose face was flushed in anger as he spoke in urgent tones to his lawyer.

But Michael shocked everyone. He shook his head. “I will not permit my sister to be questioned,” he said in a firm tone. “She is not well, and I will not have her paraded in this courtroom. I forbid it.”

Her father shot to his feet. “She is probably some gypsy he picked up on his travels. Otherwise, why can't she show herself so we can judge for ourselves?”

Rather than respond to her father's outburst, Michael swiveled and looked upward, directly at Libby, sitting in the front row of the gallery. “Miss Sawyer can testify to the identity of my sister.”

Her eyes widened. She had not realized he knew she was sitting there, but his intense blue gaze was locked on her, as was every other eye in the courtroom. The weight of all those stares was so heavy she felt as though she could barely draw a breath. Judge Frey looked up at her.