Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3)

by Ava Archer Payne

  Charity bin? He instantly recoiled. He was a viscount, for God’s sake. If he was in London—but he wasn’t in London. He was in Liverpool, with no money, no connections, and no clothing, apparently. A viscount with no choice but to accept what he was offered, he suddenly realized. He grit his teeth and shrugged on the offensive garments, the woman modestly turning her back as he did so.

  No sooner had he finished dressing when a brief rap sounded at the door. Three people stepped into the room. The first two introduced themselves as Father Tim and Sister Mary Louise. The remaining man—a bit on the portly side, and sporting a heavy handlebar moustache and a navy wool suit—identified himself as Constable Williamson of the Liverpool Police Force.

  A long and frustratingly circular conversation followed, during which Jonathon was informed that while Constable Williamson had been born and raised in Liverpool, and was familiar with every third-rate pub and gaming hell in town (including Sal’s), he had never once heard the name Sweet Henry, Sweet Harry, or any variation thereof.

  The man simply didn’t exist.

  Which meant Richard had invented him. Again, why? Why create such an elaborate ruse? Jonathon’s mind repeatedly circled back along the same dark path: his cousin had deliberately conspired to have him murdered.

  Astounding… if it were true.

  “Sir?” The constable’s voice intruded upon his thoughts. “Your name, sir? I’ll need that for my report, then I can be on my way.”

  Jonathon looked up to find four pair of eyes studying him. Williamson tapped his pad with his pencil, his impatience evident. His manner was nothing like the fawning deference Jonathon was accustomed to receiving from civil servants and the like. It took him a shocked moment to understand why.

  A viscount gunned down in the street was a matter of significance.

  But an ordinary man tussling with thieves in an alleyway did not merit any particular notice. Judging by the constable’s demeanor, it was a commonplace enough occurrence. He must look like hell—bruised and battered, unshaven and unkempt, dressed in a poor man’s cast-offs. No wonder the constable had relegated him to the Lower Orders, categorizing him with all the other drunks, ruffians, transients, and assorted rabble who littered the city streets. Williamson would do his duty, file his report, and the matter would be quickly forgotten.

  How extraordinary. Jonathon hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should feel highly affronted or highly amused. Then he considered his circumstance. He could give his name and title, of course, and elevate the matter to one of minor crisis. He would be treated with grave deference—once he’d properly established his identity, that is. The newssheets would blast the story from the front pages. A scandal reaching all the way from Liverpool to London would ensue.

  But what purpose would that serve? Not that he gave a damn about scandal, but as he considered the matter more closely, he came to realize that stealth would have markedly greater advantages.

  Far better to let the matter play out. The woman had said his injury had appeared grim; she had feared he’d been mortally wounded. The men who’d attacked him would likely draw the same conclusion, particularly if he didn’t surface for days. Very well. Let Richard believe he had succeeded in seeing him dead—if indeed that had been his intention. Jonathon would return to London as unobtrusively as possible, hire a private investigator, and get to the bottom of the whole sordid business.

  “Sir?” Constable Williamson prompted again, his pencil beating an impatient tempo against his pad. “Your name?”

  Lord Jonathon Clifford Beaman Hollinshed IV, Viscount Brooksbank, Baron Contreau.

  Aloud he said only, “Brooks. Jonathon Brooks.”

  Chapter Five

  Brianna shifted impatiently as the interview between Constable Williamson and Mr. Brooks finally drew to a close. For the fifth time in as many minutes, she dug her hand into the pocket of her skirt and felt for Arthur’s pocketwatch. She traced the hour and minute hand, then rubbed her thumb over the tiny ridges edged around the bezel. Nearly half past eleven. The mail coach heading north toward London was scheduled to depart at noon, as it had every day for the past week.

  Only this time, she would be on it.

  Over the objections of Sister Mary Louise and Father Tim (who expressed grave concern for the safety of a woman traveling alone), she had purchased a single coach ticket. She regretted worrying them, but she had no choice in the matter. Her valise was packed and ready, waiting by the door. All she had to do was make her farewells and she would be off.

  First, however, there was the matter of Mr. Brooks to contend with. Fortunately the man appeared as anxious to leave Liverpool as she was. The moment the door closed behind Constable Williamson he reached for his boots and tugged them on.

  “Fine pair of boots you have there, Mr. Brooks,” Father Tim observed.

  Brianna frowned. When not preaching, he was a man of few words, and those he did say meant something. What importance could the quality of Mr. Brooks’ boots possibly have?

  Before she could guess his intent, Father Tim continued, “How fortunate for you to be in possession of an excellent education, as well.”

  At that, Mr. Brooks straightened. He regarded the older man with an expression that could only be defined as wary. “Sir?”

  “Your accent.” Father Tim smiled pleasantly. “It’s Oxford, isn’t it? The constable might not have noticed, but I certainly did. A few of my colleagues at seminary were privileged to enjoy a comfortable upbringing, and it was reflected in their manner of speech.”

  “How very astute of you to recognize it.”

  Father Tim gave a modest shrug. “That is, after all, my line of work. In the words of our Lord, I am a fisher of men. My task is to gather lost souls and bring them into the fold.”

  At that, Mr. Brooks relaxed slightly. A hint of sardonic humor crossed his face. “I appreciate your concern, Father, but despite my current circumstances, I am hardly a lost soul.”

  “No, I don’t think you are. Neither, however, do I think you are a common ruffian, as Constable Williamson was so quick to believe. Your clothing—or rather, the clothing you were wearing the night of your unfortunate attack—coupled with your manner of speech, negate that possibility.”

  “Again, your discernment is to be admired.”

  Just the slightest hint of mocking humor in Mr. Brooks’ tone, as though he were privy to some clandestine joke which eluded the rest of the group. Father Tim chose to ignore it and pressed doggedly on.

  “Forgive my boldness, sir, but Sister Mary Louise is convinced that divine providence has brought you to our door, and it would be remiss of me to ignore that possibility. You appear eager to leave Liverpool. Might I inquire as to your occupation and destination?”

  Mr. Brooks hesitated, as though searching for a reason to object to the question. Apparently finding none, he answered, “I am a valet. My residence is in London.”

  “Is that so?” Father Tim beamed. “How extraordinary.”

  “Sir?”

  “I believe you are in a unique position to do us a great service.”

  Confusion clouded the man’s eyes, then abruptly cleared. “Of course,” he said, giving a curt bow. “Naturally, I am in your debt. If you will provide your address, I will send a bank wire once I return to London, which I hope will satisfactorily express my appreciation for all you’ve done, as well as reimburse any expenses you’ve incurred on my behalf.”

  Father Tim shook his head. “It isn’t a monetary contribution I am interested in—although funds for the less advantaged are always in dire need—but rather, a service.”

  “A service?”

  Beside her, Sister Mary Louise gave Brianna’s arm a gentle squeeze, then she stepped forward. “Mr. Brooks,” the sister announced, “You are the answer to our prayers.”

  Heavy silence echoed through the room. A spark of devilish delight entered Mr. Brooks’ gaze. His eyes were blue, Brianna noted. Deep, sapphire blue.

>   As she watched, a slow, sardonic smile curved his lips. “I mean no offense, Sister, but if I’m the answer, surely you need to say a different prayer.”

  Brianna released an involuntary laugh, then clamped her jaw shut, arranging her features into what she hoped resembled polite deference..

  If Sister Mary Louise sensed her amusement, it didn’t show. She turned to Brianna and said, “I told you the good Lord was listening.”

  The levity Brianna had felt just seconds earlier vanished as comprehension dawned. “You can’t mean…”

  “I certainly do. This is the man who is going to escort you to London.”

  “I beg your pardon?” This from Mr. Brooks, whose handsome features had frozen in an expression of blank stupefaction. He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Certainly it is,” Sister Mary Louise said, waving away his objection. “Mrs. Donnelly is leaving forthwith for London. She is in need of an escort. You just said you’ll be traveling to the same destination.”

  “Well, yes, but… My circumstances prevent… I’m afraid I can’t possibly—”

  “Among other things,” put in Father Tim, cutting off Mr. Brooks’ rambling objection, “my profession requires the ability to make rather quick—one might even say instinctive—judgments as to a man’s character. You did not strike me as the sort of man who would abandon a lady in her time of need. Particularly a lady who was so selfless as to put your safety before her own.”

  “Of course not. But—”

  Enough. “Thank you, Mr. Brooks. No further explanations are necessary. You are under no obligation to me.”

  She slipped on her navy wool cloak and fastened her bonnet. Fixing a warm smile on her face, she turned to Father Tim and Sister Mary Louise, embracing them each in turn. “Thank you for everything. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I’ll be just fine. I’ve made it all the way from Canton. I am quite confident in my ability to navigate my way from Liverpool to London.”

  She reached for her valise, but Mr. Brooks’ voice stopped her.

  “I’ll take her.”

  She turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The duty is mine,” he said to Father Tim, the burden of assuming an unwanted obligation clear in his tone. “I’ll see the lady safely to London.”

  Brianna bristled. “Might I point out, the lady is standing right here. There is no need to speak of her as though she were a leg of mutton to be delivered to a butcher.”

  At that, she gained his full attention. He surveyed her from the tip of her toes to the top of her bonnet. The corners of his mouth curled upward in a smile that would have melted icicles off a roof in Siberia. Good Lord, the man had dimples. Deep, moon-shaped crescents that bracketed a row of perfectly white teeth. And how absolutely superfluous to boot. As if he needed the advantage of dimples to enhance his golden appeal.

  The clothing he wore, as poor as it was, did little to disguise his physique. The garments’ previous owner had been a man of some girth. While the shirt settled comfortably across Mr. Brooks’ broad shoulders, it draped loosely around his waist, recalling to Brianna’s mind the hard, flat planes of his belly. The trousers were far too short, but that awkwardness was remedied once he tucked them into his boots.

  “My apologies,” he said, in a voice as smooth as Cantonese silk, “it was not my intent to insult or ignore you, Miss—”

  Mrs.,” she corrected. “Mrs. Arthur Donnelly.”

  “Mrs. Donnelly, then. It will be my privilege to escort you to London.”

  “I assure you, it’s not necessary.”

  “I must insist.”

  “Must you?” Really. His high-handedness was too much. “Exactly how do you propose to do that?” she challenged.

  He gave an indifferent shrug. “I’ll simply hire a coach to convey the two of us—”

  “On a valet’s wages?” She arched one dark brow. “If you had your wages, that is. Or were in possession of any money at all. I believe that was made forfeit in your unfortunate encounter in the alleyway.”

  “I—Ah. I see. Point taken.” He blinked in surprise, as though startled at the reminder of his lack of funds. “How remarkable. It appears I am the mutton after all.”

  The sound of a bell ringing echoed down the street, followed by the call of the driver of the mail coach for all northbound passengers to board. Good heavens, she’d lost track of the time. Giving a promise to write once she arrived, she pressed a kiss against the Sister’s withered cheek, then Father Tim’s. She sent the handsome stranger a curt nod.

  “Good-day, Mr. Brooks. Good luck to you.”

  She turned toward the door, but Mr. Brooks was there first, his hat and coat in hand. He followed her into the hall, then up the church basement’s narrow flight of stairs.

  They emerged together into a blustery fall afternoon. “I believe Sister Mary Louise is correct,” he said, his long strides easily matching her hurried pace as she rushed toward the mail coach. “Divine providence has brought us together.”

  Brianna slanted him a glance, but didn’t stop moving. “Is that so?”

  “Mrs. Donnelly, it is imperative I reach London as quickly as possible.”

  “Hmm, well, I’m certain you’ll find a way.”

  “Five pence, please.” The coachman held out his palm. Brianna dug into her reticule and supplied him the coins, then stepped aside and watched as his young assistant secured a fresh team to the coach. A wave of excitement washed away the anxiety that had been dogging her for weeks. By her reckoning, she should reach London in five days, and then her employer—

  “Stake me the funds to travel, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Mr. Brooks. She’d quite forgotten him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Once we reach London, I’ll double any expenses you incur on my behalf.”

  She studied him through narrowed eyes. “How very generous. But what assurances do I have that you’ll pay me back?”

  “Why, you have my word as a gentleman, of course.”

  As if that was all she needed. Preposterous. Yet he spoke the words with such regal authority—chin up, shoulders back, his gaze unblinking—so clearly affronted that she might be tempted to question his honor, that she was foolishly inclined to believe him.

  “A gentleman?” Beside her, the coachman let out a coarse guffaw. “If this bloke’s bothering you, Miss, I’ll get rid of him.”

  Mr. Brooks rounded on the coachman, ready to deliver a searing rejoinder, but Brianna held up a hand to stop him. She thought for a moment. Years of work in a Cantonese pub had helped her develop an instinct for men who meant trouble, and those who didn’t. That instinct told her that this man was trustworthy enough. Even Father Tim had vouched for his character. Bringing him with her was a risk, but it was likely safer than traveling alone. Besides, she could certainly use the extra coin once she arrived in London.

  “Make it triple the amount, and I will allow you to serve as my escort. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”.

  “Splendid. You may see to my valise. I’ll supply you with other duties as our journey progresses.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “Splendid.”

  He sent the coachman a frigid glare, then grabbed her bag and swung into the coach after her, muttering beneath his breath as he did, “That settles it. I must be the sheep, for I am definitely being fleeced.”

  Chapter Six

  Good Lord, was this how the general public traveled? Jonathon shook his head. A wonder there weren’t riots in the capital.

  He rode facing backward, uncomfortably wedged between two portly gentlemen, one of whom reeked of cigar smoke, the other of grilled onions. Other than the fact that the mail coach was the first—and only—conveyance scheduled to leave Liverpool that day, the vehicle had little to recommend it. The springs were so poor as to be nearly nonexistent, the velvet seats were ripped beyond repair, and the windows were drafty. Cold air whipped through the interior
, but did little to dispel the musty, vaguely sour scent that permeated the vehicle.

  The polite, empty chatter of seven strangers confined to a small space had extinguished itself. Now they simply lumbered on. The driver made constant stops to deliver and collect mail, slowing their progress. His team had evidently been trained, with admirable success, to drag the coach through every hole, rut, ditch, and other obstacle on the road. As they hit yet another bump, the vehicle rocked precariously, causing the man to his left to slam into his wounded shoulder. Worse than the physical pain, however, was the fact that the sudden motion roused the man to his right.

  That worthy gentleman had been soundly sleeping. Now he gave a loud snort and shook himself awake. He looked around the cabin, frowned at the general air of gloom, and took it upon himself to entertain them with a monologue of such unrelenting tedium he bored everyone, including himself, into a stupor. His attempt at conviviality finished, he drifted back to sleep.

  Jonathon found himself longing for his private coach, where he could stretch his legs without fear of kicking a fellow passenger in the shin. A tightly-sprung coach with a properly trained driver and a spirited team of geldings. A coach with soft leather seats, fresh blankets, and a basket Cook had filled with wine, bread, cheese, flaky tarts, and other refreshments for the journey.

  And why not? A privileged indulgence, perhaps, but he was certainly able to pay for it. The one thing Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, had was money. Oh, there were members of the peerage who outranked him socially, but few men in England could rival him in terms of wealth. His investment portfolio staggered even him. Granted, he’d inherited the bulk of it (as Richard had so helpfully pointed out), but that hardly signified. He frowned as he considered his current predicament. The only thing he’d always had in abundance, besides money, was luck. But at the moment both seemed to have deserted him entirely.

  He shook off the uncharastically maudlin thought. He was alive and on his way home, and surely that counted for something.