Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  “Lovey?” he hollered up the flight of steps.

  Giggles from behind closed doors and a few suggestive euphemisms came from above, but no Pegg.

  He tried again. “Lovey! It’s me, your Nigel.”

  Hinges creaked, followed by floorboards flexing. Pegg appeared at the top of the stairs. Her frilly robe gaped open, revealing a long string of pearls wrapped twice ’round her neck and dangling low onto a half-laced corset. A stocking encased one plump leg. The other wore a lone garter. Nigel licked his lips. Too bad he’d wasted the evening’s tussle with Goodwin instead of Pegg.

  “You shoulda came earlier, luv. I’m already occupied—oh!” She narrowed her gaze on the upper half of his chest, where blood darkened the fabric. Her bare feet flew down the stairs. “What happened? Oh, lovey. Here. Let ol’ Pegg help you.”

  She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, and he leaned into her, inhaling her trademark jasmine scent and catching a chaser of some other fellow’s shaving tonic. He’d be jealous—if he didn’t know he alone held her heart.

  “Come along, dearie. Your Pegg will fix you up, she will.”

  They shuffled into the sitting room, where she lowered him onto the settee. Nigel sank against the flat cushions, grateful to land. “I knew ye’d do me right, lovey. You always do.”

  Finally at rest, he closed his eyes and listened to Pegg bustle about. Fatigue had nearly claimed him when searing pain cut across his torso.

  “Ow! Sweet nocky, that hurts!” He scowled at Pegg, who had tugged off his waistcoat, the fabric meshed with dried and fresh blood.

  “Man up now, lovey.” Pegg met his gaze. “Yer shirt is next. Ready?”

  At his nod, she yanked. Burning white torture cut into him, ripping, stabbing, nauseating. He grit his teeth so hard, his jaw crackled in his ears. By the time she tucked in the edge of the fabric band, he was one big throb of agony. The bandage held tight around his torso, but it still felt as if his guts could spill out at any moment.

  He eased back, wincing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say ye’re trying to kill me, woman.”

  “Dead ye’d be without my help, ye blighter.” Pegg crossed her arms, and her bosom jiggled—a welcome distraction from the pain. “Don’t you go forgettin’ it was ol’ Pegg’s kind hands what set you to rights.”

  “No, wench.” He sighed. “I’ll not be forgettin’. I pays me debts, and I make sure others do the same, startin’ with good ol’ Ethan boy.”

  Chin to chest, Nigel watched red spread outward onto the binding on his chest. Ethan Goodwin would pay his debts, all right—and more. When the balance came due for the murder of Will Brayden, one well-placed accusation would transfer that debt away from himself—and instead credit it to Ethan.

  Yessiree, he’d unleash Constable Duffy on the morrow to sniff out Goodwin, but for now … he nuzzled into the soft place between Pegg’s neck and shoulder and slept like a babe.

  Miri lay wide-eyed, staring at the bed hangings she should draw shut but never did. Same for the draperies. Closing them would remove the chill but would also seal her in like a corpse in a crypt. She’d rather shiver. Tucked beneath the heavy coverlet, her toes curled inside her woolen stockings for warmth. Perhaps a mug of hot tea would be a better companion on this sleepless night.

  She scooted from the bed and donned a pair of fleece-lined slippers and a long-sleeved robe, then froze. Cocking her head, she listened until her ears hurt. She could’ve sworn she’d heard something. A creak, perhaps, or maybe a moan. She held her breath, stilling the sound of her own breathing.

  Nothing but silence reigned now.

  She exhaled and pushed aside the curls falling forward on her face. Soft light shone through each windowpane, resting in elongated rectangles on the woven rug. Following a beam to the glass, she looked over the front drive. A three-quarter moon illumined the sky. Several clouds roamed free, competing to block its brightness. Tree limbs swayed, bending so far as to scrape the window.

  She smiled to herself. Of course. The wind. She turned and lit a candle, cupping the small flame while she crossed the room. Yes, a hot drink would be just the thing on a night such as this.

  Fingertips inches from the doorknob, she stopped. A slow creak leached through the wood. If a branch whapped against the window, what would explain the noise outside her door?

  Moments stretched, cold and uncomfortable, silent save for the frenzied beat of her heart. Had she imagined it, then?

  Leaning closer, she rested her cheek against the oak panel. A floorboard groaned beneath the hallway runner just outside her door.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice assaulted the night air.

  No answer. No creaking. No sound—until fingernails scratched on the wood.

  Miri jerked. Fear collected at the back of her throat, choking out a scream.

  “Miriall.” The low whisper of her brother’s voice shot a rush of relief through her. Goodness. What a skittish ninny she’d become. She pulled open the door.

  Then gasped.

  Roland stood clad in his nightshirt, his face pale. His usual well-groomed hair spiked on end, as if he’d grabbed handfuls and pulled. Hard. Wide and wild, his dark eyes darted like a bird with no safe place to land, then at last focused on her. “Did you hear that?”

  Miri’s mouth dried. “What?”

  He snatched the candle from her grasp and ground out the little flame with his thumb.

  “Roland!”

  “You can hear better when you don’t see. Come.” He clutched her hand and tugged her down the corridor to the stairway.

  Miri followed, two steps to his one, debating the wisdom of having opened her door in the first place. From now on, she’d take care to keep it locked.

  As they climbed the steps to the next level, her lungs started burning, and she panted. “Roland, please, what did you hear?”

  “Shhh.” His sharp exhale left no room for argument, nor did his pace.

  The hem of her wrap caught beneath her toe, and she stumbled. Roland’s grip righted her before she tumbled headlong.

  By the time the stairs opened onto the third floor, her vision had acclimated to the dark. For one dreadful moment, she held her breath as they neared the attic door. After the death of her mother, she’d learned that cellars and garrets stored anger and punishment.

  She tensed, but her brother strode on.

  Two doors down, they passed the open entrance to the vicar’s chamber. Though it was no doubt immoral to do so, she glanced inside. The bed was empty, the drapes drawn back. Surely, given his duty, Mr. Eldon should not leave them alone at the rectory for days on end like this, especially in light of Roland’s illness and retirement.

  Cold air curled around her feet and crept up her ankles. At the end of the corridor, her brother stopped. An eight-paned window punctuated the wall above a console table. He looked out at the same moon she’d admired minutes before. The dim glow lit a halo around his head, and she shuddered. He was a darker angel than anyone could possibly imagine.

  He released her and raised his arm, pointing one finger toward the adjacent room. His chamber. The hallowed chamber that he allowed no one to attend.

  Miri swallowed. “You want me to go in there?”

  He didn’t move.

  What if such an event had played out between her brother and Mr. Eldon the night before the vicar disappeared? Had Roland somehow been the cause of the man’s departure? Rejecting such a heinous thought, she sucked in a breath for courage and peered into the chamber. No silvery light shone from uncovered windowpanes in that oppressive blackness.

  She glanced back. “I cannot see. You know I don’t do well in the dark.”

  “For God’s sake, Miriall, be quiet!”

  His voice reverberated in her chest. Hot tears welled in her eyes. More than anything, she hated that even after all these years he could affect her so.

  Roland shook his head, and his brows knit into a dark line. “Now you won’t hear them. You won’t … h
ear them.” His tone progressively lowered until he whispered. “I wanted you to hear them this time.”

  He covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking as if he sobbed, but no sound came out.

  All fear melted at the sight of her brother’s dignity seeping away by increments. Returning to his side, she laid her palm on his sleeve. “I shall listen. I’ll try, I vow I’ll try.”

  He recoiled from her touch, or maybe her words, and bolted into his chamber.

  Miri trailed after him, arms stretched before her lest she crash into furniture or God knew what else. She crept until her fingers met brocade edged with braiding. Grasping the curtain, she wrenched it aside. First one window, then the next. The pale moonlight cast away any remaining terrors of the night—except for one.

  Atop strewn bedcovers, Roland lay curled into a fetal position, whimpering.

  Miri took care not to jar the mattress overmuch as she sat next to him. Times like this kept her anger in check. Stroking her brother’s hair, she hummed a tune from a lifetime ago, when family meant safety and haven.

  Hush now, my weary, my traveler, my own.

  Rest, peace, and slumber are yours to be known.

  You are my precious, my dearest, my best.

  You are worth more than the stars.

  One by one his taut muscles yielded, and his breathing evened. She lightened her touch until her hand no longer felt his hair, then rose, fighting her own sobs that begged release. The past several months she’d won many a battle against the madness threatening her brother, but she was losing the war—and with it, her only chance for a decent life here at the rectory. She’d be homeless.

  But not hopeless. Lifting her face to the ceiling, she mouthed a desperate prayer. No doubt God could act on her behalf. The hard part would be waiting for that intervention to come.

  And in the meantime, she ought to find herself a means of support independent of Roland.

  4

  Ethan stumbled along, now and again shoring himself up against a brownstone to catch his breath. Alternating between shivers and sweats, he forced each step. The further he advanced from the Old Nichol slum, the better chance he had of saving his life.

  But was it worth it?

  It should be him lying rigid and cold in an alley, not Will. Will Brayden was the only friend he’d ever had, and now he was gone. Forever. Worse, it was all his fault. Swiping a rough sleeve across his runny nose, he shoved down the pain and pressed on.

  His muscles sagged. His bones ached. The task of searching the entire west end of London to find Will’s sister seemed as impossible as her willingness to help a rogue like himself. Why should she? Though Will had often sung Miri’s praises, Ethan doubted she’d deign so much as to speak with him. He smelled of the gutters and looked no better than a stiff dragged from the Thames. She’d be a fool to take him in. No one would help a wretch like—

  A wretch? Of course. What a half wit! He scrubbed his face with one hand. St. Mary Woolnoth’s would be a far easier quest than traipsing circles throughout the west end. Reverend Newton should have been his first thought—but thinking had a way of increasing the pounding in his head. Surely the reverend would take him in until he could think straight.

  He picked up his pace, only to be halted again and again by cramps or coughs or chills. Morning had arrived in earnest by the time he reached the shadow of St. Mary’s steeple.

  Pausing before the double towers, he squinted. The stairs moved. How could that be? He rubbed his eyes with his fists, then slowly refocused. Sure enough, the steps rose and fell like an ocean tide. Slowly, he lifted one foot and planted it on the smooth masonry. Expecting the stone to ripple and roll, he braced himself for the movement. It held solid, but he did not. Flailing his arms didn’t help, either. The world spun faster, until at last his backside smacked against cold stone.

  A belly laugh rang out, rumbling and familiar. Not daring to stand, Ethan looked over his shoulder.

  At the top landing, framed within an open door, Newton made merry at his expense. Ethan would laugh, too, if his head didn’t hurt so much. He settled for a smile. His chapped lips tore, and he licked away salty blood.

  “You look worse than the last time I laid eyes on you, lad. Is this the Lord’s handiwork or your own?” The clergyman’s voice boomed like a ship’s captain, likely a habit hard to break. Despite a crooked back from his many years, Reverend Newton descended the stairs and offered a hand.

  “My own, I suppose.” Ethan accepted the man’s grasp, disappointed that his light-headedness did not go away even with the assistance. “I’ve taken a fall from grace in more ways than one, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, well … you’ve come to the right place, then.” Newton’s hand squeezed, then loosened.

  But Ethan dared not let go. Darkness edged in. Inky spots collected into blots, spreading into a blinding stain. A series of shakes rattled through him, driving him to his knees, and still he clutched the old man’s hand.

  If he let go, he’d be lost.

  Miri paused at the dining room’s entry. Morning clouds hung low outside the windowpanes, grey and sullen as her brother’s gaze. The vicar’s usual merry greeting was still absent. His chair at the end of the table remained unoccupied—again.

  Well, if providing the cheer fell on her shoulders, then she ought to be about it. She raised her chin and smiled as she crossed to the sideboard. “Good day, brother.”

  Roland merely kept his attention to the open book beside his plate. Thankfully he refrained from mentioning their nighttime escapade.

  She turned her back to him and transferred a thick slice of brown bread to her plate, then spied a dish of fresh marmalade. Bless Mrs. Makin’s soul. How the woman managed to capture sunshine in a bowl was a wonder. Miri slathered a dollop on her bread, her mouth watering, and the knife slipped from her hand. Silver clattered against porcelain, cutting the silence in the room. Eyes bore into her back, and she bit her lip.

  Outside, a low roll of thunder reprimanded her.

  Roland said nothing.

  She let out her breath as she replaced the spreading knife. Good. Maybe he was not in as foul a mood as she credited him. Resuming a pleasant expression, she took her seat at the table.

  Truly grateful for the marmalade, she offered a sincere prayer of thanks but kept her head bowed afterward. No sense risking a reproof so soon after the sideboard blunder.

  “I trust you slept well.” Roland’s voice rumbled, ominous as the approaching storm.

  She looked up, surprised to see his book closed. Was he purposely leading her to comment on his strange behavior last night? No, she would not fall prey to such a trick. If he wanted it voiced, let him speak of it.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for asking.”

  “I merely note that you bowed your head an inordinate amount of time.”

  “Ah, well …” She cleared her throat, stalling. No excuse came to mind, leastwise nothing that would meet his approval. La, as if that ever happened.

  As she glanced away, her gaze landed on Eldon’s empty spot—a practical weapon with which to parry. She turned back to Roland. “I see Mr. Eldon has not yet returned. Is he off on a parish call? Seems a rather lengthy absence.”

  “The vicar is not my charge.” Roland folded his napkin, creasing each fold several times over. Once finished, he skewered her with a piercing look. “It is taxing enough keeping account of your whereabouts.”

  Then don’t. Miri bit a mouthful of bread to prevent the words from escaping. The sweet marmalade reminded her to be thankful even for a jailer such as her brother. Indeed, though he was harsh and strict, at least she had food aplenty and a pleasant roof to shelter beneath. The church had been generous—but for how much longer?

  She swallowed the question, preferring the topic of the vicar. “Should we not be concerned? It is unlike Mr. Eldon to leave no word, and it’s been nearly a week.”

  “You place an excessive amount of interest in the man.” Roland st
ood and pushed in his chair, resting his fingertips atop the mahogany back. “Why?”

  “I merely—”

  “All strumpets will have their place in the lake of fire.”

  Heat blazed from her neck to her cheeks. His low opinion, while not surprising or unfamiliar, still smarted. She set down her bread, no longer hungry.

  One of Roland’s fingers thumped against the chair, an annoying offbeat cadence. “We will speak no more of Mr. Eldon.”

  Fine. In fact if her brother said they’d speak no more of anything, she’d be content.

  She picked up her tea.

  His tapping continued. “Master Witherskim asked after you yesterday when I was in town.”

  Nausea filled the hollow her appetite left, and she replaced her cup without a sip. She’d done her best to ignore the man, hoping he would go away. Forever. “Roland, really, I would prefer to eke out a living on my own. I hope you told him—”

  “I told him you would be happy to receive him should he see fit to call.”

  Happy? Just thinking of entertaining that pinch-faced lecher made her want to heave. She shoved away her plate, the marmalade’s fruity smell gagging her. “I would rather not.”

  “Miriall!” Roland’s tapping stopped, and his knuckles whitened.

  A rage was there, just beneath his skin, pulsing. If she pushed him any further, it just might bleed out.

  “Very well.” She sighed.

  “Good. It is settled, then.”

  A rare half smile softened her brother’s face, making him look years younger. Almost like Will. The perpetual ache in her heart stabbed sharper, reminding her of how much she missed her other sibling. A lifetime ago, Will’s smiles had been her refuge. No one cheered her now, least of all Witherskim and especially not Roland.

  “Beggin’ yer pardons, if you please, sir, miss.” Nodding to each of them, Mrs. Makin stood wringing her hands in the doorway. “Old Joe is askin’ for ye, Master Brayden, down at the stable. Seems the vicar’s horse has returned.”