She lowered her eyes. “No, sir.”
“Then why the devil disturb us? Of all the half-witted requests.” Roland’s face flushed, matching the hue of the humiliated cook’s. “Tell the man—”
“Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Makin.” Miri’s stomach twisted in empathy. She stood, hoping to divert further ranting against the cook. “I shall see to Mr. Good. The bishop informed me of his impending arrival.”
“Did he, now?” Roland narrowed his eyes at Miri. “When?”
Mrs. Makin gave a curt bob, then dashed out, making the most of the pause in the conversation.
Longing to follow, Miri backed toward the door as Roland stood and approached, forcing a calmness to her voice that she didn’t feel. “I spoke with the bishop last night.”
“Intriguing.” He bullied her against the doorjamb, his muggy breath hitting her forehead. “Am I to understand that you are the bishop’s intimate confidant?”
Miri gasped. Of all the insidious accusations. “Of course not.” She twisted aside, but there was little space to escape.
“You are not dismissed. I am not finished.” He pressed closer, giving her no room. “How is it you are aware of a new staff member that I know nothing about?”
She looked up—what a mistake. With eyes wide and nostrils flared, he would disturb a king’s man with his unyielding gaze. How tired she was of fear. “I fail to see why this upsets you.”
“Because you do not outrank me! Your station here is barely above that of the kitchen help. In truth, the staff is more useful than you.”
His words rang in her ears, and she abhorred their accuracy. “Then surely you do not object to hiring a new man.”
“Object?” He smiled with all the mirth of a dog baring its teeth. “No. My objection is that you scheme behind my back with the bishop, usurping my position.”
“Do not even think it—”
“What else have you been up to, Miriall?” His fists shook at his sides. “What else!”
Miri flinched. She’d read of lions, the threat in their roar from sheer volume alone, sometimes causing their prey to die from fright—and she knew exactly how that would feel. “Please, calm down.”
“Calm down!” His tone bordered on demonic. “Who are you to tell me to calm down? You, who drove Father to apoplexy with your slatternly, pitiful ways?”
She lowered her head. If she could crawl beneath the rug, she would—anything to hide from Roland and the past. But she could hardly see the carpet through a veneer of tears. “You cannot blame me for Father’s temper. Nor his death.”
“I can, and I do.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. Had she not condemned herself time and again for the very same crime?
“Because of you, Father spent the last years of his life a paralytic. You pushed him beyond his limits! You send me beyond mine. I daresay it was even you who drove Will from the house.”
“Stop! Just … stop.” Teardrops slid down her cheeks, darkening the fabric of her dress where they fell.
“Save your weeping, woman. It holds no effect on me. Rather you should plead for your soul before God.” At last he stepped away, allowing free passage out the door if she wished.
But she stood, immobilized by the truth, sniffling and wiping tears that refused to stop.
He strode past her as if she held all the significance of a mealworm. “Go to your chamber. I shall tend to Mr. Good myself.”
“Very well.” She whispered the words, catching the irony—for things were far from well.
Finally gaining some semblance of composure, she lowered her hands. Her half-eaten egg and cold toast remained on the table, the scraps a guilty reminder that she’d not yet brought Ethan any food. Temptation urged her to dash upstairs and escape to her chamber, yet compassion called for her to attend the beggar first.
Dabbing her eyes with her apron, she headed for the door. The confrontation, while ugly, didn’t rankle her nearly as much as the fact that it had been set off by nothing.
Ahead of her in the corridor, Roland disappeared into the sitting room. A second later, his shout carried from the chamber. “What the devil are you doing in the vicar’s clothing?”
Nigel tugged the hem of his vest, then smoothed his lapels, straightening any major wrinkles. He’d employed much care in dressing this morn, and it would not do now to enter Barrister Wolmington’s chamber looking the part of a rumpled lamplighter. His life—or death—might hinge on this meeting with Spindle and Wolmington, and by God he’d not let something as simple as a stained sleeve skew the results.
“You may enter, Mr. Thorne.”
The clerk’s words ended his primping. Nigel sidestepped the man on his way into the barrister’s office.
The room smelled old. Old and tired. Years and years of documents and arguments and decisions. Decades of sweaty, tearful, anguishing court cases passing in and out the same door he’d just walked through.
Or the odd smell could be from the ancient man sitting behind the desk, adjacent to where Spindle stood. Endless stacks of paper, strewn like so many legal bones spread across a desert, almost hid the tiny man. Though Nigel had never met the barrister, he’d heard stories of the giant lawyer who brandished English law as powerfully as a knight with a lance. Such a reminder was hard to reconcile with the shriveled little shell eyeing him. He didn’t speak a word.
But Spindle did. “Have a seat, Mr. Thorne.” Spindle stepped from his place by the only window gracing the chamber, and with a nod of his head, indicated a leather wingback across from the desk.
Spindle waited until Nigel sat before taking up residence on the other side of the desk, his height adding emphasis to Wolmington’s small stature. “I have requested this meeting with you and the barrister, as you both may help me succeed in my quest.”
Nigel shot a glance at Wolmington, searching for a sign of censure. His paper-thin cheeks didn’t so much as twitch. If Wolmington was nothing more than a pawn in the game that Spindle played, then how powerful was Spindle? Nigel pursed his lips. It probably didn’t matter, as long as Spindle counted Nigel among the players.
“Happy to help, I am, but … uh …” Nigel leaned forward. “What exactly am I helping with?”
“Recognize this crest?” Spindle advanced, holding out his hand.
Nigel squinted. The man wore an enormous gold ring on his forefinger. A rampant lion sat in the middle of a shield with some fancy squiggles decorating the top and bottom. The whole pattern was engraved, used for marking wax seals, and from the handcrafted looks of it, mighty important seals at that, for three rubies encrusted the middle. He shook his head. “No, sir, can’t say that I do.”
Spindle resumed his post beside the desk. “Then allow me to educate you.” He lifted a brow, measuring Nigel with a critical look before continuing. “Understand, however, that what is spoken within these walls stays within these walls. Is that completely clear?”
Bobbing his head, Nigel sat back. The seasoned upholstery molded against his body, a cozy niche for what would no doubt be an interesting tale.
“The coat of arms I’ve just shown you belongs to the Earl of Trenton, one of the wealthiest families in all of England.”
“Pardon my askin’, but”—Nigel cocked his head—“if that little bauble belongs to the earl, what you got it on yer finger for?”
Spindle’s lips flattened. Not a frown, really, more like the way Nigel himself might dismiss one of Duffy’s comments. Hmm. Why would Spindle look at him like that?
“I am the estate’s solicitor, Mr. Thorne.”
“Oh, right.” Nigel paused for good measure. “Righty-oh.”
After exchanging an unreadable look with the barrister, Spindle continued. “Recently, the earl and his son met with a tragedy—one I would prefer not to expand upon. It is enough to say they are deceased.”
Nigel nodded. Apparently he’d be hunting a killer, then. No worry. He’d track a hotheaded Frenchy clear over to the Indies as long as Spindl
e awarded him a fat sum. Anything to pay off Buck. But how did Ethan Goodwin fit in? He was street scum. Low life. Capable of nothing but thievery or … murder? Of course. Nigel lifted his chin. “So the gents met with foul play then, eh?”
“Yes, but that is hardly the point.” Spindle waved a hand in the air as if the question were a fly to be swatted. “As solicitor of the Trenton family assets, and more importantly the accompanying title, it falls within my duty to find the heir of the estate. No one can inherit without me first making every effort to find this man. If he is not located, the title will go dormant. All lands and wealth will be absorbed by the crown, disrupting the lives of many a tenant. The very commerce of countless villages on Trenton land will suffer from the time-consuming length of the exchange. This is no small thing of which I speak.”
Huh. Nigel tapped his finger on the chair’s arm. So, as Duffy had told him earlier, this was an entailment case, but Duffy better clean out his ears. The stupid bloke had said this involved Ethan, which apparently it did not. Still, even if this mess didn’t entangle Goodwin, he might yet win a full purse by finding some other nimbycock inheritor. Nigel straightened his collar then looked at Spindle. “I take it you want me to find yer lost little rich man for ye. Alrighty then. I’m game, mate. Who is it I’m looking for?”
Spindle looked down his long nose and clipped his words. “The man I seek is named Ethan Goodwin.”
18
Ethan stood, drawn to his feet by a sudden sense of self-protection. Outside the sun shone, but the sitting room dimmed considerably as a dark shape filled the entryway. A man of Will’s height stood in the threshold, glowering. His hair was severely pulled back and fastened at the nape, setting off high cheekbones and a defined nose—definitely a Brayden family feature. But as the man curled his fists and looked about the chamber, Ethan detected none of Will’s merriment or Miri’s compassion. Rather, the wildness in the fellow’s eye and tilt of his head was unsettling, not unlike a frenzied stallion he’d once seen put down. Will had never looked that crazed, even after a good bit of carousing.
The broad-chested man folded his arms, barely disguising the wince that crossed his face. His waistcoat was fastened up tight as if secrets were buttoned inside.
“Well, man …” His tone might impale a victim by volume alone. “Are those the vicar’s clothes, or are they not?”
“They are … uh …” Ethan glanced down. There was no denying the way his legs escaped much too early from the breeches or rationalizing why the shirtsleeves ended at his forearms.
“Please,” a soft voice said from the door. “I can explain.”
As one, Ethan and the man turned.
Pale-faced and puffy-eyed, Miri looked as if she’d not slept since the last time Ethan had seen her. What had happened to draw her so?
“Is there no end to your defiance?” The man strode toward her, a predator on the prowl. “You were told to go to your chamber.”
Miri tipped up her chin, a brave gesture belied by the slight tremble rippling the hem of her skirt. “Roland, I—”
So this was the infamous elder brother, more daunting in real life than Will’s descriptions credited him—and Will had been none too generous.
“You what?” Roland ground his teeth, advancing further. Were she not standing with her back to the doorframe, no doubt he would have circled her.
Ethan crossed the room, drawing close enough to intervene should the need arise.
Roland raised his hand in warning. Behind him, Miri peered over her brother’s shoulder, pleading with her eyes for Ethan to retreat.
“Am I now to learn that you’ve conspired with Mr. Good as well?” Roland glanced back at him, the threat in his eyes razor sharp.
Ethan lifted his hands to show he was harmless, yet the stance would serve him well should this meeting come to fists. Why would any man hazard this amount of aggression toward a slip of a woman—his own sister, at that—and toward an unarmed, invited caller? He frowned. Something was not right.
Miri lowered her head.
Her movement attracted Roland’s attention, and he turned back to her. “Look at me!” He pinched her chin and forcibly lifted her head.
Civility be hanged.
“Sir!” Ethan grabbed Roland’s shoulder, fingers itching to spin the bully around and feel the satisfying smash of his fist against the man’s nose. The brigand deserved a comeuppance, but with fear shining in Miri’s eyes, now was not the time. He settled for squeezing instead, digging in his fingers.
Roland wheeled about, shrugging off the hold. His chest expanded, and he cocked his head, a calculated attempt at intimidation.
Ethan might almost smile if not for the seriousness of the situation. Coercion was a familiar friend—a commodity he could trade with the best of men … or worst, as the case may be.
He retreated a step and allowed half a smile—the comfortable mask of appeasement he’d mastered long ago. “The woman is faultless. I freely admit these garments are not my own, but I swear I had no idea they belonged to a vicar.”
Roland narrowed his eyes. “Then where did you get them?”
After the harsh conduct he’d already witnessed, to admit that Miri supplied him the clothing would likely not bode well for her. He lifted a brow, praying that Roland would be calmed with the offered bait—himself. “I do not answer to you.”
Roland stiffened.
Ethan continued. “Furthermore, the bishop did not stress a particular mode of dress, therefore your input is not necessary.”
A deep shade of red crept up the man’s neck.
“And unless these are your garments, it is hardly your concern.” Ethan folded his arms. “Now then, be a good man and summon Bishop Fothergill for me, would you?”
Veins bulged at Roland’s temples. His breaths came hard and fast. “You … will not … address me so vulgarly.”
Ethan smiled. “I believe I just have, sir.”
Miri gasped. Roland jerked as if slapped.
“Your days here,” Roland managed through clenched teeth, “are numbered, Mr. Good.”
“That remains to be seen.” Ethan kept a pleasant tenor to his voice. “I suggest you take it up with Bishop Fothergill, for I have nothing more to say to you on the matter.”
“Do not think that I am so easily dismissed. You should choose your enemies more wisely in the future. This is not finished.” Roland stalked from the room.
Ethan blew out a breath. Gaining the man’s dark side might prove a problem in the future, but for now, the wide-eyed beauty staring at him overshadowed any possible consequences. Hopefully this was the first of many victories in gaining Miri’s trust.
And love.
Miri couldn’t breathe.
In seconds, Ethan Goodwin had undone her efforts at calming Roland, and she wanted to scream with the stress of it. What kind of harm might her brother inflict upon himself this time? She dare not pursue him, lest she upset him further, but what to do? At wit’s end, she hastened across the room and didn’t stop until she reached the floor-length window. She pressed her burning brow against the cool glass and allowed her shoulders to sag.
Ethan’s footsteps followed behind, drawing closer than she would have liked. “Miri?”
She hugged herself, refusing to look at the man. Outside, tree branches waved with the breeze. Knobby buds lost their husks and littered the ground, as scattered and disordered as her emotions.
“Are you all right?”
No matter how hard she tried to ignore him, a part of her warmed to the note of concern in his voice. Still, even if it might have been for her protection, he never should have roused her brother. She shook her head. “Why did you provoke him so? You had no right.”
“You can’t seriously be defending the man. I mean no disrespect to you, Miri, but your brother is quarrelsome and overbearing. He was looking for a fight. I merely accommodated.”
Unable to argue against that, she unfolded her arms and smoothed her skirts. The
truth of his words released some of the rising irritation she felt toward him—but not all. Obliging Roland’s confrontational bent would only speed him to the asylum.
She clenched her hands, balling up her skirt fabric, then turned. “Please, do not incite him further. If for no other reason, refrain for the sake of your past friendship with Will.”
A rogue flash of teeth highlighted his dark beard. “Ah, but my actions were for your sake alone.”
She swallowed, nearly choking on this blunt statement. He was as forward as Witherskim.
So why didn’t she feel as reviled?
He took a step nearer, bringing with him the scent of outdoors and freshly washed skin. Apparently he’d made use of the soap she’d left on his tray. His hair gleamed a brighter shade of mahogany as it rested against his collar, and his face no longer bore the pallor of sickness. Truth be told, with the layers of grime removed, Ethan Goodwin was quite dashing.
His lips parted as if he might speak, but no words came out. That she’d noticed his lips in the first place heated her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. No good could come from admiring men.
Ethan drew back. “Forgive me. I have made you uncomfortable.”
She snapped her eyes back to his—then startled. He stared, unguarded, unabashed, and completely sincere. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. No wonder Will had made this man his friend. Suddenly she felt foolish and shy, repentant of the way she’d taken leave of him and for raising her voice. “No, it’s not you. It’s just that …” She glanced at the door, still open from when Roland stormed out. “Roland, such as he is, is all the family I have left.”
Hearing her pitiful state from her own mouth was cruel to her ear and abrasive to her heart. The pain of missing Will heightened, cresting with the knowledge that she’d never see him again. She swallowed, paving the way for words she wasn’t sure she wanted to speak. “Tell me, for I think I am ready to hear it …”
Was she? Her nails bit into her palms. “How did Will die?”
A shadow crossed Ethan’s face, and Miri held her breath.
Michelle Griep Page 12