Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  “Will was …” His jaw worked as he looked past her, beyond the spring horizon outside, focusing on what? Some undefined point in time?

  She folded her hands in front of her rather than worry the fabric of her skirt any further. That it took so long for him to reply could not be a good omen.

  “He was murdered.” Ethan’s voice lessened to little more than a whisper. “Stabbed.”

  The stays of her bodice pinched without mercy—or perhaps the pain came from the breaking of her heart afresh. She should have been there! Surely she could have prevented such a violent end, somehow. “But … why? Why would someone want to murder Will?”

  He grimaced. “Reasons better left unsaid, leastwise in the presence of a lady. Would to God that you never know the ways of life on the streets.”

  She sucked in a breath, for that was exactly the fate she fought to avoid.

  Sorrow added years to Ethan’s face. Was he here in the sitting room with her, or back on the streets he warned against?

  At last he shook his head and returned her gaze. The hard lines at the edges of his eyes softened as he studied her. “Will was the finest friend I’ve ever known. You’re a lot like him, you know.”

  “It is kind of you to say so. Will was my friend too, years ago. I miss him … keenly.” Her voice broke, along with a renewed wrenching of her heart. After a shaky breath, she continued, “All there is for me now is Roland.”

  “Do not fret about your brother. He will recover.”

  “No, he will not.” She bit her lower lip, but too late to withdraw her words.

  “Why would you say such a thing?”

  His question hung like a snare. Though it would be freedom to share her load of worry about Roland, she knew too little about Ethan Goodwin to trust him with such a confidence.

  She sighed, taking the route of vagueness. “My brother is not the man he appears to be.”

  “Neither am I.” He spoke so low, she might have missed that statement if her senses had not been so intensely on edge.

  “Who are you then, really?” She paused, cocking her head. “And what are you doing here? Why are you suddenly Mr. Good, the hired help?”

  One brow rose, meeting the swath of dark hair sweeping across his forehead—roguish and unspeakably handsome.

  He shrugged. “The bishop is rather persuasive.”

  A small smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “He does have a way of dominating a conversation toward his own desires.”

  Ethan laughed outright, filling the sitting room with a lightness she’d not felt since her arrival at the rectory—not for years, for that matter. She closed her eyes, relishing the sound.

  “It is good to hear you laugh.” The reckless thought escaped her lips before she realized she’d spoken aloud. Wide-eyed, she clamped her mouth shut.

  Ethan’s laughter faded, replaced with a curious tilt of his chin. “I am happy you approve.”

  “I meant laughter in general, of course.” The excuse sounded hollow in her own ears.

  “I see.” But his knowing nod contradicted his assurance.

  The ensuing silence stretched, long and thin. She ought to say something, or maybe do something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of what. Was she losing her mind as well?

  At last a deep rumble in Ethan’s belly broke into the quiet. A sheepish grin flashed across his face. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, dear!” Miri pressed a hand against her own stomach as it sank. She hadn’t brought him a meal since yesterday, she’d been so caught up with her own life’s drama. “You’ve had nothing to eat, and it’s all my fault. Please accept my apology.”

  His smile deepened. “It’s not like I haven’t missed a meal before.”

  As if invoked by the mere mention of food, Mrs. Makin crossed the sitting room’s threshold. “Miss?”

  “Perfect timing, Mrs. Makin. Mr. Good here is in need of a plate of …” But the sight of the cook twisting a dish towel in her hands overrode the grumbling of Ethan’s belly. Fear for Roland crept a chill down Miri’s back. “What is wrong?”

  19

  As the color drained from Miri’s face, Ethan stepped to her side. Clearly the cook’s words had upset Miri in a way he was hard pressed to understand. What trifling kitchen incident could possibly evoke such apparent distress—burned biscuits? Soured milk?

  “Speak, Mrs. Makin.” The rise and fall of Miri’s chest increased. “What has happened?”

  Though he already stood closer to Miri than modesty allowed, he inched nearer still. Her voice contained a curious tension, like a child, knowing punishment is required and compelled to ask what manner it might take, yet fearing to hear the answer.

  The cook fiddled all the more with her dishcloth. “It’s Old Joe, miss. He’s taken a turn for the worse. A terrible cough rattles him so that he can hardly breathe. I hate to be askin’, but what with my visit to my sister and all, I’m behind enough as is. Could you go to the village this morn and drop by Mr. Harper’s?”

  Miri exhaled visibly. “Of course. I shall go straightaway.”

  “Thank you, miss. You’re a gem, you are.” But the woman did not leave. She stood there, wringing the towel. If it were a chicken, it would have been long dead. “There is one other thing …” Her dark little eyes slid his way.

  “You may speak freely, Mrs. Makin,” Miri said. “The bishop has hired Mr. Good here to fill in for Old Joe.”

  Mrs. Makin nodded but did not pull her gaze from him. He’d seen that look before—the slight curl of the upper lip and lifting of the chin translated into suspicion based upon his appearance. It used to give him a perverse thrill, knowing he could cause such a reaction. Now, his belly tightened with shame.

  “Well”—he broke the awkward moment—“I’ll go acquaint myself with the grounds. There’s likely much to be done.”

  “Aye, that there is.” The cook finally let her hands fall to her sides, the towel misshapen beyond recognition.

  “Excuse me, then.” He dipped his head before he exited. His departure greased the cook’s tongue, for it slipped loose before he’d gone five paces beyond the door.

  “Humph, have you ever seen the like of that? Charming as a gent …”

  Behind him, the woman’s voice lowered. Ethan paused.

  “ … somethin’ ain’t right, I tell ye. I know what I see, and what I see on that fellow is the vicar’s clothing. What do you make of that, miss? What have you to say about what manner of man he might be?”

  Ethan cocked his head, straining to catch Miri’s soft tones. The hounds of hell wouldn’t keep him from hearing how she’d answer.

  “A pearl is rarely admired without first having been polished, Mrs. Makin. Perhaps we ought to give the man a chance.”

  A grin tugged his mouth upward. What a rare woman. He smiled all the way to the front door and would have worn the grin out into the yard, except for a strange chanting that pulled Miri’s sweetness from his mind.

  He backtracked a few steps and stopped in front of a door near the foot of the stairs. It was ajar, as if once having been slammed had bounced open a bit from the shock. Inside, a man’s voice droned. Low. Monotonous. Foreign—not the accent, just the words. He leaned his ear closer.

  Auribus tenere lupum … Auribus tenere lupum … Auribus tenere—

  Ethan raked a hand through his hair. Tutored by some of the finest masters England had to offer, he identified the language as Latin, but the meaning? Drat his clouded thinking. Either he was going crazy, or the man inside the room mumbled something about wolves.

  Curiosity edged him near enough to peer through the crack in the doorway. A black blur paced at the far end of the room, facing away from him. Roland. His singsong rhythm increased with each pass, faster and faster. With no forewarning whatsoever, he jolted to a halt, then slowly turned. Roland’s wide, dark eyes burned into his own.

  Ethan jerked away and hastened toward the front door. It opened before he reached the knob.

&nb
sp; “Ah, Mr. Good. How fortuitous! I’ve had a dreadful time, dreadful.” Brushing past him, Bishop Fothergill plunked down upon the entry bench. The seat groaned at impact. Hatless, wigless, breathless, the bishop fanned himself while muttering, “Trying, very trying.”

  Ethan glanced back at the study door, heart rate ratcheting.

  It was shut. Completely.

  His breathing slowed, and he turned to Fothergill. “Sorry to hear of your ill fortune, sir.”

  “Ill fortune, indeed. Well said, man, well said.” The bishop brushed bits of soil from his breeches before continuing. “Partway to town, Champion threw a shoe, or rather lost one, in the muddiest of all ruts possible. Why, I had no choice but to forfeit my business and return here.”

  Ethan retreated a step as dust clouded from the bishop’s clothing. No wonder the fat little man looked such a wreck. “I shall tend to your mount at once.”

  Fothergill rubbed his hand over his stubbly head and looked up with a half smile. “I knew you were just the man for the job. Yes, yes, do see to Champion, though with the wind knocked from my sails, I doubt I’ll return to town today. Champ and I will make a fresh start of it on the morrow.”

  His gaze traveled over Ethan from head to toe and back again, smile fading. “I had hoped you’d give up your penchant for eccentric dress.”

  “Actually, sir … you see … I—”

  “Here.” Fothergill withdrew a leather pouch from inside his waistcoat and tossed it over. “After Champion’s cared for, hie yourself into town and see that you find something more … well … fitting, I suppose.”

  The small bag weighted Ethan’s hand, and his thoughts took a direction of their own. That many coins could buy a substantial amount of opium. He scrubbed his face with his free hand before pocketing the money. Amazing how quickly clouded thinking could turn wicked with no effort whatsoever.

  Behind him, an almost imperceptible creak of a floorboard sounded from the direction of the study. Ethan shot a glance over his shoulder, but the room remained sealed.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Good?”

  He turned back to Fothergill and gave a slight bow. “No, sir. I shall venture to town directly once I’ve finished with your horse.” Stepping closer, he lowered his voice. “I wonder, though, if first you wouldn’t mind deciphering a bit of a puzzling phrase?”

  Soft folds of skin jiggled as the man bobbed his head. “What is it?”

  “Auribus …” Ethan closed his eyes, reliving the moment, then blinked them open. “Auribus tenere lupum.”

  The bishop pushed out his lower lip. “What on earth would make you say something like that, Mr. Good?”

  “Just something I overheard and was curious, is all.”

  Fothergill rubbed a thumb along his chin as he repeated the words. “Auribus tenere lupum—I hold a wolf by the ears—means ‘I am in a dangerous situation and dare not let go.’ There is not a more hopeless state in which to live. I suggest you beg God’s mercy for the poor soul who uttered such.”

  Ethan nodded. Foreboding filled the hollow in his gut.

  Like a smack of lips, the sound of an opening door came from behind, and Ethan spun. Through the smallest of cracks, one dark eye locked gazes with him.

  Miri snugged her pelisse tighter at the neck, wishing she’d thought to grab a muffler. Though some warmth remained from the sun’s debut, the fickle spring air was decidedly more chilly than when she’d first set out from the rectory. Pewter clouds masked the sky, and countless village chimneys added to the general greyness hovering atop Deverell Downs. The closer she drew to Harper’s Apothecary and Tobacco, the more her own spirit mimicked the thick and sullen heavens. Not that she minded running an errand for Mrs. Makin, nor gave a second thought to acquiring the medicine Old Joe needed. Her steps slowed from the notion of facing Mr. Knight after their last embarrassing encounter.

  She stopped to admire Mrs. Chapman’s new baby. Then she waited for Mr. Foster to finish sweeping in front of the cobbler’s when she could have gone around. And she really needn’t have traded so much news with Miss Prinn.

  Passing by the millinery, she paused, wondering if she dare dally longer to scoot in and investigate the opportunity for employment. She peered through the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Tattler in the front room. Behind the window, hats of all sorts stared back at her, an emerald bonnet with a puffed crown at center. Lacy gold ruffles peeked from beneath the brim, quite the beauty.

  Smoothing the frayed satin ribbon on her own bonnet, she sighed. In a life far removed, she’d kept up with London’s fashions—her mother made sure she did. Clinging to Mama’s hand as a little girl, visiting shop after shop, she’d never wanted for the latest pretty trifles. Miri closed her eyes, hoping to catch the magic memory. If she sniffed, she might just smell her mother’s sweet verbena scent.

  Instead, her nose wrinkled from a sudden waft of horehound and onion.

  “Oh, that I were the bonnet you so admire,” a low voice whispered into her ear. “To sit upon your head and nestle against your silken tresses.”

  Sickened, Miri turned and opened her eyes. She was trapped between the shop and Clive Witherskim.

  “Good day to you, Miss Soon-to-be-Madam Witherskim.” His cheeks, nipped by the cold, reddened in splotches.

  A shiver ran the length of her. The thought of becoming his wife frosted her more thoroughly than the weather. “Good day, sir.”

  “Sir? No, no, my pet, that will not do. You may call me Clive, or sweetling, or your own little puddin’ pot, hmm?” His lips parted into a smile crowded with too many teeth.

  Miri swallowed. She’d lose her morning eggs all over his ridiculous shoes if he kept at it. “Excuse me.” She darted around him.

  He caught up and snaked his arm through hers. “No need to be timid with me, dearest.”

  “I am not your dearest.” She shot forward.

  He lagged, his grasp slipping off, but after a few tippity-tapping footsteps and several huffs and puffs, once again he caught up to her. “Sorry … what … was that?”

  “I am on an errand, Mr. Witherskim. I have no time to dillydally with you now.” Or ever, more like it. She grimaced. Why could the man not see or hear her constant rebuffs?

  This time when he linked arms with her, he yanked her close. She staggered sideways, and he snatched the advantage, encircling her waist and snuggling her against his side. His breath collected on her neck like so many blisters as he leaned in. “Dillydallying is not what I have in mind.”

  That he had a mind was debatable. She wrenched from his grasp. “Do not take liberties, Mr. Witherskim.”

  He wobbled to the point that she thought a slight touch to his shoulder might tip him and he’d splat onto the mud-slogged rut in the road. As tempting as it was, Miri whirled and hurried to Harper’s front door. Smoothing things over with Mr. Knight didn’t seem nearly as distasteful as before. It was a lifeline.

  “Wait!”

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Miss Prinn gaping at the drama. Miri’s cheeks heated. Fabulous. This would be gossiped about all over the Downs. She shoved open Harper’s door and dashed in. The overhead bell bounced to the floor, its jingle degrading into a rattle.

  Three sets of eyes skewered her—Mr. Knight, Mrs. Tattler, and the magistrate, Mr. Buckle. Miri’s heart sank. Mrs. Tattler was the proficient gossipmonger Miss Prinn could only aspire to be. No wonder she’d not seen her in her shop.

  The door scarcely closed before it swung open again, cracking the wall. Bottles teetered on shelves like chattering teeth as Witherskim barreled into the shop. He scooted to Miri’s side, wheezing, tiny droplets flying from his mouth every time he exhaled.

  Hemmed in such close quarters with Witherskim plastered to her arm, she felt all the coziness of Harper’s store vanish. She was caught more thoroughly than a marmot in a snare—and felt just as desperate. She’d chew her own leg off if it would help.

  She twisted violently, and they both stumbled. Mr.
Buckle stepped forward to catch her arm, but there was no salvation for Witherskim. He bumped sideways into the L-shaped counter. A great, glass carboy lurched to the edge, then fell. The container shattered to bits, releasing an ever-widening pool of buckthorn syrup. Its aromatic scent immediately filled the shop.

  “Oh my!” Mrs. Tattler’s voice was as pleasant as the breaking glass.

  Mr. Knight stepped from behind the counter, first eyeing the mess on the floor, then Witherskim, and finally landing on her. “What goes on here?”

  Witherskim straightened his waistcoat and lifted his chin. “I should like to know that very thing.” He stepped toward Miri, his thick-heeled shoes tracking the orange syrup across the wooden planks. “Your manner has been most displeasing, dearest.”

  Once again, all eyes focused on her. A sudden glimmer of understanding lit Mr. Knight’s blue gaze as he put two and two together. She could see he remembered Roland’s words and deduced that this man was her betrothed. Fighting a rising tide of nausea, she ground her teeth.

  “Mr. Witherskim, I am not now, nor ever have been, your dearest.” She spit out the word like a pit from an olive. “Nor do I have any intention of becoming so in the future!”

  A beet would have to blush to match the shade of Witherskim’s face. She should probably be ashamed to have caused him such public humiliation.

  But she wasn’t.

  Mr. Buckle’s eyebrows competed with Mrs. Tattler’s to see whose could raise the highest. Mr. Knight merely cocked his head. “Is Master Witherskim not your betrothed?”

  Ignoring the opening of the front door—for let the whole of Deverell Downs hear her final word on the matter—she squared her shoulders and looked down her nose at Witherskim. “No. He is naught but a foolish schemer.”

  “You presume to call me a fool?” Witherskim grew at least two inches, either inflated by rage or standing on tiptoe to best her height. Likely both.

  “It is no presupposition, sir. It is God’s truth.”

  “My offer is rescinded.” His volume increased with each word. “I would not marry you if you were the last woman in the whole of Bedfordshire … or the whole of England, for that matter. You, Miss Brayden, are the worst sort of disgraceful tease. Furthermore,” he shouted, rearing back and enunciating clearly enough to be heard in York. “A pox on you and your mad brother as well!”