Miri gasped.
He’d said it. Aloud. Her worst nightmare dragged into the light of day—before the magistrate’s and Mrs. Tattler’s wide eyes … and even bigger mouths.
Everyone was speechless, except for a deadly calm voice that said from behind her, “You dare raise your voice to a lady, sir?”
20
Ethan stood at the threshold of the apothecary shop, studying the scene. All heads turned toward him. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find Miri still at Harper’s. Evidently, however, the small assembly was even more astonished at his entrance.
But something other than surprise crossed the face of the primp-dressed man next to Miri. The curl of his lip and squint of his eye read wounded pride and … murder? Ethan snorted. Why would the little toady yell at Miri and then face him with unbridled rage? Amusing, in a twisted fashion.
“This is no lady I address.” The man’s tone was pinched, like a toddler who had been told no for the first time. He cast a dark glance at Miri. “She is a trifling strumpet of the worst kind.”
Ethan’s amusement vanished. His pulse quickened, and he stepped forward, straining to keep his words even and calm. “You may apologize now.”
“Bah! Who do you think you are?” The skinny man looked him up and down. “You’re no better than she, you raggedy blackguard.”
Tension hung heavy, thick and sticky as the mess on the floor. Ethan cut a glance to the other men nearby. One gent was handsome in a dandy sort of way. His well-groomed hair was brushed back and fastened above a tailored white shirt collar that peeked from a black apron. This must be the apothecary. Why did he not take charge of the events unfolding in his own shop?
The other man seemed equally impotent. With arms folded over a round belly, he watched the scene with as much interest as the pop-eyed woman beside him.
And in the midst, Miri stood pale-faced and silent.
What kind of place was this Deverell Downs?
He closed the distance between himself and the fellow at Miri’s side. Glass crunched beneath his boots, making him wonder what had gone on before he’d arrived. Positioning himself between Miri and her detractor, he cut off the little man from any chance of eye contact with the others. Then he bent, speaking so only the man would hear. “Either you apologize to the lady, or I shall make you into one.”
The man shrank. This time when he assessed Ethan, his eyes narrowed. Despite years of debauched living, Ethan stood taller and stronger than this pompous monkey. And he’d long ago mastered the art of bluffing with deadly intensity. As if reaching for a knife, he lowered his hand.
“I beg her pardon.” The words barely made it past the little man’s lips before he fled out the door, mucked-up shoes making his exit a spectacle as orange syrup nearly pulled them from his feet.
Ethan couldn’t help but smile. That had been surprisingly easy. He’d met street waifs with more courage than that nimbycock.
As he turned to Miri, however, his smile faded. She looked ready to faint, and the others remained speechless. Silence teetered on the edge of a cliff.
Then plunged to its death.
“Well! I never …” The other woman began fanning herself as she sagged against the counter.
“Of course you never.” The man next to her patted her on the arm while slanting his eyes at Miri.
“Miss Brayden, are you all right? You look a bit, well … near hysterics, if I may be so bold.” The apothecary stepped toward her.
Fine time to ask now. Ethan bit back the words with a fake cough into his hand.
“I … oh …” She glanced at the floor, the broken glass and spilled syrup, then shook her head. “I am very sorry, Mr. Knight.”
“Don’t fret. Think nothing of it.”
But Miri could not have seen the slight grimace the man gave as he reached behind the counter for a rag and a broom. Clearly Mr. Knight thought more of it than he admitted aloud.
The other man approached Ethan, offering his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Ethan could tell a lot by a man’s grip, and this fellow’s loose-fingered grasp, followed by a squeeze, screamed incompetent yet dangerous—a treacherous combination. “Ethan Goodw—”
Miri’s sharp intake stopped him, bless her soul.
The man lifted his chin. “I am Mr. Buckle, the magistrate in these parts.” He rolled back his shoulders, a vain attempt to appear more official. “You defend a lady’s honor, Mr. Good, like a gentleman, yet your clothing suggests—”
“Yes, rather unconventional, I admit.” Ethan masked a scowl, impatient with yet another comment on his attire. Thankfully, a stop at the tailor would yield a fitting set of garments within days. “Soon to be remedied, however, though likely not grand enough to match your obvious fashion sense.” He gave a small bow.
“Yes, well …” The magistrate’s chest swelled a full two inches. “Are you intending a long stay in Deverell Downs?”
“You maintain a very fair village, and I am fortunate enough to have taken a position at the rectory. Speaking of which …” Tired of playing the flattery game, he addressed Miri instead. “Mrs. Makin would like to add a physic to your order, Miss Brayden.”
“Oh.” She looked to the magistrate and the hawk-eyed woman. “Do you mind?”
“Actually”—the woman sniffed as if she smelled something rotten—“I was about to leave when you came in, though it’s rather fortuitous that I did not.”
A flush pinked Miri’s cheeks while a wrinkle frustrated her brow. She turned from the woman and tipped her head toward Mr. Knight, who knelt as he finished the cleanup from the spill. “I came for Old Joe. He’s acquired a severe cough. Do you have—”
“Of course, Miss Brayden.” Mr. Knight stood and made short work of dispensing with the dustpan and soiled rags.
Ethan noted the smile the fellow directed at her didn’t quite reach his eyes. He appeared the chivalrous gent, yet why hadn’t Mr. Knight stepped to Miri’s aid when she’d obviously needed help? Ethan almost respected the annoying little fop more than this man. The runt had been a brute, but at least he’d been real. In Ethan’s experience, good looks were often a casing for decayed character.
He ran a hand through his loose hair, clearing the strange turn of thought, and waited while Miri collected and paid for her items. Opening the door for her, he allowed her to pass, noting that the three others watched her departure with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. A look all too familiar when directed at him, but this time it was not he they focused upon.
Why would Miri attract such guarded disdain?
Nigel leaned back, his head cradled between the two perpendicular walls in the corner—best spot in the whole alehouse. It made him invisible, for who paid mind to one more drunk afloat in a sea of guzzlers? He closed his eyes halfway but didn’t miss a thing.
Two tables from his, a raucous bunch of coal heavers reveled, identifiable by the black powder worn into every crease of clothing and skin. With biceps thick as the ceiling beams, their muscles flexed and bulged in turn as each man took his try at arm wrestling someone called Pugs.
Opposite them sat a portly man in a patch-haired fur coat, deep in conversation with his tankard. The last of the occupants in the smoke-filled room was a street vendor whose juggling skills entertained a rosy-cheeked serving wench.
Into this mix, Duffy trotted through the door. Nigel leaned forward, willing Duffy’s beady eyes to silently pick him out from the others.
“Eh, Thorne! There you are, then.” Duffy’s booming voice stopped the wrestling and confused the juggler’s hands, sending five leather balls rolling onto the floor in different directions.
Stupid oaf! Nigel clenched his jaw. If he let one word loose, there’d be no stopping the curses that would follow.
In all his hedgehog glory, Duffy ambled across the room. Ten pairs of eyeballs followed his tottering stride, all the way to where he perched on a chair opposite Nigel.
So much for invisibility. Nigel’s
teeth might crack if he clenched his jaw any tighter.
Well, as long as the entire world is focused on our table … Nigel hailed the serving girl and ordered a pint for the oblivious constable.
Duffy flashed a smile. “What’s the occasion?”
Nigel slugged back the rest of his ale, taking his time to wipe the foam from his upper lip. By then, the wench resumed her giggling over the juggler, and the coal slingers once more raised their voices in wagers. The round man had not resumed his tankard talk, but instead planted his head face down on the table, passed out.
Keeping his voice low, Nigel finally spoke. “I need you back on the trail of Ethan Goodwin.”
“Huh?” Duffy’s yellow teeth peeked out from a peppery-bristled beard. “I told you, he left London.”
“That you did, but I need to know where he went.” He fished around in his waistcoat pocket and produced a small drawstring bag. Taking care to jingle the contents as he set it on the table, he met Duffy’s gaze. “I’d bet my grandmother’s buntlings that if you poke around Old Nichol, you’ll find some bit of information that will be worth your while—and mine.”
“Not that I mind—” Duffy followed the path of the purse back into Nigel’s jacket. “But whyn’t you go yourself and save the coins for yer own pocket?”
Nigel picked at his teeth with his thumbnail. Appearing too anxious might tip off even nimwitted ol’ Duffy. Withdrawing his thumb, he studied it for a moment, then said, “Don’t have the time, mate. You and me, we gotta divide and conquer, so to speak. You scour the slum, I’ll scrub the docks. We’ll meet up tomorrow.”
Duffy nodded before draining the rest of his drink. After a belch and a scratch, he stood. “Best be on me way, then.”
Nigel allowed for a discreet amount of time following Duffy’s departure before he rose. He skirted the room, avoiding eye contact, though it seemed that once the hedgehog had left the premises, no one noticed him anyway.
Outside, a blast of cold night air slapped him in the face, and he turned up his collar. Closer to the wharf, the breeze took on teeth, biting his nose and cheeks. The affront to his ears was no less substantial. Masts creaked, flags snapped, catcalls and whoops of sailors too long a’sea lifted in song and revelry.
Huddled around a brazier next to a brown-brick depot, a group of dockhands swapped stories. Nigel passed them without a second glance. Much too trim and tidy to know the likes of Ethan Goodwin.
Farther down, dark figures squatted near a stack of crates. The guarded timbre of their voices suggested skullduggery of some sort, as did the strong smell of rum. Nigel slowed but did not stop.
His footsteps echoed as the walkway between warehouse and waterway narrowed. Not many inhabited this part of the docks, for clearly the merrymaking was at the other end—depending, of course, upon one’s definition of merry.
From a shadowed niche, flanked by a heap of cargo nets on one side and a pyramid of barrels on the other, whispered words carried out, blending with the breeze. Nigel sniffed. A peppery scent tinged with … yes … poppy seed.
Victory.
He leaned against the barrels and folded his arms, careful to avert his head—not that he could see into the cursed blackness anyway. Still, whoever was within would surely detect the lack of threat in his stance.
Speaking just loud enough to be heard, he said, “I’m a-lookin for one of yer own. Goes by the name of Ethan. Pals around with a fella called Will. Where is he?”
A fat grey rat waddled out from a crevice behind the nets, close enough that Nigel could hear its claws scratching the wooden planks. Other than that, the usual wharf sounds filled the night.
Nigel turned and spoke directly into the black hole. “He stands to make a fortune, mates, and we all know where he’ll spend it.”
“Ain’t seen him. But you let him know there’s a right fine shipment a-comin’ on the next East Indiaman …”
The words faded as Nigel retraced his path and headed home. Defeat made him tired, and having to rely on Duffy to gather information wearied him further. Even so, sleep would not come easy this night, nor the next two, as his deadline to repay Buck loomed.
The worn stairway leading to his third-floor room lodged creaking complaints with each step. One day, mayhap, he’d woo Lady Luck and leave behind this clap-shack for finer accommodations.
Old Mrs. Spankum must have been cooking fish again, for the stench lingered in the stairwell’s close air. He lightened his steps. Hopefully with a full belly she’d—he smiled at the snore ripping through her door. No worries about rent haggling tonight.
He patted his waistcoat pocket for his key, climbing the last bit of stairs. As he neared his own door, he slowed.
Something didn’t feel right—and with his many years of man hunting, he’d learned to trust that queer bubbling in his gut.
Senses heightened, he jiggled his key in the lock. No click, yet the disturbance opened it an inch. A frown twisted his mouth. Someone had been here—
Or still was.
He planted his foot on the door, and it crashed open. Sconce light from the hallway illuminated a shadowy scene.
Socks draped over the chair back just as he’d left them. The table at the center was piled high with papers and dishes and a leftover crust of bread. His bed was in one corner, a chamber pot in the other. Nothing out of place. The familiarity of it all grazed his trusted intuition.
Had he simply forgotten to fasten the bolt? Maybe … but he lit a small oil lamp and kept it burning even after he climbed beneath his covers. He was becoming as skittish as Duffy, and the thought irked him.
Lying down, he settled against the lumpy mattress, glad to be off his feet. It’d been a long day and—
His eyes popped open, intuition vindicated. A warning written in black char was etched onto the ceiling.
Two days.
21
Miri’s head bobbed, and she jerked awake. It took her a moment to reorient herself to the sparse surroundings of Old Joe’s chamber. Next to his bedside, a small flame sputtered like a disapproving tongue. She stood and arched her back before adjusting the wick, then bent over the old man. The tang of camphor and vinegar rose from the poultice bound to his chest, and her nose wrinkled. She held her breath. Thankfully, he did not. It appeared he rested peacefully—
A peace she’d give anything to own.
She stepped away with a sigh and sank onto the chair beside the nightstand. She could not remember what parting words she’d given Ethan earlier that morning as she’d fled the scene at the apothecary’s shop but recalled everything about Witherskim’s horrid revelation. The timbre of his voice. The curl of his lips and fine spray that flew from them.
“A pox on you and your mad brother as well!”
Her deepest fear had come to pass, and instead of facing it, she’d run. Run straight home and hidden in Old Joe’s room, expecting any minute to hear the magistrate arrive and haul Roland away. But the rest of the day passed without a whisper of threat. Serenity blanketed the rectory, albeit a delicate and brittle kind. Deep within, she knew that the tiniest tremor could splinter it to shards. She yawned and reached to massage the tight muscles at the nape of her neck. Too much thinking was the first ingredient in the recipe for melancholy.
“It’s late, miss. I’ll take a watch.”
Mrs. Makin’s voice sent a charge through Miri, chasing off her fatigue to a far, shadowy corner. No doubt it would creep out and reclaim her once she stretched upon her bed and relaxed.
She stood and faced the cook. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Makin’s lower lip folded into a frown as she eyed the undisturbed biscuits and teapot on the stand. “You’ve not eaten a thing, except for those few mouse bites at breakfast. If you don’t mind me a-sayin’, you look a bit peaked. I’ve left you a tray of food and some ginger tea in the kitchen.”
Pressing a hand to her stomach, Miri was tempted to refuse, but perhaps the woman was right. She should probably eat. Who knew what the mor
row might bring. This could be her last meal beneath the rectory’s roof.
The cook leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Ginger tea with a bit o’ yarrow is just the thing for what ails a woman.” She winked in a knowing fashion, then handed off her candle lantern and shooed Miri out of the room.
If only her problems were as simple as that.
At the end of the corridor, she paused near the kitchen door, trying to conjure up some kind of appetite. Her stomach clenched, but not from hunger. What would become of her once Roland was taken away? Worse … what would become of him?
She stormed down the corridor, her candle flickering with the swift movement. Drat that Witherskim! A disgusted sigh emptied her lungs of air, and she inhaled, then paused. Sniffing, she detected the distinct scent of elderberries. What in the world? She turned the corner—
And her jaw dropped, as her lantern nearly did. Were she four years old, she’d close her eyes and make the macabre image go away. Instead, she mustered courage and forced her arm to rise, exposing more light onto the stairway.
Roland sat several steps up, leaning back on his elbows. His long legs splayed from beneath him. Shimmering with a strange radiance, his eyes locked onto hers. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Only his tongue as he licked his lips. In a rather grotesque version of a tot playing dress-up, he wore her white cotton nightdress—and nothing else. He lurched forward, ripping the fabric, and grabbed a bottle at his side. Tipping it up, he knocked back a swig. Much of it dribbled out the sides of his mouth and down his chin. The accompanying burp tore the silence.
Miri’s hand flew to her chest. Her brother, the pious master of Pembroke, doctor of divinity, was completely and totally foxed. Truly, she ought not laugh.
So she coughed instead. “Uh … Roland?”
Michelle Griep Page 14