Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  The boy’s toe stopped.

  So did his words.

  When had the courtroom become so quiet?

  The judge tapped his chin with his index finger, obviously in thought. But what exactly was he thinking? How much value would he place on a street sweeper’s word? Finally, he folded one hand over the other, fixing his terrible gaze on the lad. “Then what?”

  “Ethan, why he were awful mad, he was. His friend a-bleedin’ in the alley and all. He hauled off and stabbed Thorne a good one, but it weren’t no killin’ blow. Ethan ranned off. Scairt, I guess. Don’t blame him. I would be too. And Thorne, why he stumbled away late in the wee hours. The watch don’t call out in Old Nichol, but I knowed the night were terrible spent by then. Tha’s all what I got to say.”

  The judge looked from the boy to Ethan. Jurors, at each other. The spectators blinked.

  A fierce glower tugged down the corners of the judge’s mouth. “If this were true, boy, then why did you not report it to the authorities sooner? Why this sudden and last-minute testimony?”

  Jack shriveled, shoulders hunched, chin tucked. “Eyewer skairtoe—”

  “You will lift your face and speak clearly to this court, or I will swap you for Goodwin here and now.”

  Jack’s head jerked up like a marionette’s. Beneath a layer of grime, his skin blanched. “I … were … scairt … o’ Thorne!”

  The judge frowned. “Those above the law have nothing to fear, boy.”

  Jack’s lower lip jutted out. “Thorne weren’t above no law. He’d as soon slit my throat as he did ol’ Will’s.”

  “Do you publicly malign the character of a law man?”

  Jack’s toe circled furiously. He looked over at Ethan, then the judge. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  A wave of whispers and mumbles rolled from one end of the courtroom to the other. The gavel cracked.

  “Very well. Far too much time has been spent on this case as is. Boy, report to my clerk immediately. I have need of a staff member brave enough to speak truth under pressure. As for you …” The judge focused on Ethan.

  Those weren’t glaciers for eyes. They were pools.

  “I find Ethan Goodwin not guilty of the crime in the murder of Will Brayden. You are acquitted, sir. Next?”

  The guard unlocked his fetters.

  The clerk told him to move.

  Newton clapped him on the back and urged him away, for a new prisoner was already vying for his spot.

  His body went through all the motions of freedom, but his mind would not—could not—pull it off the table and hold it. Just like that, the nightmare was over? He felt shaky and clammy and—

  “… hear me?” Newton shoved his face into Ethan’s. “Lad?”

  “I’m … I’m free?” The words tasted sweeter than a raisin cake.

  The reverend’s laugh boomed, earning a serious round of gavel banging from the judge.

  “Come on.” Newton angled his head. “Let’s take this outside.”

  Life and light and hope, too long held at bay, surged through him. He breathed a prayer, thanking God that His will hadn’t included death this time, then smiled. “Yes, my friend, I should love to take this outside.”

  He fell in beside Newton. They strode to the Old Bailey’s front door, each step bringing him closer to fresh air and daylight. He’d never take such blessings for granted again.

  “Not so fast, Mr. Goodwin.” A man rose from a nearby bench. Narrow shouldered but tailored to perfection, he held a hat in one hand and an ivory-headed walking stick in the other. “A few words with you, if you please.”

  Of course. He should’ve known. Trepidation sank to the bottom of his gut. This had been far too easy of an escape. “The judge said I am free to go.”

  “And freedom implies choice. Will you choose to humor me, sir? I have a carriage waiting outside.”

  Ethan shot a glance at his companion. Newton raised his brows but said nothing.

  The choice was his alone.

  Miri slapped her shoulder, then scratched, hard enough that the coarse fabric bunched beneath her fingernails. Ahh. Relief for one blessed moment. For the past week, ever since she’d put on this natty gown, her skin crawled. Literally. Head lice she could deal with, but fleas? She shuddered for the hundredth time. And for as many times, wished down the wrath of God on Witherskim, Knight, and Fothergill for putting her here.

  Her movement caused Lil to stir. The girl shifted, keeping her head on Miri’s lap. She seemed so tired lately. Withdrawn. Not snapping away like her usual self with the other ladies. Perhaps she’d given up.

  Not that Miri blamed her. What was there to look forward to other than bleedings, purgings, and just for fun, the occasional blistering?

  The door opened, but Miri didn’t bother to look. Too much effort. Come to think of it, fatigue was beginning to weigh on her as well.

  In came the crony, gruel bucket in hand. The shuffle of her feet didn’t sound quite right. Too forceful, too deliberate.

  Miri glanced over, then did a double take. The woman dragged the gruel pot with both hands as if it weighed eighty stone. Her collar draped open, and her sleeves were pushed up, exposing wiry arms with a pink rash flushing her skin. Her mobcap wilted, and beneath it, her hair lay plastered in streaks against a glistening forehead.

  Miri nudged Lil. The girl sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Look,” whispered Miri.

  Lil stretched, all the while following the crony with her eyes.

  The woman stopped midroom, releasing the bucket. Grey paste slopped over the rim. She straightened and revolved in a slow circle, both hands to her head. Was she trying to keep her brains in or the snapping of the women out?

  Miri stood. “Are you well?”

  The woman turned toward her voice. Her mouth opened, and her throat convulsed. Either she was going to speak for the first time ever, or she might throw up.

  Neither. She crumpled.

  All the women rose at once, gathering around her—but not too close. She smelled bad. Sick bad.

  Fever bad.

  “We’ve got to get some help.” Miri looked to Lil. “You know the corridors better than I. Will you come?”

  Lil shrank.

  As did Miri at the thought of trying to weave her way alone amongst the maze of hallways. She held out her hand to the girl. “It’s all right, Lil. We’ll stay together the whole time. I promise.”

  The girl hesitated, glanced at the crony, then slipped her fingers through Miri’s. Trust added an intensity to her brown eyes—hopefully it was trust and not the beginning of a fever.

  Miri led her down the stairs, along the corridor, then stopped where two other hallways converged. “Okay, Lil. You guide us from here.”

  “Where?” Lil’s nasal tone sounded like a goose honk.

  Good question. Where should they go? Though he was a doctor, Miri had seen more than she ever wanted to of Pembernip. Probably Mr. Spyder would do. Too bad they couldn’t both just run off. Escape. But that would leave Roland—

  She grasped Lil’s arm. “Do you know where the men’s quarters are?”

  Lil scrunched her face, then finally nodded.

  “There first. Then Mr. Spyder’s office. Lead on, Lil.”

  The girl tugged her to the right instead of the usual left, then down a stairwell. The temperature cooled as they tromped down another set of stairs. The air took on a damp, earthy quality, like a root cellar, only … Miri sniffed. Rotted. Sickly sweet and acridly so.

  The staircase opened onto a small area, no bigger than the rectory’s pantry. The floor was dirt. A torch sputtered in an iron holder attached to the wall. Miri’s stomach knotted. She’d never seen a dungeon before, but she could imagine none worse. This was where they kept her brother? Wasn’t this supposed to be an institution of rehabilitation?

  Miri lunged for the door and yanked the knob. Of course it didn’t open. That she expected it should made her realize she’d resided at Sheltering Arms one day too many.

 
“Roland!” she yelled, then pressed her ear against the wood. No answer. No cry. “ROLAND!”

  Nothing.

  Miri turned, hope dashed to small bits.

  Lil stared, wide-eyed.

  “You think I’m mad, don’t you?” Half a smile lifted her mouth. “Mayhap I am, Lil. Come on. Let’s go.”

  Retracing their steps, they wound back up to the main floor and entered more familiar territory. Miri braced herself, as always, for crossing the big room. So far, no matter how much she expected it, the noise shocked her afresh each time.

  Lil darted forward.

  Miri stopped.

  Gooseflesh rose along her arms. Her neck. Her legs.

  Silence filled the great room, like the sudden absence of crickets chirruping just before a tempest hit. Stillness so complete, it lived.

  What would she see if she dared look into one of those doors’ peepholes? Wild eyes staring back, empty and unblinking? Madwomen cowering in a corner from only God-knew-what? Piles of corpses?

  Without a step, her eyes traveled from door to door, coming to rest on the largest. The portal to freedom.

  And it gaped open.

  Lil plowed into her, wrapping her arms tight around her middle.

  Miri ran a hand over her shorn head. “Don’t fret, Lil,” she whispered. To speak aloud would corrupt the balance of the universe.

  They scooted across the room, out the door, and sped down the corridor.

  Then froze.

  At their feet lay a shirt, heaped as if thrown in a hurry. Stripped off and cast aside on the run. Like the wearer couldn’t wait to get the thing off.

  Lil trembled against her.

  Farther ahead lay a bare-chested man. A big man. Mr. Graves.

  Miri tiptoed closer with awkward steps. Lil was a growth against her.

  “Mr. Graves?”

  He turned his head, but not to her voice. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temple. A rash, darker and angrier than the crony’s, covered his chest and arms—nowhere else, though. Definitely not the pox.

  Miri tightened her arms around Lil. Either this was a simple case of the measles or …

  Typhus.

  34

  Ethan glanced out the carriage window, ending the conversation between him and Mr. Spindle. What was the point? Though Ethan lobbed question after question, the man returned no answers of substance. The fellow belonged in parliament.

  His shoulder bumped against the paneled wall of the coach as they rattled along. Tasseled curtains slapped his cheek when they rounded a corner. Finer houses lined this street, and if they held their westward course, they’d become grander still. But where they’d end up, and why, rankled him as much as the clattering wheels.

  Perhaps he’d made a mistake in coming. The longer he tarried in London, the longer it would be until he saw Miri again. With Roland taken away, how was she faring? A wry smile twitched his lips. No doubt much better than he had.

  At last the coach stopped swaying. The door opened from the outside, and Ethan waited for Spindle to exit.

  Spindle angled his head. “After you, sir.”

  Sir? Surely this was a joke. He studied the man’s pinched face for a trace of humor. Not a muscle twitched.

  Fine. Ethan stepped from stair to gravel. The drive led to an enormous brick Tudor. Sun glinted off so many panes, he blinked. Whoever owned this mansion didn’t care a fig about window taxes.

  Marble lions flanked the main door. Spindle grabbled hold of the knocker and rapped it against a brass plate with a fancy, engraved W.

  The door opened immediately. Apparently the footman had nothing better to do than sit on a cushion behind it and wait for a rap—and by the looks of his plush livery, that’s exactly what he did. From the tips of his gilt-cord shoulder knots down to his white silk hose edged in lace, the man was nothing more than a bauble.

  “Mr. Spindle and Mr. Goodwin to see Barrister Wolmington.” Spindle handed the footman a card.

  So they were seeing a barrister. Which law had he broken to earn a visit to the man’s house?

  The footman glanced at Ethan, hesitating longer than protocol allowed. Not that Ethan blamed him. Fresh from Newgate, he didn’t quite fit the décor of the place.

  Spindle cleared his throat.

  “This way,” said the footman, shaken from his musing. He executed a perfect military pivot, then led them through a foyer big enough to hold a state dinner. All the while, he rested his gloved fingertips upon his nose. Ethan lifted his arm and sniffed. Did he really smell that bad?

  The footman parked them in a sitting room off to one side. As soon as he left, Ethan turned to Spindle. “I’m not sure what your game is, but we both know I don’t belong here. There’s no need for charades on my account. If I’m in some kind of trouble, just tell me now and get it over with.”

  Spindle flipped up his coattails and took his time settling on a chair. At last he looked up. “You are very direct, sir.”

  “And you are not.”

  A thin smile drew up the corners of Spindle’s mouth. “I daresay you are an astute judge of character, sir.”

  Ethan swept a hand from head to toe. “Do I look like I deserve the ‘sir’?”

  Spindle choked, coughing so hard he pounded his chest. Ethan fully expected him to dislodge a fur ball.

  The footman returned, giving Ethan the evil eye as if he were to blame for the red-faced Spindle. “The barrister will see you now.”

  Spindle stood, yet again deferring to Ethan to precede him.

  Ethan fell in step behind the footman, and when he did, the man lifted his glove to his nose once more.

  “Don’t worry,” Ethan said. “You’re not downwind of me.”

  The man’s shoulders stiffened.

  Ethan smirked.

  They entered a room done in burled maple paneling and port-colored carpeting, much smaller than the sitting room and foyer combined. Pipe tobacco scented the air. Tooled leather wingbacks occupied the space in front of a large desk. Next to it sat a man, his foot propped on a padded stool. He was shriveled, like an empty walnut shell that’d been tossed aside.

  “Banes.” His voice suggested much more strength than Ethan would credit him. “You are dismissed for now, but do not go far. And for heaven’s sake, stop covering your nose.”

  The barrister frowned, then turned to them. “Cheeky fellow. Rather a good looker, though. You’ll not find one taller or with better turned out legs.” He nodded at his own foot. “Forgive me, gentlemen, if I don’t rise. Flare-up of the gout, I’m afraid. I see you’ve found your man, Mr. Spindle.”

  “Indeed, sir,” answered Spindle.

  “Good. Good. Your documents are all in order there.” He pointed to a stack of papers on the far side of the desk, then gazed at Ethan. “Do sit, Mr. Goodwin. This shan’t take long, but you’ll be much more comfortable seated.”

  Ethan lifted a brow as he sank onto a chair. Why would a barrister be concerned about his comfort? He ran his fingers absently over the fine upholstery and leaned forward. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “You look rather amused, Mr. Goodwin. Is this really such a novelty for you?”

  “Your pardon?” Ethan asked.

  “Wealth,” the barrister answered.

  Ethan snorted. “I wasn’t aware that gout affected one’s eyesight. Surely you can see—at least your footman did—that I am not a wealthy man.”

  The man waved his hand as if he flicked a fly, then glanced at Spindle. “Are you prepared, sir?”

  Spindle gave a curt nod. “Quite.”

  “Then proceed,” said Wolmington.

  Ethan sat back and folded his arms. “By all means.”

  “As I have noted, you are very direct.” Spindle positioned himself in front of Ethan and leaned back against the desk, looking down his nose at him. “Not unlike your father.”

  Ethan rolled his eyes and stood. “If that’s what this concerns, count me out.” He turned to leave.

&nbs
p; “Please, sir, if you would but listen.”

  Spindle could have no idea what he’d just said. Ethan wheeled about and jammed a finger against the man’s chest. “Listen? You mean like how my father listened to me? The family butler paid me more attention than that man! Why should I listen—”

  “Your father is dead, sir.”

  Ethan’s hand dropped. Dead? The word bounced like a rubber ball. The more he tried to grasp it, to feel it, the more it ricocheted about. He should be sad. He should be overcome, or undone, or … something. Though he tried, searching every nook inside him, he felt nothing. The part of his heart that should be welling with grief was bone dry. Parched white bones, long dead.

  He relaxed his jaw, unaware until it loosened that he’d been clenching his teeth. “You’ve wasted your time dragging me from the streets. My brother, Richard, will see to everything. He always does.”

  “Your brother is deceased as well.”

  The ball bounced back, springing and jouncing so that his breathing turned irregular. Weak in the knees, he sat. “What happened?”

  “Highwaymen,” answered Spindle. “Your father liked to travel rather … ostentatiously, making for a tempting target.”

  Ethan rubbed his eyes, pushing back the headache screaming for release. “That’s putting it mildly. My father was a pompous, prideful—”

  “Sometimes sorrow is best expressed in silence, Mr. Goodwin,” interrupted the barrister.

  The reprimand, though disguised, slapped his anger down to size, and he nodded. “Point taken. Go on, Mr. Spindle.”

  “As I was saying, Lord Trenton and your brother, Richard, were to attend a state affair. It ran late. They should have taken lodging, but there was a hunt early the following morn, one your father was loathe to miss.”

  Of course. His father always made time for entertainment, just not for his second son. Ethan stood and paced the small room, hoping to walk away from the bitterness nipping at his heels.

  “They were on a stretch of road in Sherbourne. Apparently Lord Trenton refused the highwaymen—”

  “Refused?” Ethan stopped in his tracks. What a fool.

  “I cannot say it was the most prudent of decisions—”