Praise for Brentwood’s Ward
“Danger, intrigue, and romance in Regency England between a wonderfully appealing London lawman and the beautiful, spoiled heiress he is hired to protect. All served up with Michelle Griep’s signature wry humor. Don’t miss it!”
—Julie Klassen, bestselling, award-winning author
“Place an unpolished lawman as guardian over a spoiled, pompous beauty and what do you get? Clever dialogue, intrigue, and enough sparks to warm you on a cold night. Add to that a murder mystery, smugglers, and kidnappings and you have a story that keeps you riveted to each page, desperate to know the outcome, and enchanted by every word this author exquisitely pens. One of the few books I’ve truly enjoyed this year!”
—MaryLu Tyndall, award-winning historical author
“Michelle Griep brings Regency Era London to life as she skillfully weaves together drama, mystery, and romance in her new novel, Brentwood’s Ward. A dashing hero, intent on helping his ailing sister, must protect a strong-willed young heroine, but who will protect their hearts? Readers who enjoyed A Heart Deceived will be delighted when they read this new story from this talented author.”
—Carrie Turansky, author of The Edwardian Brides series
“Michelle Griep’s latest offering, Brentwood’s Ward, is a fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat type suspense, with a healthy splash of romance thrown in for good measure. Griep’s writing style had me holding my breath through the cleverly twisted tale—until the end, when I let it all out with a long, satisfied sigh.”
—Elizabeth Ludwig, author of The Edge of Freedom series
“Pitch perfect! Sherlock Holmes meets Charles Dickens in a story so engaging that you won’t put it down until the last page.”
—Siri Mitchell, author of Like a Flower in Bloom
“In Brentwood’s Ward, Michelle Griep spins a story of danger and intrigue that lurks at every turn of the page. With her witty play on words and masterful shaping of phrases, the book moves beyond ordinary to delightful. A tightly woven story that will keep readers riveted until the very end.”
—Jody Hedlund, bestselling author of The Preacher’s Bride
“If your idea of a top-notch story is fun characters, sparkling prose, witty dialogue, and a suspenseful, romantic plot, then you’ll love Michelle Griep’s Brentwood’s Ward. This engrossing tale is truly a treasure and one for the keeper shelf.”
—Margaret Brownley, bestselling author of Gunpowder Tea and Petticoat Detective
“Deliciously witty and fast paced, Brentwood’s Ward is a lively yet thoughtful romp with a delightful cast of characters, a unique London setting, and enough romantic twists and turns to keep you on the edge of your Regency chair! Encore, Michelle Griep!”
—Laura Frantz, author of Love’s Fortune
“Brentwood’s Ward unfolds like the best British costume drama, full of rich detail, wit, and intrigue. Readers will fall in love with Nicholas Brentwood from the first chapter. This Bow Street Runner has all the qualities a hero needs: integrity, intelligence, and independence; and heroine Emily Payne leads him on a merry chase sure to delight Austen and Conan Doyle fans alike.”
— Erica Vetsch, author of The Cactus Creek Challenge (July 2015)
© 2015 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-63058-679-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63058-683-6
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63058-682-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Müllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc., www.Mullerhaus.net
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O.
Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
This book dedicated to:
my sweet daughter,
Mariah Joy,
thank you for your unvarnished opinions
my sweet friend,
Stephanie Gustafson,
thank you for your encouragement in so many arenas
and as always for my sweet, sweet Savior,
Jesus Christ
thank You for saving my soul
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
London, 1807
You, sir, are a rogue!” Emily Payne scowled into the black marble gaze fixed on hers, determined to win the deadlock of stares. Horrid beast. Must he always triumph?
Without so much as a blink, the pug angled his head. Sunlight from the front door’s transom window streamed over her shoulder, highlighting each of his fuzzy wrinkles. The pup’s face squinched into a doggy smile, coaxing a sigh from Emily. Who could remain cross with that scrunched-up muzzle?
“I should’ve named you Scamp instead of Alf, eh boy?” She smiled then laughed outright when he snuck in a quick kiss on her neck.
Beside her, Mary, her maid, joined in—until Mrs. Hunt, equal parts housekeeper and sergeant major, huffed into the entry hall. Emily glanced at the matron over the pup’s head. If the Admiralty were smart, they’d press her into service, and the Royal Navy would learn a new meaning for shipshape in no time.
“Sorry, miss. The little beastie got clean away from me.” Mrs. Hunt reached for the fugitive, the smell of linseed oil and hard work wafting with the billow of her sleeve. “Hand him over, if you please. It won’t happen again.”
“Hmm. Don’t be so sure.” Emily nuzzled his furry head with the top of her chin, well aware he ought not be encouraged, yet completely unable to stop herself.
Mary tsked. “He just can’t bear to be parted from you, miss, that’s all.”
“Which is more than I can say for the males of my own species,” she mumbled into the pup’s fur. Alf nestled against her shoulder. If only Charles Henley might become so attached, the empty void in her heart would be filled at last. After a last snuggle, she held the pug out to Mrs. Hunt.
But Alf wriggled during the transfer. His back paw caught the lace on her glove, tearing the sheer fabric. Frowning, she inspected the damage. “Oh, bother. Ma
ry, would you—”
“I shall.” Her maid turned, but a rap on the front door spun her back around. “Right after I answer the—”
Emily shook her head. “I’ll do it. You see to the gloves.”
She opened the door to the height of fashion. By faith, the only thing Reginald Sedgewick prized more than his garments was his looking glass. “Uncle Reggie!” She smiled. “A bit early in the day for you, is it not?”
He nodded. Nothing more. Perhaps it was indeed too early for his usual cheerful banter. “Is your father home?” His voice crackled at the edges.
“I’ve not seen him, though that’s not unusual. Come in.” She stepped aside, and the scent of bay rum entered with him—or was it? One more sniff and her nose wrinkled. There was nothing bay about it. The man reeked of rum.
He doffed his hat, and she called to her maid, who by now was halfway up the stairs. “Oh Mary, would you be a dear and summon my father before you see to my gloves?”
“Aye, miss.” Retracing her steps, Mary scurried past them and disappeared down the same corridor Mrs. Hunt had taken earlier.
Emily turned back to Reggie and swept her hand toward the open sitting-room door. “Please have a—”
The words clogged in her throat as she studied him up close. His cravat knot hung loose. Buttons on his waistcoat did not match the proper holes, and no red carnation adorned his lapel. She shifted her eyes to his. “Is something wrong?”
His jaw clenched, and she suspected his fists might have, too. Then strangely enough, the angry wave subsided. “Nothing a good row with your father won’t solve, my dear.” A ghost of a smile softened the threat, or was that a grimace?
“How very strange. Usually it is I who am at odds with him.” She reached for the bellpull on the wall. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“No need. This shan’t take long.” He paused, turning the hat in his hands around and around. “Hopefully.”
A shiver crept across her shoulders. He was not only disheveled but anxious as well? That didn’t bode well, not coming from the jolliest fellow she knew.
Behind her, Mary’s footsteps clipped onto the marble flooring. “Mr. Payne is unavailable, sir.”
Red crept up Reggie’s neck and blossomed onto his cheeks. “Unavailable?”
Mary bypassed them both then halted near the balustrade at the base of the stairs. Did she keep such distance from conservation of steps…or fear? She studied the floor as she answered, making it impossible to read her face. “Yes, sir. Detained for the rest of the day. I suggest you call back tomorrow, Mr. Sedgewick.”
Reggie breathed out an oath then jammed his hat on top of his head so forcefully his valet would need a shoehorn to pry it off come evening. With a curt nod to them both and a ground-out “Good day,” he swooped out the front door. A firm thud accentuated his departure.
Emily slid her gaze to Mary, who returned her wide-eyed stare. “That was…interesting. I wonder what Father’s done to vex Reggie so?” Would it be business related or something to do with the recently widowed Mrs. Nevens? She suspected the latter, for they’d each been vying for the woman’s attention.
Mary merely bobbed her head. “I’ll see about those gloves, then.”
The girl disappeared up the stairs, and a fresh wave of mourning washed over Emily. Instead of tucking tail and running away in the name of duty, her former maid and confidant, Wren, would have listened to her conspiracy theories. Or likely more than that…Wren would have added a few of her own ideas to the mix. Emily sighed, frustrated that even a hundred Wren-would-haves wouldn’t bring her favorite maid back. Nothing would—except, perhaps, for a miracle.
“Is Reggie gone?” Her father’s bass voice rumbled from the corridor. His head peeked out the study door, fuzzy as a downy-haired tot whose nightgown had just been pulled off.
Emily pursed her lips, shedding one glove after the other. “I thought you were unavailable, Father.”
“I am.” His big belly and stubby legs appeared. “Leastwise as far as Reginald’s concerned.”
She set the ripped lace onto the calling card salver then looked up at her father’s approach, narrowing her eyes. Something was off kilter. He often avoided her, but never his business partner. “Uncle Reggie was quite put out, you know.”
“I do know, but it can’t be helped.”
She opened her mouth to argue with the absurdity of his statement, but before she could speak, Mary descended the last step and held out a set of white gloves. “Here you are, miss.”
“Thank you.” She reached for the fresh pair, and a keen scowl slashed across her father’s face. “What are you frowning at?”
“You are not going out, I hope. In fact, I quite forbid it.”
“Don’t be silly.” She wiggled her fingers into the cool fabric. “Did I not tell you I’ve an appointment at the milliner’s?”
“You own enough bonnets to cover all the heads of Mayfair proper. No, no, I insist you stay home.”
“You do?” Her gaze shot to his. For one glorious moment, she imagined playing the part of papa’s little girl—finally—even if she was three and twenty. Regardless of the years, her heart leaped in her chest.
Then stilled when he spoke. “I am expecting someone I require you to meet.”
Inside her gloves, perspiration dotted the palms of her hands. The last man he’d brought home for her to meet had nearly been her ruination. Never again. She set her jaw. “Father, you can’t be serious. This appointment was confirmed ages ago. Besides which, I need one last fitting for my gown, and if I do not attend to it today, it shan’t be ready for the Garveys’ ball.”
“No more about it, Emily. I will be obeyed in this matter. You are not to leave the house this morning.” He lifted his chin and peered down his nose. “Am I understood?”
She took the time to straighten each ruffled hem of her sleeves before returning her gaze to his—a stalling tactic she’d learned from the best. Him. “Quite,” she answered.
“Good.” He wheeled about and disappeared down the hallway.
Disappointment burned at the back of her throat. Would that he might want to spend a day with her instead of foisting her off on one of his business associates. Swallowing the sour taste, she reached for the doorknob. Her entire future depended upon the upcoming ball—a future that did not include one moment more of pining for her father’s love.
Mary’s eyes widened. “Miss Emily! Your father said—”
“My father said not to leave the house this morning. But, Mary dearest”—she opened the door and winked over her shoulder—“did you know that right now it’s afternoon in India?”
Short of breath and lean on time, Nicholas Brentwood sprinted down Bow Street, dodging hawkers and pedestrians. Though patience was one of his assets, it did not make the top ten of the magistrate’s virtues. Nearing the station, he splashed through a pool of waste that leaked into the hole of his right boot, but it was not to be helped. He was late.
Darting through the front door of the magistrate’s court, he shoved past milling gawkers waiting to be let into the sentencing chamber. With a “Pardon me,” he veered right and bounded up the stairway, two treads at a time. Fatigue stung his eyes, anguish his heart. Though he inhaled deeply the smell of oil lamps, ink, and lives hanging in the balance, the stench of disease yet clung to his nostrils.
He bounded down a narrow corridor, shoulders brushing one wall then another in his haste. Through a crack in the magistrate’s door, he slid in sideways and breathless.
Sir Richard Ford stood near the window, regarding the streets of London. Weak sunlight filtered through the soot-dusted glass, highlighting the man’s shorn head—a head that did not turn when Nicholas entered. Good. Reining in his heaving chest, Nicholas breathed out a thankful prayer that his less-than-decorous arrival had not been noted. Then he straightened the lapel on his dress coat, covering the rip on his vest beneath. “I’m here, sir. Please excuse—”
The man waved his hand in
the air, batting away his gnat of an apology.
Galled that he was the offending insect, Nicholas advanced. “If you would allow me to explain—”
“Permission denied.” Ford turned from the window. A frown etched lines on either side of his mouth, deep enough to sink any thoughts of rebuttal.
Nicholas widened his stance and squared his shoulders, taut as a sail in the wind. “Yes, sir.”
The man’s frown deepened. “Sweet peacock, Brentwood, sit down.” Ford strode to the overstuffed chair behind a massive cherry-wood desk and lowered his frame. “You make me nervous.”
He made the magistrate nervous? The same man who in mere minutes would don a wig as tall as a small child and sentence countless men to their deaths? Nicholas bit back a smirk and sank into the worn leather seat opposite the desk, grateful to set aside running for the moment. “I can only assume, sir, this is about my recent absences. By your leave, I should like to explain.”
The old fellow skewered him with a hard stare, one that might divide flesh from bone by sheer will. “I will have no explanations.”
Nicholas clenched his jaw. So, this was to be it, then? His career ended now when he needed money most? Not that he didn’t deserve it. God knew he warranted much worse than to be dismissed.
But Jenny surely didn’t.
Slowly, feeling every year of hard living and lack of sleep, he nodded and rose. “Very well. I understand. It’s been my honor to have served—”
“Reseat your back end, Brentwood. You don’t understand a thing.”
The chair held his weight, his mind a thousand questions. “Sir?”
Ford leaned forward, the desk becoming one with the man. “You think I don’t know about your sister? This is an investigative agency I run, with none but the best in my employ. Every officer knows how you care for her, and none fault you for it.” He sat back and lifted his chin. “Neither do I.”
The tightness in Nicholas’s shoulders eased for the first time in months. Though he hated that all knew his business, it was a relief to be able to stop hiding the burden—a trail he’d done everything in his power to conceal. But apparently not enough. He pierced Ford with one of his own pointed looks. “Did you have me followed?”
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