Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  “There’s nothing amusing about the situation, Mr. Brentwood. You can’t be serious.”

  Lifting his chin, he fixed her with a stare. Sometimes silence and one’s own thoughts emphasized his position more than a whack over the head with his tipstaff.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I won’t have it. I won’t. There is no possible way you fit into my plans. The season is just beginning, and I can’t be seen with you at my side. You’ll ruin my chances of—”

  Her lips straightened to a thin line.

  Nicholas leaned forward. “Chances of what?”

  She averted her gaze, taking sudden interest in the silver coffee urn at the opposite end of the table.

  Apparently he was on to something. “Come now, Miss Payne, I’ve been direct with you. I expect the same in return…unless there’s not as much courage beneath that beautiful face as I give you credit for.”

  She snapped her gaze back to his. So, the little vixen owned a pride as large as her father’s wallet.

  “I hardly expect you’d understand.” Nudging Alf’s head up with her forearm, she stroked the sweet spot between his ears. The dog’s tongue lolled out in a canine smile. She caressed the animal as if he were the only lover she’d ever—

  “Ahh…” Nicholas nodded. Of course. He should have known. “Allow me to hazard a guess. You’re what…two and twenty? Three, perhaps? At any rate, of prime age and social status to shop around for a suitable mate at the marriage mart, eh? I suspect your grand design for this season is to snare a husband. You feel my presence might hinder your efforts.” His grin broadened. “And by the way your fair cheeks have turned quite a pretty shade of red, I assume I am correct. Yes?”

  Her blush turned murderous. “You are very direct, Mr. Brentwood.”

  “And entirely accurate?”

  Sunshine backlit the bits of her hair not woven in as tightly, creating a golden halo—but the scowl she directed at him was less than heavenly. “Whether I own up to your absurd imaginings is hardly the point.” She snipped her words, sharp as scissor blades. “The fact is you, sir, are hardly attired properly to be my escort.”

  Clothing? This wasn’t about marriage but garments? Holding up his sleeves, Nicholas checked each elbow. No rips or tears, and he’d taken great pains to cover the hole in his vest by creasing his lapel just so. His pants, recently purchased and tailored after ruining a pair hunting down old Slim Gant, were too new to even be raveled at the hem. Moving on to inspect his dress coat, he detected only a few frayed threads. Not bad, and indeed far dandier than he’d expected. How could the woman possibly object to his attire when her own was likely plagued with dog hair?

  He shrugged. “I surrender. What is wrong with my clothes?”

  “They are severe, Mr. Brentwood. Too severe. While quite the match for your personality, if you plan on shadowing me to every function”—her upper lip curled, the same look from eating too much horseradish—“then I insist you invest in more stylish garments.”

  Though he hated spending money on himself with Jenny so in need, the flare of Emily’s nostrils and sharp set of her jaw left no room for debate. Leastwise a debate that wouldn’t draw blood. He shifted in his chair, the hard wood of the arm bumping into an ill-healed scar at the base of his ribs—a tangible reminder to choose his battles wisely. “I suppose I could do with a new dress coat, maybe a vest or two. You’ll stay put if I go out?”

  Alf’s fur ruffled with her sigh. She lifted both arms toward Nicholas, jostling the pup, and held out her hands, wrist to wrist. “Bring out your fetters if you wish, though I doubt that is what my father had in mind when he hired you.”

  Nicholas smiled in full. “Shackles will not suit your fine skin, Miss Payne. Your word will do.”

  Her hands lowered, but her brows shot up. “My word? Really?”

  That she thought him an ogre was not a surprise. That it pricked like a knifepoint did. He softened his tone. “Think of it as a child’s game of blocks. You’re building trust with me, and I with you. By keeping your word today, you’ll lay a foundation upon which to build. Cast the block aside, and I’m not likely to hand you any more until your father returns. The choice, Miss Payne, is yours.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is that not a risk?”

  “Yes, considering what I know of you.”

  A pretty pout twisted her lips. The flash in her eyes was even more beguiling. “You are harsh, Mr. Brentwood.”

  He curled his hands around the chair arms and stood. Better to gain distance than to reach out and smooth away her sulky frown. “I prefer to think of myself as honest, Miss Payne. A trait you may one day come to value, and one I expect from you in return. Are you up to the challenge?”

  Alf snorted at the same time as his mistress. “I never shrink from a challenge, sir.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t.” And neither did he. As he bid her leave, though, the real question hammering in his temples was exactly how big of a challenge Miss Emily Payne would be.

  Glancing down at Alf, whose squat little body stood at attention at her feet, Emily tried to mimic his compassionate gaze. Why she felt compelled to go through with checking on her maid irked her more than the act itself. Still, it would be satisfying to swipe the superior look off Mr. Brentwood’s face next time he asked after her abigail. And honestly, it was her fault Mary lay abed. Before she changed her mind, she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles on the door adjoining her chamber. “Mary?”

  “Come in, miss.”

  The muted words didn’t sound stilted, which would have made this task all the more difficult. Good. Truth be told, she never would have made such a fuss over apologizing to Mary had her horrid guardian not prompted it. Guardian, bah! The thought of the man curdled the tea in her stomach, especially because—though she’d never concede it aloud—she knew his suggestion was the right thing to do.

  Emily pushed open the door, Alf tagging at her heels, then stopped short. Across the small chamber, Mary sat in bed, propped atop her counterpane, needlework in her hands. Swaths of linen covered an ankle the size of a small cabbage, so unnaturally fascinating, Emily could not pull her eyes from the sight. The longer she stared, the more grotesque it became. Comfrey and mugwort lay heavy in the air, the words on Emily’s tongue even thicker. “Oh, Mary! I am so sorry—”

  “La, miss. Think nothing of it.” A smile as warm as a hearth fire lit the girl’s face. “It doesn’t pain me overmuch, as long as I don’t stand. Besides, it’s a grand excuse for me to loll about all day, leastwise for the next few weeks. Why, I feel like royalty. Please, have a seat. It’s nice to have company.”

  Only one chair graced the room, a rocker, near the coal grate. Emily sank into it and pulled Alf up to her lap. “You’re so good, Mary. I envy your charitable heart.”

  “Go on with you, miss.” The girl’s laughter bounced from one painted wall to the other—an easy feat in such close quarters. “So much praise is likely to make me ask Mrs. Hunt for a raise in wages, though I daresay your father would have to approve…and I hear he’s absent.”

  “That’s not the worst of it.” Emily rocked forward, careful to keep Alf from toppling off her lap. “My father’s gone and hired a guardian for me. A guardian! Can you imagine?”

  “Ahh, yes. Mr. Brentwood.” Mary’s eyes grew as large as her ankle. Sunlight from the single window danced across the girl’s cheeks, washing them in a rosy hue. Wait a minute…Emily narrowed her eyes. Was that a blush?

  “I got a peek at him last night, miss, right after my tumble. ’Twas him who ordered everyone about—even Mrs. Hunt. Rallied the troops, so to speak. Calm yet firm. And if you don’t mind me saying, he is quite pleasing to the eye, a real dapper figure, don’t you think? All muscle and—” Mary slapped her fingers to her mouth. Apparently whatever tincture the physician had ordered carried a side effect of loose lips.

  Emily smiled. Obviously the man had an effect on everyone. “Honestly, Mary, I hardly know what to think. Oh, I’ll g
rant you that he is dashing and all”—her own cheeks grew hot, the traitors—“but underneath is a harsh taskmaster. Do you know he threatened to lock me up?”

  Mary’s brows shot up, matched by a wicked grin—

  A grin her own lips mirrored. “I suppose I did deserve his lecture after causing your accident. Oh, Mary, how will I bear the man’s company with you confined?”

  “Give him a chance, miss. He can’t be all that bad.”

  Emily blew out a long breath. “He can and he is.”

  A sharp rap on the door from the hallway cut her off. “Mary? Is Miss Emily—”

  “I’m in here, Mrs. Hunt.” Shooing Alf off her lap, Emily stood just as the housekeeper entered the room.

  “There you are. I’ve been on quite the search.” By the look of her skewed apron and tilted mobcap, Emily didn’t doubt her.

  “It’s about Mr. Sedgewick, miss.” She straightened her skirt with one hand while righting her cap with the other. “He’s down in the sitting room and refuses to leave until he speaks with your father.”

  Emily’s forehead crumpled, harmonizing with Alf’s. “Didn’t you tell him Father is away?”

  “Of course, but the man won’t relent.” The housekeeper threw up her hands—a gesture Emily learned long ago to avoid. Pushed beyond her limits, Mrs. Hunt could make a rat-catcher cower. “He asked to speak with you.”

  “Very well.” She glanced down at her pup then back at Mrs. Hunt. “But you shall have to take Alf.”

  The housekeeper’s lips pressed tight for a moment. Then she bent and opened her arms. “Come on, little beastie. Let’s go see what Cook has to offer.”

  Alf shot forward, his stubby legs scrambling across the wood floor. The words cook and walk produced the same effect.

  With Alf cared for, Emily descended to the sitting room and swept through the door. Reginald Sedgewick stood, back to her, with both hands gripping the mantel. The fabric of his waistcoat strained across his shoulders. He looked as if he’d grabbed hold of God’s mercy seat.

  “Uncle Reggie?”

  He wheeled about, the loose cravat of yesterday now flapping completely untied. Only one button secured his vest, the top. Part of a wrinkled shirttail overflowed the waistline of his equally creased pants. Had he slept in his clothes?

  “Good day, Miss Emily.” His voice was raw.

  Emily stepped closer, but not too much. She paused at the tea table by the window. “Are you all right?”

  Raking a hand through his hair, he snorted—bullish and bitter. “Hardly. Forgive my abruptness, my dear, but necessity calls for it. I must know…Where is your father?”

  The question shot through her as effectively as his bloodshot gaze. Had she obeyed yesterday, she might know. “You’re his business partner, not I. Have you no idea?”

  “Unfortunately, I suspect that I do.” With a curse, he spun and slammed his fist onto the mantel, jarring the urn of flowers atop it.

  Emily flinched, her breath catching in her throat. She’d seen her father in a rage many a time—overheard heated words from his study—but never had she encountered anger like this from Uncle Reggie.

  Silence stretched, like a thread to be snapped—and once broken, it might fray beyond repair. Should she stay or slip out?

  She inched back toward the door. Three steps remaining to freedom, her heel sank onto a loosened floorboard. The creak ripped a hole in the stillness, and she froze.

  Reggie wheeled about and stalked the length of the room, nostrils flaring.

  Fear tasted brassy. She spit out words, attempting to rid her mouth of the sour tang while appeasing the man she thought she knew. “I am sure my father will return within a month’s time. He usually does, you know. Then you can clear up whatever is so upsetting to you.”

  “A month?” He stopped a pace away, his left eyelid quivering. “By then it will be too late.”

  He shoved past her, leaving behind a trail of upended emotions and a single burning question…

  Too late for what?

  Chapter 4

  The grating wheels of a passing dray heaped one more insult atop the din assaulting Nicholas’s ears. Lombard Street teemed with barrow men, ragpickers, and not just a few mealy apple sellers. Though people abounded, only one was of interest—one he couldn’t see. There was no way to hear the soft footsteps behind him, but all the same he knew they were there, like a rat in a shadow. Edging nearer. Closing in on his coattails. Three, maybe four treads to his one. Timing was everything.

  Hold. Hold. And—

  Brentwood spun and clamped his hand on a wrist hardly thicker than kindling. Wide eyes stared up at him, the whites of which shone in stark contrast to the girl’s soot-smeared face. A swipe of fair skin peeked through dirt beneath her nose, a corresponding smudge on her sleeve where she wiped it. Apparently the girl had a bad habit, though that was likely the least of her problems. Threadbare fabric hung off shoulders so sharp, the sight cut to the marrow, especially since the girl was only eight, possibly nine—though judging by the foul language she spewed, she’d lived a lifetime already.

  “Lemme go!” came out amid curses and oaths. She twisted, and her bones ground beneath his grip.

  “Surely you know the penalty for thievery, girl.”

  “I weren’t thievin’!” A mackerel on a pike couldn’t have wriggled more.

  He tightened his grip and squatted, face-to-filthy-face, ignoring the pedestrians flowing past them on either side. “And do you know the penalty for lying?”

  “I ain’t lyin’, you scarpin’ cully!”

  A frown tugged his lips, and he pierced her with the same stern stare he’d used on Emily. “You can lie to me, girl, but not to God.”

  “Well…maybe…maybe I…” Her voice blended into the clamor. Beneath his fingers, her muscles relaxed. Her chin, once jutted, now softened to the point of trembling. Angry creases disappeared into the curved shadows of each hollowed cheek. He’d seen that look a thousand times. Despair didn’t just weight the soul; it scarred the face.

  In the brief space of a blink, Nicholas prayed: Lord, what am I to do?

  “Don’t turn me in, sir.” The tear in the girl’s eye might be an act. But the appeal in her tone was real enough. “I’m powerful hungry, that’s what. I ain’t et a morsel since yesterday, and then only a crumb. That’s God’s truth, sir, it is.”

  Blowing out a long breath, Nicholas reached with his free hand into a concealed slit inside his waistband. Baring an entire wallet in public was suicide. He pulled out a ha’penny and held it up, both their gazes drawn to the bit of copper. For the street waif, the coin meant life—but would the giving of it hasten Jenny’s death?

  “What’s your name, girl?” he asked.

  “Nipper.” Her eyes didn’t shift from the money.

  “Nipper, eh?” He masked a grimace. Beneath that grime lay a girl who ought to be wearing ribbons and twirling about in dresses, not scrounging the streets for marks with fat purses. “Odd name for a girl.”

  She shot him a glance then zeroed back in on the ha’penny. “Ain’t so strange when the one what named me is Maggot.”

  Nicholas frowned and ran through a mental ledger of criminals in the area. He knew of a Grub and a Fishbait, even a Vermin and a Tick, but no Maggot. “This Maggot, where does he live?”

  “Din’t say ’twas a he.”

  “All right. Where does she live?”

  The girl wriggled, eyes yet fixed on the money. “What for do you want to know?”

  He softened his tone yet kept it loud enough to be heard above the street hawkers and coaches. “What do you say, Nipper, if I were to visit ol’ Maggot and hire you away from her. Would you like that?”

  Her face jerked to his, fire in her eyes. “I might be a cutpurse, but I ain’t no bleedin’ trollop—”

  “No, no. I’m not suggesting anything of the kind.” He loosened his grip on her wrist. She yanked back her arm and retreated several steps, but his outstretched coin held h
er in his orbit. “My sister is in need of care, Nipper, and for the next few weeks, I am not able to attend her. I suspect a small chamber of your own would be a great improvement over some rat hole in a rookery.”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know—”

  “Do you dispute it?”

  She swiped her sleeve across her nose, a nervous reaction that endorsed his earlier guess and sanctioned his new deduction.

  Slowly the girl extended her hand, palm up. “All right. Anythin’s better than Pig’s Quay. I’ll take the job. But don’t worry ’bout ol’ Maggot. She’ll let me go, and be glad of it…long as I keep her garnished.”

  Nicholas dropped the coin. She snatched it midair and tucked it away in her shoe.

  “You give that to Maggot then scurry back here to the Crown and Horn. There’ll be a meal and another penny for you.” He stretched to full height and gave a nod down the block.

  Her face brightened. Visibly. Like the flame of a match in a darkened cellar. “That I will, sir. You can count on me, or my name’s not…Hey, what’s yer name?”

  “Brentwood.” He offered his hand.

  She inched nearer then snaked out her fingers and shook it, her grip a curious blend of frailty and strength.

  And quite the act of faith for a pickpocket. Half a smile lifted his lips. “Besides employment, I should like to give you a new name as well. From now on, I shall call you Hope.”

  She drew back, mouth agape. “Me? Hope?” Her tongue darted over her lips after she said the name, tasting of it as she might a sugared date. A slow smile brightened her face as effectively as a good scrubbing. “I like it, I do. Hope!”

  Then she darted into the traffic and vanished. Speedwise, the little urchin was good at her trade. Hopefully she’d do as well with his sister. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned, tramping the half street to the Crown and Horn. Had he done the right thing?

  Pushing open the tavern door, he shed his hat and threaded his way past men seated in clusters. None looked up. He was as much a part of this pub as the scarred oak tables. The smell of tallow and lard, mutton pasties, and the nutty tang of malt ale curled into his nose and sank to a warm place between belly and heart—home. For the past few years, anyway, and until now.