“Your wrap, Miss Payne?” Nicholas stepped behind her and waited as she unfastened her buttons.
While he went to check her pelisse, she darted her gaze from one dress to another, hoping to spy her friend, Bella Grayson. No red curls caught her eye, but a certain blue velvet jacket with golden trim did. Emily pinched her cheeks and tucked up any loose hairs near her injury. Should Charles Henley glance her direction, she’d look her best or die in the trying. With a quick smoothing of her skirt, she took two steps toward him—then a hand on her shoulder pulled her back.
“One moment, if you please.”
The loud words traveled on a cloud of rum—hot and sickly sweet. Charles Henley’s head turned, and Emily spun before he could identify her…hopefully.
Bloodshot eyes stared into hers. Since when did Uncle Reggie imbibe in public? “Good evening, Uncle. I hope this evening finds you in better sorts than our last conversation.”
“Any word from your father?”
Her nose wrinkled from the tang of his breath, and she glanced over her shoulder. Charles no longer looked her way. Worse. He engaged in conversation with Millie Barker—the biggest flirt this side of the Thames. “Oh, no.” She spoke as much to herself as to Reggie then shifted her body to keep Charles and Millie in the corner of her eye.
“Nothing at all?” Reggie stepped in front of her.
Emily frowned. Her uncle all but blocked her view. “Not a word.” She craned her neck one way and the other. No good.
“It’s imperative I know the instant you hear anything. Do you understand?” Thunder boomed in her uncle’s tone, rolling across the room. Had Charles heard?
Standing tiptoe, she slipped her gaze over Reggie’s shoulder while answering. “Mmm-hmm.”
Before she could read the expression on Charles’s face, her uncle’s fingers bit into her upper arms, pinning her in place. The red crawling up his neck matched the lines in his eyes. “Listen to me!” He emphasized each word with a shake.
Her head pounded, centering like a hound to the kill on the tender spot she’d smacked against the carriage window.
“Unhand the lady. Now.”
The deadly calm voice of Nicholas Brentwood breached the ringing in her ears—and the glance of Charles Henley her double vision.
If looks could kill, the man scowling at Nicholas would swing from a Tyburn gibbet for manslaughter. Why had Emily spoken to the rogue in the first place? Nicholas had turned his back for what…thirty, maybe forty seconds? The woman’s magnetism was positively horrifying.
The man looked past Emily to him, smelling like a pirate and looking no better. Granted, his attire was impeccable, but his face twisted into a ruthless mask. Criminals didn’t frequent only alleys and shadows. The fellow sniffed, as if he were the one considering something rotten. “Mind your own business.”
Nicholas threw back his shoulders. “The lady is my business.” With one hand, he lifted the edge of his dress coat, just enough for chandelier light to glimmer off the golden spike of his tipstaff.
Slowly, the man’s hands lowered. A sneer rose. Emily scooted aside.
“So, you’re a runner, eh? Here at the theatre?” The man’s voice was a growl. “Should you not be out fetching a call girl for your magistrate or running some other useless errands for the Crown?”
Both Nicholas’s hands curled into fists. The spark of fear in Emily’s eyes kept them at his sides, but that did nothing to stop the flash of white-hot anger surging through his gut. “May I suggest, sir, that you nick off to Gentleman Jim’s if a knuckle bruiser is what you’re about. Unless intimidating women is the extent of your courage.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a bully, sir?”
“I don’t have to.” Nicholas widened his stance. “You’ve said it for me.”
The man swung back his fist. “Why of all the—”
“Uncle, no!” Emily flung herself between them, stopping Nicholas’s heart. If the man let loose now, her face would bear the brunt.
He reached for her. “Emily, don’t!”
She shrugged off his touch while facing her…uncle? Nicholas shifted his weight. Something didn’t add up. Why would a family member be such a brute? And hadn’t Mr. Payne owned that there were no nearby relations?
Emily wrung her hands. “When I hear from my father, I vow I shall let you know. Please, don’t do this.”
The man’s arm lowered—though his fingers did not uncoil.
“Thank you, Uncle. Now if you’ll excuse us.” She turned to Nicholas, eyes pleading, and laid her fingers on his sleeve. “Shall we?”
His heart pumped, muscles yet tense, fingers still itching to feel the satisfying smash against cartilage and bone.
But then he’d be no better than the sod in front of him. He tipped his head toward Emily. “Very well.”
He led her toward the grand staircase, and once out of ear range of the blackguard, he shot her a sideways glance. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She gazed up at him, lips quirked. “Reggie’s interrogation was no worse than one of yours, albeit a bit more…physical.”
A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. Likely if he lifted her sleeve, even now he’d see angry red imprints from the man’s grip. “Is all your family so harsh?”
“Family?” Her nose wrinkled, and she kept her silence up the first set of stairs. “Oh, he’s not really my uncle.”
Nicholas shook his head. “Another one of your faux relatives, eh? Tell me, Miss Payne, do you consider all your acquaintances as kinship?”
She pulled her hand from his sleeve and huffed past him. “Don’t be silly.”
The pout on her face before she turned matched her earlier expression in the carriage. His biceps tightened, the memory of holding her etched indelibly into his arms. As he followed her down the corridor, sconce light slid over each lock of her pinned-up hair, stunning enough to shame the sun. Shadows lingered along curves he ought not notice. A long-forgotten feeling roused deep in his belly. He hadn’t looked at a woman like this since Adelina.
No. Better not to go there. Not now.
Or maybe ever.
He increased his pace and caught up to Emily. “So, tell me. What did this Uncle Reggie want?”
She paused in front of a box marked 22A, hand resting on the knob. Her teeth toyed with her lower lip for a moment. “For some odd reason, he’s rather put out that my father left town. He’s asked me several times to let him know the instant he returns.”
She pushed open the door. Venetian accents poured out, the actors already in full boom.
But before her head filled with intrigue and romance, he stalled her with a light touch to her shoulder and a low voice in her ear. “What is the real relationship between Reggie and your father?”
“Something to do with business,” she whispered back then stretched her neck to peer into the box. “May we go in? The play’s already started.”
Nicholas held his ground—and her shoulder. “Is the man always that forceful?”
“No.” A glower as dark as the box accompanied her answer. “Not any more than you’re being right now.”
The truth of her words splayed his fingers. He followed in her lily-scented wake, scoping out the box as they entered. Eight seats, four to a row, and not a one occupied. Either Mr. Payne enjoyed his own private box, or attendance was lacking—not likely on opening night, though. Emily sank onto a velvet-cushioned chair center-front, and he took up the seat next to her on the right. She leaned forward, her face softening as she focused on the stage.
He tensed and swept the auditorium’s perimeter to detect any danger. Twice. Finally satisfied, he leaned back and fixed his gaze on the actors, eyes unseeing. Something wasn’t right about the exchange between Emily and her…uncle. A man so heated over the mere absence of a business partner on a routine trip didn’t add up.
Unless the trip wasn’t so routine after all.
Chapter 6
Reginald S
edgewick loosened his cravat as the hackney he rode in jittered over cobblestones. Breathing had been a forgotten priority for so long that his fingertips tingled. Rage, now spent, left him unhinged—though the rattling his bones suffered could be blamed on the horrid driver. It figured he’d get the broken-springed coach with the one-armed jarvey. Blasted luck.
The cab lurched to a stop. “ ’Ere we are then, guv’ner.”
A scowl twisted his mouth. Even through the walls of the hack, the driver’s voice grated like an off-tune fiddle. Reggie flung open the door and teetered out, one hand clutching the crooked cab for balance. His stomach roiled, and he swallowed back a sour taste.
Now that his feet touched ground, why did the world still tilt?
He paid the driver then paid even more with each painful step to his front door—head throbbing every time his boot met pavement. He should stick to bourbon and leave the rum to pirates and thieves—like Alistair Payne. Fumbling with his fob, he sorted the keys by feel, the slow burn of anger rising once again. The man was a rotten villain.
And what burned him even more was that’s exactly how he felt. Twice now—or was it thrice?—he’d treated Emily as if he himself were the rogue. Dastardly behavior. What had gotten into him?
He unlocked the door, stepped inside, then froze. The smell of Burley tobacco curled out from the sitting room, and suddenly he knew the exact cause for his recent ill manners.
Fear.
Drawing in a deep breath, followed by another, he removed his hat, unbuttoned his greatcoat, and hung both on the brass tree. Then he straightened his cravat and while he was at it, brushed out any possible wrinkles in his trousers. He’d known deep in his gut this meeting would come, but that didn’t make it any less odious.
Painting a smile on a face as stiff as canvas, he strode into the sitting room. Hand extended, he greeted the lanky fellow puffing on a pipe near the mantle. “Captain Norton, pleased to see you safe and sound. Rather late in the evening for a visit, is it not?”
Norton bent and tapped his spent tobacco into the hearth then stood. Slowly. Like the uncoiling of a king cobra. In three strides he closed the distance between them, his hand snaking out. The captain’s grip was no less crushing than the last time they shook, but the flesh more leathery. Calluses were the only calling card the fellow needed to prove his identity. “Aye, it’s late, but callin’ earlier don’t seem to do me no good. You’re either out or…unavailable.”
The man’s American accent boxed his ears more severely than the hackney driver’s ragged tone. Reggie swept his arm toward a chair. “Please, have a seat. I admit I’ve been rather occupied as of late. My apologies, Captain.”
Norton’s eyes followed his arm to the chair then retraced the route back up to his face. “This ain’t no social visit, Sedgewick. Pay up what you and Payne owe, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Yes…well…” Sweat dampened his palms. Good thing they’d already shook. “Surely you realize that at this time of evening no banks are open. And naturally, I do not keep such an amount on hand.” He shrugged. “No, no. Times are too dangerous for that. I suggest you call back, say…next week, and I’ll have a bank draft written up for you.”
“Next week?” A sneer slashed across the captain’s face. “My ship’s been unloaded nigh on a fortnight, now. Time is money, Mr. Sedgewick. The longer I sit idle, the more it costs…if you catch my meaning.”
The rum in his belly inched up toward his throat, leaving a burning trail the length of his torso. Brash American. Money grubbers, the lot. The very seed of America’s rebellion. Reggie sniffed, hating the captain and all that he stood for. “Of course. I shall include a little extra for your trouble.”
“Aye. See that you do.” Norton pocketed his pipe and stalked to the door then paused on the threshold. “And see that next time I come to call, the money’s a-waitin’ for me, for I will have my payment…one way or another.”
A fine mist collected on the edge of Emily’s hood where she stood outside the theatre. The fat droplets hung there, daring her to move. One quiver would loose the floodgates and wash her face. So she stood, still as a Grecian statue, and as thoroughly chilled.
Ahead, Nicholas stepped back from the row of carriages lined up like infantrymen in front of the curb. In the rush of departing patrons, his figure alone commanded her gaze. How could he, without a word, make such demands?
As he strode over to her, greatcoat clinging to the hard lines of his body, she shivered. Water rained down, and she couldn’t decide which annoyed her more—that she’d noticed his physique, or the cold rivulets trickling down her cheeks and nose. Retrieving a handkerchief, she dabbed away the moisture on her eyes.
“Are you well?” Nicholas’s words hung suspended in the mist, lower in timbre than the chatter of passing theatre patrons.
Fighting a yawn, she made a quick assessment, for a simple yes or no would undoubtedly warrant further questions on the matter. A dull ache loitered at the edge of her hairline—though no more painful than the aftereffects of one of her father’s lectures. Cold nipped her toes, and she was slightly thirsty, but other than that, she couldn’t complain. Tipping her face up to his, she smiled. “I am fine, though in truth I am looking forward to a good night’s sleep and to lounging about on the morrow.”
His eyes searched hers, lamplight softening his sharp green gaze. Or—an involuntary tingle ran up her arms—was that concern?
Lips quirking into a wry grin, he cocked his head. “What…no shopping or visiting? No running about whatsoever? I fear you hit your head harder than you admit, lady. But I am happy that, for once, you will stay put.”
Her smile faded. She’d never said she’d stay put.
“Your carriage is tenth in line, Miss Payne,” he continued. “Should you like to remain here or walk?”
Tucking her handkerchief back into her reticule, she pulled tight the cords before answering. “It would be faster to walk, I think.”
He crooked his arm, and she set her glove atop his sleeve, discounting the muscle beneath—though the memory of his embrace would resurface in an instant if she’d care to reel it in. She sniffed. Such nonsense. The man was a brute, nothing more.
Four carriages ahead, the bob of red curls beneath a royal blue bonnet disappeared into the coach, and a wonderfully wicked idea emerged. Without missing a step, she turned to Nicholas. “I noticed Miss Grayson paid you an inordinate amount of attention during the intermission.”
His jaw shifted. No words came out. His stride didn’t alter a beat.
“I think Bella finds you quite intriguing, as did several others. With all your observational skills, did you not notice the pretty heads you turned?”
He stared ahead, as if dodging patrons and strolling past the remaining carriages were more valuable than a derby prize. “I have no idea what you mean, Miss Payne.”
A slow smile lifted her lips. She was getting to him. “La, Mr. Brentwood. You paid more attention to those in the auditorium than the action onstage. Why…I don’t think you could sum up the play should I ask you to.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “The only way to prevent trouble, Miss Payne, is to identify the danger before it strikes. I am not employed to appreciate performances but to look out for your well-being.”
“Danger…here?” She swept out her hand at the merry theatergoers ducking into coaches. The worst offense she could see was an ill-matched Cheshire frock coat paired with sateen breeches that were much too tight. “There’s not much threat at the theatre, sir.”
“I beg to differ—”
“Miss Payne! Emily! Pray, hold up.”
The voice behind crawled up her spine and settled at the base of her neck, raising the finest of hairs. Did Nicholas Brentwood always have to be right? Sure enough, seconds later, danger in taffeta swished up to her side.
Pink-cheeked and slightly breathless, Millie Barker fell into step beside them. “My carriage is just behind yours. Such a coincidence, for I’d mea
nt to speak with you earlier.”
Emily choked. The woman had time for no one unless they wore breeches and bathed in money. Coughing into her glove, she hid the snappy retort then forced a pleasant tone to her voice. “By all means, you should join us.”
“You remember my aunt, of course.” Millie nodded her head over her shoulder.
Emily followed her movement. At least ten paces behind, a dark shape hustled to catch up—a terrifying sight were they in a back alley. A black veil topped off a black cape with black bombazine skirts billowing out like a cloud of death. The woman draped herself in mourning, although her husband had been dead at least a decade.
She turned back to Millie, but before she could respond, Millie looked past her to Nicholas.
“And this is?”
Emily narrowed her eyes. Of course. Nicholas was the bit of breeches Millie had noticed. And what would Miss Barker’s face look like when she discovered the man’s chilly personality and even emptier wallet? The thought tasted as sweet as one of Cook’s pastries. “I am pleased to introduce my cousin Nicholas Brentwood.”
Emily studied his face, eager for a reaction. He didn’t disappoint, though she doubted whether Millie could see the jump of a muscle along his jaw.
This could be fun. A chance to vex Nicholas and send Millie sniffing down a trail that would take her off the scent of Charles Henley. She didn’t have to fake her smile anymore. “Mr. Brentwood, please meet Miss Millicent Barker.”
“Miss Barker.”
His stiff nod was hardly a cause for the rapture deepening the color on Millie’s cheeks. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brentwood.”
He made no further response, but that didn’t lessen the blush on Millie’s face. She smiled as if the man had just spouted some epic poem about her beauty. Then she turned toward Emily. “Apparently my invitation to you for dinner tomorrow evening was lost, for I have yet to receive your response. Do say you’ll come. It’s Aunt’s birthday celebration.”
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