Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  “He’s already had one, you know, or mayhap still does.”

  She shook her head. This one she knew for certain, and the pleasure of bringing down Brentwood charged through her. “Impossible. Millie says—”

  “Millie may parrot what the man has told her, yet the slight indentation on the third finger of his left hand cannot be hidden without gloves, which I noticed he wore until forced to remove them at dinner. And speaking of dinner, did you notice Miss Felton’s plate?”

  Her attention yanked from DiMarco to Jane. She could do nothing more than repeat his words. “Her plate?”

  “Full, or nearly so, at the removal of each course. On the other hand, she drained her cup at least six times before dessert. I’ve seen sailors keel over with lesser amounts of liquor, yet the lady didn’t so much as wobble.”

  Her jaw dropped. Words stuck in her throat, and it took great effort to coax them out. “Are you saying that Jane Felton…tipples?”

  Even in the chill evening air, his smile warmed her through. “The woman could drink a Gin Lane sot beneath the table then stand to order another round.”

  She laughed, the carriage ride suddenly more entertaining than Millie Barker’s parlor. “Go on, Mr. Brentwood. Tell me more.”

  He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “If the colonel should ever regale you with his exploits in the Battle of Trafalgar, don’t believe a word of it. I doubt the man’s ever set foot in the hull of a skiff, let alone a man-of-war.”

  “La! Surely you weren’t aboard the Victory, nor do I believe you to be on speaking terms with Lord Nelson. That being said”—she shifted on the seat, gaining a clearer view of his face—“how would you know?”

  “Watch his eyes, Miss Payne. The man’s gaze darted about like a caged sparrow, looking anywhere but at me in the telling. And the way he scratched behind his ears, I purposely chose to take a turn about the room lest I caught fleas.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can tell when people are lying?”

  “Frequently.”

  The carriage pitched to the right, and she flung out her hand for balance, the jolt as unsettling as his words. Not that she lied, but sometimes small falsehoods crossed her lips. Could he detect those as well? Better to change the subject. “Of all those in attendance tonight, surely you couldn’t find fault with Mrs. Allen. She is the picture of virtue.”

  “True…but her husband is not.”

  “Aha! Caught you.” She folded her arms, triumph sweet on her tongue. “Her husband was not even present, sir.”

  “No. I suspect he’d want to keep his swollen knuckles hidden from polite company.”

  She frowned. How in the world would the man know that?

  Before she could ask, Nicholas interrupted her thoughts. “Tell me, is Mrs. Allen proficient with a brush and oils?”

  “Quite. But I don’t understand how you could know such information.”

  “Deduction. Besides the cobalt stain inside her wrist, just about even with her sleeve, the lady painted—and quite well I might add—her face.”

  “You can hardly fault Mrs. Allen or her husband for her cosmetics, sir.”

  “Of course not. The fault lies in Mr. Allen himself. The coloring around the lady’s eye deepened from ivory to beige, with the barest hint of purple, noticeable only when she chanced to pass too near a wall sconce. Had she stepped any closer, I daresay her layers of makeup would’ve melted to her collar. Mr. Allen bullies his wife quite brutally.”

  Emily sank back against the carriage seat. “Poor Catherine,” she breathed out. “I had no idea.”

  “My apologies, Miss Payne. Perhaps I ought not have—”

  The regret in his voice signaled the ending of the game, a checkmate she wasn’t ready to concede.

  She sat up straight. “One last thing. You avoided this question at dinner, yet I will ask it again. What have you to say about Millie?”

  His eyes darkened, blending into the shadows of the carriage. “I claim Mr. Henley is a louse, yet you don’t believe me, so perhaps you ought ask Miss Barker about the content of the man. I suspect she’s been jilted in a very…personal way.”

  The wheels jerked to a stop. So did her conceived notions of Charles Henley. Was that what Bella had been about to tell her? Or was this some kind of horrid jest on the part of Mr. Brentwood?

  She studied his face every bit as intently as he did hers. If he’d discovered that much information in merely the space of a dinner, what of the entire week spent with her? Had he found out about—no. Her meeting with Wren wasn’t even until tomorrow’s early hours. Still…

  “What of me, Mr. Brentwood?” Her voice sounded dry. Crumbly. Like autumn leaves skittering down a graveled road. She swallowed and tried again. “What do you know of my secrets?”

  The carriage door swung open. A smile flashed, kind and cunning, illuminating Nicholas Brentwood’s face an instant before he vanished into the night, taking his answer with him.

  Horrid man.

  Gathering her skirts, she ducked her head out the door—then froze.

  Why would they leave Millie Barker’s dinner party for a visit to Uncle Reggie’s?

  Chapter 8

  Death was in the air. Heavy. Ominous. Nicholas could feel it in his bones. He inhaled a fresh waft of Emily’s lily-of-the-valley sweetness, but if his surmise was correct, a stench was soon to come. The only way to know for sure was to keep trailing the grim-faced butler who ushered him and Emily down a short corridor of a three-story townhome.

  Men’s voices spilled out an open drawing-room door, one in particular lilting with a poorly concealed Midland drawl. Three heads turned at his entrance. Only one broke from the huddle.

  “About time you hike your skirts over here, Brentwood.” Fellow officer Alexander Moore strode across the room.

  Emily drew up beside him, demanding answers, but Nicholas ignored her. “What’s this? Smugglers not keeping you busy enough?”

  “Later.” Moore pulled him away from the door and lowered his voice. He gave an almost imperceptible tilt of his head toward Emily. “She a stable one?”

  Nicholas rubbed his jaw, unsure of how to answer. Emily Payne was constant in tongue wagging, steady with frustration, and solid with determination to have her own way, though he doubted any of that was what Moore had in mind. “Come again?”

  “Is the woman given to…swooning?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, more from reflex than actual consideration. As he suspected, Emily stood near the door right where he’d left her, her gaze leveled at him like a well-aimed kidney punch—one that bruised even when he turned back to Moore. “She can hold her own, but what has she to do with—”

  “Good. We’ve no time to waste. Bring Miss Payne.”

  Moore’s brawny frame dwarfed Emily as he swept past her. Nicholas knew that gait. Moore was on a mission and wouldn’t stop to explain anything until due time.

  With a sigh, Nicholas shepherded Emily forward. “After you.”

  Her steps dragged, enough that he soon drew abreast of her.

  “I don’t understand.” She slanted him a cool glance. “Who are these men? Where is Uncle Reggie?”

  “This is Reggie’s house?” Nicholas stopped, paces away from a door guarded by an armed constable—the same door Moore had disappeared through, expecting them to do the same. Blast it! No wonder Moore had questioned Emily’s constitution. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to her. “I didn’t know. Perhaps you ought to wait back in the sitting room. I’ll—”

  “It’s now or never, Miss Payne.” Moore’s head popped out the door. The constable didn’t flinch, but beside Nicholas, Emily did.

  Nicholas frowned. “Listen, Moore, as her guardian I don’t think this is a wise—”

  “I can think for myself, Mr. Brentwood.” In a flash, Emily shot past him and past Moore.

  This wouldn’t end well. He dashed after her.

  The ticktock of a grandfather clock competed with her sharp intake of air. Understa
ndable. Likely the worst crime she’d witnessed in her life was her precious pug stealing a biscuit or two from Cook.

  “Uncle!” She rushed ahead and sank to her knees next to the divan, all but shoving a mouse of a physician out of the way.

  The doctor scowled at her. “Now see here—”

  Moore’s hand on the doctor’s arm ended his complaint. “You said yourself nothing more could be done. Care to revise that prognosis?”

  The doctor’s nose wrinkled. “No.”

  Moore jerked his head toward the threshold. “Then there’s the door.”

  The doctor’s lip curled as if he’d bitten into a rotten bit of cheese. Without another word, he snatched a black leather bag off the desk and evil-eyed Moore as he retreated.

  Nicholas crossed to Emily’s side, all the while cataloging the room in a sweeping glance. The wall safe was open. Curtains marshaled in cold night air. A rat’s nest of papers was strewn atop a desk. All in all, the room was as torn up as its master.

  Reggie lay ashen faced, still alive but barely. Right of center on the man’s chest, a deep stain spread across his open waistcoat. His shirt was ripped apart, blood darkening a poultice left over from the doctor’s futile ministrations. Pink foam dribbled out one side of the man’s mouth. Indeed, he had minutes left, if that. A pistol ball to the lower lung was a miserable way to go.

  Emily took up one of Reggie’s hands in both of hers, chafing them as if the fellow were dying of cold instead of a bloody suffocation.

  “Thank…God. You’re not…hurt.” Reggie’s words rasped with fluid, his lips sucking air like a landed fish. His eyes closed with the effort.

  “But you…oh, Uncle,” Emily’s voice broke, her own chest heaving. “Why would someone want to hurt you? Or me?”

  His eyes reopened, mortality a gray film over each. Hopefully the man knew his Maker, for he’d soon meet Him. “Your…father…” He wheezed, his fight for air forcing Nicholas to tug at his own cravat.

  “I fear for you…Emily…” Reggie struggled to lift his head. “You must be careful.” The words drove him back, flattening him against an overstuffed cushion.

  Suddenly, seconds were precious.

  Nicholas dropped to his knees next to Emily. He hated to be the one to interrupt what might be her last exchange with the fellow, but prudence was a harsh taskmaster. “Of whom, sir? Be careful of whom?”

  Reggie’s eyes gripped his. Tight. Pleading. The loneliest moment of a lost one’s life was often the last. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  Compassion burned a trail from Nicholas’s gut up to his mouth. “Call on Christ alone for mercy, man. Now is the time.”

  Maybe Reggie did. Or not. Hard to tell, for an instant later, his wheezing stilled. His gasps ceased. His struggle for life ended in dismal defeat.

  For one horrific instant, Jenny’s face superimposed over the dead man’s, and Nicholas’s own heart stopped.

  Emily’s wail rent the air. She splayed her fingers, dropping Reggie’s lifeless hand. Sobs followed. Turning, she buried her face in Nicholas’s shirt.

  He wrapped his arms around her, one hand patting her back, knowing full well that shock often accounted for the most unlikely of embraces. She trembled, frail and vulnerable, a whole new facet to the fiery woman.

  Glancing up, he met Moore’s gaze. The set of the officer’s jaw confirmed that condolences would have to wait. Even so, Moore stepped outside to give them a minute.

  Nicholas pulled Emily to her feet. Sniffling, she retreated a step, a little wobbly but bearing up.

  He retrieved a handkerchief from his dress coat and held it out. “Forgive me. Had I known, I never would have brought you here.”

  “No, don’t think it. It’s better he had someone he knew with him for the final moments.” Her gaze strayed to the dead man on the divan. Color drained from her face. “He…he…what about my father? What did he mean? Why must I be careful?”

  Each word grew shriller, her chest fluttering as if she’d taken the bullet. Nicholas stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the corpse. “Miss Payne—”

  “I…oh my…what if—” She swayed, her eyes dark holes in a face white as cotton. If the woman didn’t breathe, and soon, he’d have two bodies on his hands.

  Grabbing her upper arms, he forced his face into hers. “Emily!”

  Startled, she met his gaze. A faint bluish line rimmed her lips.

  “There is nothing to fear. I’m here, and no one will take you from me. Do you understand?” He measured his words, doling out each one like a lifeline, willing her to grasp onto the strength in his voice. “Upon my word, I’ll keep you safe. I vow it, on pain of death.”

  Her throat moved with a swallow. A lost little girl couldn’t have looked more exposed. Slowly, color crept back into her cheeks. The trembling beneath his fingers stopped.

  “Good.” Half a smile tipped his mouth. “You’re doing better already.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper. A shell. Hardly more than a piece of chaff on the wind.

  But it was a voice, nonetheless.

  He smiled in full.

  Officer Moore, maid in tow, cleared his throat as he entered the room, cuing an end to consolation. Nicholas released Emily’s arms, pleased that she remained straight and tall. “Now then, you shall return to the drawing room. Mr. Moore and I have a bit of work to do in here.”

  Her eyes widened. The lovely pink in her face fled once more. “But—”

  “None of it. You’re a strong one, you are.” Lifting his chin, he looked down his nose at her. “Unless my assessment of Emily Payne is incorrect. Do you hide a yellow streak beneath those skirts?”

  She set her jaw, a blue spark of anger lighting her eyes. “You, sir, are a—”

  “Rogue. I know.” He nodded toward the maid while turning Emily to face her. “Go.”

  “This way, miss.” The maid spun, apron strings fluttering behind her. Clearly, sharing a room with her deceased employer didn’t top her list of favorite duties.

  When he felt sure they were beyond hearing range, Nicholas lifted his eyes to Moore’s. “So, what have we got?”

  Moore stalked to the open window, a hunter on the trail. His long legs stretched with the grace of a lion. His dark blond hair, longer than decorum allowed, blew back with the breeze, adding a mane-ish effect. “As you see. Point of entry.”

  “Don’t you mean exit?”

  “That, too. I queried the servants. No one was admitted by the front door. In truth, no one suspected anything other than that Reginald Sedgewick was alone in this study.”

  Nicholas rubbed at the tension in his neck. “Then what?”

  “Some kind of heated debate, I suppose. One which Mr. Sedgewick lost.” Moore swept his hand toward the mess on the desk and the overturned chair behind it.

  The clock in the corner kept a steady beat as Nicholas studied the room. He fingered through the documents. Correspondence mostly, notes inquiring about shipment arrivals or departures. A few invoices, all headed with Sedgewick & Payne. Stepping around the desk, he righted the chair then peered into an open wall safe. Empty. He frowned. “But why lose a heated debate when he obviously handed over all his valuables? Unless…”

  Nicholas squinted and ran his fingertips over the locking mechanism. A Bramah, without so much as a scratch. No surprise, though. As far as he knew, no one had yet collected the two hundred guineas promised by the manufacturer for picking one of their locks. He turned to Moore. “No sign of force.”

  Moore rubbed the back of his head. “Unless he was shot first then told to—”

  “Unlikely. If that were the case, Reggie there would be sporting a blown kneecap, not a hole in the chest. Why comply when death is imminent?”

  “True.” Folding his arms, Moore nodded. “It could be the vault was empty when he opened it, hence the argument, leading to rage and eventually murder.”

  “And if the suspect left here unsatisfied, monetarily speaking, then tha
t would explain Sedgewick’s warning.” A growl rumbled in his throat. “Which is clear enough on Emily’s part, but what of her father? Were Reggie’s last words a warning for her father or from him?”

  Moore shrugged. “What exactly is Mr. Sedgewick’s tie-in with your ward? Why spend his last moments on earth to see that not only Bow Street was summoned but Miss Payne in particular?”

  “Exactly.” Nicholas ran his hand through his hair. “That’s what concerns me most.”

  And it did. More than he cared to admit.

  Chapter 9

  After hours of tossing and turning, recounting ghastly images of her uncle’s lifeless eyes, Emily was glad to focus on something else—even if that something else taxed her in ways that were every bit as nerve-racking. Slipping out of the town house an hour before dawn for a clandestine meeting with her former maid had seemed like good idea at the time she’d arranged it. But now…

  Clutching her package to her chest, Emily glanced over her shoulder. A dark, empty street stretched behind, made all the more ominous by a fine mist suspended midair. Her footsteps alone echoed off the brick townhomes. At this hour, only an occasional carriage or a dray bent on an early delivery run traveled the lanes of Portman Square. So why the breath-stealing impression that eyes followed her every move?

  She resettled the pack over her shoulder and tugged her hood forward. Nerves. That’s what. Barely six hours ago Uncle Reggie had died right in front of her. No wonder jitters marked her every step. If Wren weren’t counting on her, she’d still be curled up under her counterpane, sleeping off the dreadful experience. Leaving the safety of her bed had taken more courage than she’d realized.

  And what would Nicholas Brentwood say were he to find her chamber empty?

  She quickened her pace. She’d just have to make sure he didn’t. Two blocks down, she turned right. Ahead, near a cabstand that wouldn’t house a hack for at least another hour, a lone figure lingered beneath a sputtering lamppost. The shape was slight, short, and entirely Wren-sized. Emily shot forward.

  Her former maid met her halfway. “Oh, miss! So good to see you.”