Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  Emily slung the bag down to the wet cobbles and folded Wren’s hands into her own. Cold flesh chilled through the fabric of her gloves. “It’s always good to see you, Wren. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m well, miss, as is the babe.” Wren pulled back her hands and rested them on the swell of her belly. For a brief moment, half a smile lit her face. “Thanks to you, that is. Without you…why, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “None of it. You’re a strong one, you are.” The same words Nicholas used for her tasted sturdy and warm in her own mouth and hopefully lent similar courage to Wren. “Please tell me you’ve found a place to stay.”

  “I have. I’ve got four walls and a bed of my own, which is more than I can say for other girls in my…condition.” Wren’s gaze lowered.

  Anger lifted Emily’s chin. “It’s not fair, Wren. None of this is. That scoundrel of a captain ought to be scratching out his existence in the streets instead of you. And my father”—she sucked in a sharp breath, mourning afresh her mounting loss of respect for the man—“why I’m still so furious he let you go without references, I can hardly stand it.”

  “Don’t fret. It’s all right. Truly. I’ve found peace.” She reached out one hand and squeezed Emily’s. The sharp angles of her cheekbones softened, and through the mist and dark, light sparkled in her eyes. “I know it’s strange to hear me say so, but I forgive them both, your father and Captain Daggett.”

  “Wren!” Forgive them? The words boxed her ears, foreign and completely abhorrent. Emily yanked back her hand. “How can you? They ruined your life!”

  “No, miss. It’s not like that, not at all. I see it different now.” The peaceful look in Wren’s eyes spread to lighten her whole face, or was that simply streetlight reflecting off the mist on her cheeks? “Only by losing everything could I gain the one thing I would’ve overlooked.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Need.”

  Emily frowned. “You’re telling me that need, want, the lack of shelter, food, and clothing, is a good thing?”

  “Didn’t call it good, miss, but it is a blessing.” Wren’s smile would shame the sun, and mayhap did, for along with it the hint of dawn barely bleached the sky. “Aye, miss. I know it don’t make sense, but I’ve found that God is more than enough, even in the direst of situations.”

  Emily couldn’t help but shake her head. “You’re starting to sound like Mr. Brentwood.”

  “Mr. who?”

  She sighed, for truly…how to put into words her conflicting emotions about the man? One minute a bully, exacting and demanding, the next consoling her as a dear friend. Even now, if she closed her eyes and thought of it, she could feel his solid arms circling her, breathe in his peppery shaving tonic, lean into his strength.

  A fresh waft of morning fires being stoked banished the memory. Nearby, households awakened. She bent to retrieve the oilskin bag and held it out to Wren. “Here is an old dress of mine I’ve let out in the front. It ought hold you over until—when did you say?”

  Wren hugged the pack to her chest. “Nigh but two more months now, near as I can figure.”

  Emily lifted her chin, a gesture she’d seen Mrs. Hunt use to rally the servants a hundred times. “Well then, there’s some tincture in the bag from the apothecary, good for you and the babe. A spoonful at night and one in the morning. I’ve included a spoon.”

  “Ahh, miss. You’re always thinking.”

  The warmth in Wren’s voice burned a trail to her heart. How she missed the girl and her sweet ways. “Tucked deepest inside is a coin purse. There’s enough to hold you over in food until we meet again next month. Same time and place?”

  “If you don’t mind. Thank you. One last thing, though I hardly deserve more. My mother, does she…” This time there was no mistaking mist for the single tear sliding down the girl’s face. “Does she ask after me?”

  Emily’s lips pressed into a tight line. Must it be her lot to break the girl’s heart afresh? “In truth, Wren, I’ve not told her yet that I’ve been meeting with you. I’ve meant to, but the time’s never been quite right. Oh, I’ve hinted around and such, but your mother’s as adamant as ever when I bring up your name. I feel sure, though, that once the babe is born, once she sees the sweet little one, she shall change her mind.”

  “Aye. Mayhap.” Wren’s voice was hollow. She settled the pack over her shoulder and dipped a small curtsy. “Good day, miss.”

  Emily nodded, for truly there was nothing more to say. Watching Wren retreat spent the small account of optimism she held for the girl. To what part of town would Wren’s feet take her? Who would be there for her should something go wrong? Except for Wren’s growing belly, she was so small, so vulnerable.

  Shivering, Emily turned her back to the desolate figure. Dampness soaked into the leather of her shoes while she retraced her steps. As she neared the corner, a quiver shimmied along her shoulders—but not from cold. The distinct thud of boots pounded dully in the mist behind her.

  She increased her pace and refused the urge to look over her shoulder, denial lending some confidence. Please God, may it be one of those coal heavers on an early delivery.

  But the boot thuds upped their tempo as well.

  Fear settled low in her stomach, making her feel as if she might vomit. The ghastly memory of Uncle Reggie lying waxen and gray added to the nausea. She’d made a huge mistake coming here by herself. The realization burned white hot, like the pretty red coal in the grate she’d touched as a tot. She’d discovered its danger too late…just like now.

  Still, maybe the fellow behind her was simply in a hurry. After all, she—

  The world spun. Her back slammed against a brick wall. Every nerve shrieked a warning, but she couldn’t scream.

  A glove covered her mouth.

  Hot breath blazed across her forehead. “I’ll remove my hand, but upon my word, you scream and this will go all the worse for you. Do you understand?”

  Emily’s head moved beneath Nicholas’s fingers. A stingy nod, but an acknowledgement nonetheless. Her hood had fallen back. Lengths of blond hair cascaded over his sleeve. He lowered his hand, bypassing the pretty neck he’d love to wring, and clamped his fingers onto her upper arm instead. “You little fool. What are you doing out here alone?”

  “You frightened half my life away!” Her voice shook, as did the slim arms beneath his grasp. “I was meeting a friend. Nothing more.”

  But he would not be moved. Not yet. “Only criminals meet by shadow of night.”

  “Wren is a friend! One who needs my help. How dare you infer anything other.” Her body writhed with each word. “Now let me go.”

  “Not until I’ve had the whole story.”

  “I told you—”

  Was the woman truly that daft? “Blast it! You saw what happened to Reggie.” He clenched his jaw instead of shaking her like the empty-headed rag doll she playacted. “How am I to keep you safe with a handful of half-truths?”

  Instantly she stilled. The whites of her eyes glistened abnormally white. “Surely what happened last night has nothing to do with me.”

  “Honestly, Miss Payne. This is not a child’s game we’re playing. Why do you think your father hired me in the first place?” He jerked his head toward the spot where she’d been standing only minutes before. “I suppose you didn’t take the time to notice the cutthroat across the road from the cabstand.”

  Her gaze slide past his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t see any…oh my…”

  “And I’ll wager you also didn’t see the blackguard trailing you on your way here, either. What sorry state do you think you’d currently find yourself in had the flash of my pistol muzzle not guarded your steps?”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean you—”

  “I mean you can thank God for waking me when I heard the floorboard squeak outside your chamber door!”

  Her face blanched, gray as the dawning daylight. She tipped her head back until it rested against
the brick wall. Moments passed, as did an early morning carriage behind him, the ground-level fog muffling the grind of the wheels. Perhaps it was a bit much for her to take in, but finally—mayhap—she understood the gravity of her situation. A small victory. Nonetheless, every successful battle, no matter how slight, led to winning the war.

  With a sigh, he released his hold on her and stepped back. “Who is this Wren that so desperately needs your help, enough so that you’d endanger your own life?”

  Once again her gaze darted toward the cabstand, as if by looking the woman might magically reappear. “Wren—Lauren—Hunt was my abigail before Mary. I’ve known her for years. Wren and I practically grew up together.” Her voice softened. Apparently she was very fond of the girl. Then quick as a spring cloudburst, a shadow crossed her face. “She was forced to leave several months ago.”

  “Why?”

  “She is…” Emily’s gaze shot to the ground. “Wren is with child. Because of me.”

  “You?” He snorted. “Hardly possible, and is in fact an impossibility altogether.”

  She snapped her face back to his. “Do not think to school me in the specifics of nature, Mr. Brentwood. Would you have the story or not?”

  He raised both hands. The woman could change emotions faster than a cutpurse in a crowd. “Go on.”

  She took her time gathering the loose ends of her hair, tucking them behind her head, and reseating her hood before she continued. “It was late last summer. We’d just settled at Abingdon, our country home. Father had a guest in for an early season hunt. The weather was hot, oppressively so. I’d ventured out late one evening, seeking air, and Father’s guest, Captain Daggett, chanced upon me—though now I realize it likely wasn’t chance.”

  She paused, her face hardening into a brittle mask. “I managed to fight the man off, but Wren, well…when she came looking for me, Daggett took her instead.”

  Nicholas rubbed his jaw. How much of this was true? He didn’t doubt Emily could scare off a baited bear with her tongue, and the figure she’d met at the stand was with child, as stated. But was Payne such a rogue as to throw out a long-standing servant into the street? “Surely your father—”

  “Father chose to believe Daggett’s pack of lies.” Her tone took on a hard edge—one he hadn’t heard before. “And I suspect were it me instead of Wren, he’d still have sided with the man.” She nodded toward the stand. “That could just as easily be me.”

  The woman ought to be onstage. Drama was in her blood. He shook his head. “You must be mistaken. There’s got to be more to it, reasons your father chose not to share with you.”

  Her gaze locked on to his, resolute and slightly unnerving.

  What he read there chilled him to the marrow. These were no theatrics.

  “Business is my father’s life, Mr. Brentwood. Without money, I daresay he’d stop breathing. Once set on a deal, he’ll allow nothing or no one to alter his plans, whether that means banishing a dear family servant…or his only daughter. Fortunately for me, it didn’t come to that. But sweet Wren—”

  Her voice cracked along the edges, and if the tears shining in her eyes spilled over, he’d rip off his gloves and wipe them away.

  Instead, he simply said, “Thank you.”

  Her brow crumpled. “For what?”

  “Your honesty. Truth is a gem to be admired and very pretty when it comes from your lips.”

  Were the sunrise not obscured by clouds, it would be chastened by the blush rising on her cheeks. This was no pretend pleasure. It was real. Fresh. And entirely alluring. A charge passed between them. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in his gut.

  “Yes…well…” The fine lines of her neck moved as she swallowed. “I’m not usually so candid. Do you have this same effect on criminals?”

  “What effect is that, I wonder?” He tucked his chin and purposely lifted one eyebrow, knowing the result it would have.

  She leaned forward, a breath away. He heard the small sound of her lips parting, but he daren’t lower his gaze to them. Danger didn’t issue only from the barrel of a gun.

  For the good of them both, he retreated a step and pivoted. “We should return.”

  Before she could answer, he set a brisk pace, feeding off her protests to slow up and using her indignation to cool the warmer feelings he ought not entertain. Caring about a client was one thing. Caring for a client was quite another animal altogether.

  Still, she had shown an extra amount of compassion for her former maid. Quite in contradiction to her sometimes shrewish demeanor. Perhaps, underneath it all, she hid more heart than he suspected. Unique thought—one he’d mull over later.

  By the time they reached the townhome door, they both were breathless. She from the insane pace he’d set. He because of the figure stepping from the sheltered nook leading down to the servants’ entrance.

  Perhaps Hope hadn’t been the best choice to name the little urchin, for her appearance meant anything but.

  Chapter 10

  Please, God…grant that I get there in time. Nicholas spent the entire carriage ride from Portman Square to Lombard Street alternating between silent prayer and peppering Hope with questions.

  It was the longest ride of his life.

  Before the hackney wheels stopped turning, Nicholas bounded out the door. Hope’s feet hit the ground behind him. Though still early morning, Lombard Street was in full bloom, which for some odd reason irritated him. The hawkers were too loud. The horse droppings too foul. The world had turned brash and harsh and entirely too precarious. He flipped a coin to the driver without missing a step.

  Ducking into the Crown and Horn, he strode the length of the pub, avoiding eye contact with Meggy Dawkin as she delivered a plate of mutton hash to a customer. Nevertheless, he felt her stare. She wouldn’t condemn him for all to hear. She didn’t have to. The way she thunked the plate onto the table voiced her opinion in no uncertain terms. Mistress Dawkin wanted his sister out of there, and so did he.

  But not in a wooden box.

  He took the stairs two at a time, crediting Hope for the deft way her footsteps tapped behind his. By the time he reached the second-floor corridor, the doctor was already stepping from Jenny’s room. He was a tall man, angular in an almost grotesque way. His black greatcoat shrouded his length like a shadow, an eerie image of the grim reaper.

  Nicholas closed the distance in a heartbeat. “Is she—”

  Dr. Kirby held up a hand. “She’s resting, for now, but she won’t stand another attack. I suggest you say your good-byes.”

  The incendiary words scalded his ears then burned deeper, branding his soul. How exactly did one let go of their last family member? He met Kirby’s even stare. “Is there nothing you can do?”

  Hope hovered at his back, but Nicholas felt his own optimism dwindling as Kirby shook his head.

  “I told you from the start, Brentwood, I’m no miracle worker. Better you bring your requests to God, if you think He’s listening.” The doctor sidestepped him with a nod of his head and an added “good day.”

  Nicholas stood stunned. Of course God was listening—but that didn’t mean God would answer in an agreeable fashion. Sucking in a shaky breath, he twisted the knob and eased open the door. No sense waking Jen if she’d just gotten settled.

  His care was wasted. Her eyelids raised the instant his boot crossed the threshold. Overlarge eyes, framed by gaunt cheekbones, gazed into his. The slow move of her pale fingers drawing up the bedclothes spoke of weariness. The downward slope to her brow, resignation. His chest tightened. He’d seen that look many times on the battlefield and more recently on Reggie.

  He knelt on the cold wooden floor and lifted one of her hands in both of his. His posture mimicked Emily’s from the night before, but hopefully this prayer would see a different result.

  He forced a smile, though likely it looked more like a grimace. “Ahh, my sweet Jen. How are you today, hmm?”

  “Dandy and grand…” She winced. “As a
lways.”

  Her voice was a thread. Thin. Fragile. Instinct urged him to buoy his own with enough strength for the both of them. “I suspect, then, that there shall be no end of the balls I must take you to or the dinners you should like to attend. And the suitors. Well, I suppose I’ll have to beat them away with my tipstaff.”

  Her frail smile disintegrated. “Dear Brother. When shall we stop this masquerade?”

  He swallowed, but it did nothing to relieve the lump in his throat. “Never.”

  The word came out harsher than he intended. Carefully, he tucked her hand beneath the blanket then stood and raked his fingers through his hair. “Two weeks, Jen. Only two, and my employer shall return. I’ll have the money to see you off to the country. You’ll breathe easier there—I know it—and you’ll find that this isn’t a charade after all.”

  He knew he was rambling, but it couldn’t be helped. “You’ll be dandy and grand—” His voice cracked, the following words nothing but a whisper. “As always.”

  Her gaze pierced his soul. “For one who values truth, Brother, you employ a lie with ease.”

  “Jen, I—”

  “Don’t make excuses.” Morning light streamed through the single window, a bright contrast to this deathly conversation. The lone sunbeam slid along her skin-wrapped bones like a knife, cutting and severe. Already she looked like a cadaver.

  “Allow me this moment to speak my heart, for I may not have many more. I shall miss you, dearly, but please understand, I am going to a better place. A place I want to be.” She paused, her chest riffling the blanket with her quickened breaths. “Let me go, Nicholas.”

  He clenched his hands into rock-hard fists. God help the next criminal that crossed his path, for this depth of emotion could not be contained for long. It wasn’t fair. None of it. He should’ve died a hundred times over for his wicked ways, not her.

  “I should like to rest now.” Her voice was a fragment of a whisper, barely pulling him from his thoughts. Slowly, her eyelids closed.

  “Of course.” He bent, kissing her brow as a benediction, unable to keep from wondering if it would be the last time. “Sleep sweet.”