Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  Not now, though. He clenched his jaw and pushed open the shop door. The scent of cigar smoke floated above the earthy tones of coffee and chocolate. For a brief moment, he allowed the aroma to work its magic and loosen the tight muscles in his shoulders; then he handed over their penny entrance fee.

  Emily touched her fingers to her nose. Apparently the smell didn’t appeal, which made her request even more curious than the silence he experienced on the ride over. The refusal at Asprey’s had shaken her in a way he didn’t understand.

  Nor could he grasp her sudden urge to risk her reputation for the sake of a cup of hot chocolate or mug of coffee. Each morning he’d taken breakfast with her, Emily barely sipped half a cup of either. Something else was afoot—something she’d not own up to—so he’d have to let it play out. He doubted very much, though, that it had anything to do with an education in politics or bookselling, which was most often the case with these patrons. He studied her as she scanned the room then lowered her hand to reveal a small smile.

  Ahh, that explained it. Intrigue had everything to do with this stop.

  He chased her skirt as she wove past small tables and paused at one midway across the room. Horrendous position to defend, but all the perimeter seats were filled. Worse, every eye was drawn to the arrival of a female—one of only three in the room, unless servers were counted.

  Charles Henley rose from his chair and leaned toward Emily, closer than decorum dictated. He snatched her hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed his lips against her glove longer than customary.

  Stepping up behind her, Nicholas scowled at the man. “Henley.”

  The man’s gaze lifted. Slowly, he released his hold on Emily’s fingers. “Brentwood…I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Funny. You don’t seem a bit amazed to see Miss Payne.”

  Adjacent him, and still seated, Millie Barker beamed. “Oh, Mr. Brentwood, Emily, what a surprise!”

  “Isn’t it?” Emily flashed him a smile over her shoulder. “What luck!”

  A groan surfaced at the back of Nicholas’s throat. This explained the flurry of couriers Flannery reported going in and out of Portman Square yesterday. How many missives had it taken to arrange this meeting?

  Henley was quick to pull out the empty chair to his right and offer it to Emily. The only seat left to him, then, was between Millie and her aunt, who dozed, chin to chest. The drone of a dozen conversations took the edge off the woman’s snores; still, each inhale was thick and snorty. Some chaperone. He slid out a chair of his own, giving credence to the rumors he’d heard of Millie’s exploits. Mr. Barker ought to invest in a guardian of his own for the woman.

  Gritting his teeth, he ordered chocolate for Emily and something stronger for himself. He’d never frequented this particular shop but hoped their coffee was a kick in the head. He’d need it to survive this little tryst. Narrowing his eyes at Emily, he frowned. He never should’ve given in to coming here in the first place.

  Millie bent toward him, eyelashes aflutter. “What a delight to see you, Mr. Brentwood.”

  He leaned back, better to view Emily and Henley but with the added bonus of evading Millie. “I didn’t realize literature or politics was your game, Miss Barker.”

  “Hmm?” Her smile grew, the slight movement of her lips setting the feather atop her hat bobbing slightly.

  “A coffee shop is the least likely place I’d expect to find a woman for it is most often visited by those interested in partisan discourse or the bantering of philosophical ideas.” He cocked his head. “And you don’t strike me as one with such interests…unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  She leaned closer. “Oh, Mr. Brentwood, I’d tell you anything.”

  It took every muscle in his body to keep from rolling his eyes.

  “Though I must say it’s nothing like that.” She giggled then nodded at her snoozing chaperone without varying her gaze from his face. “Aunt here was positively in need of refreshment, for as you can see, she tires easily, poor dear. Our carriage happened to be passing by, and so I thought we should stop. Kind of a novelty experience, you see. Imagine my surprise when Mr. Henley hailed us to his table.”

  “Happened by, eh?” he asked Millie but kept his focus entirely on Emily and Henley. Millie’s flirtatious conduct paled in comparison to Emily’s, for she employed hers in a more subtle way. The tilt of her head, the parted lips, a coy smile—he sucked in a breath. Why she felt she’d needed that gewgaw at Asprey’s to make herself more appealing was a mystery. If Henley’s lips weren’t shut, his tongue would loll out of his mouth like the dog he was.

  “Truth be told, I’ve never actually been to a coffee shop, Mr. Brentwood.” Millie’s voice was a gnat in his ear.

  “But you have, am I correct, Mr. Henley?” His question pulled the man’s gaze off Emily and landed it squarely on him. A cheap victory but worth every cent.

  “Of course. During the day I frequent the usual haunts, but at night…” A slow grin bared Henley’s teeth.

  “Wherever you go, sir, I am sure you add much to the conversation.” Emily’s words puffed out the man’s chest a full two inches before he turned his face to her.

  Henley leaned in so close, his breath ruffled the fine hairs at her temples. “I excel in conversation, among other things.”

  A sudden urge to deliver a right uppercut tingled through Nicholas’s fingers. Though he understood Emily’s precarious social standing—more so now than ever—that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Or Henley.

  Next to him, Millie tucked up a curl of stray hair then trailed her hand down the curve of her neck, around to her collarbone, where her fingers settled on the bodice of her gown—a move that couldn’t have been carried out better by a strumpet in an East End brothel.

  “Oh!” Her fingertips fluttered at the crest of her bosom. “My brooch…it’s gone!”

  “How horrible. Do you think it was stolen?” Emily’s sentiment was true enough. Her timing and tone, questionable. Henley said nothing.

  “Yes! Oh, it’s so clear to me now.” Millie answered after a perfect pause—too perfect. “I believe my brooch was stolen. It must’ve happened back on Oxford Street when Aunt and I encountered a street beggar. Mr. Brentwood…”

  Her hand flew to his sleeve. He stared her down.

  “Emily’s told me of your strong sense of justice. I daresay you could right this in an instant. Would you accompany me? I’m certain Mr. Henley and Emily wouldn’t mind our absence. Nor would Aunt.”

  If he didn’t stop this now, Millie’s dramatics and Henley’s advances would steal any pleasure he might find in the mug of coffee headed his way. He removed Millie’s hand from his arm. “No need, Miss Barker.”

  “No need?” Her brow wrinkled, causing the feather on her hat to startle. “Whatever do you mean?”

  At long last, the serving girl delivered a cup first to Emily then to him. He downed a big swallow before answering Millie, singeing his tongue in the process and glad for the pain. “If indeed your brooch was stolen, the thief would have already hocked it down at St. Gile’s, though I doubt very much it was pinched in the first place. Unless you happened to embrace said beggar, I should think you’d notice so close an encounter.”

  Millie’s lips tightened into a line, not nearly as pretty as one of Emily’s pouting poses—and for some reason, that pleased him.

  He nodded toward the door. “I suggest you search your carriage floor, Miss Barker. Most likely it fell during the process of getting in or out.”

  Millie exchanged a glance with Emily. A storm raged in her blue eyes then just as suddenly, calmed, and she tipped her face back to his. “Why, you’re a genius, Mr. Brentwood. I feel sure with your sharp eye helping me, we’ll find my brooch in no time. My carriage is just outside.”

  This time when she leaned toward him, she twisted in such a way that the fabric parted, giving him a most advantageous view of her bosom.

  “Shall
we?” She rose slightly, leveling her chest even with his eyes.

  Sighing, he set down his mug, coffee sloshing over the rim. “Do sit down, Miss Barker, and describe for me your brooch.”

  For a moment, her lips pursed, and then she sank. Slowly. He fixed his gaze on her face instead of her provocative movements, all the while keeping Henley within his line of sight. If the rogue nudged his chair any closer to Emily’s, he’d acquaint the man’s skull with the metal end of his tipstaff.

  “My brooch is gold, naturally, about a finger span in width. There’s a flower at center, a ruby in its middle. Two turquoise-studded flowers sit on each side. It’s really very pretty. Scrolled leaves cover the entire piece like this.” She traced a loopy pattern in the air with her finger.

  She needn’t have. Her words confirmed his suspicion without further embellishment. He lifted his cup and swallowed a few good gulps before answering. “Your description has revised my opinion of the matter.”

  Millie’s brow crumpled, and Emily cut in: “Really, Mr. Brentwood. The chivalrous thing to do would be to help, not simply change your mind.”

  “Chivalrous, yes, but necessary?” He turned to Emily. “No.”

  “Here, here!” Henley said, raising his cup. “Chivalry is overrated.”

  “Not my meaning at all, Henley, though I don’t suppose you know the definition of the word in the first place.”

  Emily gasped.

  Henley merely smirked, the action narrowing his eyes…or did he do that purposely? “You’re not so scrupulous yourself.”

  Nicholas stiffened. What dirt did this snake in the grass think he’d make public? But ladies first. He turned to Millie. “Lest you think I’m heartless, Miss Barker, I believe your brooch is at home. A piece of that magnitude would leave quite a visible pinhole in the tight weave of your dress. I see no such evidence. It may be that you intended to wear it but simply forgot and left it on your nightstand.”

  Her cheeks flamed as he nodded toward her chest. Were it anyone but Millie Barker, he’d suspect embarrassment as the cause. In her case, it was probably because her plans had been thwarted.

  Shifting his attention, he sliced a deadly gaze at Henley, sharpening each word like a blade’s edge on a whetstone. “Now then, Mr. Henley, what would you know about morals, mine or otherwise?”

  Millie’s head reared back, eyes wide, ears likely wider. Emily babbled about weather and carriage traffic, throwing out one trivial bone after another.

  But a dog’s fangs, once bared, were not easily diverted from a bite. From her angle, Emily couldn’t see the tightening of Henley’s jaw, but Nicholas didn’t miss it.

  Henley faced him squarely across the table. “I’m not the buffoon you think I am, Brentwood. I’ve studied you with as much finesse as you track my every move. I’d wager your sudden appearance while Payne is gone is no accident. I don’t believe for a minute you’re here to lift the prospects of the man’s business.”

  Henley leaned forward, his voice low and even, meant for him alone. “You’re here to lift the skirts of the man’s daughter.”

  Nicholas seized Henley’s collar and hauled the man to his feet. The table tipped sideways. Their chairs crashed. And then…silence.

  All eyes trained on them. Whispers rustled in the corners of the room, like dead leaves skittering across cobbles. Aunt, coffee in her lap, was wide-awake now.

  Henley’s face turned purple. His fingers clawed at Nicholas’s grip. He’d pass out soon if Nicholas didn’t loosen his hold—not that he wasn’t tempted. Whether Millie had asked for it or not, Charles Henley had already ruined her. Emily would not be his next conquest, if he had any say in the matter.

  But not if he ended the man’s life here and now.

  Henley’s body started to sag.

  God, help me.

  “Let him go!” Millie shrieked and slapped at his arm.

  Nicholas shoved the man away. Henley toppled backward, landing with a satisfying thud on his backside. Twisting on the floorboards, he turned aside and coughed until he retched. Nicholas brushed his hands, content with his work.

  But satisfaction vanished the instant Emily turned on him.

  The clear brown of her eyes changed to the angry, muddied waters of the Thames. Her disgust tore at him, her rage drowned the last breath from his lungs.

  “How dare you!” Her voice was as dark as night.

  He clutched his hands into fists, helpless against the sudden realization that thunked low in his gut. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not here.

  Not now.

  “Out! Get out!” A knife-wielding shopkeeper burst from a back doorway. “Take your fighting to Gentleman Jim’s or I’ll call a constable!”

  Irony tasted bitter in Nicholas’s mouth as he tipped his hat in compliance. He was a lawman.

  And he was in love with the woman who gaped at him with hatred.

  Chapter 17

  Bracing both feet against the sides of the carriage door, Emily gripped the handle with a death hold. If Nicholas Brentwood thought she’d allow him a cushy ride home after ruining her life, the insufferable man could just think again. Crouching inside the carriage in a most unladylike fashion, she pulled so hard her fingers were beyond aching—they were numb.

  Outside, Nicholas bellowed, “For the last time, open this door, or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Choke me like you did Mr. Henley? You can walk. Drive on, Mr. Wilkes!”

  The carriage didn’t move. Hadn’t Wilkes heard her orders? Maybe her guardian had him writhing on the ground as well.

  “Do you have any idea how much attention this is attracting?” Nicholas’s voice was a growl, low, threatening….

  And likely correct. Horrid man. She could only imagine the onlookers gaping in a semicircle outside the carriage. Theatrics attracted more crowds than a hat sale.

  But just as in netting a bargain, timing was everything. She tightened her grip. The muscles in her arms quivered with the strain.

  “So be it.” Nicholas’s voice was lethal—as would be his next tug on the door.

  Listening with her whole body, Emily heard him shift his weight, plant his feet, and then—

  She let go.

  The door flew open. Nicholas stumbled backward, plowing into the spectators.

  For the first time since her life ended moments ago at the Chapter Coffee House, Emily smiled. Then she turned and scooted to the farthest side of the carriage. Smoothing her skirts, she sank into the seat and gazed out the window, pretending she was alone. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could even pretend Millie wouldn’t gossip and Henley would overlook the entire incident.

  The carriage tilted to the side as Nicholas climbed in. The wheeze of the seat across from her suggested he’d sat. A latch clicked, and her head jerked as the wheels began to eat ground.

  “Emily, I—”

  “Do not presume to call me by my Christian name, sir.”

  His coat rustled as he shifted. “I merely want to—”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss it.” She clipped out each word, like scissors snipping holes in a paper.

  Nicholas’s sigh filled the carriage, expanding to envelop all of London by its enormity. The seat creaked, and she couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like he turned his head to look out the opposite window, completely dismissing her.

  Which annoyed her even more. Giving up the silent treatment, she turned to him. “I don’t know how you can sit there so calmly, knowing you nearly killed a man and ruined my life, all within the space of an instant.”

  “Your life is hardly ruined, Miss Payne.”

  “Then allow me to make things plain to you, Mr. Brentwood.” She spit out his name as prickly as he’d stabbed the air with hers.

  He didn’t even blink.

  By faith, he was bold! How dare he look so unperturbed—and handsome, which pushed her anger to a whole new level.

  “Millie will spread this from Mayfair to St. Martin’s before we get to P
ortman Square. Mr. Henley won’t give me a second look at the Garveys’ ball next week, nor will any other man if he’s to expect a sound beating from you as the result. Why, I’ve never been so mortified in all my life. And when my father gets home—”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it!”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Your smugness is rivaled only by your callousness. I don’t expect you to understand my situation, but you could at least show a little compassion.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, his gaze holding hers. It took him a full minute to speak. “Truly, I am sorry for the embarrassment I caused you. I let my anger get the best of me—a foe I’ve not completely mastered. Thankfully, God is patient. I pray you will be, as well.”

  His apology chipped away the sharp edges of her resolve. His soft, green gaze sanded it smoother. She straightened each finger of her gloves before answering. No sense letting him think he’d won so easily. “Fine. Apology accepted. Still…” She matched his earlier sigh. “Mr. Henley may never approach me now, not after this.”

  A muscle moved on his jaw. “One can hope.”

  “He is my best prospect!”

  “But he’s not your only prospect.” Nicholas leaned forward, as if by proximity he might drive home his words. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment. Do not run headlong through a door that will lock tight behind you, without first discovering what’s on the other side.”

  The truth was loud in the space between them. His words echoed what Bella had warned her against. A queer jolt ran from shoulder to shoulder. Was that really what she was doing? What did she know of Henley, now that she thought upon it? What if he really was as lecherous as Captain Daggett?

  Thunder shook the carriage, and she grabbed the seat’s edge for support. Impossible. Sunlight yet streamed through the window. Had they collided with another carriage?

  Nicholas banged on the carriage wall. “Wilkes, is there a problem?”

  Outside, a man’s cry answered—followed by a rough “Hyah” and crack of a whip. The carriage picked up speed, much too fast for a London street. Had highwaymen now taken to attacking city folk?