Slowly, a grin slashed across his face. “Ah, my dear, it pains me, this sudden coldness you own. Perhaps I ought to warm you up.”
A queer glimmer shone in his eyes. Either the moon had finally risen to such a slant as to drop in a spare glow of light into the alcove—or an intent she’d rather deny simmered within him.
She shoved him with both hands. Still, his grip would not lessen. “I will have none of it. And I will have none of you! If you don’t let me go, I shall scream.”
“Such a feisty kitten!” His grin widened. “But hear me out. Millie did, and to her benefit, I might add.”
Not that she’d completely doubted the rumor of a tryst between Millie and Henley, but what had any of this to do with her? Emily scowled. “I don’t understand.”
“You see, my sweet, there’s a reason I’ve avoided the matrimonial noose thus far.” Henley’s free hand lowered to his pantaloons.
Emily’s heart stopped. Surely this wasn’t happening.
“I find that women long for financial security much more ardently than a simple band on their third finger. A lifetime pension need not be restricted by fidelity. I intend to make you my mistress. You’ll be well cared for. Is that clear enough?”
“No!” She sucked in a breath then yelled even louder. “Stop!”
“Don’t bother playing the innocent. The secret is out about your cousin. What you see in Brentwood baffles me to no end.” The moon’s light broke over the top of the hedges in full, lighting Henley’s skin to a deadly gray. “I don’t understand the ruse, my dear, but I should like a turn at the game you play so deftly with Brentwood.”
Her heart was loud in her ears, each beat dredging up memories she thought she’d drowned. Panic choked her, blocking out all but a ragged whisper. “What game?”
“This one.”
The back of her head smashed onto the cold bench seat. And then he was atop her, his body a sword, all edges and violence.
“No!” She screamed a dark, throaty roar.
Henley merely laughed. “Holler all you like. I rather like it. Besides, your runner’s not around to defend your reputation this time. I believe Millie has him occupied.”
As her skirt slipped up, her panic sunk deeper. Fabric ripped. So did her last remaining hope.
And she suddenly understood exactly how Wren had felt last summer.
Nicholas held the chair aloft, gripping the back so tight his fingers turned numb. Behind him, chatter from passing couples filtered into the small sitting area, each female giggle a reminder that Emily was out there. Somewhere. He narrowed his eyes at the raven-headed tart in front of him. “If this is a ruse, Miss Barker, I swear I’ll—”
“Do you really think I’d trifle with an officer of the law?” She lobbed the question like a grenade then stepped toward him, eyes glimmering. Her red lips pulled into a pout—but not sullen or innocent. It was a sultry pucker, one only a trollop could perfect.
For the moment, he dropped the chair. Wooden legs thudded onto carpet, wobbled, then stilled. Though the timing wasn’t his choosing, he discarded the guise of being Emily’s cousin with as much relief as stepping out of a pair of leg shackles. “What do you know?”
“Ahh, so I finally have your attention, do I, Mr. Brentwood…Bow Street Runner?” Her lips flattened into a sneer. “You’re less than a commoner. I can’t believe I was ever interested in you.”
“And I am not interested in your opinion.” He sidestepped the chair and stalked toward her. Grabbing her shoulders, he barely restrained the urge to shake her. “I care only for the facts, and so I repeat, what is it you know?”
“Such violence, sir.” Her eyes slid from one of his hands to the other, then she lifted her face and smiled in full. “I rather like it.”
He dropped his hands, but not without curling them into fists at his side. This woman was more vexing—and dangerous—than Emily.
Millie craned her neck past his shoulder then crooked a finger at him. “Come. Why don’t you pull up that chair, and I’ll tell you a little story.”
Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. He didn’t have time for this. Emily still needed to be accounted for, though as long as she was with Mr. Henley, he supposed she was likely protected from abduction by Nash. Somewhat, at any rate. And Millie’s eyes did gleam with a knowledge she ought not possess.
“As I’ve said, I think you’ll want to hear this.” Millie’s voice cut into his mental debate. “Unless Emily’s father is of no importance to you.”
He grabbed the chair and set it opposite the table where Millie sat like a queen about to behead a subject. Her jasmine perfume, overdone to the point of irritating his nose, disgusted him to the same extent Emily’s lily scent pleased him.
“Make this quick, if you please.” He sat so forcefully, the table jittered, rattling a crystal vase and sending ripples through the rose petals.
Slowly, Millie ran a manicured nail across her lips. “No small talk, no sweet nothings, no…soft words before the act, hmm?”
On the streets, he frequently encountered women such as this. The only thing that made Millie different was the grand trappings with which she operated. A scowl was his only response.
“Hmm, I daresay you’re as puritanical as Aunt.” She toyed with a loose curl near the nape of her neck. “You’ve already met my father, but I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my grandfather…on my mother’s side, that is. His name is Lowick. Mr. George Lowick.”
Lowick? The name landed like a handful of rocks thrown into a pond, agitating a hundred memories, until at last one single ripple lapped up to shore.
“The newspaper mogul?” he asked.
“The very same.” When she nodded, sconce light brushed over her face in such a way that the angle of her nose, the tilt of her brow, agreed with her claim. She did, indeed, resemble a much younger and feminine version of Lowick.
“Go on,” he said.
“Apparently there’s quite the story soon to print. Something about a certain body found hanging from the rafters over on the Wapping Wharves. One of Grandfather’s newsmen took an interest in it.” While she spoke, she wrapped then rewrapped the coil of black hair around her finger. A nervous reaction, but not enough to indicate lying.
Yet.
He cocked his head. “Bodies in that part of town are tuppence a dozen. Why would a newsman take note of some bloated cadaver?”
“Mr. Nibbens, or Nibbs as Grandfather calls him, has been investigating a ring of resurrection men. I suppose a man in your profession would be familiar with that trade. At any rate, these body snatchers operate near the old Skerry warehouses, and so it was strange that a fine, fresh body hadn’t been sold when all it would’ve taken was a swipe of a knife to the rope.” She shrugged, as if the import of her words had nothing to do with a man who’d lived and breathed and loved. “The corpse ended up over at the Plank Street Dead House, all parts attached and intact…even the teeth. Kind of you to identify the fellow.”
He narrowed his eyes, the merry sounds of the Garveys’ ball receding.
“It’s too bad, really. Your intelligence intrigues me, your skill at subterfuge, as well. And your strength…” She leaned forward, reaching across the small table to trace little loop-de-loops on his arm. “Positively delicious. I suppose I could lower my standards for one night.”
He shot to his feet. Emily was light and air compared to this death trap in a dress. “You’ve not told me anything I don’t already know, Miss Barker. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have—”
“Oh, sit down. I’m not going to bite you.” She leaned back in her chair and shook her head, her ringlet dangling like a noose. “La, such a man of business. I haven’t finished my story yet. I should think you would want to hear the rest.”
Duty weighed heavy on his shoulders, pressing down, smothering. But where exactly did his duty lie? With the deceased Mr. Payne or the out-of-sight Emily? He folded his arms and planted his feet.
; “Quite the warrior stance, sir.” Millie’s eyes raked over him. “Ah well, it’s to be expected, I suppose, from a man like you.”
“Just finish your tale, Miss Barker.”
“Very well,” she sniffed. “Besides a cultivated relationship with all the mortuary clerks in the city, Nibbs has ties to the underworld. Acquaintances that a lawman such as yourself couldn’t make. Too risky. Smugglers tend to shy away from men with tipstaffs.” Her eyes slipped to his waist then returned to his face. “Though I don’t see any bulges on you tonight. Pity.”
Nicholas frowned. “You know an inordinate amount of seamy information for a lady.”
“One of my specialties…among others.”
Beauty, wealth, and corrupt to the core. He swallowed back scorn and measured out his words. “Miss Barker, either you get to your point, or I’m leaving.”
“Very well.” She sighed. “Nibbs is tied up with his resurrection story, but Grandfather tells me an investigation will be made into the possibility of Mr. Payne’s dalliance with smugglers.”
Unfolding his arms, Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. It was a small bone she’d thrown—one easily verified by Moore. Her tidbit didn’t surprise him nearly as much as the source. “Why would your grandfather tell you that?”
“He didn’t. Not outright.” Her smile grew. “Nibbs isn’t the only one with connections. I intend on marrying well, Mr. Brentwood, and knowledge is power. I gather it where and when I can, and I use it as efficiently as you might wield a pistol.”
He thinned his lips into a sharp-edged grimace. “Women like you sicken me.”
Her smile vanished. She rose and stepped toward him like a black cloud about to burst. Anger flashed in her eyes. “And women like your simpering Emily Payne sicken me. The more fools like her that I crush on my upward path, the better. The nerve of her leading me to believe you were her cousin. Her father is dead, and I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her!”
Millie’s words spread like a cancer in his bones. He should’ve told Emily, despite Ford’s urgings. He should’ve borne her grief, lent his shoulders to her tears. He clenched his jaw so tight, it crackled. What had he done? If Emily heard of her father’s death from Millie, the blow would not be kind.
It would be deadly.
The victory in Millie’s tipped chin and bright eyes was too much to bear. Rage boiled deep in his gut. He flexed his fingers, keeping them from curling tight. He should count before he spoke…one to keep it civil, two to keep from wringing Millie’s neck, three to—
Forget it. He stepped toward her. “If you breathe one word about this to Emily, I swear to God it will be your last.”
Millie lifted her face to his, standing so close her skirt hem brushed against his legs. No fear lit her violet eyes. Only guile. “You don’t strike me as the type to seriously harm a woman, Mr. Brentwood. You’ve not got it in you.” She shook her head. “Too gallant.”
With a growl, he shoved her back, pinning her against the wall. Sconce glasses chattered like teeth. “Grand thoughts toward someone who’s less than a commoner, wouldn’t you say?” He kept his voice low and hard. “You’re right, though. I wouldn’t hurt you, not personally. I’d have you locked up. I hear hell’s a kinder home than the bowels of Newgate Prison.”
Her throat bobbed, and finally—finally—a shadow of terror snuffed out the gleam in her eyes. “Let me go!”
Funny how the pleasure he expected to feel withered into shame.
He dropped his hands and retreated then wheeled about before leaving. “Tell me, Miss Barker, for I am curious. What did you hope to gain by informing me of all this?”
She stood where he’d left her. But slowly, as she stepped from the wall, an interesting transformation took place. Her smile returned. The tilt of her head, the lift of her shoulders, all spoke of renewed confidence. And if he looked closely enough, he thought he detected a bounce in her step.
Her pretty lips opened like a grave and issued a single word. “Time.”
Time? What was that supposed to mean? Her answer echoed through his head like the slamming of a door in an empty house. She’d hoped to gain nothing but—
His blood ran cold. He’d been duped.
Nicholas fled the room and tore down the corridor, ignoring the huffs he left in his wake. How many precious minutes had he wasted? A quick sweep of the first level turned up no golden gown. He took the stairs three at a time and burst into the ballroom. Those nearest the door gaped at him upon his entrance; those farther when he skirted the room. He was a beast, circling in a cage of preening birds, none of which wore the bright gilt of Emily’s skirts.
“Mr. Brentwood?”
Bella’s voice halted him. He paused long enough to ask, “Have you seen Miss Payne or Mr. Henley?”
“No.” A fine gathering of lines troubled the skin on her brow. “You don’t think—”
Her voice faded as he dashed out the door and down the stairs, darted through the sitting room, and sprinted onto the veranda. Everything in him wanted to cry out Emily’s name, hear her answer, but he stopped and stood dead still. The few couples dotting the terrace already slanted curious glances his way.
To his right, along the side of the mansion, was a vast courtyard, unlit and uninhabited. Directly ahead, paths stretched into blackness. Every nerve on edge, he blocked out the party chatter and listened to the sounds of the night, staring into the darkness, and—
Nothing.
No sinister shadows crept about in the dark. No screams of panic rent the air above the music filtering out from the Garveys’ mansion. His shoulders sagged, as did his spirits. She wasn’t here. Emily was gone. And if she’d been taken out the front, off the property, only God knew where she was. He lifted his face to a sky spread with stars and a moon that saw all.
But God, You see more. Show me where she is. Wisdom, Lord. I ask for Your wisdom.
He hoped that wisdom would come on the fly, for he had no further time to remain idle. Sighing, he pivoted toward the open veranda door and—stopped, inhaling deeply. A faint scent of lily of the valley wafted on the night air.
A flower whose blooms had already withered for the season.
Chapter 22
Nicholas spun and sprinted to the edge of the veranda, not caring what the other couples on the terrace thought of his bizarre behavior. Three main paths, like spokes on a wheel, branched off the rounded platform, each leading into a different maze of hedges. All were unlit, rife with sinister possibilities. Which one to choose?
“Emily!”
Her name scraped out his throat in a voice barely recognizable as his own. Behind him, drifting out the open windows, the vibrato of violas and cellos skipped from string to string. To his side, a few murmurs of “poor man” or “what’s he about?” added to the noise. All masked any cry that Emily might have issued.
He leaped down the few stairs, chose a trail at random—the closest—and bent to study the walkway. It was pea gravel, lined by bricks set in a sawtooth pattern. Indents troubled the surface at regular intervals, wide set and deep. A man, or a very tall, heavyset woman had last traversed this path, neither of which described Emily.
Unless the man had carried her.
Filing away the possibility, he dashed to the center path and stooped yet again. Footprints pitted the pebbles in a similar pattern. Yet next to those depressions, the gravel blurred into two scattered ruts, a curious combination of dragging and scampering.
And not nearly so deep.
His shoes kicked up a spray of rock as he launched down the center trail.
He left behind torchlight and safety. Ahead, a light-colored flash peeked out from the hedges a little below waist level and then disappeared just as quickly. Was it a signal? A warning? A discreet plea for help?
Slowing, he blended into the backdrop of boxwood. Millie had been right about one thing. He carried no tipstaff tonight. Stepping onto the brick edging to eliminate the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes, he pulled
out a dagger tucked inside his waistcoat.
As he crept, the sound of labored breathing traveled on the air. A man’s grunts. A woman’s whimpers. His fingers wrapped tight around the hilt. Whether he surprised a young couple in the throes of passion or had indeed discovered his missing ward, the act he was about to interrupt would not end well.
When he finally gained a view into the moonlit alcove, he paused. A dark dress coat lay discarded on the ground, a sateen waistcoat pooled upon it. Bare legs, likely what he’d seen kick out, were now trapped beneath a man—a sandy-haired man who straddled a wriggling woman. One of his hands covered her mouth. The other tugged at his unbuttoned trousers. Golden fabric bunched around the woman’s hips below him.
Rage quivered along each of Nicholas’s nerves. This would not end well at all.
Shoving his knife back inside his vest, he then stowed his anger as well. If either remained in his grasp, he’d kill Henley—not that he couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t anyway.
God, help me.
He sprung from the shadows and grabbed Henley’s shoulders from behind. In one swift move, he whumped Henley to the ground and threw all his weight atop him. Shock widened Henley’s eyes an instant before Nicholas smashed his fist into his face. Never had the crunch of bone and snap of cartilage sounded sweeter. Slick warmth coated his knuckles as he pounded him again. Henley’s body slackened. The assault didn’t. The filthy cully deserved every bit of a sound beating and—
“Nicholas!”
Emily’s voice shattered his concentration like a rock through a window, jolting him to awareness. Lungs heaving, he stood and staggered back. Retrieving the man’s cast-off waistcoat, he wiped the blood from his swollen fingers then threw the fabric down and turned to Emily.
She stood, arms wrapped tight around her waist, huddled to the side of the alcove. One sleeve hung loose, ripped at the shoulder seams, the other was gone completely. Her pearl coronet was missing as well, and her golden hair hung wild to her elbows. Moonlight glistened on the single teardrop sliding down her cheek.
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