“Quite honestly…” She started slow, her words picking up speed as she spoke. “I have no idea who my real father is. I was raised as Mr. Payne’s daughter, for he dearly loved my mother, so much that no one suspected she’d carried anyone’s child but his own. Oh, he loved her all right, but the truth is—” Her lips flattened into a straight line. “He never loved me.”
“How can you say that?” He raked a hand through his hair, though the action did nothing to reconcile her twisted logic. “The man hired me, for more than a fair amount, to see to your safety. That hardly sounds like the action of a man who doesn’t care.”
“He wasn’t protecting me. He was protecting his name.” She flourished her fingers through the air. “The grand Payne family legacy.”
“Come again?” Leaning back, he watched her, closely, grateful for the streetlamps now adding an extra measure of brightness through the coach windows. From the flash of light to shadow and back again, he searched for any hesitation, the slightest bit of nervousness—a twitch or tic. Any movement out of character that would brand her a liar.
She swept away the loose curl with one hand, but before she spoke, it sprang back again. Was everything about the woman wild and defiant? “The world knows me as Emily Payne, daughter of the illustrious and wealthy merchant Alistair Payne. I am his only heir, albeit counterfeit, so how would it look if he didn’t show some responsibility toward me? Though I suspected all that would change soon enough should the recently widowed Mrs. Nevens have returned his ardor and conceived him a son. Only Uncle Reggie hindered that plan. He and my father may have been business partners, but they were rivals concerning that woman.”
“If what you say is true—” He held up a hand, stopping her rebuttal. “I’m not saying it isn’t, but if you are not the man’s offspring, then I don’t understand why he claimed you in the first place. You once told me all he cared about was business.”
A sad smile—or was it a grimace?—pulled at the edges of her mouth. “As I’ve said, because of my mother. She was the one thing he cherished above money. On her deathbed, she made him promise to look after me as his own. And he did…materialistically. Nothing more. So forgive me if I do not cry a thousand tears of grief for a man who was little more than the business manager of my life. And believe me—” Glistening eyes belied her brave words. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “It wasn’t for lack of trying to make him care. He was the only father I’d ever known, and I dearly wanted him to love me.”
He saw her clearly, then. Like the air cleared of soot by a fresh rain. The confident woman sitting before him, the feisty Emily Payne, was nothing more than a little girl looking for affection. Nicholas sucked in a breath, so stunning was the revelation. Indeed, she’d spoken more than truth. She’d bared a glimpse into her soul.
To him.
He reached for her, every inch of his skin yearning to pull her close. Shelter her. Show her that despite her father, she was worthy of love—and indeed, had garnered all he had to give.
But he pulled back his hand. After what she’d been through with Henley, he’d be a rogue to act in the same manner. So he simply said, “I’m sorry.”
And he was. Sorry that the most important man in her life had shunned her. Sorry her future teetered on a precipice. Sorry that the thought of kissing her overruled common sense and decency.
“Don’t be.” She looked out the window with a sigh. “It’s the way of the world.”
Her voice wore all the starkness of bones left to bleach in the sun. Abandoned. Dead. His heart broke at the sound.
“No one escapes this life without scars, Miss Payne. Not even God.” He kept his tone even and soft. Not that he could heal her hurts, but he knew the One who could. How would she receive it, though?
Slowly, she turned her face to his, one fine brow arched.
It was all the permission he needed to continue. “How you grew up, the coldness of the only father you ever knew, it wasn’t right. And it didn’t go unseen. You will face your Father one day, your true Father. And I can promise you this: He will welcome you with open arms if you but turn to Him now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You speak as if I am nothing more than an upset child.”
“Is that not what you are?”
Though she didn’t think it possible, a flood of new tears burned Emily’s eyes. Her heart beat loud in her ears. Nicholas’s question pinned her in place, every part of her, like a butterfly skewered onto a display board. The turn of this conversation required a toll she wasn’t entirely sure she could pay, and by this point, she had no more reserve from which to draw.
He was right of course. Mostly. Upset was too small a word to cover the broad river of emotions flowing through her. But one thing was for sure—
She’d never felt more of a child than now.
Her gaze lowered from his eyes to the strong cut of his jaw, traveled past his broad expanse of shoulders, and rested upon his chest. His black waistcoat, once so becoming and stylish, was unbuttoned and torn. The shirt beneath, splattered with blood. Truly, it ought repulse her, yet there was nowhere on earth she’d rather rest her cheek right now. If she could lay her head there, for only a few minutes, would everything be made right?
And if she did as he said and turned to God, would heavenly arms wrap around her?
The carriage jolted out of a rut, flopping the runaway piece of hair back into her eyes. Gathering the loose curls together with one hand, she pulled it all back from her brow and looked him full in the face. She’d think on all he’d said…but not now. “We are not speaking of me, but of my father. So now it’s your turn, Mr. Brentwood. Tell me what happened. How did he die?”
He cocked his head. “You still refer to him as father, though I know the truth?”
She did. She would. For always. She owed him that, at least. “The man may not have loved me, but he did provide for me. I will honor that as much in his death as I did while he yet breathed. What…why are you smiling?”
The gleam of Nicholas’s teeth brightened the dark. “You are an enigma. You know that, don’t you?”
She frowned. “And you are evading my question.”
“If nothing else, you are determined. I’ll give you that.” Nicholas scrubbed a hand over his face then sighed. “I am still trying to piece together all the snippets of facts concerning your father’s death, which is why Chief Magistrate Ford suggested I not inform you in the first place. Suffice it to say, you may take heart in knowing that your father’s end was relatively swift.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“No, it does not.” His eyes glimmered with knowledge—much more than he spoke—yet his lips pressed tight. Was he trying to safeguard her…or himself?
“I was honest with you, sir. The least you can do is the same.” A fishwife couldn’t have sounded more bitter. How on earth did he evoke such extremes in her?
He lifted his chin and looked down his nose. A fine, strong nose. It annoyed her that he could sit there and look so confident, so…handsome. And it annoyed her further that she noticed.
“I assure you,” his voice lowered, “I am being quite forthright.”
She threw up her hands. “But you’ve not told me any details!”
A smile spread across his face, and he leaned toward her. “Did you know that your nostrils flare quite prettily when you’re angry?”
“And your eyes flash a brilliant green when you’re resolved to keep information to yourself.” The carriage slowed. Her heart rate didn’t. Frustrating man! “If you think you can charm your way out of this, sir, then you don’t know me half as well as you credit your powers of observation.”
“I never laid claim to charm, but I assure you, my observations are as keen as ever. Did you also know you’ve an enchanting dimple when you realize you’re not going to get your way?” His grin grew. “Yes, there it is.” He lifted his hand and his thumb brushed against the side of her cheek.
A trail of fire burned where he tou
ched. This was ridiculous. She’d slapped men for lesser infractions. But now…her hands lay limp and motionless in her lap. Traitors.
“And just before your lips pull into a pout, there’s a tiny quiver here.” His fingers slid lower, tracing her jaw. Then, gentler than a whisper, slid back up and cupped her cheek.
She leaned into his touch, pressing into his warmth. “You…” Swallowing back the tremor in her voice, she tried again. “You notice my chin?”
His features softened, and he slid across the seat, moving closer. So close, his breath feathered over her skin as he spoke. “I notice everything about you and have since the day we met.”
The carriage stopped—or mayhap the world did. Her gaze fixed on his mouth. She’d breathe if she could remember how. Deep in her stomach, a quiver shimmied upward, and the sensation frightened.
But mostly delighted.
Without thinking, she closed her eyes, inhaling his scent of spice and passion and possibility. A faint groan rumbled out from him, primal and altogether enticing. He wanted this, then, every bit as much as the desire pulsing through her veins. She lifted her face to the heat of him.
And the carriage door opened. “Here we are, safe as ever. And I’ll be thanking ye to mention that to ol’ Ford, aye Brentwood?”
Chapter 24
Nicholas froze, his ardor cooling to the same temperature as the hard leather carriage seat. A musket ball to the head would’ve been as welcome as Flannery’s voice. Emily’s eyes shot open and peered into his, blinking. It couldn’t have been for more than a second, but what he read in those brown depths embedded into his heart for an eternity. Loss, pure and raw, gaping like an open wound. But loss of what? Discretion? Restraint?
Or the loss of his kiss?
She shoved past him as he whispered her name, the only word able to slip past the guilt closing his throat. He never should have taken advantage of her jumbled emotions. Not tonight. Not ever. What a wretch. He was no better than Henley.
He tried again. “Emily, wait.”
But it was too late. She clasped Flannery’s upstretched hand and fled out the carriage door before he could turn her around.
A groan rumbled deep in his chest. Leaping to the cobbles, he scowled at Flannery. “Your timing leaves much to be desired.”
“What are ye goin’ on about?” Flannery lifted his cap and scratched his head. The spare moonlight, more than half hidden now by a cloud, muddied his usual red locks to an earthy tone. “Did I not do a fine job of seein’ ye here in one piece?”
The slam of the town-house door jerked Flannery’s gaze away. When he looked back at Nicholas, his brows raced to his hairline. “Don’t tell me you and the lass were…why, stars and thunder! That was a handy move. To be sure, what a grand way to guard a lady.”
Nicholas ducked aside, narrowly escaping a sound clap on the back, then froze. Something more than the unwelcome praise grated on his nerves…but what?
He scanned the area. No suspicious figures skulked about. No riders or coaches approached the Payne household. In truth, the street was completely empty, leastwise as far as he could see, which in the dark wasn’t too far. Pivoting, he studied the townhome’s facade for anything unusual—a gutter pipe askew, perhaps, or a rope dangling from a chimney.
Flannery followed his lead, his head craning back and forth. “Something amiss?”
Nicholas grunted, for truly, nothing else could be said. Narrowing his eyes, he strained for one more look into the black shadows draped over the townhome like a shroud. Not one thing was out of place besides him and Flannery, standing on a curb in the dead of night, gawking up at the house in the dark as if they might purchase the thing.
And then he knew.
He broke into a run and flung open the front door, holding hard to the knob to prevent it from banging against the wall. Surprise was a weapon he’d learned long ago to heft with precision. Flannery’s footsteps trailed close behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he touched a finger to his lips then turned and raced up the stairs, two at a time.
When he reached the landing, his heart skipped a beat. Emily stood halfway down the hall, hand poised to push open her chamber door. If he called out to stop her, the noise would alert the intruder he suspected, who in turn would escape. Clue lost. Dead end. But if he didn’t and she walked into that room, a knife might be pressed to her throat before he could reach her.
“Emily, no!” He raced down the hall before half a question passed her lips. When he reached her, he grabbed her shoulders and steered her to the opposite wall. The action widened her eyes.
“What is happen—”
“No time. Stay put.” He wheeled about and drew his knife in one movement then nodded at Flannery to flank him. Flinging wide the door, he listened. A thwunk sounded out, brass hitting plaster, not flesh. No one behind the door, then.
Nicholas edged to the left, jerking his head for Flannery to go right. There were plenty of potential hiding places in a woman’s bedchamber. Inside the wardrobe. Beneath the bedskirt. Behind an overstuffed wingback in the corner. But he sheathed his blade and stalked past all to the sheers swinging in front of a half-open window. He bent and leaned over the sill. In the narrow courtyard between the two townhomes, footsteps pounded into the night.
Flannery joined him. “Shall I make chase?”
Though he’d like nothing better than to serve the scoundrel justice, preferably at the end of a rope, Nicholas shook his head. “By the time you catch your balance, he’ll be long gone.”
Flannery scooped off his cap and slapped it against his thigh, uttering a curse. Two sharp gasps—Emily’s and another’s—sounded behind them at the door.
“Mind your tongue, man.” Stepping back from the window, Nicholas turned. A pale-faced Emily and a scowling Mrs. Hunt peered in from the hallway. “Ladies, a moment, if you please.”
Emily’s gaze darted from the window to him. “Where are we to be safe, if even my own chamber can be breached?”
He scowled. It wasn’t right that such an ugly fear had crawled into a corner of her heart—and even worse that he was helpless to remove it, for truly, she was correct. There was no safe place for her now. “As you can see, no one remains. Await me in the sitting room, and I’ll attend you shortly.”
The housekeeper murmured something into Emily’s ear as she took her arm and ushered her away. Their skirts barely swished from view before Flannery threw up his hands. “What tipped ye off? I didn’t see a blasted thing out of the ordinary.”
“Nor did I.” Nicholas turned and pulled down the window. When he faced Flannery once again, the man’s mouth had twisted into quite the question mark.
“Ye make about as much sense as a ravin’ bedlamite.”
“Think on it. When was the last time we passed a carriage?”
“Maybe two or three crossroads back.” Flannery’s eyes studied the ceiling corner, far left, but Nicholas doubted the man saw plaster from molding. Flannery was back on the road, driving a carriage in his mind. Seconds later, his gaze shot back to Nicholas. “Aye, ’twas two. I remember a dray aside the road on Wigmore and Duke.”
“A dray? In this neighborhood? At this time of night?” He doled out the questions like bread crumbs, leading Flannery to draw his own conclusion instead of cramming it down his throat. If the man didn’t learn to think for himself, Ford would never hire him on as an officer.
Flannery cocked his head. “What are ye getting at?”
“Whoever was here had point men out there. Granted, this is a residential area and the hour is admittedly late, but did you not think it odd we were the only two on the street? Those men allowed us to pass, but none others.”
“But why? Why not attack at that point?”
“Remember when I signaled you to quiet your steps?” He waited for Flannery’s nod before continuing. “Silence is a weapon often more dangerous than outright attack. It’s easier to haul off a wriggling bit of a woman if no one’s around to call an alarm or even knows
she’s been taken in the first place, and it would give them the advantage of lead time, cooling their trail.”
Flannery’s eyes widened as those seeds of information took root. “And so you’d not have me give chase for I’d be outnumbered, eh?”
He nodded. “As I said, your timing leaves much to be desired. By the time you dropped, rolled, righted yourself, and reached the blackguard, he’d have a few strong-arms with him to put an end to your evening and possibly your life.”
With a last deep inhale of the leftover lily of the valley permeating the room, Nicholas strode to the door and, without pausing, called over his shoulder. “Come along.”
“I’ve a feeling this is going to be a long night,” Flannery grumbled from behind.
Mrs. Hunt and Emily rose as they swung into the sitting room, both overflowing with questions.
Nicholas held up a hand. “Ladies, answers are in short supply for the moment, and I fear what I am about to say next will merely add more confusion. But there’s nothing to be done for it, I’m afraid.”
Reaching into the half-torn pocket of his waistcoat, he retrieved his pocket watch and flipped it open. “You have five minutes, Miss Payne, to change into the drabbest gown you own and tuck whatever necessaries you need into a small satchel.”
She recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “Whatever for?”
“We’re leaving. Now.”
“You can’t be serious!” Mrs. Hunt stormed up to him like a thunderhead. Flannery retreated a step.
Nicholas held his ground. “I’ve never been more serious.”
“Taking my lady into the night? Whoever was in her room is lurking about out there.” Light from the single lantern sparked off her flinty eyes. “This is madness! You might as well be leading her into a lion’s den.”
He sidestepped her, lining up for a clear view of Emily. “And now you’ve got four and a half minutes.”
“You can’t possibly expect me to—”
“I can, and I do…four minutes fifteen seconds.”
He watched her closely. Color crept up her neck and flushed her cheeks. Good. Anger would serve her better than fear, for if she suspected where he was taking her, she’d dig in her heels.
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