As if she’d read his mind, her shoulders stiffened. “Where is it that we’re going? Where are you taking me?”
“Better that you don’t know.” Turning on his heel and crossing to the door, he breathed out a prayer. Was he doing the right thing? God, please, let it be so.
Emily tensed and cast one last glance at her chamber window. If a man’s face popped up against the glass, she’d scream. Or faint. Possibly both. What a horrid nightmare this evening had turned into—the night that was supposed to have been a dream come true.
Outside her door, boots thumped down the carpet runner, growing louder with each step. Time was running out.
“Hurry, miss,” Mary said behind her.
To her left, Mrs. Hunt rattled about at the vanity, clearly as upset as she. The normally pragmatic housekeeper ransacked through hairpins and cosmetics as if Emily were packing for a Midland holiday instead of escaping to who-knew-where.
Spinning on her heels, Emily turned to the wardrobe and bent. She reached deep into a corner then yanked out an old bonnet from the top of a box she’d meant to set out for the ragpickers. The half-starched head covering was a macabre substitute for the tiara at Asprey’s. With one hand, she twisted her hair and piled it atop her crown. With the other, she pulled the worn fabric over her head, capturing most, but not all of her curls.
A sharp tap at her door shattered her already broken nerves, and she flinched. Mary gasped.
“It’s time.” Nicholas’s deep voice seeped through the wood.
Mrs. Hunt laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t you think you ought to stay here, miss? Going out with Mr. Brentwood, not knowin’ where he’s taking ye? It’s scandalous, that’s what.”
Emily licked her lips, her gaze darting from the housekeeper to the window, then back. “No more scandalous than what would’ve happened had Mr. Brentwood not stopped me from entering my chamber when he did. Extraordinary situations call for extraordinary measures, is that not what you always say?”
Mrs. Hunt’s mouth pinched as tight as a spinster’s corset. “Fine time to start listening to me now.”
Nicholas shoved open the door and stepped aside without a word.
Mrs. Hunt squeezed Emily’s arm then gave it a pat and let go. Turning, she faced a somber-jawed Nicholas. “See that you take care of Miss Payne, or I’ll rain down brimstone upon your head. And don’t you think I won’t.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment, Mrs. Hunt.” He held out his hand for the small satchel in the housekeeper’s grip. “Nevertheless, you have my word. I shall return in the morning. Until then, Flannery’s keeping a lookout, so rest easy.”
Then he cocked his head at her. “Shall we?”
Emily let her gaze linger for a moment on the white counterpane spread atop her bed. Every muscle in her cried out to snuggle beneath the quilt and draw it up over her head, shutting out the evening’s insane turn of events.
But instead she inhaled and stepped toward the only man remaining whom she could trust.
“I’ll be praying for you, miss.” Mrs. Hunt’s words followed her down the hall, as did Mary’s uneven footsteps.
Nicholas wheeled about. “I’m sorry, Mary, but you’ll have to stay. I take Miss Payne alone.”
“But—” Emily’s and Mary’s voices swelled into one big objection.
Which was promptly cut off by the raising of his hand. “It will be difficult enough for me to bring one lady where I intend. Two, impossible. I will be trusted in this matter completely, or not at all. What is it to be?”
Mary opened her mouth, but Emily shook her head with a sigh. “I’m afraid he will not be persuaded, Mary, so save your breath.”
“Are you sure, miss?”
Was she? Thus far, she had found her judgment of a man’s character sorely lacking. Was she wrong about Nicholas, as well? Her stomach tightened, but even so, she nodded. “Yes. But I would covet your prayers as much as Mrs. Hunt’s.”
Mary’s eyes glistened. Were those tears? For her?
“Of course, miss. Godspeed.”
Emily pulled her gaze from her maid back to the man beside her, hoping she’d made the right choice. “Satisfied?”
What went on in that head of his, she could only guess at, but the grim set of his jaw did not bode well. “Come along, Miss Payne.”
As Nicholas led her toward the back of the house and down the servants’ stairs, she noticed his fine silk trousers were replaced with the serviceable woolens he’d worn when she’d first met him. The ruined dress coat and embroidered waistcoat had been exchanged for a heavy greatcoat—the one that smelled of bootblacking and gunpowder. His dark hair was loose, no longer tamed for a gala ball. A black hat hid most of it. And it truly had been bootsteps she’d heard, for the shiny leather shoes he’d donned for the dance were probably now lying on the floor in his chamber. What a far different picture the two of them presented, slipping out of the rear of the townhome, than that of a few hours earlier when they’d strolled out the front.
Nicholas paused at the gate to the back alleyway and turned to her, his eyes moss green and hooded. “It’s quite a hike I’m expecting of you. Are you up to it?”
She swept her hand toward the carriage house, the building so close that if she cared to sidestep a few paces, her palm would slap against the wood. “We have a small gig.”
He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then why ask?”
Just then the moon escaped its half cloak of a cloud, lighting a wicked grin on his face. “I could heft you over my shoulder if you like.”
She scowled, which was more of a response than he deserved.
“Right, then.” He pushed open the gate. “Onward.”
He wasn’t jesting. Though she’d worn her most serviceable shoes, they were meant for a promenade through town, not a hike down rough cobbled passageways. Before long, pains crept up her shins, and she faltered over the hem of her skirt to keep up with his longlegged strides. When her big toe hit an upcropped bit of stone and she lurched forward, Nicholas reached back and grabbed hold of her forearm.
“The offer still stands.” His face was shadowed, his gaze unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
She sniffed then wished she hadn’t. The closer to the city’s innards they drew, the worse the stench. “I will not be toted about like a sack of puppies, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
Was that a smile that flashed in his gaze?
“At least take my hand,” he offered.
His fingers wrapped around hers, and though at first she kept up, the longer they walked, the more her steps lagged. He led her down one dark alley to another, the buildings progressively closing in the farther they went. The effect was smothering. Cobbles gave way to gravel then eventually thinned out into nothing but worn dirt, littered with broken gin bottles and piles of refuse. Occasionally the whites of eyeballs flashed in dark recesses as they passed, and more than once Nicholas growled out a “shove off” to a bawdy suggestion or an outright threat.
Emily sped up. Viewing the greatcoat stretched across his shoulders from behind wasn’t nearly as comforting as feeling the muscle of his arm brush against hers when she managed to remain by his side. There was safety in the heat of his body, shelter in his strength. And the fact that she trusted him so completely was as frightening as the dreadful neighborhoods they passed through.
When the alley narrowed so much that soon single file would be their only option, he pulled her out into a street. They skirted the sprawled body of drunkard who smelled overly ripe for the grave, and for a moment she feared the man actually was dead, until a snore erupted from his open mouth.
A few steps later, a woman emerged from the side of a building, her bosom spilling out of a bodice two sizes too small. Bolder than a king’s man, she swung her hips over to Nicholas’s side and slipped her arm around his. “ ’Ave a go at it, mate? Yer li’l princess there could learn a trick or two from me. For a spare coin, she c
an watch, if ye like.”
A slow burn worked its way up Emily’s neck and spread onto her cheeks as the woman’s words began to make sense. Why had he brought her here? Had she misplaced her trust?
“Not interested.” Nicholas shrugged off the woman and looked down at Emily without slowing his pace. “Sorry. You’ve seen and heard more this evening than a lady ever should.”
Her lips twisted into a wry grin, surprising herself that any shred of humor yet remained. “In truth, I wonder if this evening shall ever end.”
His eyes held hers a moment more before he faced forward. “We’re almost there.”
Tired buildings stood elbow-to-elbow, leaning against one another for support. The windows were so sooted over, it was hard to tell what kind of merchants or craftsmen inhabited the bottom levels.
Without warning, Nicholas led her into an alcove and produced a key from his pocket. After two locks clicked their release, he turned to her. “It’s tight quarters, so you’ll have to follow me. Make sure to slide the bolt on the door once it shuts. I’m afraid it will be dark until I can light a lantern, so you should locate the bolt before you close the door completely. Can you do that?”
She could feel her brow wrinkle with trying to keep back the many questions flitting about in her head. Still, she nodded.
He swung wide the door. There was no threshold, merely the tread of the first stair leading up into blackness. What kind of place was this? He ascended the staircase, narrow as a coffin, and quickly disappeared from view. No wonder he’d asked her to lock the door. For him to even turn around in such a tight space would require an acrobat’s skill.
Locating a steel bar as thick as two fingers and long as a child’s foot, she rested her fingertips against the cool metal and pulled shut the door with her other hand then slid the bolt over until it caught home. Though she could yet hear the rhythmic thud of Nicholas’s boots somewhere above her, the ensuing darkness reached in deep, stealing what was left of her composure.
“Nicholas?” Her voice was a kitten’s mew, but it was not to be helped.
“Wait there if you like.”
Another bolt clicked above, likely at the top of the stairs. Hinges complained. Floorboards creaked. Several sharp strikes of a flint carried surprisingly loud in the darkness, and then—
Light, blessed and brilliant. Nicholas stood at the top of the staircase like an avenging angel, banishing the darkness back to the netherworlds.
Relieved, she started upward. The steps rose sharply, each one adding more of a burn to her thighs. A lifetime of handprints darkened each side of the walls, and she was glad her arms didn’t brush against the filth. She clutched her skirts tighter, keeping the fabric from contact, and pushed away thoughts of what might cause the underlying smell of sweat and toil and desperation.
Nicholas stepped aside when she reached the top, allowing her to pass in front of him.
But she didn’t. She stopped and faced him. Better to hear straight up his intentions than give in to wild imaginings. “What’s to become of me?”
His jaw locked.
She held her breath.
“For now…” he said slowly. The muscles in his neck gleamed in the lantern light as he looked down at her. “A warm bed and some much needed sleep.”
“And then?” she pressed.
A shadow crossed his face, darkening his eyes to haunted green pools. Then he tipped his mouth into a smirk. “Do not borrow trouble from the morrow when tonight’s given you a fair enough wage, hmm?”
She frowned. Not exactly the comforting words she’d hoped for, but in light of the situation, they would have to do. She turned and crossed the threshold into a desolate room. On one wall, a table and a single chair kept company. A small hearth graced another wall, with a coal bucket and a tinderbox to its side. Nicholas entered behind her, shedding light onto a wooden-framed bed pushed against a third wall. At its foot, a large chest with a huge padlock sat like a bulldog. Only one window graced the small chamber, barren of curtain and smudged by lantern smoke. This was no Portman Square townhome.
She turned to Nicholas. “What is this place?”
He shrugged off his greatcoat and draped it over the chair then turned to her with folded arms. “It’s my home.”
Chapter 25
With a last glance at Emily, her lashes feathered against her cheeks as she slept on his bed, Nicholas pulled shut his door and locked it. He padded down the stairwell and took care sliding open the bolt on the outer door so it didn’t screech. Such a measure likely wasn’t necessary, for she slept sounder than a babe in arms, but he’d not risk waking her now. It’d taken too much convincing to get her to surrender to sleep in the first place. Not that he blamed her. She’d never shared a bedchamber with a man before, and it hadn’t been easy to persuade her to do so.
Stepping into the street, he rolled his right shoulder and winced from a kink that refused to loosen. A fitful few hours of rest had done him no good. Perhaps the floorboards in front of the hearth would’ve been a kinder mattress than the chair.
In the early morning light, Eastcheap wasn’t nearly as formidable as when trekking it in the dark. Directly across the street, a one-legged man with more gums than teeth sat on a stool, selling rags from a basket. Two washerwomen darted past, scurrying to collect their loads for the day. A smudge-faced chimney sweep trudged after a larger fellow carrying an assorted load of brushes on his back. None were as fancy or tidy as those strolling about the West End of London, but neither were they the vermin that arose when the sun set.
After a quick check-in on his sister—who grew weaker with each passing breath—and a thorough going-over of instructions with Hope, he hailed a hackney. He begrudged the spent coin, but it was not to be helped if he intended to return before Emily awoke.
Yawning as the coach rolled along, he reviewed once again the details of an idea he’d hatched in the predawn hours. By the time the hackney turned onto Bow Street—clogged with traffic, as usual—he’d patched up the last remaining holes in his plan. If Ford didn’t go for this, well…he rubbed his tired eyes. Would that his charm influenced the magistrate as soundly as it had Emily.
He paid off the jarvey several blocks from the station and hoofed it the rest of the way, increasing his pace when he glanced at his pocket watch. Men buzzed around the front door, and he darted through the swarm. Inside, he shouldered past an overflow of people spilling into the foyer then veered left and pounded up to the second floor. Halfway down the corridor, Emmanuel Whinnet was just pulling shut the magistrate’s door.
Nicholas eyed the thin clerk as he strode toward him. Even as a twig, the man would be a poor piece of kindling. “Ford in there?”
Whinnet blinked at him. “Aye, but be forewarned. The Baggley boys are on the docket this morning, and he’s in the hanging mood. Perhaps you ought come back later.”
Nicholas frowned. “Not an option.”
Whinnet tugged at his collar. “Watch your neck then, Brentwood.”
He smiled at the outspoken clerk, though truth be told, were the man not blunt as a bludgeon, he would not have lasted long at Bow Street.
Nicholas raised his knuckles and rapped on the magistrate’s door.
“Whinnet!” Ford’s voice boomed from behind the oak. “I clearly told you fifteen minutes and not a second less. If you wish to swing next to the Baggleys, then keep it up.”
Nicholas leaned toward the wood and lowered his voice. “Whinnet’s tucked his tail and run, sir. It’s me, Brentwood.”
The door flew open. Ford’s mouth twisted into a glower darker than sin. Nicholas straightened his shoulders to full attention.
The magistrate had not yet donned his tall wig, and as he spoke, a sheen of perspiration glistened atop his shorn head. Whinnet was right. Ford was steamed up this morn.
He skewered Nicholas with an evil eye. “I can only assume that things are wrapped up on the Payne case?”
Nicholas cleared his throat. This wouldn’t
be easy. “May I come in, sir?”
Ford’s brows drew together, as if the solid line might block him from entering. “Make it quick.”
Nicholas strode into the room and planted his feet next to the chair in front of the magistrate’s desk. A queer odor assaulted his nose, and he sniffed, trying to pinpoint the stink. Curiously, the acrid smell was strongest when he faced forward, where Ford took up residence behind his desk.
“I see the question on your face.” The magistrate reached down and pulled up his judicial wig. Normally a dulled ivory color, it now bore a blackened ringlet of singed curls on one side. “Whinnet was heavy handed with the iron this morning.”
Nicholas suppressed a smirk. The Baggley boys had no idea what kind of wrath they’d be facing today.
Ford dropped the hairpiece like a dead cat. “Now that that’s been cleared up, perhaps you can make it quick, as I requested.”
Nicholas lifted his chin and widened his stance. “Miss Payne has suffered two abduction attempts. I won’t allow a third.”
Ford sank into his chair. The whoosh of leather matched his sigh. “Let’s have it then. What do you need?”
“Moore.”
The magistrate shook his head. “He’s not yet returned from Dover. If he doesn’t sort out that smuggling mess and soon, our patrons are likely not to be so…patronizing.”
“Must be pretty bad if the revenue men and Moore are getting the runaround.”
“Quite.” Ford drummed his fingers on the desk, the tat-tat-tat like a cascade of grapeshot. “Why the sudden yearning for Moore? Is Flannery not working out?”
“No, it’s not that. I’ll use him. It’s just…” Shifting his weight, he debated how much information to feed Ford. Judging by the creases on each side of the man’s mouth, he ought serve it all up—on a platter. And quickly. “I intend to lure out whoever’s responsible for the abduction attempts, Sedgewick’s murder, and likely Payne’s demise as well. For that, I need someone with me I can trust. Someone who’s proven.”
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