Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  Swiping her eyes, the girl straightened in her chair. After a final sniff, she faced her mother. “As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, I have only, ever, given you the truth. And this time, I beg you hear me out for Miss Emily’s sake.”

  For an instant, the housekeeper’s reserve cracked. Her brows connected in an angry line then just as quickly returned as if they’d never met. “You two have always been thick as thieves. It’s not right. Not between a lady and a servant.”

  “Miss Emily’s shown me more kindness than—”

  “I suggest we leave the past behind, ladies.” He upped his volume, redirecting the conversation. “What news have you of Miss Payne?”

  Wide-eyed, Wren reached into a pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I am to deliver a note to Mr. Payne.”

  Nicholas crossed the room in three steps. “Mr. Payne is unavailable. I act in his stead.”

  Wren’s gaze moved from his outstretched palm to his face. A hundred questions shone in her gaze. “Who are you?”

  “Mr. Brentwood is a law keeper. He can be fully trusted, and in fact may be Miss Emily’s best hope.” Mrs. Hunt nodded toward the girl. “Go on.”

  The paper passed easily from her fingers but once fully resting in his palm, weighed heavier than a brick. So much depended on what this note might say. Odors of horehound and fish wafted upward as he unfolded the ripped segment of yesterday’s Chronicle and read words written with a heavy hand in grease pencil:

  Old Saproot Warehouse, Pig’s Quay Wharf

  8:00 p.m. unarmed and alone

  500 pounds

  Emily’s throat burned. If Alf’s water dish were available, she’d shove the pup out of the way and lap it up—were it not for the gag in her mouth. Her eyes were plenty moist, though. Not that crying helped, but she simply couldn’t stop, and what else was there to do? She sat on a precarious stack of crates, terrified the act of breathing might be enough to topple her over. There’d be no way catch herself. Ropes cut into her wrists, pinioning her like one of Cook’s poultry. If she fell, she’d crack her head against the warehouse floor and kill herself.

  But as horrifying as it was to sit here and wonder if she might plummet to her death—or what would become of her even if she didn’t—far worse was the stabbing pain in her back. From Wren. Why? She closed her eyes. God, why? Betrayal chafed her heart more painfully than the rag biting into her mouth. Finally she understood the black unforgiveness running through Mrs. Hunt’s veins, for it pumped through her own, heavy and thick.

  On the far side of the warehouse, three sharp bangs rapped against wood. Behind her, heels thudded on planks. The bald brute who’d dragged her here passed beneath her, hollering over his shoulder, “Take her down.”

  Daylight streamed through cracks in the walls. If they hauled her out of here now, she might have a chance to attract attention and get some help. She clutched tightly to that hope. It was the only one she had.

  A freestanding ladder on wheels rolled over to her tower, but climbing up was no prince to her rescue. The stink of sour ale and mutton reached her an instant before his rough hands. He lugged her over his shoulder like a sack of kittens to be drowned. She winced at the horrid thought then complied by going limp. Better to save her fighting strength until she stood a better chance.

  “Right, then. Let’s see her.”

  The words barely registered before the world flipped and she stood on her own. A man-shaped shadow stepped out from a row of crates. When a shaft of light flooded his face and his gaze met hers, her heart stopped.

  She knew those eyes. The coldness of them washed over her like seawater, leaving behind a wake of panic, exactly as it had late last summer.

  Captain Daggett.

  Her stomach heaved, and she doubled over. Nausea wasn’t an option with a bound mouth. She focused on her skirt hem and counted the embroidered scallops one by one—anything to ignore the convulsing of her belly.

  Daggett’s laughter rang out, grating as knife against bone. “How much ye askin’ for her?”

  “Five hundred pounds.”

  “Gads! I could buy the Queen Mother for that.”

  At the snap of some fingers, she was jerked upright, her back pressed against the bully behind her, his arm across her chest.

  The bald thug opposite her smiled at Daggett. “Ahh, but this one is—”

  “I know what this one is.” The captain drew so near, his hot breath hit her forehead. She flinched.

  Reaching up, he twisted a loose curl of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “I know exactly what this one is.”

  “She’ll bring a fine price,” the bald man continued. “You’ll make your money back and more, if sold to the right buyer. And I have it on good authority you are a man with many connections.”

  Daggett leaned closer and bent, his breathing loud in her ear. “He has no idea, hmm?”

  Then he wheeled about and offered his hand to the bald man. “Yes, I believe she will bring a good price. I’ll take her.”

  His words spun in her head. Or was that the room? Hard to say. Nothing was solid anymore—except for the fear driven deep into her soul.

  Chapter 30

  Nicholas strode down the narrow lane, his gaze scouring the shadows more thoroughly than a street sweep intent on a coin. Not many figures inhabited this condemned stretch of riverfront. Those who did were cutthroats and thugs. Though plans for a new dock were in the works, as far as he and the river wardens were concerned, it wouldn’t be built soon enough. This boneyard of warehouse skeletons needed to be buried. Deep.

  At intervals, dark clouds blotted out the moonlight, adding a sporadic inky depth to the night, which had its benefits—and detriments. Tightening his grip on his end of the heavy chest toted by him and Flannery, he could only pray the darkness would work to his advantage and not for the men who’d taken Emily. Filthy scoundrels. If they’d harmed her, violated her…

  His gut twisted into a sodden, knotted rope, strengthening his resolve.

  Anger had its pros and cons, as well.

  Beside him, holding up the other end of the wooden box, Flannery cleared his throat. “Not that I be needin’ a hand-holding.” He slanted a glance at Nicholas. “But I wouldn’t mind ye running over those instructions again.”

  Nicholas snorted. “You nervous?”

  A string of mumbled curses unraveled past Flannery’s lips. “More than a strumpet in church!”

  Nicholas smirked at him. “Good.”

  “Ye’re a cold one, Brentwood.”

  “A certain amount of fear keeps you careful. It’s too much or too little that can be deadly.”

  Flannery’s end of the chest sagged. “Could you refrain from using that word?”

  “Your part in this isn’t too difficult. You’ll be fine.”

  “Easy for you to say. Ye’re not the one whose head might be blown clean off.”

  Nicholas nodded left. Flannery followed his lead. They entered an alley and stopped halfway down. Moonlight glinted off the perspiration dotting Flannery’s brow as they eased the chest to the ground. The Irishman was right about one thing. He very well might lose his head.

  But Nicholas’s position wouldn’t be any less dangerous.

  Straightening, they retreated several steps. Nicholas bit back a smirk. As if the added distance of a few paces would save their lives should the chest explode now.

  He faced Flannery and kept his tone low. Who knew what ears the wooden walls towering above them held. “All you do is open the lid. Remove the cloth from around the gun hammer, then make sure it’s pulled back and locked into position.”

  “On the inside front, aye?”

  Nicholas nodded, choosing to ignore the quiver in Flannery’s voice. “Once that’s done, pour plenty of gunpowder onto the pan and lower the frizzen. This isn’t the time to be stingy nor tidy. Cover it good. You’ve got the extra powder?”

  The question was unnecessary, but he threw it out there anyway. Sometimes
confidence had to be touched to be felt.

  Flannery patted the bulge at his hip, his hand shaky as a drunkard’s. “Right here.”

  “Then all that’s left is to take the string attached to the trigger and fasten it onto the lid. Make sure to close the cover nearly shut before you put the loop on the hook. Close it—gently—and wait, looking as if you’re guarding a great treasure. Run toward the river as soon as you see the vermin coming for their payment. I’ll meet you there with Miss Payne. Got it?”

  “Lock the hammer. Liberal powder. Lower frizzen. Hook the loop. Er…loop the hoop. I mean—”

  Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving his face inches from Flannery’s. He knew that look—the glassy eyes, the pinched lips—and it didn’t bode well. “Focus, man. You can do this.”

  Flannery sucked in a breath so big, his Adam’s apple rode the current down. His eyes darted everywhere except to look straight at Nicholas. “I’m not so sure I’m cut out for this.” The words were a ragged whisper.

  Nicholas clenched his jaw. There was no way he could do this alone. “Flannery, I’m counting on you.” He measured out each syllable, slow and dangerous, compelling the man to meet his gaze. “Ni neart go cur le cheile.”

  Though he’d butchered the brogue, apparently he’d pulled it off. The icy blue of Flannery’s eyes thawed immediately.

  “Ye’ve a bit o’ the Irish in ye, eh?” Flannery’s chin lifted, slight but noticeable. “But ye’re right. There is no strength without unity, and to be sure, I won’t let a brother down. Ye can count on me.”

  Nicholas released him and retreated a step, refraining from telling the man he was about as Irish as King George. “Then let’s be about it. There’s a damsel waiting to be saved, aye?”

  A half smile quirked Flannery’s mouth. “For the lady.”

  “For the lady, indeed.” Nicholas wheeled about and retraced his route then turned left when he cleared the alley’s mouth. The closer he drew to the warehouse door, the harder his heart thumped.

  He knew exactly how Flannery felt.

  Pausing before the thin piece of wood blocking him from Emily, he glanced heavenward. “Go before me, God. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Then he kicked open the door. The force vibrated up his leg, lifting half his mouth into a smirk. Even he needed confidence once in a while.

  He entered what might’ve been a front room at one time. Two strides in, the cold metal of a gun muzzle pressed into the back of his head.

  Excellent. At least he knew where the weapon was.

  “Stop right there. Hands up, Mr. Payne.”

  So far, so good. They’d bought the grayed hair and painted-on wrinkles. Thank You, Lord.

  With a smooth movement, he complied, cataloging information at breakneck speed. The click-drag-click of the hammer meant his skull hosted a breech-loaded flintlock. Judging by the angle and pressure, the man holding it was an inch or so shorter than himself, but his build more than made up for his height. His accent labeled him a Bristol boy, born and raised. The man’s accomplice, the one patting his hands down each of Nicholas’s legs, was a slighter fellow—but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. And neither the news of Payne’s death nor his bankruptcy had reached these scoundrels, for they thought him to be the man.

  Behind him, the flare of a flint sparked a lantern into life, creating monstrous shadows. He was a meager David amid Goliaths.

  “Follow the light, and don’t try anything.”

  The muzzle shoved his head forward, emphasizing the gunman’s words. The other man passed him, and Nicholas fell into step as directed.

  A bead of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. It didn’t matter how many times death handed him its calling card, the familiar physical reaction always sent a jolt through him.

  They wound their way past a half wall of rotted shipping crates. The moldering stench triggered a tingle in his nose, and he fought to hold in a sneeze. Any quick movements would be a death warrant. If this was his night to die, so be it. But God help him, it had better not be Emily’s.

  He counted each step. Memorized every twist and turn. Most matched up to what Hope had told him. But not all—and his whole plan hinged on what the girl remembered of this particular warehouse.

  They stopped near the back of the empty space. To his left, nothing but rotted floorboards and a broken-glassed window facing the alley where Flannery waited outside. If he listened hard enough, he just might hear the Irishman’s ragged breaths. To his right, crates had been gathered and stacked into a wobbly tower. A rusty-wheeled excuse of a ladder leaned into it.

  In front of him, a lantern’s glow lit a profane halo above the bare-skinned skull of a third man, who stood with arms crossed. “You do not follow instructions very well, Mr. Payne. You disappoint Sombra. You disappoint me.”

  “Life’s full of disappointments, Mister…” Nicholas drawled out the last word, fishing for the man’s name. Unless the man lied, the name would be French, though the fellow had done an admirable job with a Southwark twang.

  “Who I am is not important. Where is the money?”

  “You think I can lug in five hundred pounds alone?” He rolled his shoulders and shot a pointed glare at his upraised arms. “I have a back condition, Mr…. Frenchie, for lack of a better name. And holding my hands up like this merely aggravates that condition, so if you don’t mind…” He lowered his hands, measuring the calculation in Frenchie’s stare. Though the movement brought him one step closer to disarming the fellow behind, he wasn’t yet quite sure how he’d do it.

  “Your back is the least of your concerns, Mr. Payne.” The Frenchman widened his stance. “Where is the money?”

  “Where is the girl? You think I’d hand over a small fortune to the likes of you without seeing her? I’d sooner trust ol’ Prinny with my daughter.” The question earned him more pressure from the muzzle. If the man pushed any harder, he’d die from a puncture wound instead of a bullet.

  The Frenchman cocked his head like a vulture studying a carcass. “You will have the girl when I have the money.”

  “How do I know she’s still alive? I want proof.”

  A smile rippled at the corners of the man’s mouth. “You English. So predictable.” Without varying his gaze, he ordered the man with the lantern. “See to it, Weaver.”

  Nicholas filed away the name. Weaver set the light on a nearby crate, disappeared behind another, then reappeared with a newspaper in hand. He extended it to Nicholas then stepped back.

  Nicholas’s breath caught in his throat. Emily’s signature, shaky but familiar, was near the top of the Times header, next to the date—today’s. He slid his gaze from the paper to the Frenchman. “This shows me she was alive earlier today. Doesn’t mean she is now.”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “The word of a criminal?”

  Frenchie unfolded his arms and advanced. Though his hands fisted at his sides, the fellow would not use them. With his thumbs tucked in, he’d break his bones in one swing. This was a man used to having his dirty work carried out by others. What kind of sway did he hold?

  “You are in no position to bargain, Mr. Payne. Supply the money, or the girl is dead, and you as well.” He stopped six paces away, far enough that should a shot go off, Nicholas’s blood wouldn’t sully his shirt.

  Fie. This was not going as he’d hoped. He nodded toward the alley-side wall. “Look out the window. Your chest is there.”

  With a single snap of the Frenchman’s fingers, Weaver strode the length of the empty space, taking care to step over missing planks. He didn’t come at the glass straight on, but edged in sideways, like the snake he was. Smart move, though, in case a sharpshooter waited to pull a trigger. He peered into the darkness then swiveled his head back to Frenchie. A single tilt of his chin was his only response.

  The Frenchman laughed—the jagged-edged kind that rang of doom instead of humor. “Did you really think leaving the money
outside would assure you of your safety?”

  “My man’s been instructed that if I don’t walk out that door with Emily, he’s not to—”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I said she was alive. I did not say she was here.” The man’s mouth curved upward like a scythe, his words every bit as sharp and cutting.

  Nicholas sucked in a breath. “Where is she?”

  “Barbados? America? Who can say?” He shrugged. “The captain did not apprise me of his route. I suppose that depends upon if he intends to keep her or sell her.”

  Every muscle in Nicholas’s body hardened. He’d been duped, double-crossed—but not defeated. Not yet. Timing would be everything. He counted the steps needed to clear Frenchie, the inhales and exhales of the man behind him, and the pounding of his own heartbeat.

  Then he smiled. “Thank you. Very helpful. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  He waited, watching for the ripple of disbelief across the Frenchman’s face. There. The beginning of a sneer. Check. And the parting of the lips to issue a command to kill him.

  Nicholas spun to the left, jerking up his arm. He snagged the gun muzzle under his armpit and thrust his other elbow forward with all the force he owned. Cartilage gave way. Bone cracked. So did a bullet. Fire burned the tender skin of his inner arm. Shouts echoed along with footsteps.

  He shoved the man from him and wheeled about. Tearing past Frenchie, he sprinted for the back right corner of the warehouse.

  Another bullet lifted the hair on the side of his head. Hope’s information was the only barrier between him and his last breath—would to God that the girl was correct. Hard to tell when the lantern light didn’t reach this far.

  He leaped into the dark corner. Either he’d crash into the floorboards, making him nothing but target practice for the thugs on his heels, or he’d sail through a hole concealed by a burlap bag and disappear down a drainpipe.

  Midair, the next shot bored into his flesh.