Brentwood's Ward (11 page)

His eyes reopened, mortality a gray film over each. Hopefully the man knew his Maker, for he’d soon meet Him. “Your…father…” He wheezed, his fight for air forcing Nicholas to tug at his own cravat.

“I fear for you…Emily…” Reggie struggled to lift his head. “You must be careful.” The words drove him back, flattening him against an overstuffed cushion.

Suddenly, seconds were precious.

Nicholas dropped to his knees next to Emily. He hated to be the one to interrupt what might be her last exchange with the fellow, but prudence was a harsh taskmaster. “Of whom, sir? Be careful of whom?”

Reggie’s eyes gripped his. Tight. Pleading. The loneliest moment of a lost one’s life was often the last. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Compassion burned a trail from Nicholas’s gut up to his mouth. “Call on Christ alone for mercy, man. Now is the time.”

Maybe Reggie did. Or not. Hard to tell, for an instant later, his wheezing stilled. His gasps ceased. His struggle for life ended in dismal defeat.

For one horrific instant, Jenny’s face superimposed over the dead man’s, and Nicholas’s own heart stopped.

Emily’s wail rent the air. She splayed her fingers, dropping Reggie’s lifeless hand. Sobs followed. Turning, she buried her face in Nicholas’s shirt.

He wrapped his arms around her, one hand patting her back, knowing full well that shock often accounted for the most unlikely of embraces. She trembled, frail and vulnerable, a whole new facet to the fiery woman.

Glancing up, he met Moore’s gaze. The set of the officer’s jaw confirmed that condolences would have to wait. Even so, Moore stepped outside to give them a minute.

Nicholas pulled Emily to her feet. Sniffling, she retreated a step, a little wobbly but bearing up.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his dress coat and held it out. “Forgive me. Had I known, I never would have brought you here.”

“No, don’t think it. It’s better he had someone he knew with him for the final moments.” Her gaze strayed to the dead man on the divan. Color drained from her face. “He…he…what about my father? What did he mean? Why must I be careful?”

Each word grew shriller, her chest fluttering as if she’d taken the bullet. Nicholas stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the corpse. “Miss Payne—”

“I…oh my…what if—” She swayed, her eyes dark holes in a face white as cotton. If the woman didn’t breathe, and soon, he’d have two bodies on his hands.

Grabbing her upper arms, he forced his face into hers. “Emily!”

Startled, she met his gaze. A faint bluish line rimmed her lips.

“There is nothing to fear. I’m here, and no one will take you from me. Do you understand?” He measured his words, doling out each one like a lifeline, willing her to grasp onto the strength in his voice. “Upon my word, I’ll keep you safe. I vow it, on pain of death.”

Her throat moved with a swallow. A lost little girl couldn’t have looked more exposed. Slowly, color crept back into her cheeks. The trembling beneath his fingers stopped.

“Good.” Half a smile tipped his mouth. “You’re doing better already.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper. A shell. Hardly more than a piece of chaff on the wind.

But it was a voice, nonetheless.

He smiled in full.

Officer Moore, maid in tow, cleared his throat as he entered the room, cuing an end to consolation. Nicholas released Emily’s arms, pleased that she remained straight and tall. “Now then, you shall return to the drawing room. Mr. Moore and I have a bit of work to do in here.”

Her eyes widened. The lovely pink in her face fled once more. “But—”

“None of it. You’re a strong one, you are.” Lifting his chin, he looked down his nose at her. “Unless my assessment of Emily Payne is incorrect. Do you hide a yellow streak beneath those skirts?”

She set her jaw, a blue spark of anger lighting her eyes. “You, sir, are a—”

“Rogue. I know.” He nodded toward the maid while turning Emily to face her. “Go.”

“This way, miss.” The maid spun, apron strings fluttering behind her. Clearly, sharing a room with her deceased employer didn’t top her list of favorite duties.

When he felt sure they were beyond hearing range, Nicholas lifted his eyes to Moore’s. “So, what have we got?”

Moore stalked to the open window, a hunter on the trail. His long legs stretched with the grace of a lion. His dark blond hair, longer than decorum allowed, blew back with the breeze, adding a mane-ish effect. “As you see. Point of entry.”

“Don’t you mean exit?”

“That, too. I queried the servants. No one was admitted by the front door. In truth, no one suspected anything other than that Reginald Sedgewick was alone in this study.”

Nicholas rubbed at the tension in his neck. “Then what?”

“Some kind of heated debate, I suppose. One which Mr. Sedgewick lost.” Moore swept his hand toward the mess on the desk and the overturned chair behind it.

The clock in the corner kept a steady beat as Nicholas studied the room. He fingered through the documents. Correspondence mostly, notes inquiring about shipment arrivals or departures. A few invoices, all headed with Sedgewick & Payne. Stepping around the desk, he righted the chair then peered into an open wall safe. Empty. He frowned. “But why lose a heated debate when he obviously handed over all his valuables? Unless…”

Nicholas squinted and ran his fingertips over the locking mechanism. A Bramah, without so much as a scratch. No surprise, though. As far as he knew, no one had yet collected the two hundred guineas promised by the manufacturer for picking one of their locks. He turned to Moore. “No sign of force.”

Moore rubbed the back of his head. “Unless he was shot first then told to—”

“Unlikely. If that were the case, Reggie there would be sporting a blown kneecap, not a hole in the chest. Why comply when death is imminent?”

“True.” Folding his arms, Moore nodded. “It could be the vault was empty when he opened it, hence the argument, leading to rage and eventually murder.”

“And if the suspect left here unsatisfied, monetarily speaking, then that would explain Sedgewick’s warning.” A growl rumbled in his throat. “Which is clear enough on Emily’s part, but what of her father? Were Reggie’s last words a warning
for
her father or
from
him?”

Moore shrugged. “What exactly is Mr. Sedgewick’s tie-in with your ward? Why spend his last moments on earth to see that not only Bow Street was summoned but Miss Payne in particular?”

“Exactly.” Nicholas ran his hand through his hair. “That’s what concerns me most.”

And it did. More than he cared to admit.

Chapter 9

A
fter hours of tossing and turning, recounting ghastly images of her uncle’s lifeless eyes, Emily was glad to focus on something else—even if that something else taxed her in ways that were every bit as nerve-racking. Slipping out of the town house an hour before dawn for a clandestine meeting with her former maid had seemed like good idea at the time she’d arranged it. But now…

Clutching her package to her chest, Emily glanced over her shoulder. A dark, empty street stretched behind, made all the more ominous by a fine mist suspended midair. Her footsteps alone echoed off the brick townhomes. At this hour, only an occasional carriage or a dray bent on an early delivery run traveled the lanes of Portman Square. So why the breath-stealing impression that eyes followed her every move?

She resettled the pack over her shoulder and tugged her hood forward. Nerves. That’s what. Barely six hours ago Uncle Reggie had died right in front of her. No wonder jitters marked her every step. If Wren weren’t counting on her, she’d still be curled up under her counterpane, sleeping off the dreadful experience. Leaving the safety of her bed had taken more courage than she’d realized.

And what would Nicholas Brentwood say were he to find her chamber empty?

She quickened her pace. She’d just have to make sure he didn’t. Two blocks down, she turned right. Ahead, near a cabstand that wouldn’t house a hack for at least another hour, a lone figure lingered beneath a sputtering lamppost. The shape was slight, short, and entirely Wren-sized. Emily shot forward.

Her former maid met her halfway. “Oh, miss! So good to see you.”

Emily slung the bag down to the wet cobbles and folded Wren’s hands into her own. Cold flesh chilled through the fabric of her gloves. “It’s always good to see you, Wren. How are you holding up?”

“I’m well, miss, as is the babe.” Wren pulled back her hands and rested them on the swell of her belly. For a brief moment, half a smile lit her face. “Thanks to you, that is. Without you…why, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“None of it. You’re a strong one, you are.” The same words Nicholas used for her tasted sturdy and warm in her own mouth and hopefully lent similar courage to Wren. “Please tell me you’ve found a place to stay.”

“I have. I’ve got four walls and a bed of my own, which is more than I can say for other girls in my…condition.” Wren’s gaze lowered.

Anger lifted Emily’s chin. “It’s not fair, Wren. None of this is. That scoundrel of a captain ought to be scratching out his existence in the streets instead of you. And my father”—she sucked in a sharp breath, mourning afresh her mounting loss of respect for the man—“why I’m still so furious he let you go without references, I can hardly stand it.”

“Don’t fret. It’s all right. Truly. I’ve found peace.” She reached out one hand and squeezed Emily’s. The sharp angles of her cheekbones softened, and through the mist and dark, light sparkled in her eyes. “I know it’s strange to hear me say so, but I forgive them both, your father and Captain Daggett.”

“Wren!”
Forgive them?
The words boxed her ears, foreign and completely abhorrent. Emily yanked back her hand. “How can you? They ruined your life!”

“No, miss. It’s not like that, not at all. I see it different now.” The peaceful look in Wren’s eyes spread to lighten her whole face, or was that simply streetlight reflecting off the mist on her cheeks? “Only by losing everything could I gain the one thing I would’ve overlooked.”

“What’s that?”

“Need.”

Emily frowned. “You’re telling me that need, want, the lack of shelter, food, and clothing, is a
good
thing?”

“Didn’t call it good, miss, but it is a blessing.” Wren’s smile would shame the sun, and mayhap did, for along with it the hint of dawn barely bleached the sky. “Aye, miss. I know it don’t make sense, but I’ve found that God is more than enough, even in the direst of situations.”

Emily couldn’t help but shake her head. “You’re starting to sound like Mr. Brentwood.”

“Mr. who?”

She sighed, for truly…how to put into words her conflicting emotions about the man? One minute a bully, exacting and demanding, the next consoling her as a dear friend. Even now, if she closed her eyes and thought of it, she could feel his solid arms circling her, breathe in his peppery shaving tonic, lean into his strength.

A fresh waft of morning fires being stoked banished the memory. Nearby, households awakened. She bent to retrieve the oilskin bag and held it out to Wren. “Here is an old dress of mine I’ve let out in the front. It ought hold you over until—when did you say?”

Wren hugged the pack to her chest. “Nigh but two more months now, near as I can figure.”

Emily lifted her chin, a gesture she’d seen Mrs. Hunt use to rally the servants a hundred times. “Well then, there’s some tincture in the bag from the apothecary, good for you and the babe. A spoonful at night and one in the morning. I’ve included a spoon.”

“Ahh, miss. You’re always thinking.”

The warmth in Wren’s voice burned a trail to her heart. How she missed the girl and her sweet ways. “Tucked deepest inside is a coin purse. There’s enough to hold you over in food until we meet again next month. Same time and place?”

“If you don’t mind. Thank you. One last thing, though I hardly deserve more. My mother, does she…” This time there was no mistaking mist for the single tear sliding down the girl’s face. “Does she ask after me?”

Emily’s lips pressed into a tight line. Must it be her lot to break the girl’s heart afresh? “In truth, Wren, I’ve not told her yet that I’ve been meeting with you. I’ve meant to, but the time’s never been quite right. Oh, I’ve hinted around and such, but your mother’s as adamant as ever when I bring up your name. I feel sure, though, that once the babe is born, once she sees the sweet little one, she shall change her mind.”

“Aye. Mayhap.” Wren’s voice was hollow. She settled the pack over her shoulder and dipped a small curtsy. “Good day, miss.”

Emily nodded, for truly there was nothing more to say. Watching Wren retreat spent the small account of optimism she held for the girl. To what part of town would Wren’s feet take her? Who would be there for her should something go wrong? Except for Wren’s growing belly, she was so small, so vulnerable.

Shivering, Emily turned her back to the desolate figure. Dampness soaked into the leather of her shoes while she retraced her steps. As she neared the corner, a quiver shimmied along her shoulders—but not from cold. The distinct thud of boots pounded dully in the mist behind her.

She increased her pace and refused the urge to look over her shoulder, denial lending some confidence.
Please God, may it be one of those coal heavers on an early delivery
.

But the boot thuds upped their tempo as well.

Fear settled low in her stomach, making her feel as if she might vomit. The ghastly memory of Uncle Reggie lying waxen and gray added to the nausea. She’d made a huge mistake coming here by herself. The realization burned white hot, like the pretty red coal in the grate she’d touched as a tot. She’d discovered its danger too late…just like now.

Still, maybe the fellow behind her was simply in a hurry. After all, she—

The world spun. Her back slammed against a brick wall. Every nerve shrieked a warning, but she couldn’t scream.

A glove covered her mouth.

Hot breath blazed across her forehead. “I’ll remove my hand, but upon my word, you scream and this will go all the worse for you. Do you understand?”