Brentwood's Ward (15 page)

Suddenly she longed for the safety of Brentwood’s strong arms.

Chapter 12

A
re you out of your mind?”

Nicholas focused on the remaining daylight pooling on the floor in the magistrate’s office. He ought lift his head, show a measure of respect, but the cold wooden planks were preferable to the fire in Ford’s eyes. He sucked in a breath and held it, the tightness in his chest matching his taut nerves. Would this day never end? Keeping a foolish woman from harm, comforting his failing sister, finding his employer dead, and now this. Not that he’d never been dressed down by the magistrate before, but with fatigue fraying his tightly woven resolve, the man’s censure nipped particularly deep.

“Bah! I’d expect such an appeal from a simkin like Flannery, not from a seasoned officer such as yourself.” The scrape of Ford’s chair and the accompanying footsteps pulled Nicholas’s face up.

The magistrate leaned back against the front of his desk, arms folded.

Nicholas worked his jaw. He knew exactly what was coming—and he deserved every bit of it. It’d been a foolish request to begin with. No…worse. A cowardly one.

“The fact that your employer is dead is neither here nor there, and well you know it.” Ford’s tone scolded harsher than a fishwife’s. “You are committed, now more than ever, to remain with this case until it is solved.”

It wasn’t often he argued with Ford, but this time, with his sister’s life on the line, he matched the magistrate’s even gaze. “For all I know, it could’ve been suicide. Case closed.”

Ford scowled. “Merely conjecture, and you know it.”

“For now, it’s all I have.” The words were ashes in his mouth. He shifted, the creak of the chair’s worn leather complaining with his every movement. Of course the magistrate was right. It was nothing but desperation that prodded him to ask to be relieved of the case in the first place. But unless he received another offer for hire—and soon—Jenny’s life would be forfeit.

“Have you given thought to Miss Payne?” Ford’s question pierced, sharp and precise.

Nicholas deflated with a long breath. How to tell Ford that other than his sister, Emily Payne invaded more of his thoughts than any woman since Adelina?

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his watch. Flipping it open, he ignored the time and instead rested his gaze upon the small image pressed inside the cover. The ink on the portrait’s dark curls had bleached to gray. The eyes, the nose, the crescent lips—barely distinguishable. When had the likeness faded so much? Why, when he tried to recall Adelina’s voice, could he only hear Emily’s?

Re-pocketing the watch, he lifted his eyes to Ford’s. “Of course I’ve given her thought. Either way, murder or suicide, Miss Payne will have scandal attached to her name.”

And her hopes to marry well—her future—would be dashed. The image of Emily’s friend, the pathetic figure clothed in fog and a thin cloak, rose like a specter. Without money, Emily could become that figure.

Nicholas swallowed the chalky taste in his mouth. “She’ll be ruined.”

Ford’s gaze bore down. Hard. “You sound as if you care.”

For a snippet of a pampered girl who ran headlong into trouble? Did he? He shifted in the chair.

Should
he?

He snorted. “What I care about is the rest of my payment for this assignment. How am I to collect from a dead man?”

A shadow crossed Ford’s face. “Avarice? From you? I expected better.”

Nicholas clenched his teeth and looked away. Ford was right. And if he looked deeper—which he wouldn’t—he suspected the roots of his anguish went far beyond the lack of money for Jen.

But for now, he’d cling to that buoy. “My sister worsens, sir. If I don’t get some funding soon—”

“Payne promised you a total of 250 pounds,” Ford interrupted. “How much have you received?”

He snapped his face back to the magistrate. “Half, roughly.”

“And the second half was to be yours upon his return, yes?”

Nicholas cocked his head. “That was the arrangement.”

“I’d say, Brentwood, that Payne has returned.” Ford unfolded his arms and strolled back to his seat. “Though not quite in the state you expected, eh?”

He pondered that for a moment. Was Ford seriously suggesting…? “What are you getting at?”

“I know that, second only to your precious pocket watch, is your lock-picking kit. I daresay it’s even now in your breast pocket, am I right? I merely propose you employ your skills and retrieve the balance of that payment for your sister’s sake. Then remain on the case until it is solved for Miss Payne’s benefit.”

The idea lodged in his mind like a stone in a stream. Everything else circled around it in a silent whirlpool. Payne’s lockbox was in the bottom drawer of his desk. It would be easy enough to take what was owed him then bundle Jenny off to the seaside—and also free him to pursue unhindered some kind of justice for Emily.

Nodding, he stood.

“And, Brentwood,” Ford matched his stance, “I think it best if you keep Miss Payne in the dark about her father’s demise, for now, at any rate. I understand your hesitation about labeling Payne’s means of death, but it is undeniable his partner was murdered. If the two are related, you ought keep a sharp eye on her. For reasons we may not know, she might be next. Hearing of her father’s demise will be hard enough. Heaping fear for her own life atop that would be worse. Needless to say, the sooner you solve this, the better.”

Ford’s ominous deductions shadowed Nicholas as he stalked out of the room, clung to him when he stepped into the twilight of Bow Street, and haunted him for the entire cab ride to Portman Square. Emily’s future was as precarious as Jenny’s—and both depended upon him. His heart missed a beat with the weight of it. As the hackney rolled to a stop, he swiped his tired eyes with the back of his hand and breathed out a prayer: “God, do not let me fail them as I did Adelina.”

He smacked open the door with his fist and landed heavy feet onto the cobbles. After paying off the jarvey, he retrieved his key and unlocked the Payne’s front door.

Two steps past the threshold, he froze.

Only a small vigil lantern on the sideboard lit the foyer. No chandelier glowed overhead. To his left, nothing but shadows gathered in the sitting room. He squinted down the corridor. The dining room was dark as well. If not for the subdued dong of the study’s clock chiming half past seven, he’d swear it was well past midnight.

Nicholas frowned. Emily never turned in this early.

A sharp intake of breath spun him around. There, in the single highback gracing the entryway’s corner, Mrs. Hunt jerked awake.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Brentwood.” The housekeeper shot to her feet, face flushing deep enough to be seen even in the spare light. Straightening her skewed mobcap, she bobbed a hasty greeting then wrinkled her nose.

Immediately, he retreated a step. Though he was immune to the dead-house stench that had woven itself into the fibers of his clothing, apparently Mrs. Hunt’s nose was not. “My apologies for the odor, Mrs. Hunt. I shall change garments straightaway and send these off for a good cleaning. Now, please explain what the deuce is going on.”

Her lips puckered, as if she were deciding whether to continue the conversation while inhaling such a stink. “Miss Payne asked me to keep watch by the door until you returned, and I regret to say I must’ve dozed off. It’s been a rather trying afternoon.”

His frown cinched tighter. Trying afternoon, indeed. Had the pug escaped? Or the milk curdled before teatime? He shrugged out of his greatcoat and reached to hang the garment on the coat tree, nearly stumbling on an upturned corner at the edge of the rug hidden in shadow. Straightening it with the toe of his boot, he turned to Mrs. Hunt. “Did Miss Payne bid you douse the lights as well?”

“That she did.”

He spread his hands wide. “What on earth for?”

“She wanted to give the impression she’d gone out for the evening.” Despite his smell, the housekeeper took a step closer and lowered her voice. “In case the man returned.”

He froze. “What man?”

“Around four o’clock, a blackguard came to call. Refused to give his name, merely insisted he see Mr. Payne. I informed him that Mr. Payne was gone on business, but he would have none of it. Pushed his way right in and searched the whole of this level. He took liberties with Miss Emily”—she nodded toward the candlestick on the side table—“so I cracked him a good one on the skull to get him out.”

Nicholas’s fingers curled into fists. “What kind of liberties?”

“Pressed her flat up against the doorjamb, the filthy scoundrel. Then he fingered her hair, plain as you please!”

Heat surged through his veins, but he kept his tone cool. “A description, Mrs. Hunt. Distinguishing marks. Manner of speech. Anything you can remember.”

The dull lantern light traced a grimace on the housekeeper’s face—which suddenly paled. If a simple memory of the man had such an effect on this bulwark, the fellow must be fearsome indeed.

The housekeeper closed her eyes, the white of her apron whiffling with a shiver. “Dark eyes, ruddy complexion. What I could see of it, that is. His head was bald as a babe’s, with a birthmark the color of port spilled down the back. He were short, as far as men go, but stocky. Solid. Like he were no stranger to work. An outdoor fellow, if you ask me. I shouldn’t wonder if he were one of Mr. Payne’s captains, though I’ve never seen the likes of him before. But of one thing I am sure.”

Her eyes popped open. “Miss Emily has every right to be anxious. He’ll be back, and no doubt about it.”

Filing away Mrs. Hunt’s prediction along with the rest of the information, he carefully kept out one word to explore further. “A
captain
, you say? Did the man have an American accent?”

The housekeeper curled her upper lip, more pronounced than when she’d first detected the dead-house odor on him. “I pride myself on keeping as far from those filthy beasts as possible, Mr. Brentwood. Still…I suppose he could have been, now that you mention it. He called Miss Emily an
English
wench.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hunt. You’ve been most helpful.” He turned and took the stairs two at a time. It was either that or punch a hole into the plaster for the slur to Emily’s character.

Ignoring convention—and the clipped steps of Mrs. Hunt ascending the stairway behind him—he stopped in front of Emily’s chamber and rapped. A single wall sconce flickered in the corridor, the resulting shadow a monster against her door. “Miss Payne, are you all right?”

Mrs. Hunt kept watch, but at a distance. Smart woman.

No sound came from Emily’s chamber. Not even one of Alf’s yips.

He pounded harder. “Miss Payne?”

Nothing. Not an indignant “coming” nor a “by your leave, sir.” Just quiet.

This time the wood rattled in the frame against his fist. “Emily!”

More silence—except for his own pounding heart and the gasp of the housekeeper down the hall.

Blood rushed to his head, heat to his gut. Gads! What if the man had breached the wall to her window? Or lowered himself from the roof? Was he too late already?

Nicholas reared back, preparing to kick the spot just below the knob. Sweat soaked his shirt. One…two…

The door opened several inches, and a sleepy-eyed Emily peered out—eyes that popped wide when she took in his stance. “Mr. Brentwood! This is highly irregular.”

Should he gather her in his arms or scold her for nearly getting a boot to the belly?

He opted for stomping toward her. Bracing his hand against the frame, he leaned inches from her face. “Why did you not answer immediately?”

The question came out harsher than he intended, no surprise with the way his nerves jittered on edge.

Her lips flattened. “Really, sir, besides the fact that your stench preceded you, would you have had me open the door in my nightgown?”

Involuntarily, his eyes strayed lower, past the hollow of her throat, to the ribbon tied below her collarbone. The wall sconce brushed a warm glow over skin that was likely even warmer. And softer. Here was a woman that angels would envy.

A tremor ran through him, and suddenly breathing took entirely too much concentration.

“Did Mrs. Hunt not explain to you the situation?” she asked.

Her question snapped his gaze back to her face. What had gotten into him? Slowly, he let his hand fall and edged back, straightening his shoulders. “Mrs. Hunt is not at fault. I merely came to see that you are all right.”

A strange glint flickered in her eyes. Was it simply the spare light, or something more?

“I am whole, if not a bit shaken.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. Either the woman was coaxing out the rest of what she had to say…or hindering the words.

“I am happy to hear it.” A small smile tugged his own lips, especially when she sulked at his faux pas. “What I mean to say is that I am happy to hear you are whole. It does not please me that you are shaken.”

“Of course, and…” She inhaled. Deeply. A curious act with the stench he wore.

“And?” He prodded.

“Merely…” Her pert little nose lifted an inch. “Thank you for inquiring.”

He nodded. “It is my—”

“Yes, I know. It is your duty.” An unreadable shadow snuffed out the gleam in her gaze.

It was an unaccountable loss—one he’d dearly love to replace. He reached toward her, but at the last minute curled his fingers to his palm instead. “Miss Payne, I—”

“No matter.” She shook her head. “Suffice it to say I appreciate now that my father hired you. I am indebted to you for your service until he returns.”

“Yes…well…” A kidney punch would have been less stunning. His short nails dug grooves into his palms—into flesh that was clammy and moist and sickening. How to explain to this wide-eyed young woman that her father wouldn’t be returning home?

Ever.