Brentwood's Ward (19 page)

The quiet words sunk deep, sending ripples out to her fingers and toes. A compliment? From him…for her? Now that was as stunning as the tiara—

Or was it his unwavering gaze that suddenly seized her heart?

She turned and faced the glass case before he noticed his effect and was rewarded by the return of the clerk. Immediately, her brow puckered. Why did he carry her sparkles unwrapped? And who was the buttoned and bowed man next to him?

“Miss Payne?” The other man’s shiny black eyes fixed on her. His dark frock coat clung tight, leaving a wide opening in front where a white starched shirt stretched over his belly. A snowy cravat looped into circles at his neck. All in all, he looked like an illustration she’d once seen of a penguin.

“Yes, I—excuse me.” She snapped her gaze back to the long-nosed clerk. With one hand he straightened the velvet bedding beneath the glass, and with the other, replaced the tiara. What a dolt. “Perhaps I was not clear. I should like that boxed up.”

The clerk’s lips parted, but the other fellow spoke. “Miss Payne, unless you can produce a banknote for five thousand pounds, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. There is an unpaid balance on your account.”

The man’s words rattled around in her head like rocks in a tin can. She had to wait? What did that even mean? She returned her gaze to him. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Mr. Davitt.” He lifted his chin, and if his chest puffed out any farther, one of those buttons would pop. “Manager of Asprey’s.”

“Well, Mr. Davitt,” she matched the pretentious tilt of his head. “There must be some misunderstanding. Whatever the balance is, rest assured my father will see to it as soon as he returns to town.”

“Miss Payne,” Nicholas’s voice curled into her ear from behind, “we should leave.”

She cut him a sharp glance over her shoulder. “You, sir, promised to shop all day.”

Then she forced a smile she didn’t feel and dazzled it on Mr. Davitt. “Now then, please deliver the tiara—”

“I’m afraid that is out of the question.”

His refusal pulled her gloved fingers into fists, but popping a penguin in the chest just didn’t seem right. Poking at his pride, however, was altogether fair game. “Apparently you don’t understand, sir, so I’ll speak slowly and clearly that you may follow along. My father, Mr. Alistair Payne—that’s p-a-y-n-e—is a name to be trusted, and when he hears of this insult, you’ll be lucky to find yourself the manager of the thimble store in Cheapside.”

If the man’s nose lifted any higher, a nosebleed would follow. “Allow me to be plain. Until the account is cleared, there will be no further deliveries or purchases from Asprey’s. I bid you and the gentleman a good day.”

“But—”

Mr. Davitt spun, the tails of his frock coat whapping the counter. The clerk merely sniffed. And a combined gasp—both female—came from the left.

Ignoring them all, Emily traced the outline of the headpiece with one finger on the glass. The tiara sat so near yet was trapped beyond her reach. Her whole head ached, knowing the snug feel of those diamonds nested in her hair would never be a reality, leastwise not in time for the Garveys’ ball. And if she didn’t land Mr. Henley this season…moisture welled in her eyes, blurring the glittery little universe into washed-out gray. What was to become of her? Live as a spinster in her father’s house until death? If he allowed her, that is.

To her side, the horrid girl stifled a giggle—a girl who might very well purchase that crown and live happily ever after.

Unlike her.

“Emily.”

She spun. Had Brentwood seriously used her Christian name? In public?

“I suspected that might grab your attention.” Half a smile tipped his mouth. “Let’s go.”

He offered his arm. Walking out of here would admit defeat. But honestly…what choice did she have?

The solid muscle beneath his sleeve lent her strength, enough to straighten her shoulders and force her eyes dead ahead as they crossed to the door. The burn of the girl’s stare scorched her back.

Outside, as Nicholas led her down the block to their carriage, other shoppers bustled by, each trailed by servants carrying packages and parcels. She flexed the fingers of her free hand. Why did emptiness weigh so much? What was going on? She’d never been refused service. She’d never tasted the hot green sting of humiliation quite so bitterly.

Deep in thought, she slowed her steps. Nicholas gave her a sideways glance.

“Don’t fret. It’s for the better that you didn’t purchase that gaudy bit of frippery. Your smile’s brighter than any tiara.” He nudged her. “Come on, let’s see it.”

She lifted her face to him. “Are you trying to be kind, sir?”

A grin slid across his face. “Is it working?”

Her lips twitched, but she pursed them. “Not yet.”

“Well then, I shall have to try harder.” He stopped in front of their carriage and waved off the driver then reached for the door himself. Once opened, he turned to her, his smile fading. “I meant what I said, you know.”

Her brow crumpled. “What…that the tiara was too frivolous a trinket or too gaudy?”

“No.” He locked eyes with her. “I meant that you don’t need diamonds to attract a man.”

The sincerity of his words shivered through her. She’d heard flattery before. Enough to distinguish counterfeit from real. For all his bluster, Nicholas was genuine in a way she’d never experienced—a way that drew her in and wrapped around her shoulders.

He broke the spell with a nod toward the open carriage door. “Shall we?”

When she clasped his offered hand, a queer shot of heat raced up her arm. She smoothed her palm along her skirt as she seated herself—a vain attempt at wiping away his touch, for to admit his effect would be scandalous. But the action did nothing to remove the sound of his voice directing the driver outside.

Immediately, she popped her head back out the door. “Stop first at the Chapter Coffee House, if you please.”

Nicholas looked up at her from the street. One of his brows rose—only one…his I-know-something’s-up look. “Since when are you interested in political or literary debate, Miss Payne?”

She slunk back inside the safety of the carriage and busied her hands with pressing the wrinkles from her skirts. Just because shopping had been a dismal failure, didn’t mean the rest of the day must be a loss.

She had larger battles to win than Trafalgar.

Chapter 16

T
he carriage lurched to a stop in front of the Chapter, but the thousand swirling thoughts in Nicholas’s mind kept right on rolling, even as he opened the door and delivered Emily to the threshold of the coffee and chocolate drinking establishment. Was he doing the right thing? A woman of Emily’s caliber ought not deign a visit to a coffee shop, so something unique was obviously pulling her in. Not that she’d admit to it. Her pretty lips had remained sealed the entire ride, and she’d taken great interest in staring out the carriage window, humming a little tune.

Among those
how comes
and
wonder whys
, he was preoccupied as well with their shopping experience. Either the merchants’ aversion to offering Emily service meant that Payne’s debts had finally caught up to him, or word of her father’s death had leaked out. And if common shopkeepers knew, it was only a matter of time before Emily discovered it—

A truth, he determined, she should hear from his lips and none other’s. He’d never overridden a directive from the magistrate before, but this time, he just might have to.

Not now, though. He clenched his jaw and pushed open the shop door. The scent of cigar smoke floated above the earthy tones of coffee and chocolate. For a brief moment, he allowed the aroma to work its magic and loosen the tight muscles in his shoulders; then he handed over their penny entrance fee.

Emily touched her fingers to her nose. Apparently the smell didn’t appeal, which made her request even more curious than the silence he experienced on the ride over. The refusal at Asprey’s had shaken her in a way he didn’t understand.

Nor could he grasp her sudden urge to risk her reputation for the sake of a cup of hot chocolate or mug of coffee. Each morning he’d taken breakfast with her, Emily barely sipped half a cup of either. Something else was afoot—something she’d not own up to—so he’d have to let it play out. He doubted very much, though, that it had anything to do with an education in politics or bookselling, which was most often the case with these patrons. He studied her as she scanned the room then lowered her hand to reveal a small smile.

Ahh, that explained it. Intrigue had everything to do with this stop.

He chased her skirt as she wove past small tables and paused at one midway across the room. Horrendous position to defend, but all the perimeter seats were filled. Worse, every eye was drawn to the arrival of a female—one of only three in the room, unless servers were counted.

Charles Henley rose from his chair and leaned toward Emily, closer than decorum dictated. He snatched her hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed his lips against her glove longer than customary.

Stepping up behind her, Nicholas scowled at the man. “Henley.”

The man’s gaze lifted. Slowly, he released his hold on Emily’s fingers. “Brentwood…I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Funny. You don’t seem a bit amazed to see Miss Payne.”

Adjacent him, and still seated, Millie Barker beamed. “Oh, Mr. Brentwood, Emily, what a surprise!”

“Isn’t it?” Emily flashed him a smile over her shoulder. “What luck!”

A groan surfaced at the back of Nicholas’s throat. This explained the flurry of couriers Flannery reported going in and out of Portman Square yesterday. How many missives had it taken to arrange this meeting?

Henley was quick to pull out the empty chair to his right and offer it to Emily. The only seat left to him, then, was between Millie and her aunt, who dozed, chin to chest. The drone of a dozen conversations took the edge off the woman’s snores; still, each inhale was thick and snorty. Some chaperone. He slid out a chair of his own, giving credence to the rumors he’d heard of Millie’s exploits. Mr. Barker ought to invest in a guardian of his own for the woman.

Gritting his teeth, he ordered chocolate for Emily and something stronger for himself. He’d never frequented this particular shop but hoped their coffee was a kick in the head. He’d need it to survive this little tryst. Narrowing his eyes at Emily, he frowned. He never should’ve given in to coming here in the first place.

Millie bent toward him, eyelashes aflutter. “What a delight to see you, Mr. Brentwood.”

He leaned back, better to view Emily and Henley but with the added bonus of evading Millie. “I didn’t realize literature or politics was your game, Miss Barker.”

“Hmm?” Her smile grew, the slight movement of her lips setting the feather atop her hat bobbing slightly.

“A coffee shop is the least likely place I’d expect to find a woman for it is most often visited by those interested in partisan discourse or the bantering of philosophical ideas.” He cocked his head. “And you don’t strike me as one with such interests…unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

She leaned closer. “Oh, Mr. Brentwood, I’d tell you anything.”

It took every muscle in his body to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Though I must say it’s nothing like that.” She giggled then nodded at her snoozing chaperone without varying her gaze from his face. “Aunt here was positively in need of refreshment, for as you can see, she tires easily, poor dear. Our carriage happened to be passing by, and so I thought we should stop. Kind of a novelty experience, you see. Imagine my surprise when Mr. Henley hailed us to his table.”

“Happened by, eh?” he asked Millie but kept his focus entirely on Emily and Henley. Millie’s flirtatious conduct paled in comparison to Emily’s, for she employed hers in a more subtle way. The tilt of her head, the parted lips, a coy smile—he sucked in a breath. Why she felt she’d needed that gewgaw at Asprey’s to make herself more appealing was a mystery. If Henley’s lips weren’t shut, his tongue would loll out of his mouth like the dog he was.

“Truth be told, I’ve never actually been to a coffee shop, Mr. Brentwood.” Millie’s voice was a gnat in his ear.

“But you have, am I correct, Mr. Henley?” His question pulled the man’s gaze off Emily and landed it squarely on him. A cheap victory but worth every cent.

“Of course. During the day I frequent the usual haunts, but at night…” A slow grin bared Henley’s teeth.

“Wherever you go, sir, I am sure you add much to the conversation.” Emily’s words puffed out the man’s chest a full two inches before he turned his face to her.

Henley leaned in so close, his breath ruffled the fine hairs at her temples. “I excel in conversation, among other things.”

A sudden urge to deliver a right uppercut tingled through Nicholas’s fingers. Though he understood Emily’s precarious social standing—more so now than ever—that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Or Henley.

Next to him, Millie tucked up a curl of stray hair then trailed her hand down the curve of her neck, around to her collarbone, where her fingers settled on the bodice of her gown—a move that couldn’t have been carried out better by a strumpet in an East End brothel.

“Oh!” Her fingertips fluttered at the crest of her bosom. “My brooch…it’s gone!”

“How horrible. Do you think it was stolen?” Emily’s sentiment was true enough. Her timing and tone, questionable. Henley said nothing.

“Yes! Oh, it’s so clear to me now.” Millie answered after a perfect pause—too perfect. “I believe my brooch was stolen. It must’ve happened back on Oxford Street when Aunt and I encountered a street beggar. Mr. Brentwood…”

Her hand flew to his sleeve. He stared her down.

“Emily’s told me of your strong sense of justice. I daresay you could right this in an instant. Would you accompany me? I’m certain Mr. Henley and Emily wouldn’t mind our absence. Nor would Aunt.”

If he didn’t stop this now, Millie’s dramatics and Henley’s advances would steal any pleasure he might find in the mug of coffee headed his way. He removed Millie’s hand from his arm. “No need, Miss Barker.”