Brentwood's Ward (23 page)

“A true lady would value punctuality, and furthermore”—he offered his arm—“whatever gave you the idea that I was a gentleman?”

“My mistake.” She lifted her chin and bypassed him without a look.

Good. At such a rate, hopefully she wouldn’t notice the absence of Wilkes—her usual driver. The man now gripping the reins sported a shock of red hair beneath a felt hat. His jacket bulged with a brace of loaded pistols. And a seasoned driver would’ve set the wheel brake instead of allowing the horses to jitter the carriage back and forth.

Nicholas locked eyes with Flannery, sitting in the driver’s seat, a second before assisting Emily into the coach, then he swung up behind her.

Emily sat center on the seat, the farthest point from either window. Smart girl. He sat opposite her, his back covering the fine line in the seat cushion where he’d modified a small hidey-hole to store extra firearms.

Her hands gripped the seat’s edge as the carriage lurched into motion, and she turned her face from him. He bit back a smile. Her anger was a useful tool. Freed of the burden of conversation, he listened for the rush of feet, hooves, wheels, anything that suggested an imminent attack.

The ride, however, was uneventful—and that set his teeth on edge. It’d been nearly a week since Nash’s ambush. Why nothing more? Nicholas’s jaw ached from clenching it, and he rubbed his chin. Even bribing his best informants, he’d gained no new knowledge about Nash nor uncovered anything about her father’s death. Though at first he’d been reluctant to follow Ford’s advice to keep Emily in the dark about the man’s demise, the magistrate’s wisdom had finally sunk in. Grief was hard enough borne without the closure of all the whys, whens, and hows. And so he’d pursued every possible lead, wearing down precious boot leather in the process. The only certainty he’d gained was further confirmation that his sister hadn’t much longer to live.

And that chilled him more thoroughly than Emily’s silence. If he didn’t conclude this case soon and obtain the rest of his payment from Payne’s estate, he’d never move Jenny to the country in time. Tucking his chin, he breathed out another “God, please.”

The carriage stopped. He descended. This time when he offered his hand, Emily’s fingers rested atop his. Music spilled out the open foyer door, growing louder as they gained the marble stairs facing a towering estate on the western edge of London. So many torches and outdoor lanterns burned on the front lawn, the sun need never make an appearance on this street.

Two footmen in crushed velvet livery flanked the entrance. One held out a white glove for the engraved invitation Emily produced from her beaded reticule. With his free hand, the dandy servant extracted a monocle tethered to a golden chain and lifted it to his eye. Either the Garveys were particularly discriminating, or they simply wanted to make a show of their highly trained, man-sized monkeys.

Once inside, Nicholas paused. His gaze darted from the crowd on the stairway, to the people clogging the corridors, to the sitting room on the right filled with giggling girls and their matrons, then beyond to the open veranda doors. He let out a long, slow breath. No wonder Nash had bided his time. Guarding Emily in this throng would be impossible. If he was going to strike, this would be the perfect place.

Especially when she loosed her fingers from his arm and shot forward, vanishing into a swirl of taffetas and satins and shiny brass buttons.

Nicholas slipped sideways through the crowd after her. A search of the first floor earned him nothing but a few sneers from uppity fops afraid he was closing in on their territory, and several unabashed ogles from ill-chaperoned women. What kind of looks was Emily attracting without him at her side? He took the stairs two at a time, dodging couples and servants alike.

By the time he spotted her laughing with Bella near a punch table on the far side of a dance floor, he couldn’t decide if he should throttle her or blend into the crowd undetected to watch the beguiling way her dimples deepened when she smiled.

Across the room, her gaze shot to his.

He wove past spectators, keeping a wide berth from the dancers at center, until he closed in on Emily and her friend. “Good evening, Miss Grayson.” He tipped his head to the pert little redhead then turned on Emily. “Miss Payne, I’ll thank you to consider that I am not as familiar with this household as you appear to be.”

“Ah yes, my apologies.” She dazzled a grin at him. “I forgot that a gentleman would’ve known his way about.”

“Touché.” He quirked half a grin in return. “Shall we start over? Completely, that is.”

He bent at the waist, first to her then to her friend. “Good evening, Miss Payne. Good evening, Miss Grayson.”

Bella’s brow crinkled. “But you already—”

Emily cut her off with a sweep of her hand. “Don’t mind him. My cousin is in a rather ill humor tonight.”

“As will you soon be.” Bella set down her punch glass and leaned toward Emily. “Don’t look now, but here comes Mr. Shadwell.”

A ripple teased the fabric of Emily’s skirt from bodice to floor. Either she’d just clenched every muscle or she’d repositioned her feet for a good sprint. Nicholas snuck a glance over his shoulder and suddenly understood why.

Plowing through the last square of a cotillion, a red-nosed man, with a belly that further attested to his love of spirits, headed straight for them. Mr. Shadwell gave a cursory nod at Nicholas and Bella then bowed low before Emily, grabbed her hand, and planted a kiss upon her glove.

Nicholas smirked. She’d had the nerve to suggest
he
didn’t behave in a gentleman-like fashion?

“Miss Payne, how delightful!” Shadwell straightened, wobbling slightly—as would anyone so off center with a belly like his. “I’ve been waiting with bated breath for a glimpse of your beauty tonight.”

Baited was right. A distinct waft of anchovy pate filled the air. Nicholas cocked his head, curious to see how Emily would handle this affront.

She edged closer to him, away from Shadwell, though she did greet the man. “Mr. Shadwell.”

Shadwell smiled. “I insist that the next dance belong to no one but me, my dear.”

Emily grabbed Nicholas’s arm. “So sorry. I’m afraid I’ve already promised the next dance. Am I not right, Mr. Brentwood?”

Her eyes sought his, her brown gaze pleading. He studied her closely. Was she holding her breath?

He opened his mouth, but the yes that came out wasn’t his.

Behind him, a voice curled over his shoulder like smoke. “The lady is right.”

Nicholas turned.

Henley peeled her hand off his arm and tucked it into the crook of his own. “Miss Payne’s next dance is spoken for by me.”

Chapter 20

E
mily licked her lips, her mouth dry as bleached bones, though she’d just drunk a full glass of punch. In the midst of the dozens of dress coats filling the ballroom, only two interested her. Her eyes shot from Mr. Henley, to Nicholas, then back again. Both set their jaws, but Nicholas’s held a sharper edge, his challenge loud, though he said nothing. He simply stood, shoulders back, stance wide. She’d never been to a cockfight before, but she now understood the desire to wager, for she’d bet all her money on Nicholas were a scuffle to break out.

Which is exactly why she pressed her fingers into Mr. Henley’s sleeve and smiled up into his face. “The music has already started. Shall we?”

“I protest!” Mr. Shadwell whined like a tot who’d been told no. “Clearly, I was here first.”

Nicholas glowered at the man. Shadwell blanched and took a full step back. Why had the ninny dared approach her so boldly?

“You are mistaken, sir, for I accompanied Miss Payne to this ball in the first place.” Nicholas cocked his head, studying Shadwell as he might a bit of manure on his shoe. “Furthermore, I defend the lady’s prerogative to dance with whomever she wishes.”

He turned to her then. So direct was his gaze, she might very well be the only other person in the room. He lifted his brow, and once again the strange sensation of time stilling wrapped over her bare shoulders like a whisper.

She swallowed.

Next to her, Mr. Henley opened his mouth, but Nicholas held up a hand. Could he command a storm to stop as well? “Miss Payne, is it your wish to dance with Mr. Henley?”

Moisture prickled across her forehead, her palms, the crease behind her knees. It was a simple enough question, but the implications were legion.

She cleared her throat, looking—hoping—for words. Was he trying to bully her into defying him? Or killing her with kindness?

“Yes.” It was the only logical reply. The right answer. One to which she shouldn’t give a second thought.

So why did her voice sound empty? Her heart turn cold?

Fighting back a shiver, she coerced her lips into a smile then turned and allowed Mr. Henley to lead her across the room to the end of the dance line. Her guardian’s eyes burned into her back with every step. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that, other than acknowledge the little flip in her stomach that she couldn’t control—and try to ignore how lifeless her hand felt on Henley’s arm instead of resting on Nicholas’s warm sleeve.

With her free hand, she massaged her temple. This was insufferable. Finally, her chance to sway Mr. Henley into pursuing her, and she brooded like a moon-eyed schoolgirl over Nicholas Brentwood, Bow Street Runner. What was wrong with her?

Mr. Henley patted her hand and shot her a sideways smile. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“You have?” She gazed up at him, searching his eyes. Nothing inside her tingled or zinged or…anything, really.

And when had she started to prefer green over blue?

She forced her smile to deepen. “What I mean to say, sir, is that I, too, have been waiting for this moment. I am honored you sought me out.”

But her smile faded as they swept past the dancers and out the door, leaving the ballroom behind. Mr. Henley’s pat on her hand turned into a strong-fingered grip.

Her brow puckered. “Have the Garveys added on a new ballroom elsewhere?”

“Not that I know of.” He led her down the stairway, slipping her a glance from the corner of his eye. “I merely wanted to have a word with you. Alone. Without your guard dog.”

“Mr. Brentwood is not my…” The rebuttal lay like a heap of ashes on her tongue. Wasn’t that exactly what her father paid him for? What kind of dolt was she to have feelings for a man who was little better than a servant, if indeed the odd sensations were anything other than some tea that didn’t set well in her stomach?

As they sped along, she stole glances at Mr. Henley. Centuries of money echoed in his steps. Aristocracy fit him as neatly as his imported Italian shoes and fine silk shirt. The spicy scent of costly cedar aftershave tweaked her nose. Here was a true gentleman, one with wealth, connections, poise. A future.

Her slippers patted double-time to his long strides. Faces blurred past. Conversations blended into a dull roar, and her lungs started to burn. “I object, sir! Must we go this fast?”

“Sorry.” Yet his pace belied his apology. He strode out the open french doors, across the veranda, and descended the steps into the garden.

“Mr. Henley, really!” She yanked her hand from the crook of his elbow and pressed it to her chest, gasping. “I can barely breathe.”

Behind them, torches twinkled. Ahead, nothing but hedgerows stood black against the night sky, soaking up the moonlight between them. Clearly the party ended at the veranda.

Henley stretched out his hand. “Come along, my dear. There’s a seat, not much farther.”

The queasiness in her stomach increased, not unlike the sensation when she’d escaped the captain’s advances late last summer. Surely, though, this was different.

Wasn’t it?

Slowly, she smoothed her hands along her skirt, shoving down memories. “I don’t think I should—”

“Honestly, Miss Payne. I’ve seen you alone countless times with Mr. Brentwood.” Mr. Henley’s teeth glinted in the faint torch glow reaching this far from the festivities. “Surely you won’t hesitate to sit with me.”

Emily frowned. “You forget, sir, that Mr. Brentwood is my cousin.”

“Is he?”

A chill leeched up through her slippers. “What is that supposed to mean?”

His upper lip quirked. His gaze cut to his offered hand then back to her.

Should she? Wasn’t this what she’d hoped for all along? So why did her slippers drag as she stepped forward?

Bella’s warnings, Nicholas’s concerns, her own gut feelings screamed an alarm, but Mr. Henley’s grip engulfed her glove, pulling her along. His grin flashed white in the darkness, skeleton-like. He led her deeper into the garden, along a path lined on one side with boxwoods as tall as her head.

Ten more paces and he stopped. Letting go of her hand, he inclined his head to an alcove cut into the hedge. A small wrought-iron bench nestled in the recess. Torchlight didn’t stretch this far. Music and voices and laughter lapped at the far edges of the night.

“Please, have a seat.” Henley’s tone was mild, his gesture non-offensive.

Still, her heartbeat pulsed through her veins and throbbed in her wrists. Clearly he had much to say, for her ears alone, or he never would have brought her here. Something as important as a proposal, perhaps? But if it weren’t, was the risk to her reputation worth otherwise?

What to do?

She lowered to the cold metal and lifted her face to where he stood. Shadows hid his expression, making it impossible to guess at his emotions. La, she could barely name her own.

But she could guess. “Are you cross about the coffee-shop incident? I assure you—”

“On the contrary.” His words ended with a small laugh. He sank next to her, his outer thigh pressing against hers. “I am delighted it happened.”

She scooted away from him until the arm of the bench cut into her side. “Why would you say such a thing? Mr. Brentwood embarrassed you in no small way, sir.”

“Ahh.” He nodded, and a swath of his hair fell forward on his brow. “But you see, Miss Payne, it made me realize just how much I want you.”

In one swift movement, he closed the distance between them, bringing with him the smell of pomade and desire. His breath fanned over her cheeks as he pulled her into his arms. “Emily, there is something I should like to ask you.”