Brentwood's Ward (30 page)

Nicholas suppressed a smirk. The Baggley boys had no idea what kind of wrath they’d be facing today.

Ford dropped the hairpiece like a dead cat. “Now that that’s been cleared up, perhaps you can make it quick, as I requested.”

Nicholas lifted his chin and widened his stance. “Miss Payne has suffered two abduction attempts. I won’t allow a third.”

Ford sank into his chair. The whoosh of leather matched his sigh. “Let’s have it then. What do you need?”

“Moore.”

The magistrate shook his head. “He’s not yet returned from Dover. If he doesn’t sort out that smuggling mess and soon, our patrons are likely not to be so…patronizing.”

“Must be pretty bad if the revenue men and Moore are getting the runaround.”

“Quite.” Ford drummed his fingers on the desk, the
tat-tat-tat
like a cascade of grapeshot. “Why the sudden yearning for Moore? Is Flannery not working out?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ll use him. It’s just…” Shifting his weight, he debated how much information to feed Ford. Judging by the creases on each side of the man’s mouth, he ought serve it all up—on a platter. And quickly. “I intend to lure out whoever’s responsible for the abduction attempts, Sedgewick’s murder, and likely Payne’s demise as well. For that, I need someone with me I can trust. Someone who’s proven.”

Ford cocked a brow. “Your plan?”

“I’ll escort a Miss Payne decoy into a compromising situation, allow the capture of said decoy, then follow the culleys back to whatever rat hole they’re hiding in.”

“Where you’ll go in with guns ablaze, I suppose, assuming of course that you’re still in one piece after…
her
abduction.”

His mouth quirked. “You know my style.”

Ford shook his head, frowning. “Who would be daft or desperate enough to don a dress and play the part of a helpless lady, knowing that if he’s found out, his throat will be slit?”

Reaching up, Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. If only the action would loosen some persuasive words from his tongue. “That’s the part I need to talk to you about, sir.”

Ford’s fingers immediately stilled. “What is this going to cost me, Brentwood?”

“An officer’s commission, nothing more.”
Hopefully
.

Ford leaned forward in his chair. “Let me guess. Flannery.”

Nicholas said nothing. To flatter the magistrate by congratulating his intuitiveness would only stoke the man’s ire.

The corner clock’s ticking replaced Ford’s tapping, each tock chipping nicks into Nicholas’s strategy. If Ford wouldn’t agree to this, he’d have no choice but to use a real woman. But who?

At last the magistrate planted his hands on his desktop and pushed up to stand. “I can think of nothing better at the moment. Very well, then. I shall offer Flannery a commission on the condition you vouchsafe his service brings no shame to Bow Street.”

A muscle tightened at the side of his neck. Was the man worth such a wager? Should he allow Flannery to hold his reputation in his hands? Hard to say, but of one thing he was certain—the woman on the run and holed up in his room was worth every risk.

“If he lives through this assignment,” Nicholas measured out each word, “then yes, I think I can heartily recommend him.”

“Well, if he’s foolish enough to give it a go…I daresay you ought have him shave first.” Ford scooped up his wig, wafting a fresh wave of burnt-hair stink through the room. He scowled as he jammed it atop his head. “And what of Miss Payne, while you’re racing about town chasing down villains?”

“Not to worry.” In his mind’s eye, he could yet see her sleeping like an angel beneath his bland woolen blanket. “She’s safely tucked away where no one will find her.”

A kaleidoscope of images flashed against the back of Emily’s eyelids—her standing like a princess in a golden gown, the twist of Henley’s lips before he’d wrestled her down to the bench. Nicholas’s green gaze gently holding hers when he’d hovered so near her in the carriage. White curtains billowing into her chamber like ghosts from the grave. A tremble spidered across her shoulders, and she was unable to decide if the skin on her neck was clammy from fever or fright.

Her eyes fluttered open, focusing on a plaster wall inches from her face. For a few moments, her gaze traced hairline cracks from nick to ding as she tried to pretend the pattern was the tiny yellow-flowered print that papered her room. It might have worked, were fatigue still fogging her brain. But the longer her eyes remained open, the more reality seeped in, hard and angular as the lump in the mattress biting into her hip. Still, there was a slight amount of comfort when she inhaled, the thin pillow smelling of Nicholas’s musky scent. Stretching, she rolled over, intending to ask him what the day would bring.

Instead, she gasped.

Fathomless blue-gray eyes stared into hers, half of one hidden by a swath of straight, dark hair. Emily clutched the blanket to her neck in reflex, though it was naught but a slip of a girl staring at her, perched on a chair next to the bed—the chair she’d last seen occupied by Nicholas. The girl couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, but judging by the tilt of her head and sober pucker to her mouth, she’d already lived a lifetime.

“Who are you?” Emily asked.

“Hope’s me name, m’um. Better than Nipper.” The girl leaned closer. “Don’t you think?”

Slowly, Emily lowered the blanket and rose up to settle on the edge of the bed frame. She’d slept fully clothed, so no need to worry about indiscretion, though she did methodically smooth out wrinkles from her skirt. As she did so, she simultaneously scanned the small room for Nicholas’s muscular form. A study in futility, for she would’ve noticed him right off.

Not even his greatcoat remained.

“Yer pretty.”

The squeaky little voice pulled her attention back to the girl on the chair. “Oh…thank you. I vow I must look a fright, though I suppose that doesn’t matter now. Could you tell me where Nic—” Emily bit her lip. Why did the man’s Christian name rise so easily to her tongue? Was this what came of sharing a bedchamber with him? She cleared her throat and tried again. “Where is Mr. Brentwood?”

“Dunno. Din’t tell me.” Hope hopped off the chair and walked the few paces over to the table. What a cryptic little mouse.

The fabric of the girl’s dress scraped over sharp shoulder blades as she reached forward. She pulled a drab square of cloth off a basket then uncorked a squat, green bottle. Apparently finished with her task, she turned and leaned back against the tabletop, crossing one ankle over the other. The pose added years to her small body. “Mr. B sent me to see to your needs. I brought ye some water to freshen up a bit, and a loaf of bread with some jam.”

“Thank you.” Emily stood and arched her back, wondering which of the hundreds of questions she should ask first. “May I inquire as to how you know him? Mr. B, that is, as you call him.”

A smile spread across Hope’s face, and for the first time, Emily noticed the girl scrunched up her nose much like she did. She couldn’t help but return the girl’s smile. Hope unearthed and partially filled a long-forgotten space deep down in her heart for a little sister.

“Why…ye’re as kind as Miss Jenny, I can tell. Miss Jenny’s been teachin’ me to speak real proper like.” Hope bounced on the balls of her feet. “How’m I doin’?”

The girl’s zigzaggy line of conversation was hard to follow, but the way she rose higher on her toes, Emily sensed it was important for her to try. In the depths of the girl’s gray-blue eyes, a yearning for approval glistened like sunlight off glass. Was this how she’d looked at her own father?

“You’re doing very well, Hope.” Emily crossed over to the girl and bent to eye level. “But as for Mr. Brentwood?”

“Tha’s right. Got sidetracked, I did. Now, let’s see…” Her teeth worked her lower lip, and she looked down. The index finger of one hand tapped over the fingers of her other before she finally lifted her gaze. “I reckon ’tis been ’bout three, mebbe four weeks now since he plucked me from the streets.”

“Plucked?” She frowned.

Hope laughed. “Ain’t as awful as all that, m’um. I guess I shoulda said saved, for so he did. Weren’t no better day than that morn I tried to poach Mr. B’s purse.”

Saying nothing, Emily straightened. What was there to say? Hope’s quirky statements made as much sense as the mess she currently found herself in. Bypassing the girl, she retrieved a crust of bread from the basket and took a bite without bothering to spread any jam atop it, though a small jar peeked out from the basket.

Hope watched her for several chews. “If ye don’ mind, miss, I bin waiting a long while for ye to wake. I ought be off to see to Miss Jenny. She’s real sick, and I fear to leave her alone for so long. Is there aught I can do for ye afore I go?”

Emily returned the bread to the basket and brushed her hands together. Other than wave a magic wand and rid the world of whoever it was that sought her life, there was truly nothing more the girl could do. “Did Mr. Brentwood say anything at all about when he’d return?”

Hope shook her head, the action swinging the swath of hair to cover half her face instead of just one eye. “No m’um.”

“Very well. Thank you for the provisions. I suspect your Miss Jenny is missing you as well, so run along.” She retreated once again to the bed and sank to the frame. What was she to do here? Alone. Sitting in a man’s room, afraid to stay and more afraid to leave? Sighing, she rested her elbows on her knees and rubbed out the lines in her forehead.

A light touch on her shoulder lifted up her face. The girl moved as quietly as Nicholas.

“Don’t look so sad, m’um. If Mr. Brentwood’s carin’ for ye, ye got nothin’ to fret about. He’s a good man, he is. I knows it, and now so do you.”

Little fingers patted her sleeve, earnest as a grandmother’s. Emily couldn’t help but smile at the girl.

“Tha’s more like it.” Hope’s mouth curved, revealing a dimple on her right cheek. “Hey! I know. Whyn’t you come with me to visit Miss Jenny?”

The girl looked at her with such an imploring tilt to her chin, it would be difficult not to promise her a pony had she asked for one. But this request? Probably not the best idea for her to traipse around town with only a pixie of a girl at her side. Emily reached up and smoothed back the floppy bit of hair covering Hope’s face before answering. “I don’t think that’s wise. Mr. Brentwood might get angry were I to be gone when he returns.”

Hope shook her head, her bottom lip pooching out in defiance. “I don’t think he’ll mind a bit.”

“You’re a very confident young lady, Hope. What makes you so certain?”

She shrugged, her thin shoulders raising little hills at the tops of her sleeves. “Only makes sense he’d search for ye o’er at Miss Jenny’s if he doesn’t find ye here.”

“Really?” She tried, but there was no unraveling of the girl’s logic. “Why is that?”

“Pish! Why, she’s his sister, m’um.”

Emily could feel her brow wrinkle. Nicholas had a sister? Why on earth had he never spoken of her?

Chapter 26

E
mily stood behind Hope as the girl jiggled a key in the lock to Miss Jenny Brentwood’s room. She’d debated long and hard about coming here, but in the end, curiosity won out. That, and the wish to escape the suffocating jail cell of Nicholas’s chamber. In comparison to his place, even the corridor of the inn she now stood in was large—though just as shabby. A carpet runner lined the hallway, threadbare in spots and dulled to an allover shade of dirt. Overhead, the plaster was darkened by burnt lamp oil, collecting in black pools above each wall sconce. Mrs. Hunt would have spasms just thinking about the cleanup required were this building left in her charge.

Nabbing a stray lock of hair, Emily worked it into the loose braid at the back of her head and patted it into place. They’d walked quickly to the inn, much like last evening’s jaunt, but it was shorter and not nearly as frightening. If anything, with her knack for melding into crowds, Hope led her more invisibly than Nicholas.

Hope pushed open the door and called out in a singsong voice, “Look, Miss Jenny! I’ve brought you a new friend.”

Emily stopped just inside the threshold. Weak daylight spread like a disease from the single window, coloring the small chamber with a gray pallor. The woman lying on the bed matched the colorless hue. Suppressing the urge to turn and run, Emily held her breath. Death lived here. She could smell it.

Maybe this had been a mistake.

Hope rushed over and knelt beside the bed, taking up the hand of the raven-haired wraith lying there. She’d likely been a beauty, once, with her oval face and pert little nose. Now her skin stretched over bones so sharp, it cut to the heart. Sickness was indeed a cruel thief. Jenny’s resemblance to Nicholas was striking—and entirely too startling. What if that were him abed and dying?

Sadness, cavernous and cold, wrapped around her shoulders, and she shivered.

Jenny’s lips moved, murmuring something to Hope, but her words were too delicate to travel the length of the room.

“Her name is…” Hope glanced over her shoulder. Her mouth twisted from one side to the other as if she swished around salt water for a rinse. “Why, I just been callin’ you m’um, ain’t I? Mr. B told me yer name, but I weren’t payin’ him no mind at the time.” She turned back to Jenny and lowered her voice. “I guess I shoulda asked her name, eh?”