Brentwood's Ward (32 page)

“Emily,” he mouthed her name against skin so soft, he wanted to weep. When she arched into him, he knew he must have her.

And the thought turned his blood to ice.

He released her and backed away. Time stopped. How long they stood there, he could only guess. He gaped, frozen in place by the host of feelings drifting around him like ghosts in a graveyard, each one howling from the separation. The memory of her body fused against his seared into his bones. God…what had he done?

She stared at him, drawing the fingers of one hand to her mouth. Slowly, she traced her lower lip, touching the swell. Her gaze was intense, the color in her cheeks deepening with each of his heartbeats. Was she reliving the kiss?

Or regretting?

“Emily—” His voice broke. What kind of guardian was he? “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Behind them, the usual sounds of London’s streets continued on as if nothing had happened. What a lie. Something had happened, leastwise for him. He could only guess what he’d done to her.

“Don’t be.” Lowering her hand, she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress then lifted her chin, proud and defiant as ever. “I’m not.”

Her words were as easy to grasp as feathers in the wind, but when they settled, a slow smile curved his mouth. Shaking his head, he grunted. “As I’ve said, you will be the death of me, woman. Come along. Let’s get you off the street.”

She fell into step beside him, the bustle of Eastcheap filling the silence until she spoke: “I am worried for your sister. She ought be moved to a nicer place. Somewhere warmer, or cozier, someplace”—she shrugged—“healthier.”

He arched a brow down at her, amazed at her shift from passion to empathy. “Why do you think I took your father’s offer in the first place?”

Her eyes widened, as if she’d discovered for the first time that he wasn’t an ogre. “But, my father, I mean…what will you do now?”

“In your case, I have a plan. As for my sister, well…” He looked forward, and instead of seeing the busy street in front of him, Jenny’s drawn face filled his vision. “I had a plan, once, but it’s not so clear anymore.”

“Nicholas?”

His Christian name on Emily’s tongue jerked his face toward hers. “Aye?”

“She asked me to remind you that God’s the One in control, not you.”

Once again he directed his gaze forward. The words ought be comforting, for indeed they were solid and true.

So why did he feel as if he were just about to jump off a cliff?

Chapter 27

H
ere you go.” Nicholas threw a blue dress across the Portman House sitting room. With the seams let out and a panel added onto the back, it looked like a crippled heron as it flew through the early evening light. Draped across Flannery’s shoulders, the bird would come to life in a spectacular way—one that would be talked about down at Bow Street for months to come. Truly, he ought not smile.

Flannery snatched the material with one hand and held the gown up. His scowl grew in size and depth the longer he looked at it.

Before the man could complain, Nicholas retrieved two precious oranges from a bowl on the tea trolley and rolled them across the floor. “And don’t forget these.”

“What’re those for?”

Without a word, Nicholas brought his hands up and cupped them to his chest.

Flannery glowered. “Sweet flying peacock!”

Nicholas dodged the fruit missiles, choosing to ignore the
thwunk
of them smacking the wall behind him.

“No! I won’t do it!” Flannery balled up the dress and chucked it to the carpet. “This goes beyond what ye asked in the first place.”

Nicholas rubbed his jaw with one hand. Negotiating with Emily for a spot to sleep on the floor in front of the hearth had been child’s play compared to this. “Think on it, Flannery. You know as well as I the past few days have produced nothing. Occupying her chamber overnight with the window cracked open. Me spending the bulk of my time absent from the house. Even you donning a bonnet and tooling about town in the carriage didn’t attract anything but some lewd remarks from a near-sighted drunkard. So unless you’ve a better idea, we give this a shot. Besides, who’s going to recognize you in a dress?”

Flannery folded his arms, his scowl softening at the corners. Progress.

Nicholas lifted his chin. “Need I remind you there’s a commission in this? We catch the villain; you become a full-fledged officer.”

His lips leveled to a straight line. Advancement.

“Sometimes duty calls for extreme measures. If you’re not up for it, perhaps this isn’t your line of work.”

Flannery narrowed his eyes. “Did you ever have to wear a dress?”

“No.” He paused long enough to let Flannery think he held the winning hand, then played his trump card. “But I did have to pose as a harlot in a molly house to snag a suspected parliament member with immoral tastes. I barely got out of there with my breeches intact. All I’m asking you to do is wear a dress and sway your hips as we walk down a few streets.”

“Pah!” Flannery swiped up the gown.

Victory.

Nicholas gestured toward the door. “Go change in the study. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”

Flannery stomped past him, mumbling all the way. Waiting until the grumbling faded then finally quieted behind the slamming of a door, Nicholas sank onto the settee and tipped back his head.

“Thank You, God, for small triumphs,” he whispered and closed his eyes. The past several days had been grueling, to say the least: keeping Emily occupied in a room hardly bigger than a cell at Newgate, keeping his own emotions in check while spending so much time with her—hard to do with the memory of her kiss forever etched onto his lips. It was a tight balancing act between that and despair over Jenny’s failing condition.

Failure weighted his shoulders as well, and he rolled them against the cushion. Why had the abductors not made another attempt? Did they know about Payne’s death? Was it safe to take Emily home?

A gruff throat clearing and heavy footsteps hauled him to his feet, and when Flannery swung through the door, Nicholas’s jaw dropped. Somewhere deep, laughter ignited, but if he let it explode, the game would be off—not that the knowing stopped an openmouthed grin from stretching his cheeks.

Flannery’s hand shot up. “Don’t be sayin’ anything. Don’t be sayin’ anything at all!”

Nicholas closed his mouth, every muscle in his gut quivering with the strain to keep from hooting. Flannery stood in front of him, for all the world looking like a dog-faced spinster. And an angry one at that. The long sleeves, poofy and opaque, hid his muscles—but not the hairy knuckles he bunched into fists.

“Don’t even think it. I’m warning ye, Brentwood!”

It took several deep breaths to assure he wouldn’t lose his composure when he spoke. “Fine. Let’s get to work then.”

Flannery stalked toward the door.

Nicholas snagged his skirt and pulled him back. “Not so fast. We start right here.”

“I thought the point of this was struttin’ about on the streets, not in some nimbly parlor. Hard to catch a fish when yer bait isn’t in the water.”

“After seeing you stomp across the room like an overgrown strumpet bent on a mark, trust me, we’ve got work to do here. With a gait like that, the only thing you’d catch is the pox from a burly wharf ape.”

Red crept up Flannery’s neck. “Are ye sayin’—”

“I’m saying let’s work on your deportment.”

“My…what?”

“Your poise. Your posture.” Nicholas threw out his hands. “Call it what you will, man, but you must learn to walk without losing your oranges.”

Flannery’s gaze shot to his chest. One fruit migrated south. The other had slid nearly under his armpit. He grabbed them both and resettled them front and center.

“Good.” Nicholas strolled to the door, allowing plenty of space for Flannery to practice. “Now then, chin up. Shoulders back. And with a slight sway of your hips, glide.”

In an instant, Flannery’s eyes changed from seaside blue to the dark gray of a tempest. Good thing the man was armed with nothing more than citrus.

“I will not—”

“Flannery,” he growled the name, “if this is to be believable—”

“Who’s to be believin’ I’m Miss Payne when I nearly equal your height, am wider in the shoulders, narrower in the hips, and a flamin’ carrot top to boot?”

Lifting a finger, Nicholas pointed to the window, where even now shadows blotted out the last bits of daylight. “Which is why we’ll take our stroll in the dark.”

“Oh, bloody—”

“Tut, tut.” He wagged his finger in Flannery’s face. “A lady never utters vulgarities.”

“Fie!” Flannery spit out. “This better be worth it. Chin, shoulders, hips, glide. I got it.”

“Then let’s see it.”

Muttering, Flannery kicked into motion. He tilted his head, shimmied his shoulders, and shifted his behind one way then another. The oranges slipped, the blue skirt swished, and the redhead went down. Hard.

Nicholas bent, riding out a wave of laughter that wouldn’t be stopped, until his lungs hurt and his eyes watered. Flannery let loose a barrage of foul oaths, which only made it funnier to see an Irishman in a dress cursing like a gambler on a losing spree.

“I never!”

Behind them, Mrs. Hunt’s voice sobered Nicholas enough to straighten and turn. She held out a note with his name penned on the front. As soon as he pinched it between thumb and forefinger, she whirled and whisked off down the corridor.

Flannery hollered after her. “I never did either!”

Nicholas wheeled back to the dour-faced man. “Go on and practice some more. I’ll leave you to it for a while.”

He retreated to the study and sank into the chair where he’d first met Payne. With the back of his hand, he wiped the moisture from his eyes then broke the seal on the parchment. Perfect timing for a diversion.

His gaze settled on the words, and as he read it twice over, he wondered how one could understand that which didn’t make sense:

Come at once. Your sister draws her last breaths
.

—
Dr. Kirby

For at least the tenth time, Emily flung open the door of Nicholas’s chamber and looked out. Once again, her shoulders slumped, tiring of the game. Nothing but darkness stalked up the stairs. Where was he? He’d not left her alone for these many hours since the day he’d first brought her here, which was not only unusual, but undesirable as well.

And entirely unfortunate.

She tugged her cape snug against her shoulders, wishing it was Nicholas’s embrace instead of thin wool, then stepped out and shut the door behind her. What else could she do? If she waited any longer, she’d miss Wren. As it was, even with speedy steps, she’d have to meet Wren first to tell her to wait, then retrieve some supplies from the house. Or maybe Wren could follow her back and hide in the shadows. If only Mrs. Hunt would simply relent and listen to reason—and to her heart.

She tripped on the last stair and flung out her free hand, slapping it hard against the wall. The resulting sting assaulted her palm every bit as much as the realization smacking her own heart. Who was she to judge Mrs. Hunt, when unforgiveness toward her father hid like a spider in a crevice of her soul? Sooner or later, she’d have to deal with that. Setting down the lantern, she took a deep breath and made up her mind.

Later. Definitely later. Making it safely back to Portman Square took priority.

She slid the bolt, opened the door, and blew out the lamp. Better to blend into the shadows than blaze like a beacon. Drawing on every trick she’d gleaned from Hope, she stepped out into the street and merged with the night. If Nicholas knew she was out here, he’d kill her.

Unless the footsteps behind got to her first.

Chapter 28

N
icholas crashed open the door of the Crown and Horn and tore through the taproom. Cutting too close to a table, he slipped in a pool of spilled ale. His foot shot out, and he flailed, but quickly righted himself. The teetering table didn’t. Wood and grog flew, along with the patron’s insults and Meggy’s threats. Ignoring all, he bolted ahead and took the stairs three at a time.

God, please. God, please
. Not much of a prayer, but it was all he had left.

He sprinted down the hall, his pounding feet rattling the sconce glasses in their holders. The sound mocked like skeleton’s bones, an eerie portent he’d rather not acknowledge. What if he was too late?

Two paces from Jenny’s room, he stopped.

So did his heart.

Hope sat on the floor in the hall, her back to the closed door. Fresh tears slid down tracks already worn on her cheeks. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. They didn’t have to.

He knew.

She shot to her feet and plowed into him. In reflex, he wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed, but he didn’t feel his shirt dampen or the shaking of her shoulders. He didn’t feel anything. He wouldn’t let himself. Not yet.

“Hush, child.” His voice sounded far away. Lost. Just like Jenny was to him.

Guiding the girl over to the wall, he peeled her slim arms from his waist. “Sit. Wait. I’ll be…a moment.”

She sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. Surely the waif had seen death many times over—but such was the effect of losing Jenny. And if it moved a hardened street child who’d known his sister not quite a month, what would it do to him?