Brentwood's Ward (34 page)

“Please,” Wren said, “just listen.”

Behind them, the slap of sensible shoes hit the tiles, preceding the baritone voice of Cook. Should she ever choose to trade professions, there was likely a lighthouse in need of a foghorn somewhere. “What’s all this? Half the house awake and I’ve not even had a chance to boil water yet. Why—” A gasp punctuated her tirade as she drew near. “Look who’s come back.”

Cook’s proclamation prodded Mrs. Hunt like a cattle brand. Loosing her hold on his arm, she instead grabbed Wren’s and pulled her inside. She swept past the gaping cook, calling out as she scurried along, “We’ll take tea in my sitting room. Mr. Brentwood, don’t dawdle.”

Nicholas glanced up at the sky as he shut the back door.
Quite an interesting answer, Lord
. Then he turned and hustled to catch up.

Eyeing the small room, he took a position near the hearth. Banked for the night, it offered no heat, not that it needed to. The housekeeper generated enough warmth as she bustled about lighting lamps.

Across from him, a table with an inkwell and a stack of papers sat in front of a window. In the corner, Wren perched on one of two wingback chairs. No pictures graced the walls. No knickknacks adorned any whatnot shelves. Mrs. Hunt obviously kept the maintenance of her own rooms down to a minimum.

While Mrs. Hunt flitted about lighting lamps, he studied the girl. “Have you seen Miss Payne? Has she met with you? Have you any information?”

Wren’s eyes glistened a moment before she buried her face in her hands.

“La, Mr. Brentwood. Give the girl a moment.” Mrs. Hunt scowled at him then plopped into the seat adjacent Wren. The stern lines of her face masked any emotion. The housekeeper would not only make a great sergeant but a piquet player, as well. “As soon as you’re able, Lauren, we’ll have the truth, and all of it.”

Swiping her eyes, the girl straightened in her chair. After a final sniff, she faced her mother. “As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, I have only, ever, given you the truth. And this time, I beg you hear me out for Miss Emily’s sake.”

For an instant, the housekeeper’s reserve cracked. Her brows connected in an angry line then just as quickly returned as if they’d never met. “You two have always been thick as thieves. It’s not right. Not between a lady and a servant.”

“Miss Emily’s shown me more kindness than—”

“I suggest we leave the past behind, ladies.” He upped his volume, redirecting the conversation. “What news have you of Miss Payne?”

Wide-eyed, Wren reached into a pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I am to deliver a note to Mr. Payne.”

Nicholas crossed the room in three steps. “Mr. Payne is unavailable. I act in his stead.”

Wren’s gaze moved from his outstretched palm to his face. A hundred questions shone in her gaze. “Who are you?”

“Mr. Brentwood is a law keeper. He can be fully trusted, and in fact may be Miss Emily’s best hope.” Mrs. Hunt nodded toward the girl. “Go on.”

The paper passed easily from her fingers but once fully resting in his palm, weighed heavier than a brick. So much depended on what this note might say. Odors of horehound and fish wafted upward as he unfolded the ripped segment of yesterday’s
Chronicle
and read words written with a heavy hand in grease pencil:

Old Saproot Warehouse, Pig’s Quay Wharf

8:00 p.m. unarmed and alone

500 pounds

Emily’s throat burned. If Alf’s water dish were available, she’d shove the pup out of the way and lap it up—were it not for the gag in her mouth. Her eyes were plenty moist, though. Not that crying helped, but she simply couldn’t stop, and what else was there to do? She sat on a precarious stack of crates, terrified the act of breathing might be enough to topple her over. There’d be no way catch herself. Ropes cut into her wrists, pinioning her like one of Cook’s poultry. If she fell, she’d crack her head against the warehouse floor and kill herself.

But as horrifying as it was to sit here and wonder if she might plummet to her death—or what would become of her even if she didn’t—far worse was the stabbing pain in her back. From Wren. Why? She closed her eyes.
God, why?
Betrayal chafed her heart more painfully than the rag biting into her mouth. Finally she understood the black unforgiveness running through Mrs. Hunt’s veins, for it pumped through her own, heavy and thick.

On the far side of the warehouse, three sharp bangs rapped against wood. Behind her, heels thudded on planks. The bald brute who’d dragged her here passed beneath her, hollering over his shoulder, “Take her down.”

Daylight streamed through cracks in the walls. If they hauled her out of here now, she might have a chance to attract attention and get some help. She clutched tightly to that hope. It was the only one she had.

A freestanding ladder on wheels rolled over to her tower, but climbing up was no prince to her rescue. The stink of sour ale and mutton reached her an instant before his rough hands. He lugged her over his shoulder like a sack of kittens to be drowned. She winced at the horrid thought then complied by going limp. Better to save her fighting strength until she stood a better chance.

“Right, then. Let’s see her.”

The words barely registered before the world flipped and she stood on her own. A man-shaped shadow stepped out from a row of crates. When a shaft of light flooded his face and his gaze met hers, her heart stopped.

She knew those eyes. The coldness of them washed over her like seawater, leaving behind a wake of panic, exactly as it had late last summer.

Captain Daggett.

Her stomach heaved, and she doubled over. Nausea wasn’t an option with a bound mouth. She focused on her skirt hem and counted the embroidered scallops one by one—anything to ignore the convulsing of her belly.

Daggett’s laughter rang out, grating as knife against bone. “How much ye askin’ for her?”

“Five hundred pounds.”

“Gads! I could buy the Queen Mother for that.”

At the snap of some fingers, she was jerked upright, her back pressed against the bully behind her, his arm across her chest.

The bald thug opposite her smiled at Daggett. “Ahh, but this one is—”

“I know what this one is.” The captain drew so near, his hot breath hit her forehead. She flinched.

Reaching up, he twisted a loose curl of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “I know exactly what this one is.”

“She’ll bring a fine price,” the bald man continued. “You’ll make your money back and more, if sold to the right buyer. And I have it on good authority you are a man with many connections.”

Daggett leaned closer and bent, his breathing loud in her ear. “He has no idea, hmm?”

Then he wheeled about and offered his hand to the bald man. “Yes, I believe she will bring a good price. I’ll take her.”

His words spun in her head. Or was that the room? Hard to say. Nothing was solid anymore—except for the fear driven deep into her soul.

Chapter 30

N
icholas strode down the narrow lane, his gaze scouring the shadows more thoroughly than a street sweep intent on a coin. Not many figures inhabited this condemned stretch of riverfront. Those who did were cutthroats and thugs. Though plans for a new dock were in the works, as far as he and the river wardens were concerned, it wouldn’t be built soon enough. This boneyard of warehouse skeletons needed to be buried. Deep.

At intervals, dark clouds blotted out the moonlight, adding a sporadic inky depth to the night, which had its benefits—and detriments. Tightening his grip on his end of the heavy chest toted by him and Flannery, he could only pray the darkness would work to his advantage and not for the men who’d taken Emily. Filthy scoundrels. If they’d harmed her, violated her…

His gut twisted into a sodden, knotted rope, strengthening his resolve.

Anger had its pros and cons, as well.

Beside him, holding up the other end of the wooden box, Flannery cleared his throat. “Not that I be needin’ a hand-holding.” He slanted a glance at Nicholas. “But I wouldn’t mind ye running over those instructions again.”

Nicholas snorted. “You nervous?”

A string of mumbled curses unraveled past Flannery’s lips. “More than a strumpet in church!”

Nicholas smirked at him. “Good.”

“Ye’re a cold one, Brentwood.”

“A certain amount of fear keeps you careful. It’s too much or too little that can be deadly.”

Flannery’s end of the chest sagged. “Could you refrain from using that word?”

“Your part in this isn’t too difficult. You’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say. Ye’re not the one whose head might be blown clean off.”

Nicholas nodded left. Flannery followed his lead. They entered an alley and stopped halfway down. Moonlight glinted off the perspiration dotting Flannery’s brow as they eased the chest to the ground. The Irishman was right about one thing. He very well might lose his head.

But Nicholas’s position wouldn’t be any less dangerous.

Straightening, they retreated several steps. Nicholas bit back a smirk. As if the added distance of a few paces would save their lives should the chest explode now.

He faced Flannery and kept his tone low. Who knew what ears the wooden walls towering above them held. “All you do is open the lid. Remove the cloth from around the gun hammer, then make sure it’s pulled back and locked into position.”

“On the inside front, aye?”

Nicholas nodded, choosing to ignore the quiver in Flannery’s voice. “Once that’s done, pour plenty of gunpowder onto the pan and lower the frizzen. This isn’t the time to be stingy nor tidy. Cover it good. You’ve got the extra powder?”

The question was unnecessary, but he threw it out there anyway. Sometimes confidence had to be touched to be felt.

Flannery patted the bulge at his hip, his hand shaky as a drunkard’s. “Right here.”

“Then all that’s left is to take the string attached to the trigger and fasten it onto the lid. Make sure to close the cover nearly shut before you put the loop on the hook. Close it—gently—and wait, looking as if you’re guarding a great treasure. Run toward the river as soon as you see the vermin coming for their payment. I’ll meet you there with Miss Payne. Got it?”

“Lock the hammer. Liberal powder. Lower frizzen. Hook the loop. Er…loop the hoop. I mean—”

Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving his face inches from Flannery’s. He knew that look—the glassy eyes, the pinched lips—and it didn’t bode well. “Focus, man. You can do this.”

Flannery sucked in a breath so big, his Adam’s apple rode the current down. His eyes darted everywhere except to look straight at Nicholas. “I’m not so sure I’m cut out for this.” The words were a ragged whisper.

Nicholas clenched his jaw. There was no way he could do this alone. “Flannery, I’m counting on you.” He measured out each syllable, slow and dangerous, compelling the man to meet his gaze.
“Ni neart go cur le cheile.”

Though he’d butchered the brogue, apparently he’d pulled it off. The icy blue of Flannery’s eyes thawed immediately.

“Ye’ve a bit o’ the Irish in ye, eh?” Flannery’s chin lifted, slight but noticeable. “But ye’re right. There is no strength without unity, and to be sure, I won’t let a brother down. Ye can count on me.”

Nicholas released him and retreated a step, refraining from telling the man he was about as Irish as King George. “Then let’s be about it. There’s a damsel waiting to be saved, aye?”

A half smile quirked Flannery’s mouth. “For the lady.”

“For the lady, indeed.” Nicholas wheeled about and retraced his route then turned left when he cleared the alley’s mouth. The closer he drew to the warehouse door, the harder his heart thumped.

He knew exactly how Flannery felt.

Pausing before the thin piece of wood blocking him from Emily, he glanced heavenward. “Go before me, God. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Then he kicked open the door. The force vibrated up his leg, lifting half his mouth into a smirk. Even he needed confidence once in a while.

He entered what might’ve been a front room at one time. Two strides in, the cold metal of a gun muzzle pressed into the back of his head.

Excellent. At least he knew where the weapon was.

“Stop right there. Hands up, Mr. Payne.”

So far, so good. They’d bought the grayed hair and painted-on wrinkles.
Thank You, Lord
.

With a smooth movement, he complied, cataloging information at breakneck speed. The click-drag-click of the hammer meant his skull hosted a breech-loaded flintlock. Judging by the angle and pressure, the man holding it was an inch or so shorter than himself, but his build more than made up for his height. His accent labeled him a Bristol boy, born and raised. The man’s accomplice, the one patting his hands down each of Nicholas’s legs, was a slighter fellow—but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. And neither the news of Payne’s death nor his bankruptcy had reached these scoundrels, for they thought him to be the man.

Behind him, the flare of a flint sparked a lantern into life, creating monstrous shadows. He was a meager David amid Goliaths.