Brentwood's Ward (6 page)

“Surely you know the penalty for thievery, girl.”

“I weren’t thievin’!” A mackerel on a pike couldn’t have wriggled more.

He tightened his grip and squatted, face-to-filthy-face, ignoring the pedestrians flowing past them on either side. “And do you know the penalty for lying?”

“I ain’t lyin’, you scarpin’ cully!”

A frown tugged his lips, and he pierced her with the same stern stare he’d used on Emily. “You can lie to me, girl, but not to God.”

“Well…maybe…maybe I…” Her voice blended into the clamor. Beneath his fingers, her muscles relaxed. Her chin, once jutted, now softened to the point of trembling. Angry creases disappeared into the curved shadows of each hollowed cheek. He’d seen that look a thousand times. Despair didn’t just weight the soul; it scarred the face.

In the brief space of a blink, Nicholas prayed:
Lord, what am I to do?

“Don’t turn me in, sir.” The tear in the girl’s eye might be an act. But the appeal in her tone was real enough. “I’m powerful hungry, that’s what. I ain’t et a morsel since yesterday, and then only a crumb. That’s God’s truth, sir, it is.”

Blowing out a long breath, Nicholas reached with his free hand into a concealed slit inside his waistband. Baring an entire wallet in public was suicide. He pulled out a ha’penny and held it up, both their gazes drawn to the bit of copper. For the street waif, the coin meant life—but would the giving of it hasten Jenny’s death?

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked.

“Nipper.” Her eyes didn’t shift from the money.

“Nipper, eh?” He masked a grimace. Beneath that grime lay a girl who ought to be wearing ribbons and twirling about in dresses, not scrounging the streets for marks with fat purses. “Odd name for a girl.”

She shot him a glance then zeroed back in on the ha’penny. “Ain’t so strange when the one what named me is Maggot.”

Nicholas frowned and ran through a mental ledger of criminals in the area. He knew of a Grub and a Fishbait, even a Vermin and a Tick, but no Maggot. “This Maggot, where does he live?”

“Din’t say ’twas a he.”

“All right. Where does
she
live?”

The girl wriggled, eyes yet fixed on the money. “What for do you want to know?”

He softened his tone yet kept it loud enough to be heard above the street hawkers and coaches. “What do you say, Nipper, if I were to visit ol’ Maggot and hire you away from her. Would you like that?”

Her face jerked to his, fire in her eyes. “I might be a cutpurse, but I ain’t no bleedin’ trollop—”

“No, no. I’m not suggesting anything of the kind.” He loosened his grip on her wrist. She yanked back her arm and retreated several steps, but his outstretched coin held her in his orbit. “My sister is in need of care, Nipper, and for the next few weeks, I am not able to attend her. I suspect a small chamber of your own would be a great improvement over some rat hole in a rookery.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know—”

“Do you dispute it?”

She swiped her sleeve across her nose, a nervous reaction that endorsed his earlier guess and sanctioned his new deduction.

Slowly the girl extended her hand, palm up. “All right. Anythin’s better than Pig’s Quay. I’ll take the job. But don’t worry ’bout ol’ Maggot. She’ll let me go, and be glad of it…long as I keep her garnished.”

Nicholas dropped the coin. She snatched it midair and tucked it away in her shoe.

“You give that to Maggot then scurry back here to the Crown and Horn. There’ll be a meal and another penny for you.” He stretched to full height and gave a nod down the block.

Her face brightened. Visibly. Like the flame of a match in a darkened cellar. “That I will, sir. You can count on me, or my name’s not…Hey, what’s yer name?”

“Brentwood.” He offered his hand.

She inched nearer then snaked out her fingers and shook it, her grip a curious blend of frailty and strength.

And quite the act of faith for a pickpocket. Half a smile lifted his lips. “Besides employment, I should like to give you a new name as well. From now on, I shall call you Hope.”

She drew back, mouth agape. “Me? Hope?” Her tongue darted over her lips after she said the name, tasting of it as she might a sugared date. A slow smile brightened her face as effectively as a good scrubbing. “I like it, I do. Hope!”

Then she darted into the traffic and vanished. Speedwise, the little urchin was good at her trade. Hopefully she’d do as well with his sister. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned, tramping the half street to the Crown and Horn. Had he done the right thing?

Pushing open the tavern door, he shed his hat and threaded his way past men seated in clusters. None looked up. He was as much a part of this pub as the scarred oak tables. The smell of tallow and lard, mutton pasties, and the nutty tang of malt ale curled into his nose and sank to a warm place between belly and heart—home. For the past few years, anyway, and until now.

At this time of day, mostly legal professionals or coach drivers on layover took a draft and a sausage pie, though there might be a random playwright or actor in the bunch. Laborers were too busy toiling the day away, but they’d come later. The cotters, the stave makers, chandlers, and silversmiths, all and more would stop by for a mug on their way home to fishwives and laundry women. Though he didn’t envy their lot, he understood the pull of returning to something other than four empty walls and a cold bed each night.

He neared the stairwell entry just as innkeeper Meggy Dawkin barreled through the adjacent kitchen door. In one arm she balanced a platter of cheeses, topped with a loaf of bread. Her other hand gripped a tankard, foam spilling over the rim.

“Good day, Megs. How is she?” Nicholas nodded toward the stairway.

“ ’Bout time you showed up, Brentwood. I have a pub to run, and I’m no nursemaid.” A red curl fell onto her forehead, and she blew upward to knock it back. “Still, I set out your sister’s porridge and a mug o’ cider early this morn. When I went to pick it up, not a bite or drop was missing. She gets much worse an’ you’ll have to move her out.”

She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Can’t let it spread that the Crown and Horn houses diseases.”

Her words shaved layers off his faith. God forbid Jenny’s sickness should spread. But for the moment, this was the best he could afford. In three or four weeks, though, as soon as Payne returned, he’d have the money to move her out to the country.

Oh God, let her make it
.

Nicholas scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling a score older than his twenty-seven years. “Has the doctor been here?”

“Like I said, man, I’ve a tavern to run. He might’ve slipped in last night when I was dodging pinches and running pints, but he ain’t shown his beak today.” She whirled to the catcall of a fellow across the room, and a plop of ale foam landed on the floor. “Keep it civil, Bogger!”

Before she set off to topple the fellow—Meggy ran a strict pub—Nicholas called after her. “Oh Megs, I hired a girl to see to Jenny. Small thing. Quite dirty. Goes by the name of Nipper, or possibly Hope. Give her a room and a basin next to my sister’s. She’ll need to be fed as well.”

Meggy frowned at him over her shoulder. “It’ll cost you.”

“It usually does.”

Her lips curved up. “Cheeky devil.”

Ignoring her taunt, he turned and tromped up the stairwell, walls closing in like a coffin. Were a fire to break out—no. Better to not think it.

The stairs were steep, and the beam at the landing low. He ducked and veered right. Thin light seeped through a tiny window at the end of the corridor, feeble as the cough leaching through the door where he stopped. He rapped the wood with one hand and reached for the knob with the other. “It’s me, Jen. Nicholas.”

The hacking increased as he entered the room. Death lived here, crouching in the corner, biding its time. Judging by the rattle of his sister’s lungs and gasps for breath, the beast wouldn’t wait much longer.

He strode to her bedside and lowered to the mattress. The wooden frame creaked as he cradled Jenny’s shoulders and lifted her up. Bones bit into him, sharper since his last visit. “You’re worse.”

She settled against the pillow he plumped, chest heaving. “Good day…to you, too…Brother.”

“Ahh, Jen. You know I wish you the best of days.” He coaxed back the dark sweep of fringe from her brow—hair that should’ve been pulled up and fastened with pearl combs as any other young lady her age. Her green eyes, dulled almost to gray now, followed the movement. Ahh, such a beauty she’d been before disease came calling. Choking back a sob, he forced a smile for her benefit. “How are you?”

In return, a weak smile quivered across her lips. “Dandy and grand, as always.”

He stood, pacing the length of the room—eight steps one way, eight back. That she kept such a sweet spirit attested to God’s own grace, but why did it anger him? He spit out a sigh, knowing the answer lay deep in his own wicked heart—a reaction he’d have to face one day. But not this one.

He stopped at the foot of her bed. “When was the doctor here last? What did he say?”

The lines of her mouth softened, and for the briefest of moments, a flash of the sister he knew peered up at him. “You worry too much. At seven and twenty, you ought be fretting over a wife and children, not your sister.”

Oh, no. Not that topic again. He folded his arms and widened his stance. “You’re stalling, Jenny. The truth.”

She pushed herself up farther, the effort expelled in another bout of coughing. “That is the truth, Nicholas. You do worry too much. Leave me in God’s hands, for there am I content. He alone has numbered my days, and try as you might, you can’t change that. You are not God, you know.”

Though the Brentwood family tenacity served him well in catching thieves and solving cases, it wasn’t nearly as agreeable when employed upon himself. “Very well. I shall leave the matter…for now.” He grabbed the single chair next to a small table and dragged it to her side. “I’ve got good news and bad. Which would you have first?”

Her gaze darted from one of his eyes to the other, as if she might read the answers without him speaking a word. “Let’s get the bad out of the way.”

“As you wish.” He reached for her hand. “I won’t be able to check in with you as often, if at all. I’ve a job over on the West End, Portman Square. I’ll be tied up for three, maybe four weeks.”

“That is bad news.” She freed her fingers from his and brushed away his own unruly hair from his eyes, her fingertips cool against his skin. “For who will smooth away those lines on your face?”

“Bah. No one even notices, save you.” He caught her hand in both of his, ignoring the clammy flesh beneath his touch. “Now, for the good. I’ve hired a girl to see to your needs while I’m away. She ought be here later today. She’s a street waif, but I believe one with a true heart. I think you’ll like her. And should you require, you can send her to fetch me.”

“But the cost—”

He let go of her hand and pressed a finger to her lips. “Let me finish. By the time I complete this assignment, I’ll have enough to see you and the girl moved to the country. Think of it, Jenny, fresh air and lots of it. Sunshine to warm your bones. I am sure God will have you on the mend in no time.”

Her brows lifted. “That must be some wage, but for what? Please don’t tell me this is dangerous.”

“Only for my patience.” He smirked. “I’m safeguarding a lady whose father is off on business, though
lady
is hardly a fitting term. Miss Emily Payne is more wily than a brothel madam.”

“Nicholas!” Jenny gasped, setting off a spate of coughs and ending with a strained clearing of her throat. “I doubt you’re being fair.”

He shook his head. How to sum up what he already knew of the woman? “She’s everything you’re not, Jen. Petulant. Defensive. A rebellious streak as deep as her father’s pockets, paling only in size to her pride. One thing she does share, though, is your beauty, in an opposite kind of way. Where your hair is dark, hers is golden. She’s got brown eyes to your green. Her skin is pure cream, a shade fairer than yours, and her wit is a bit more prickly.”

Jenny’s gaze bore into him. “Seems you’ve observed quite a bit about the lady in your short time with her.”

“I’d have to be blind as old Billy Moffitt not to notice her ways. In the space of one day, she disobeyed her father, caused the injury of her maid, and now demands I purchase some gaudier clothing.” He threw up his hands and stood. “If she thinks I’ll preen about as a pet peacock, all foppish and—”

“She can’t be all that bad.”

“She can and she is.” Bending, he straightened the blanket riding low on her lap. Jenny would defend a bare-fanged badger if given the opportunity.

“Nicholas?” The tilt of her head was their mother’s…one if not heeded, often earned him the switch. “You asked me to give this street waif of yours a chance. Seems to me you ought do the same for Miss Emily Payne.”

Heat filled his gut. Her logic chafed, stinging and raw. Of course, she was right.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Chapter 5

T
he sway of the carriage usually made Emily sleepy. Not today. Not with Nicholas Brentwood sitting across from her, the bothersome man. All her nerves stood at attention—an uncomfortable and recently frequent sensation.

While he looked out the carriage window, she jumped on the opportunity to study him undetected—a rare occasion. For the most part, he observed her and her ways, questioning what she did and why she did so. After nearly a week in his presence, she’d discovered very little about him. He, on the other hand, had an irritating way of always turning a conversation around to his benefit.

Streetlamps cast spare light, silhouetting his broad shoulders and pensive face—a face more handsome than she cared to admit. The slope of his nose was straight, the cut of his lips full. His dark good looks gave him an edge, eclipsing thoughts of how much he might be worth, making one wonder for the briefest of moments if it truly mattered anyway.

Faint creases lined the corners of his eyes. Apparently the man laughed, and often, though she’d not witnessed much of his humor. What made Nicholas Brentwood laugh?