Brentwood's Ward (7 page)

A crescent scar curved downward near the apex of his jaw. Not large nor unseemly, but noticeable. When she’d first met him, she’d sensed a certain ferocity held in check, a layer beneath his wit. This arched white line confirmed it. She frowned. Merriment and violence were an odd combination. A swirl of leaves cast about in the wind would be easier to sort through than the character of this man.

“You analyze me as you might a bolt of fabric. Why?”

His gaze remained fixed outside the window. Good thing, for he’d surely notice the fire blazing across her cheeks—and the feeling irked her. Perhaps, as in cribbage, the best defense would be offense. “A few rules, Mr. Brentwood.”

He snapped his face toward hers, the green of his eyes deep and searching. “Rules?”

A smile lifted her lips, victory tasting sweet. For once she’d gained the upper hand. “Yes. After our disastrous shopping excursion the other day, I think a few guidelines should be set.”

He snorted. “I’d hardly call that a disaster. Still, you make a good point.” A flicker of a grin lifted his mouth. “I think a few guidelines are in order.”

The carriage wheels bumped and ground over a hump in the road, the springs creaking as he spoke. Had she heard him correctly? Surely he wouldn’t give in so easily.

He held up his index finger. “Rule number one, then, is—”

“No, no, no! I meant
I
have a few instructions.” Boorish man. Did he honestly think she’d ask for more requirements from him? She shifted on the seat, facing him dead-on. “Rule number one is do not hover about me like an overbearing governess. I would rather you put to use those fade-into-the-woodwork skills you boast of.”

Light twinkled in his gaze. “Did I not perform to your satisfaction at Lady Westby’s? As I recall, I waited in the carriage.”

“Yes, but you called for me to leave far too early.”

“An hour was not enough time to view some fans?” He snorted. “Does the lady own the market?”

“Certainly not. I just didn’t want to be the first to leave.” She cleared her throat, hoping to cover the whiny tone that slipped out.

He rolled his eyes.

Drat…he’d noticed.

Nicholas folded his arms, cocking his head at a rakish angle. “What about the day before last, when you insisted on visiting Bond Street? I was a dutiful baggage handler, nothing more.”

“Nothing more? It was quite the scene at Mabley’s Lace and Glove when you apprehended that shoplifter.” Which was an understatement. Who’d have thought that the tiny shop could hold so many gawkers? And she was still hard pressed to decide which horrified her more—the way he manhandled a thief until a constable arrived or that Mrs. Mabley had assumed he was her beau.

“What would you have me do?” His voice rumbled lower than the carriage wheels. “Stand by while the place was robbed?”

Her lips pulled into a pucker. He’d cornered her again. The only correct answer was one she didn’t want to voice.

No, better to forge ahead. “Rule number two. You are my cousin Nicholas.

His eyes widened. “Say again?”

“I can’t properly be seen with a nonfamily member unchaperoned. What would people think? And worse…what would they say? I will not become this season’s scandal.” She lifted her nose, hopefully mimicking his own commanding posture. “You shall be my cousin Nicholas, visiting from out of town.”

He shook his head, sending a dark swath of hair across his brow. “I will not lie for you, Miss Payne, nor anyone, for that matter.”

“I’m not asking you to.” She sighed. An abigail was so much easier to manipulate than this bully. “Simply don’t say anything to the contrary. That’s not lying.”

“No. It’s deception.”

His words peppered the air like gunshot, and she flinched. “Must you always be so obstinate?”

“I’m not always. Sometimes I’m cynical and other times downright—”

The carriage pitched to the right, and her head snapped to the side. The pearl comb in her hair slipped, digging sharp ends into the flesh at her temple as her head smashed against the window. Vague shouts from the driver ricocheted inside her skull, as did the bark of Mr. Brentwood’s reprimand to the man.

“Emily!”

Her name floated midair, like a puff of dandelion seeds. Something warm wrapped around her shoulders. Something cool pressed against the side of her head. She inhaled sandalwood and strength.

“Just breathe.”

Slowly, shapes took on edges. Colors came back. Her cheek rested against a white shirt, which stretched across a solid chest, strong and—

A chest?

Emily pushed away, trying hard to ignore the staccato hammering inside her skull—and the way the sudden loss of Nicholas Brentwood’s warmth cut to the quick.

The carriage door flew open and the driver popped in a reddened face. “My apologies, my lady, sir. A blasted crack-brained jarvey cut me off, the half-witted—”

“Mind your tongue and see that it doesn’t happen again.” Nicholas shifted so that she couldn’t see his face, but it must’ve been a fearsome glower he aimed at the man, for the driver stuttered an “Aye, sir” and resealed the door.

When Nicholas turned back to her, though, nothing but compassion shone in his gaze, warm and strong as when he’d—

“Rule number three, Mr. Brentwood.” Her words trembled as much as her body. “Is never, ever hold me like that again.”

Nicholas frowned. “You hit your head, Miss Payne, and if you will not have me apply pressure to your wound, then perhaps you ought.”

He held out a handkerchief, a red stain in the middle.

Her fingertips flew to her temple, meeting with sticky wetness. “Oh.” Her voice was a shiver.

“With your permission?” He lifted a brow.

She nodded then wished she hadn’t. Her brain rattled around in her head like dice in a cup.

“Turn a bit, this way.” He guided her face aside with a gentle touch. The carriage jerked into motion once again, and even so, he compensated for the abrupt movement, never once applying undue pressure. “It’s looking better, though perhaps…”

This close, his voice rumbled through her, filling places in her heart that she didn’t know were vacant. A tremor ran the length of her spine. This was silly.

“Perhaps we ought return home.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” She inhaled, drawing in determination. She might as well take a gun to her head—though in truth it felt she had—as miss the opening night of
The Venetian Outlaw
at the Theatre Royal. “It’s merely a scratch, is it not?”

He leaned closer, his breath feathering against her forehead like the kiss of a summer sun. Smoothing back her hair, he lightly refitted her comb. Why was it so hot in here?

“I’ve seen worse.” He drew back, the tilt of his jaw granite. “And I suppose I’ll not hear the end of it if we do turn around. But if you feel nauseous or the slightest bit off center, we shall leave. Immediately and without debate. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” Remembering the throbbing from last time, she omitted a nod.

“May I have your word on the matter?”

She nibbled her lip. The man placed far too much value on one’s word. “Another building block?”

He answered with half a grin.

“Very well, Mr. Brentwood, you have my word. The second I feel I’m about to swoon, we shall return home.” She bit back a smile. She’d never swooned in her life, and she certainly didn’t intend to start now.

By the time the carriage eased to a stop, she felt certain she’d arranged her hair to hide her bump. Nicholas descended first then offered his hand. When their fingers touched, even through the fabric of her gloves, a quiver ran up her arm. La…she had hit her head harder than she thought.

She shook off the feeling, but once her slippers touched ground, a new one swirled in. Dizziness. She straightened her skirts, concealing a sway, and blamed it on the bright lanterns and commotion of the Theatre Royal. After all, scores of other women must surely be as lightheaded with the prospect of seeing and being seen.

Nicholas offered his arm.

Her stomach tensed. Had he noticed? “I’m fine.”

“While I agree there is none finer here tonight than you, Miss Payne, still I insist.” He bent, speaking for her alone. “Or shall I heft you over my shoulders as a ragpicker’s sack?”

“Have I told you that you’re a—”

“Yes. I have duly noted your opinion of me many times over.” He settled her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”

They swept into the grand foyer, large enough to house the entire population of Grosvenor Square and Mayfair combined, though by now the crowd thinned, most having taken their box seats.

“Your wrap, Miss Payne?” Nicholas stepped behind her and waited as she unfastened her buttons.

While he went to check her pelisse, she darted her gaze from one dress to another, hoping to spy her friend, Bella Grayson. No red curls caught her eye, but a certain blue velvet jacket with golden trim did. Emily pinched her cheeks and tucked up any loose hairs near her injury. Should Charles Henley glance her direction, she’d look her best or die in the trying. With a quick smoothing of her skirt, she took two steps toward him—then a hand on her shoulder pulled her back.

“One moment, if you please.”

The loud words traveled on a cloud of rum—hot and sickly sweet. Charles Henley’s head turned, and Emily spun before he could identify her…hopefully.

Bloodshot eyes stared into hers. Since when did Uncle Reggie imbibe in public? “Good evening, Uncle. I hope this evening finds you in better sorts than our last conversation.”

“Any word from your father?”

Her nose wrinkled from the tang of his breath, and she glanced over her shoulder. Charles no longer looked her way. Worse. He engaged in conversation with Millie Barker—the biggest flirt this side of the Thames. “Oh, no.” She spoke as much to herself as to Reggie then shifted her body to keep Charles and Millie in the corner of her eye.

“Nothing at all?” Reggie stepped in front of her.

Emily frowned. Her uncle all but blocked her view. “Not a word.” She craned her neck one way and the other. No good.

“It’s imperative I know the instant you hear anything. Do you understand?” Thunder boomed in her uncle’s tone, rolling across the room. Had Charles heard?

Standing tiptoe, she slipped her gaze over Reggie’s shoulder while answering. “Mmm-hmm.”

Before she could read the expression on Charles’s face, her uncle’s fingers bit into her upper arms, pinning her in place. The red crawling up his neck matched the lines in his eyes. “Listen to me!” He emphasized each word with a shake.

Her head pounded, centering like a hound to the kill on the tender spot she’d smacked against the carriage window.

“Unhand the lady. Now.”

The deadly calm voice of Nicholas Brentwood breached the ringing in her ears—and the glance of Charles Henley her double vision.

If looks could kill, the man scowling at Nicholas would swing from a Tyburn gibbet for manslaughter. Why had Emily spoken to the rogue in the first place? Nicholas had turned his back for what…thirty, maybe forty seconds? The woman’s magnetism was positively horrifying.

The man looked past Emily to him, smelling like a pirate and looking no better. Granted, his attire was impeccable, but his face twisted into a ruthless mask. Criminals didn’t frequent only alleys and shadows. The fellow sniffed, as if he were the one considering something rotten. “Mind your own business.”

Nicholas threw back his shoulders. “The lady
is
my business.” With one hand, he lifted the edge of his dress coat, just enough for chandelier light to glimmer off the golden spike of his tipstaff.

Slowly, the man’s hands lowered. A sneer rose. Emily scooted aside.

“So, you’re a runner, eh? Here at the theatre?” The man’s voice was a growl. “Should you not be out fetching a call girl for your magistrate or running some other useless errands for the Crown?”

Both Nicholas’s hands curled into fists. The spark of fear in Emily’s eyes kept them at his sides, but that did nothing to stop the flash of white-hot anger surging through his gut. “May I suggest, sir, that you nick off to Gentleman Jim’s if a knuckle bruiser is what you’re about. Unless intimidating women is the extent of your courage.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a bully, sir?”

“I don’t have to.” Nicholas widened his stance. “You’ve said it for me.”

The man swung back his fist. “Why of all the—”

“Uncle, no!” Emily flung herself between them, stopping Nicholas’s heart. If the man let loose now, her face would bear the brunt.

He reached for her. “Emily, don’t!”

She shrugged off his touch while facing her…
uncle
? Nicholas shifted his weight. Something didn’t add up. Why would a family member be such a brute? And hadn’t Mr. Payne owned that there were no nearby relations?

Emily wrung her hands. “When I hear from my father, I vow I shall let you know. Please, don’t do this.”

The man’s arm lowered—though his fingers did not uncoil.

“Thank you, Uncle. Now if you’ll excuse us.” She turned to Nicholas, eyes pleading, and laid her fingers on his sleeve. “Shall we?”

His heart pumped, muscles yet tense, fingers still itching to feel the satisfying smash against cartilage and bone.