Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  “Let’s call it what it was, man. Pig-headed. Greedy. Asinine!” He glared at Spindle as his words echoed off the walls.

  Spindle tugged at his collar.

  “You are upset, Mr. Goodwin. Might I suggest you resume your seat?” asked the barrister.

  Ethan ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to run and run and never—

  “This belongs to you, now.” Spindle cut through his thoughts and stepped toward him. “Hold out your hand, sir.”

  Spindle shook open a small velvet bag and dropped a heavy golden ring onto Ethan’s palm.

  And that’s when it hit.

  He staggered back to the chair, the ring breathing life into memories he’d long ago thought dead. The few tender moments. Some laughter, sparse but real. Sanguine days from early childhood. Things he didn’t want to remember, because to do so would remind him just how big his loss really was.

  Just like that, no more family. How many times had he wished for this? Now that the moment had arrived, the relief he expected to feel was overshadowed by a remorse so strong, it bound his heart. He hung his head. A fine sweat dampened the hair on his brow. This signet belonged to his father, to Richard. It always had and always would.

  He held out the ring to Spindle. “Take it. I was never trained for this. I was the black sheep put out to pasture. I can’t—”

  “You are.”

  Looking up, he locked eyes with Spindle. “You don’t understand—”

  “You are Lord Trenton now, Ethan Goodwin. That’s all there is to it.”

  Though it’d been the smallest of possibilities all along, he never dreamed the title would fall to him.

  And likely neither had his father or Richard.

  Ethan burst out laughing, hard enough that tears wetted the creases at his eyes. If God could make a carpenter into a Savior, a slave trader into a reverend, why not an opium addict into an earl?

  “Are you all right, sir?” Spindle leaned forward, concern accentuating his pinched features.

  “Probably not,” Ethan managed between laughs.

  “There are a few documents to sign. When you’re ready, that is.”

  “I’ll never be ready. Oh, don’t frown so, Mr. Spindle.” With one hand, he scrubbed his face, wiping away the last of his mirth. “I did not say I wouldn’t sign.”

  He’d be a fool to turn down an opportunity such as this. Pushing out of the chair, he took up a quill from the desk, then scratched his signature where the man indicated.

  “You know, Spindle.” Ethan set down the pen when finished and eyed the man. “I meant it when I said I don’t have a clue as to how to run an estate.”

  Spindle cocked his head. “Are you asking for my assistance, sir?”

  “Begging is more apt.”

  “Direct and humble.” A smile softened the tight lines of Spindle’s face. “I think we shall get on famously, my lord. I accept.”

  “Good.” He stepped over to the barrister. “I’m … uh … not familiar with operating on the acceptable side of the law, sir, but from now on, I intend to.”

  Hearing his own words struck a chord deep within. Here was his chance—the one he’d mused about in a church sanctuary a lifetime ago—to lead a respectable, God-fearing life. Closing his eyes, he silently prayed. Amazing, God. Simply amazing. You have done above and beyond anything I could have planned. Thank You.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Goodwin?”

  He blinked. The barrister’s brow furrowed at him. Half a grin lifted Ethan’s mouth. “Yes, sir. I believe that I am, or will be with your help.”

  The barrister’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve got style, my lord, and a bit of cheek. I like that in a man. I should be happy to assist you any time.” Without rising, he reached to a side curio and rang a bell for the footman, Banes.

  Ethan took the hint and crossed to the door. “Thank you both, gentlemen. It’s been a rather eventful day.”

  “I daresay,” said Spindle. “I shall file the appropriate documents, then contact you, my lord.”

  Banes entered. Before following him out, Ethan turned to Spindle. “So … what exactly do I do now?”

  And behind him, in just above a whisper, the footman said, “Might I suggest a bath, sir?”

  “Come on, Lil. Please? For me?” Miri propped the girl up and held a spoon to her mouth. Most of the thin broth dribbled down Lil’s chin, but some slipped past her deformed lips. Miri couldn’t blame the girl for not wanting to drink the foul stuff, especially if it tasted half as bad as it smelled. It made Miri’s own eyes water just to serve it.

  Lil’s chest fluttered. Miri set down the spoon and eased the girl’s head to the pallet. Lil blinked up at her, then slowly closed her eyes.

  Miri closed hers as well. Please, God, don’t let her die, nor my brother. And wherever he may be, please watch over Ethan.

  How long she sat there, she couldn’t say, but long enough that her head bobbed, jerking her awake. She rose, careful not to jar Lil, then stretched and arched her back. Though fatigue numbed her mind, the muscles along her hips and spine had plenty of feeling—sharp and relentless. She pressed her hand to them and kneaded. Bending over pallet after pallet was getting to her.

  Surveying the big room, she tried to think of whom she might have missed. Most of the women were here now, laid out like bits of cloth on a drying field. A few remained in their rooms, babbling as usual, but the overarching sound in the great room had changed to lungs gasping for breath and pain-filled moans.

  A fickle lover, Sheltering Arms had exchanged its embrace of madness for death.

  “Miss Brayden.” Dr. Pembernip summoned her from the doorway with a crook of his finger.

  She wound her way through the maze of pallets, her feet unaccountably slow. Looking down, she fully expected to see someone holding onto her ankles. Funny how far away the floor looked.

  “I’ve mixed up a new batch of powders.” He held out an envelope. “Stir this in with the broth, and we’ll see if it doesn’t put everyone to rights.”

  The pungent scent of garlic wafted up, tickling her nose as she grasped the envelope. A sneeze shook her whole body.

  The doctor cocked his head. “How are you faring, Miss Brayden?”

  She threw back her shoulders, refusing to wince at how it jolted her back. “Let’s see … I’m locked in an asylum against my will, forced to care for women who are dying right and left. I am bone-tired and could use a long soak in a tub of rose water. Other than that—”

  “Delightful!” A smile covered half his face. “So happy to hear it.”

  Nettlesome man! She frowned.

  “Oh, don’t fret, my dear. I have not forgotten our bargain. Soon this will all be but a memory for you.”

  She swept a hand across her brow. Her fingers came away damp. “See that you don’t, for I shall hold you accountable, sir.”

  “No doubt. Very well, now have at it. Try out those powders on the women, and I’ll tend to the men.”

  Miri touched his sleeve before he could turn. “My brother?”

  Pembernip patted her hand. She should probably feel patronized but couldn’t work up the effort.

  “Intriguing as ever,” he said, “and wholly, completely healthy. Thus far, at any rate.”

  He turned away, and Miri watched him go, relief rendering her motionless until the groans of the women behind her broke her stupor. Fortified with a deep breath, she spun and retrieved the cup she’d left by Lil, then zigzagged to the other side of the room where a large pot sat. Dumping in the contents of the envelope, she stirred, pausing to sneeze yet again. She stirred some more, trying to remember what to do next, but who could think when it was so stifling in here? Oh, for a cool breeze.

  Setting down the spoon, she fanned herself. The action made her sleeve snuggle down to her elbow.

  Her hand faltered to a stop.

  She lifted her forearm inches from her eyes, mouth dropping. So did her stomach. She stared, mesmerized in
a freakish way.

  Thousands of tiny red pinpricks dotted her skin.

  35

  Ethan climbed the steps of St. Mary Woolnoth’s, the summer sun warm on his shoulders. He paused at the spot where he’d collapsed on his last visit and lifted his face to the sky. Heat warmed his cheeks, gratitude his soul.

  So much has changed, God. Thank You.

  He pressed on and pushed open the scarred oak door. Some churches kept strict hours, but not this one. Newton would have it no other way.

  Charlie, the warden’s boy, was busy scraping wax from a candle stand in an alcove off the foyer. When he saw Ethan, he stopped so suddenly that the wrought-iron stand wobbled. “G’day, sir. Show you to the sanctuary?”

  “I came to see Reverend Newton, lad. Can you tell me where he is?”

  “I can do better than that. I’ll lead you.” The boy wiped his hands on his shirt and scooted past Ethan, eager as a puppy after a bone.

  Ethan grabbed Charlie’s collar and gently tugged him back. “I wouldn’t want to take you from your work. You can simply tell me. No doubt I’ll find my way.”

  The boy darted a look around, then cupped a hand to his mouth, whispering for only Ethan to hear, “I don’t mind a bit, sir. Scrapin’ wax is my least fav’rite duty.”

  “I see.” He knew that look of desperation on Charlie’s face, a reminder of hated tasks in bygone days. He relented with a nod. “All right, then. Lead on.”

  They skirted the sanctuary and entered a side door, then descended a stairwell. Foggy memories of the last time he’d been here, sick and on the run, left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  Charlie stopped and knocked on a door, opening it after hearing a hearty, “Enter.”

  A booming voice met Ethan’s ears before he could cross the threshold.

  “Well, well.” Newton rose from a chair, twirling one finger in the air. “Let’s have a good look.”

  Ethan held out his arms and turned. His cutaway jacket, fashionable yet not gaudy, fit him well. Brass buttons were enough glitz for him. He’d chosen quality fabrics, refusing all ruffles, laces, and frills. Just because he was an earl didn’t mean he had to look it. He lifted one brow. “Satisfied?”

  “Only God satisfies, boy.” The grin Newton flashed bordered on wicked. Was that allowable for a reverend? “Or should I say my lord?”

  “You may say what you please.” Ethan strode to the man and clapped him on the back. “But I won’t answer to it, not from you.”

  Newton laughed, the bellow filling the room like a tidal wave.

  “At least you smell better.” The reverend pushed an empty chair toward him and took the other. “I suspect you came to talk of things besides your appearance though, eh?”

  Ethan sat, smoothing his palms along his thighs. Suddenly this courtesy call didn’t seem nearly as trivial. He’d known the man for what, five, maybe six months?—and in that time his respect and affection for the reverend had grown deep roots. Pulling away might leave a bigger hole than he imagined.

  He swallowed back a swell of sudden emotion. “I came to say good-bye.”

  His sober proclamation robbed the smile from Newton’s face. “I thought as much.”

  “Did you?” He locked eyes with Newton, wondering how this one man could know him through and through, more intimately than his father ever had.

  “Aye, lad. Besides the fact that you’re a high and mighty landowner now, I suspect there’s a certain young lady ye’ll be wantin’ to claim. Am I right?”

  The thought of claiming Miri, of making her his own, burned a fire through his veins. He pulled at his neckerchief for air. “Aye. That you are. And none too soon for my liking.”

  “I should like to meet her someday.” Newton’s eyes twinkled. “She must be a fair treasure.”

  Ethan took a deep breath. The man couldn’t have spoken a truer word. Everything about Miri was fair, from the way the sun glinted copper strands in her curls, to the curve of her cheeks and softness of her lips. But she possessed far more than beauty. Nursing him back to health, caring for him at the risk of her own censure … how many other women would take in a vagabond, especially one bearing tidings of her brother’s death?

  He nodded. “She is a treasure, indeed.”

  Impatience urged him to his feet, and he offered his hand to Newton. “For that and other reasons, I must make haste. But I could not leave without a good-bye, my friend. Your words of faith have been a lifeline. Without you, I …”

  His throat clogged, and he had to work to clear it. “I’d still be on my way to hell, were it not for you.”

  “Don’t thank me, lad, thank—”

  “I know. And I do.” Ethan glanced at the ceiling. “Thank You, God.”

  Newton clasped his forearm. “Keep that up, no matter the circumstance.”

  “I shall.”

  “You promise?” The man’s grip tightened on his arm. His tone took on an unmistakable urgency.

  Ethan cocked his head, studying the reverend’s sea-grey eyes. A storm brewed there, one his answer would either quell or unleash. How curious and … unnerving.

  “I promise,” he said.

  Newton’s head bobbed. “I hope so, lad. I hope so.”

  Ethan frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

  The pain in Miri’s head competed with the ache in her muscles as she pushed up from the stool. A wince twitched her cheek. Even her bones hurt, down to the marrow. How much longer could she keep this up? She steeled herself against giving in to a coughing fit and willed her feet to move. She’d keep this up until each of these women was well, that’s what. Then Pembernip would have to honor his word to set her free.

  Focus on that, girl. Focus. Better to set her mind on that than on the chills shaking through her limbs.

  She wound her way to Lil’s pallet, an easier route now that so many bodies didn’t block the path. Thank God Lil wasn’t one of those resting six feet under behind the asylum. Kneeling by the girl’s side, Miri set a cool cloth on her forehead. Lil’s eyes opened, bright and clear.

  Miri smiled. “You’re better!”

  Half the girl’s face lifted, the biggest grin she could likely manage.

  “Oh, Lil.” Miri’s words traveled on a sigh. “I’ve been so afraid.”

  The girl reached out and patted her hand. Her fingers felt like ice, causing a sudden shiver.

  Lil’s eyes widened. “You’re sick?” she honked.

  Panic increased the pounding in Miri’s head. No! She wasn’t sick. She’d probably heard the girl wrong.

  “What’s that you say?” Dr. Pembernip’s voice asked from behind them.

  How had she missed his footsteps? Miri stood on legs that wobbled like a foal’s.

  Pembernip grasped her arm. “Are you well?”

  How did he do that? He stood inches from her, but his voice was in the other room.

  “I’m fine.” She jerked her head aside. Her voice was out there too.

  He crooked a finger under her chin and turned her face to his. “Perhaps I should be the judge of that.”

  To give in to the horrid sensations attacking her senses would break their bargain, and she’d never get out of here. Summoning all her strength, she pulled away. “I said I am fine, Doctor.”

  He nodded, but a shrewd gleam lit his eyes. “As you say, my dear.” He glanced down at Lil. “I see your patient is recovering nicely.”

  Relief should have eased the tension clawing into her shoulders. It didn’t. “Yes. I think Lil is …” She scrunched her brow, trying hard to remember. “Lil is …”

  “You were about to say?” asked Pembernip.

  Exactly. What was she talking about? She pressed her hand to her forehead, willing her thoughts to gel.

  “Miss Brayden?”

  She startled. Pull yourself together, girl. “Yes, I meant to tell you, we need more …”

  Licking her lips—oh, how dry she was—she tried to think beyond the hammering in her skull. They wer
e out of something. Something important. She was supposed to ask him for … Think. Think.

  “ … not good. Not good at all.” Pembernip’s voice ran off to the other room again, though his eyes burned into hers.

  No, that wasn’t right. The only thing burning was her.

  At least the floor felt cool as she folded onto it.

  36

  Ethan pulled hard on the reins, halting his horse in front of the rectory. Glancing up at a window, he pictured Miri, nose pressed against the glass, waiting for him. She’d run out the door any minute now, arms open wide, and nestle against his chest. Never to part again. He smirked at the irrational expectation, then slung his leg over the saddle before his mount completely stopped. He’d have a fair amount of explaining to do before he could expect such a reaction as that. The horse blew out a snort. Apparently the fast clip he’d ridden from London wasn’t appreciated.

  He took the steps three at a time, reaching the door in five long strides. His heart pounded as loud as his fist on the oak frame. Oh, how good she would feel in his arms. How sweet she would smell.

  No one answered.

  “Hello?” He banged harder with the heel of his hand. It smarted, but no matter—Miri waited on the other side.

  “Miri!” He’d hammer loud enough to be heard in the garden if he had to—

  That’s it. Mayhap she tended her garden out back on such a fine, late summer morn. He dashed down the steps and sprinted around the corner.

  Gradually, his feet slowed. Across the field, some pony carts, a wagon or two, and several tethered horses congregated close to the sanctuary. A chorus swelled out the open door. Idiot. He’d given no thought to the day of the week.

  He straightened his riding jacket and smoothed his breeches, brushing off the dust from the road, then crossed to the church. Slipping in the door, he remained at the back, straining for a glimpse of Miri. With everyone standing, he could not see past the heads of taller men in the last rows.

  But he got a grand view of the vicar up in the pulpit. He was a bald, sweaty sort, red in the face and gullet, with a long neck, like a turkey in a holy smock. How odd. Where was Fothergill?