“Didn’t have to. A certain doctor came here, inquiring after you. Seems the fellow doesn’t trust you’ll be good for his wages.” One of the magistrate’s brows rose, a perfect arc on such an austere canvas. “Imagine that.”
A smile begged for release, but Nicholas refused the vagrant urge. Not yet. The magistrate didn’t often keep a courtroom full of brigands waiting. Something else was brewing. “If this doesn’t concern my sister, then why the summons? I don’t suppose you’re holding up court for tea and crumpets with me.”
“I’ve a task in mind for you, Brentwood.” Ford propped his elbows on each arm of the chair, angling his head to the right. One of his favorite bargaining positions. The man eyed him as he might a piece of horseflesh to be bought. “A task that must be tended to immediately, and I’m certain you’re the perfect officer for the job. In fact, I will consider no one else.”
Unease tickled the nape of his neck, and Nicholas rubbed at the offending sensation. Ford was generally spare with his praise. Why now?
“I appreciate your confidence,” he said.
“Bah.” The magistrate sniffed. “I’m certain you’re the man because you’re the one with the greatest need for funding. Am I correct?”
Nicholas shifted in his seat. Exactly how much did his superior know? “Go on.”
Ford laced his fingers and placed them on the desktop. “A gentleman of some means approached me with the business of procuring a guardian for his daughter. He’s willing to pay a tidy sum to see her well cared for.”
Scrubbing a hand over his chin, Nicholas chewed on that information as he might a gummy bit of porridge. Either the man was a reprobate too intent on pleasure to see to his own offspring, or the girl was a hellish handful. A frown pulled at his lips. “Why does he not look after her himself?”
“He sails for the continent on the morrow.”
Nicholas snorted. “Seems he ought to have obtained a guardian long before this.”
“Yes…well…” Ford cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “The point is the man is willing to pay a large sum to safeguard his only child, and it’s my understanding you could use that money. Yes?”
He tugged at his collar. A marmot in a snare couldn’t have felt more trapped. “I think that’s already been established.”
“Very well.” Sliding open a top drawer, Ford produced a folded bit of parchment. “The gentleman, Mr. Alistair Payne, will fill you in on the particulars of the agreement. Officer Moore’s got the streets covered and Captain Thatcher the roads, so I shall excuse you from your regular duties until this assignment is complete.”
Stabbing the paper with his finger, Ford skimmed it across the desktop toward him. “Here’s the address and the agreed upon amount.”
Nicholas unfolded the crisp paper. He blinked, then blinked again. Granted, the ink watered into gray at the edges, but even so, a figure stood out sharply against the creamy background. Two hundred fifty pounds—enough to send Jenny to the blessed moon should a cure be available there. He locked stares with Ford. “This is no jest?”
“Really, Brentwood, how often do you see me smile?” His lips didn’t so much as twitch. The only movement in the entire room was the pendulum ticking away in the corner clock—that and the rush of blood pulsing in Nicholas’s ears.
“Well?” Ford broke the silence. “What do you say?”
The only thing he could. “Yes.” He folded the parchment and tucked it into his breast pocket.
“Excellent.” Ford pushed back from his desk and stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a few cases to hear.”
As the magistrate stalked out the door, Nicholas ignored decorum and sat frozen, too stunned to follow. Amazing, that’s what. Did God seriously delight in dropping the jaw of a man such as himself? He rose and glanced at the cracked plaster ceiling, whispering a prayer. “Thank You, Lord. Your bounty never ceases to amaze me.”
He crossed the room and stepped into the hallway, hope speeding his steps—and landing him square into the path of a steelbodied man.
“You’re in an awful hurry, Brentwood.” A dark gaze bore into his. Though clear of anger, a fearsome enough stare.
“Sorry, Thatcher.” Nicholas sidestepped one way, Thatcher the other, an odd sort of dance in the narrow corridor. “On my way to a new assignment. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Surprise to me as well.” Samuel Thatcher straightened his riding cloak and planted himself in front of the magistrate’s door. “I was summoned for an early meeting with Ford. So early, I neglected to bring up my own inquiries. He still in there?”
Nicholas shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“Right.” Thatcher blew out a long breath. “Suppose I’ll head out, then.”
The big man turned the opposite direction, but two steps later, pivoted. “Hold on, Brentwood. New assignment, you say?”
Nicholas nodded. “Guardian position. Ought not be…what? Why the grin?”
A smile the size of Parliament slid across Thatcher’s face. He backed away, hands up. “Good luck with that one. You’ll need it.”
Nicholas growled. “What did Ford not tell me?”
Thatcher’s grin morphed into a low-throated laugh. He turned and stomped off. “You’re just the fellow for the job, Brentwood.”
“As are you to haunt the hollows on a horse. That’s it, run off like the coward you are.” His words didn’t stop the man from retreating nor douse the remains of his laughter.
Nicholas wheeled about and strode the other direction. Thatcher was batty, that’s what, likely from too much time spent on the byways wrestling with highwaymen. The man probably envied the soft position he’d just landed, holing up in a fine town house, watching over some proper little heiress. For all he knew, she might have a nurse or a governess, and all he’d have to do was recline in the man’s study, smoke cheroots, and read the Times.
Descending the stairs, he grinned in full at his fortune and entered the foyer. His bootsteps echoed in the wide lobby, empty now that court was in session. He reached for the doorknob then jerked back when it opened of its own accord.
“Ahh, Brentwood.” A barrel-chested man entered, not as large as Thatcher but every bit as powerful. All Ford’s chosen men were built like bulwarks.
Nicholas nodded a greeting. “Moore. How goes it?”
“Not bad. On my way to testify.” Alexander Moore swept past him, shedding his hat and brushing back his wild mane of blond hair. Nearing the courtroom, he called over his shoulder: “And by the smile on your face, I assume you escaped that horrendous assignment ol’ Ford was trying to pawn off.”
The door slapped shut behind Moore, as soundly as the jaws of Ford’s trap snapped down on Nicholas. Replaying the entire interview in his head, the magistrate’s throat clearing and his darting gaze stood out as the single tip-off. Apparently the gentleman, Mr. Alistair Payne, had tried to arrange for a guardian long before he set sail, a position both Moore and Thatcher had declined. Nicholas frowned. Ford hadn’t chosen him for any special reason other than he was the last resort.
Stepping out into the rank offense of Bow Street, Nicholas flipped up his collar against the chill and cast off any misgivings. After tracking down murderers, gamblers, and whoremongers, how hard could guarding an heiress be?
Chapter 2
Before entering 22 Portman Square, Nicholas stood dangerously close to the carriage ruts in the road and glanced up, studying the place. So many windows would be a problem, as would the servants’ entrance below street level to the left of the front door. The roof, three stories up, sat below the neighboring town house—an easy leap down for an intruder bent on topside access. No wonder Mr. Payne felt ill at ease leaving a young daughter home alone in such a burglar’s playground.
In four strides, he reached the door, lifted the brass knocker, and rapped. Moments later, the door opened to a flint-faced housekeeper who he might’ve served next to in the Sixth Regiment of the Black Dragoons. Odd that for su
ch a fancy house, neither butler nor footman answered his call.
Nicholas offered his card. “I’m here to see Mr. Payne.”
She didn’t just take the thing—she held it up to within inches of her eyes and read the sparse bit of letters as if he’d petitioned to view the crown jewels. “So you’re Mr. Brentwood, are ye? What business do you have with Mr. Payne?”
With a doorkeeper such as this, mayhap guarding the place wouldn’t be as difficult as he first imagined. “I believe, madam, that if you don’t already know, then maybe you ought not.”
Her eyes shot to his, gunmetal gray and sparking. “A simple ‘imports or exports’ would have sufficed. Come in.”
She stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then cut him off before he could advance any farther. “Wait here, if you please.”
Removing his hat, he studied the grand foyer. Flocked paper lined the walls, graced with enough wall lamps and an overhanging chandelier that the light would likely give him a headache come evening. To his right, a carpeted stairway led upward. At its base, three paces past and to the left, a single door. Closed. Opposite, french doors opened to a sitting room before the rest of the home disappeared down a corridor. It smelled of wealth and lemon wax—
And a faint scent of linseed oil as the housekeeper reappeared from the hallway. “This way, Mr. Brentwood.”
He followed her swishing skirt as she retreated once more down the corridor. Stopping in front of the next closed door, she knocked, and a “Just let the man in, Mrs. Hunt,” bellowed from behind.
Twisting the knob, she nodded at him. “If you please.”
Out of habit, Nicholas scanned the room. Two floor-to-ceiling windows and a large hearth, besides the threshold he’d just crossed, presented four possible points of access. Four. In one room. This could prove a very tedious assignment.
“Mr. Brentwood.”
The first thing he noticed at Mr. Payne’s approach was the fellow’s round belly. Apparently Portman House employed a good cook. At least the eating part of this assignment would be agreeable. His gaze traveled upward then stopped, fixated on Payne’s amazingly horrible teeth—chompers any beaver would give a hind leg to own. Nicholas squinted. Were the front two really that big or the rest abnormally small? A man of his standing surely could afford to have them pulled and replaced with porcelain replicas. Or at the very least, could he not have the rascals sanded down and even them out a bit?
Before he breached protocol any further, Nicholas forced his gaze higher and held out his hand. “Mr. Payne.”
The fellow clasped his fingers in a firm grip followed by a squeeze. Confident and over so. Quite the contradiction to the man’s appearance, for the structure of the rest of his face made him look perpetually surprised. Fuzzy hair, thankfully short and sparse, stood on end, as if he’d just taken a great fright. Dark eyes, brown as dried tobacco, sat below wiry white eyebrows, high set and arched—apparently their normal repose. This man surely made children laugh, perhaps even his daughter.
“Have a seat. I understand you’re one of Ford’s men, eh?” The freakish teeth punctuated his words.
“I am.” Nicholas eyed the furniture to keep from staring. Anchored on an overlarge Persian rug, two library chairs faced a glossy desk. Interesting, though, that no inkwells or papers, ledgers or registers favored the topside. It was bare. Completely. What kind of businessman was this Mr. Payne?
The man sank into a seat behind the desk, cushions whooshing a complaint beneath his weight. “Please excuse the somewhat unconventional greeting at the door. I’ve given my butler a temporary leave. I hope you weren’t too put out by Mrs. Hunt. She can be a bit brash at times.”
Nicholas met the fellow’s even gaze. “Perhaps you ought to offer her the guardian position.”
“I said she’s brash, sir, not wily.”
After his short encounter with the woman, Nicholas was not convinced. That mobcap hid more than aggression. He tipped his head. “I was not aware that cunning was one of the qualities you desired.”
“Yet you are, Brentwood. Cunning, that is. Or you would not be employed as one of Bow Street’s finest.” Mr. Payne sat back and lifted his chin. “Am I not right?”
Nicholas said nothing.
“Very well, man. I can see you’d like to get down to business. My daughter, Miss Emily, is…” His eyes followed his brows upward, and he studied the ceiling as if a description of the girl might be found near the rafters. Silence stretched, revealing more than a score of words could accomplish.
A father speechless about his daughter did not bode well.
After excessive throat clearing, Mr. Payne finally spoke: “Let’s just say Emily knows her own mind, or at least she thinks she does. Because of this, I charge you with the oversight of her at all times until I return.”
“Which will be?” The thought of safekeeping a prideful girl for days on end—one who may have a beaver bite like her father—sounded as diverting as the time he’d lugged ol’ Nat Waggins, escape artist extraordinaire, from York down to Tyburn.
“I expect to be gone a month, give or take and naturally weather permitting, at which point I shall award you 250 pounds. It’s very straightforward, Mr. Brentwood. Keep my daughter safe, and the money is yours.” Payne leaned sideways and slid open a drawer, procuring a carved wooden box with brass hinges. From his waistcoat pocket, he fished out a tiny key. “Though I suppose you should like an advance, eh?”
“May I ask a few questions?” Not that he’d turn down the payment. Jenny’s life hung in the balance without it—and perhaps even with it.
Mr. Payne set the key in the box’s lock. A click later, he lifted the lid. “Of course.”
Nicholas drew in a breath, girding up for a salvo technique he’d mastered long ago. “I gather you are a merchant, hence the travel, and the import/export mentioned by your housekeeper.”
“I am.”
“Should the need arise, how do I reach you?”
“You don’t.”
“Then are there other relations I may contact?”
“None.”
“Yet you fear for Miss Payne’s safety.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
That stopped the man but only for the briefest of moments. A pause easily missed, one Nicholas had learned to listen for in the voices of swindlers and cons.
Payne scowled, the effect lightened by the ridiculous teeth peeking through his lips. “You can imagine, Brentwood, that a man in my position garners many enemies. Blood-sucking enemies, no less. Emily is my only heir, hence my one vulnerability.”
“What exactly is your position, Mr. Payne?”
The man slammed the box’s lid shut with one hand and held out a banknote with the other. “Commerce, Brentwood. The world’s wheels turn on the hub of commerce, of which I am the center, leastwise in the shipping industry. Now then, here is your advance.”
Nicholas leaned forward and pinched the paper between thumb and forefinger, expecting the man’s grip to lessen.
It tightened. “One more thing. There’s been a slight change of plans. I expect you to set up quarters here. Now. My ship sails by day’s end.”
A nerve on the side of his neck jumped. He’d have no time to dash over to the Crown and Horn to let Jenny know of his whereabouts. If she should need him, no one would know where to find him…unless he paid a courier to deliver a message. He lifted his gaze to meet Payne’s. “Then a change in remuneration should be in order as well, I think.”
The man frowned, yet the banknote loosened. He pocketed the sum as Payne withdrew another note.
“Very shrewd, Brentwood. I see why Ford’s runners have earned such a reputation.”
Runner? Heat burned a trail up Nicholas’s spine and lodged at the base of his skull. The man might as well have questioned his parentage. He snatched the added check from the man’s pudgy fingers then rose and skewered him with a glance. “I shall give you the benefit of the doubt this time, Mr. Payne, for pe
rhaps you are not aware that runner is a derogatory term. One I don’t take kindly to being associated with. I am, in your own words, one of Bow Street’s finest, not an errand boy or Ford’s lackey; I am a detective, sir, an investigator. A sleuth. The kind of man who will stop at nothing to hunt down a criminal and bring him to justice at the end of a rope. Now you are educated. See that it doesn’t happen again.”
“Well…I…” Payne’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his brows ending where his white hairline began. “Of course.” He busied himself by tucking away the box then stepped to a velvet cord on the wall and tugged it.
Pocketing the rest of the payment, Nicholas allowed his blood to cool. It’d been a hard battle to become a man of integrity, a fight he’d not see belittled by donning a pejorative title.
“Aye, sir?” The housekeeper’s head peeked through the door.
“Summon Miss Emily straightaway, Mrs. Hunt.” Payne resumed his seat behind the desk.
Nicholas preferred to remain standing and meet the little heiress with the advantage of height.
“I am sorry, but she is gone out with Miss Mary. Will that be all, sir?”
Color started rising slowly, like mercury up a thermometer, slipping over Payne’s ears, diffusing across his cheeks, then inching up his nose. Judging by the rapid spread, his head might pop at any moment—and those teeth would be deadly projectiles. Nicholas retreated a step.
“The devil you say! I specifically forbade her!” Payne sputtered an oath. “Never mind, Mrs. Hunt. That will be all.”
As soon as the door shut, Payne retrieved his safe box yet again. He removed a fistful of assorted notes and held them out. “Take it, Brentwood.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “You’ve provided a sufficient advance. What is this for?”
A muscle jumped near the hinge of Payne’s jaw before he ground out, “Hazard pay, for indeed, Emily is hazardous on more levels than one.”
Emily’s shadow arrived at the townhome before she did. Mary’s lagged behind, shorter and wider. As her maid caught up, hatboxes draped on each arm like Christmas ornaments, Emily stepped aside and lowered her voice. “Now don’t forget—”
Brentwood's Ward Page 2
