Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  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

  The 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?

  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.