Straightening, he lingered, casting a long look at the shell housing his sister.
Then he turned and stalked out.
Hope stood exactly where he’d left her, leaning against the corridor wall. She looked up at his appearance. “Is Miss Jenny dea—”
He scowled at her. “Don’t say it.”
The girl’s decorum was nonexistent. Not surprising. Death played alongside the street children, ever present in their games, ready to steal another one of their companions when they weren’t looking. ’Twas a gruesome round of hide-and-seek.
Nicholas shook off the morbid thought. “My sister is resting. Have some broth ready when she wakes. I’ll return as soon as I can, but don’t hesitate to fetch me once more if she…no. That won’t do.”
Jenny ought not be left alone. He scrubbed his jaw, stubble pricking his fingertips. The late night and early morning hours he’d kept slowed his mind. Think. Think.
Digging out another precious coin from his pocket, he handed it to Hope. “If my sister needs me, hire a cab, just like I did this morning, and tell the driver to deliver the message. Can you do that?”
Hope bobbed her head. “Aye, sir.”
“Good.” He tromped down the hall and flipped up his collar as he descended the stairs. A small barricade to hide behind, but he had no stomach to argue with Meggy about moving his sister now. As his foot left the last tread, he scanned the public room. The last swish of her skirt hem, followed by streaming apron strings, disappeared through the kitchen door. He hustled past the diners finishing their breakfasts and slipped out the front.
Relief lasted only until a brawny man in a dun-colored greatcoat rounded the corner and plowed through the pedestrians, straight toward him.
Nicholas frowned. “I don’t suppose you’re frequenting the Crown and Horn for the hash, eh, Moore?”
Alexander Moore’s hat sat low on his brow, making Nicholas aware he’d neglected to don his own. “You’ve given me quite the rundown this morning, Brentwood.”
Nicholas fell into step beside him. If Moore had taken the time to track him, something was up. “You know me. I like to keep on the move. Where are we going?”
Moore shouldered past a knife grinder blocking their way, barking about the quality of his sharpening services. “There’s someone you ought to see down at the dead house.”
Nicholas shot him a sideways glance. “Who’s that?”
“That’s exactly what I’m hoping you can tell me.”
Emily stifled a yawn, the third in as many minutes. She straightened her back, but the settee cushions beneath her felt softer with every tick of the clock. If she sat here any longer, she’d curl up next to the little pug snoring at her side.
“Really, Emily, I’ve far overstayed my visit. In truth, I may have set a record.” Across the sitting room, Bella turned from the window. The sheer curtain shimmied into place. Displaced daylight backlit her red hair, creating a radiant halo. “There’s no sign of Millie. Do you think she’ll really call?”
Standing, Emily wiggled life back into her feet. Alf jerked up his head then must’ve decided the effort wasn’t worth abandoning his comfy bed. His scrunchy face flopped back down onto his paws. Emily sighed—better that than another yawn. “You’re right. And you’re a dear. I owe you for frittering away your morning with me.”
“Pah! You saved me from having to shop with Mother. You know how much I abhor traipsing from one merchant to another.”
Ringing the bell for the maid, Emily smiled. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to browse for new shoes or a bonnet? “Remind me again why we are friends?”
“Opposites attract, or so I’m told.” Bella returned the grin then stooped to pat Alf between his ears. “Good thing, for you shouldn’t like to be compared favorably to your wrinkly pup now, would you?”
“Not if I’m to attract Mr. Henley this season.”
Bella straightened, humor draining from her face. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said? After all I’ve told you about him and Millie, why would you even want to interest that man?”
Emily stepped forward and placed a light touch on her friend’s arm. “Not that I doubt you, but honestly, I don’t feel I have a choice. Father won’t put up with me forever. You know it’s only for my mother’s sake—God rest her soul—he’s been gracious thus far. Besides,” she continued, squeezing Bella’s arm, “if only half what you shared is true, don’t you think Millie is the one to blame every bit as much as Mr. Henley? For goodness’ sake, Bella, you’ve seen the woman in action. She’s nothing but a lace-covered tart.”
Bella’s lips twitched. No wonder. She was probably battling over whether she should gasp or giggle. “True, but that hardly means Mr. Henley should have, well…you know. Once word of this gets out, which shan’t be long if you and I already know, Millie will be ruined, and Henley will merely get a pat on the back.”
Emily frowned, the double standard grating her sensibilities as a tooth gone bad. It was as ludicrous as Wren’s situation and about as just. No doubt Millie deserved whatever she had coming, but Wren didn’t. Why should she have to live in a hovel while the lecherous captain sailed the high seas, free to prey on the next ruffle and bow? Her frown deepened into a scowl. “Whoever came up with such ridiculous societal rules is a bird-witted cod’s head.”
“Emily!”
A wicked grin erased her glower. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that aloud.”
The maid pattered into the room, holding Bella’s pelisse aloft. Turning from Emily, Bella shrugged into her wrap—but not fast enough for Emily to miss the twist of her lips. “Please, Em, rethink your options. Mr. Henley isn’t the only available man in London.”
“But he is the richest. And at three and twenty, I find my options get more limited with the passing of each season.”
“Just…be careful.” Bella’s eyes sought hers. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”
“Have you ever known me to act without thinking it through first?”
Her friend’s pretty lips parted, but Emily beat her to it. “Go on with you. I’ll see you tomorrow at church, hmm?”
“Do yourself a favor and pay attention to the sermon for once. Who knows, perhaps God will change your mind about Henley. You’re obviously not listening to me.” Her tone softened as she headed toward the door. “And give that yummy Mr. Brentwood my regards whenever he returns, in a discreet fashion, of course. Until later, Em.”
Bella’s departure left a void, one that fatigue quickly filled. Emily arched her back then snapped her fingers, rousing the pug. “Come along, Alf. A cozy counterpane is calling our names.”
She crossed the room and hall. Doggy toenails tip-tapped double-time to her pace. Each step up the staircase required effort, hers because she was weary, his from stubby legs. Perhaps she ought not have spent the entire morning waiting around for Millie. At least that’s the premise she’d hide behind for now—for if she cared to peek around the sides of that flimsy excuse, she was afraid of what she’d see.
Nicholas Brentwood. Horrid man. Why should she give a fig about where he’d disappeared to with that waif of a girl? Yet it bothered her to no end. Not that it was her business. She ought to be reveling in the freedom she’d enjoyed from breakfast until now.
So why wasn’t she?
Another yawn stretched her jaw as she padded down the second-floor corridor to her room. Passing by Mary’s door, she slowed, and Alf bumped into her hem. One of Mrs. Hunt’s stern reprimands leached through the paneling. What in the world had her abigail done to warrant such a scolding? Though she was still unable to walk, Mary had worked wonders with her needle, stitching fine designs upon nearly every one of Emily’s day dresses.
With a shush to Alf, Emily leaned her ear to the door, removing the muffle from the housekeeper’s words. “Your last warning. One more slipup like this and you’ll be out the door with nary a reference. And don’t you think I won’t. Why I—”
“M–
miss?”
Emily jerked upright and spun, biting back an unladylike oath. Alf didn’t hold back though—he yipped. Emily shushed him then turned to the maid. “Betsy! For heaven’s sake, don’t sneak up on me like that.”
The maid’s head dipped, scarlet darkening her cheeks. “S–sorry. There’s a c–caller for you. Shall I turn her away?”
“Yes.” Emily inhaled deeply, calming her racing heart. Was this entire day to be fraught with one startling moment after another?
Mrs. Hunt’s tirade continued without pause, and as Betsy turned to leave, Emily once again leaned toward the door—then immediately straightened.
“Betsy, wait.” She turned to the departing maid. “Did you say the caller is a woman?”
Near the top of the stairway, the girl paused. “Aye. A Miss Barker.”
Drat. Should she socialize, eavesdrop, or cave in to her fatigue and snuggle up with Alf?
“Mind the dog, Betsy. I’ll attend to my guest.” She swooped past Betsy, tucking up loose bits of hair as she descended the steps. No sense handing Millie a reason to judge her appearance.
Emily swept into the sitting room, sizing up Millie in a glance. She wore a periwinkle gown, which peeked out from a matching pelisse and was topped off with a bonnet so lacy and ruffled and large, that if taken apart, the thing might clothe several little girls. Emily frowned, calculating when she could scoot over to the milliner’s and have her latest purchase redone to such a standard, then greeted her guest. “Miss Barker, how kind of you to call.”
Retreating back to the door, Emily reached for the bellpull. “My apologies. I am mortified Betsy didn’t take your wrap.”
“No need. I shan’t be staying long, unless…” Millie ran a gloved finger along the length of the mantel as she strolled the room. “I am disappointed you feel the need to address me as Miss Barker. Are we not on a first-name basis by now, dearest?” She circled back. “For I feel sure, Emily, we shall be the best of friends.”
Emily pressed her lips together, remembering the warning Nicholas had spouted days ago. “The only way to prevent trouble…is to identify the danger before it strikes.”
Oh, yes. A close friendship with Millie would be quite the hazard.
Pasting on a smile, she crossed toward the settee. “Shall we sit, Millie?” The name left a tart taste in her mouth.
Millie stopped near a framed silverpoint study. Either she took a deep interest in such artwork, or she was snubbing the offer on purpose. “That was quite an abrupt departure you made from dinner last night.” Millie spoke without facing her. “I hope your cousin’s business was profitable, whatever it was.”
Unbidden, the awful gray face of Uncle Reggie surfaced. Emily shifted on the cushion. “Not really.”
Millie turned then, a feline smile curving her lips. “Too bad. Mr. Henley asked after you.”
“He did?” A secret thrill raced through her. Perhaps she was making progress, after all.
“Did Mr. Brentwood happen to make mention of me?”
Only that he suspected she’d been jilted—in an intimate way. Emily bit her lip. She couldn’t very well spout that, so she said a simple, “Yes.”
A tiny squeal squeaked out of Millie, not unlike Alf when a bone was involved. She abandoned the silverpoint and sank into the chair adjacent the settee. “You must tell me about your cousin, dearest. His likes. His dislikes. He will be accompanying you to the Garveys’ ball next week, will he not?”
“Hopefully not.”
Millie’s eyebrows nearly lifted her elaborate bonnet off her head.
Though it was God’s honest truth—Mr. Brentwood would be proud—still…she couldn’t let it stand without revealing to Millie her reasons why. “I mean to say hopefully he will not decline, though I don’t suppose he will.”
“I see. Well,” Millie leaned forward, “you know how I adore games. Why don’t we play one?”
Emily tilted her head. “Such as?”
“For every secret you tell me about your cousin, I shall give you one of Mr. Henley’s. Would you like to play?”
Millie seemed relaxed, but in that one drawn-out moment while Emily debated an answer, she could see by the thin set of Millie’s lips and the slight tic along her jaw just how eager the woman really was.
And so was Emily.
Chapter 11
The east side of the Thames, though geographically not far from Portman Square, was a world away from the pretty ladies and their dandier counterparts on the western edge of town. Even on the brightest spring days, sunshine didn’t stretch to warm these streets. Nicholas tugged his coat tighter as he kept pace with Officer Moore. On each side of the narrow lane, buildings stooped like rheumy old men, hunched at the shoulders. Snuff-colored laundry hung overhead, laced from window to window. Nicholas eyed the patched fabric on a pair of frayed trousers and shook his head. Why bother to wash such a drab garment in the first place?
“Something doesn’t meet with your approval?”
Moore’s question cut into his thoughts—and his conscience. “I think my time spent at Portman Square is making me into a snob.”
“You always were a bit priggish, if you ask me.”
Nicholas frowned over at him. “I didn’t.”
“Fair enough.” Moore spoke without slowing a step. “Oh, I nearly forgot. It seems Ol’ Georgie isn’t the only one on the list of ‘who Americans love to hate.’ ”
His frown deepened. Moore liked nothing better than to toss out his nuggets of information, one crumb at a time—an annoying tendency. “What’s your point?”
“Apparently your ‘Uncle Reggie’ isn’t a favorite with the Yanks.”
They parted momentarily, a mound of horse droppings splitting them as effectively as a rock in a streambed.
“After you left last night,” Moore continued, “Sedgewick’s valet remembered a caller about a week ago. The man left no card, yet the valet recalled not only the man’s drawl but his name—Captain Norton.”
Nicholas grunted. “I shouldn’t think that would be unusual. Sedgewick & Payne are a shipping company, after all.”
“This one, however, left with a threat. Said he’d return in a week.”
“Sure fits the time frame. Perhaps we ought make a call on this Captain Norton.”
Moore grunted. “We?”
“If you’ve the time.”
They rounded a corner, which channeled them into an even narrower lane surrounded by soot-blackened tenements. How a corpse cart heaped with a body or two could fit through this lane without scraping its sides was a wonder. Moore took the lead, in silence. He remained quiet for so long, Nicholas redirected his wondering away from the carts to if the man would ever answer.
“I suppose I’ve the time to hunt down this captain,” Moore finally said.
Above them, a woman draped over a windowsill whistled for his attention. She pulled aside a tattered shawl, revealing skin the color and texture of porridge.
Nicholas averted his eyes, ignoring her ribald comments. He had to take two quick steps to catch back up with Moore.
“Scurvy smugglers. Blackjack and Charlie aren’t cooperating with my investigation. You’d think they’d packed up and moved shop. Though I shouldn’t be surprised if they heard it was me, the infamous Officer Moore, who’s the one looking for them.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Your pride never ceases to amaze me.”
Moore shrugged. “I’m an amazing type of fellow.”
Moore stopped in front of a gloomy building, known simply as the Plank Street Dead House. The brick walls wept chunks of mortar to the ground. In the resulting pits, black mold grew in cancerous welts. High-set windows near the eaves, open for ventilation, added a noxious stench to the fetid air wafting in from the nearby muckyard. Add a few flames, and truly, the place could be hell on earth.
Moore shoved open the door. “After you.”
Nicholas swept past him into an office barely larger than a casket.
Randall, the clerk, smiled at their entrance. He sat behind a tall, narrow-legged desk, ink smudges marring his thin cheeks. Minus the smears, he’d be the same color as the bodies he housed. “G’day, guv’ners. Come to visit my little lovelies, ’ave you?”
“That we have.” Nicholas took the offered pen from the clerk. He dipped the nib in the ink and signed his name onto the ledger.
Moore sketched his name after him then lifted his sleeve to his nose. “How you stand the stench is beyond me.”
Randall inhaled deeply, his chest straining the single remaining button on his waistcoat. “Ahh. Why that’s a sweet perfume, it is. As long as you can smell it, you know yer still a-kickin’.”
Nicholas elbowed Moore. “He makes a good point, you know.”
Moore planted his coat sleeve against his nostrils ever tighter.
“Righty, then.” Randall slammed the ledger shut and pulled out a key ring from the top drawer of his desk. “This way.”
He jingled over to the door, and as he fumbled with the lock, Nicholas asked, “I’ve often wondered, Randall, is that really necessary? Are you keeping your ‘lovelies’ in or the body snatchers out? Seems a bit pointless with you at the guard.”
“Policies, mostly. You know, big-wigged rules and all. We may be a dead house, but we ain’t no fleetin’ fly-by-night kind of joint. And don’t forget the effects. Sometimes a swell or two comes my way and you never know what’s in their pockets. Pays to keep it locked up.” With a final jiggle of his key, the bolt finally clicked. “ ’Ere you go then.”
The door swung open to a dimly lit room, chilled by a row of ice blocks lining two of the walls. Nicholas took care crossing the threshold. The stone floor slanted toward the farthest wall, the side facing the muckyard. At that end, melted ice and runoff funneled into a great drain. He frowned, resisting the urge to wipe his hands over his waistcoat.
“Identify as many as you can. Wouldn’t mind cleaning house a bit.” Randall’s voice was dull in the big space.
Moore lowered his sleeve, but only long enough to get out a rush of words. “I got a tip-off from one of my regulars that you took in a bloater day before yesterday. Come in from one of the Skerry warehouses down by the Wapping Wharves. Said the fellow was picked over pretty good. Stripped, actually. Likely was one of those swells you mentioned, but scavengers got to him before you. This ringing any bells?”
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