Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  He froze. “What man?”

  “Around four o’clock, a blackguard came to call. Refused to give his name, merely insisted he see Mr. Payne. I informed him that Mr. Payne was gone on business, but he would have none of it. Pushed his way right in and searched the whole of this level. He took liberties with Miss Emily”—she nodded toward the candlestick on the side table—“so I cracked him a good one on the skull to get him out.”

  Nicholas’s fingers curled into fists. “What kind of liberties?”

  “Pressed her flat up against the doorjamb, the filthy scoundrel. Then he fingered her hair, plain as you please!”

  Heat surged through his veins, but he kept his tone cool. “A description, Mrs. Hunt. Distinguishing marks. Manner of speech. Anything you can remember.”

  The dull lantern light traced a grimace on the housekeeper’s face—which suddenly paled. If a simple memory of the man had such an effect on this bulwark, the fellow must be fearsome indeed.

  The housekeeper closed her eyes, the white of her apron whiffling with a shiver. “Dark eyes, ruddy complexion. What I could see of it, that is. His head was bald as a babe’s, with a birthmark the color of port spilled down the back. He were short, as far as men go, but stocky. Solid. Like he were no stranger to work. An outdoor fellow, if you ask me. I shouldn’t wonder if he were one of Mr. Payne’s captains, though I’ve never seen the likes of him before. But of one thing I am sure.”

  Her eyes popped open. “Miss Emily has every right to be anxious. He’ll be back, and no doubt about it.”

  Filing away Mrs. Hunt’s prediction along with the rest of the information, he carefully kept out one word to explore further. “A captain, you say? Did the man have an American accent?”

  The housekeeper curled her upper lip, more pronounced than when she’d first detected the dead-house odor on him. “I pride myself on keeping as far from those filthy beasts as possible, Mr. Brentwood. Still…I suppose he could have been, now that you mention it. He called Miss Emily an English wench.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hunt. You’ve been most helpful.” He turned and took the stairs two at a time. It was either that or punch a hole into the plaster for the slur to Emily’s character.

  Ignoring convention—and the clipped steps of Mrs. Hunt ascending the stairway behind him—he stopped in front of Emily’s chamber and rapped. A single wall sconce flickered in the corridor, the resulting shadow a monster against her door. “Miss Payne, are you all right?”

  Mrs. Hunt kept watch, but at a distance. Smart woman.

  No sound came from Emily’s chamber. Not even one of Alf’s yips.

  He pounded harder. “Miss Payne?”

  Nothing. Not an indignant “coming” nor a “by your leave, sir.” Just quiet.

  This time the wood rattled in the frame against his fist. “Emily!”

  More silence—except for his own pounding heart and the gasp of the housekeeper down the hall.

  Blood rushed to his head, heat to his gut. Gads! What if the man had breached the wall to her window? Or lowered himself from the roof? Was he too late already?

  Nicholas reared back, preparing to kick the spot just below the knob. Sweat soaked his shirt. One…two…

  The door opened several inches, and a sleepy-eyed Emily peered out—eyes that popped wide when she took in his stance. “Mr. Brentwood! This is highly irregular.”

  Should he gather her in his arms or scold her for nearly getting a boot to the belly?

  He opted for stomping toward her. Bracing his hand against the frame, he leaned inches from her face. “Why did you not answer immediately?”

  The question came out harsher than he intended, no surprise with the way his nerves jittered on edge.

  Her lips flattened. “Really, sir, besides the fact that your stench preceded you, would you have had me open the door in my nightgown?”

  Involuntarily, his eyes strayed lower, past the hollow of her throat, to the ribbon tied below her collarbone. The wall sconce brushed a warm glow over skin that was likely even warmer. And softer. Here was a woman that angels would envy.

  A tremor ran through him, and suddenly breathing took entirely too much concentration.

  “Did Mrs. Hunt not explain to you the situation?” she asked.

  Her question snapped his gaze back to her face. What had gotten into him? Slowly, he let his hand fall and edged back, straightening his shoulders. “Mrs. Hunt is not at fault. I merely came to see that you are all right.”

  A strange glint flickered in her eyes. Was it simply the spare light, or something more?

  “I am whole, if not a bit shaken.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. Either the woman was coaxing out the rest of what she had to say…or hindering the words.

  “I am happy to hear it.” A small smile tugged his own lips, especially when she sulked at his faux pas. “What I mean to say is that I am happy to hear you are whole. It does not please me that you are shaken.”

  “Of course, and…” She inhaled. Deeply. A curious act with the stench he wore.

  “And?” He prodded.

  “Merely…” Her pert little nose lifted an inch. “Thank you for inquiring.”

  He nodded. “It is my—”

  “Yes, I know. It is your duty.” An unreadable shadow snuffed out the gleam in her gaze.

  It was an unaccountable loss—one he’d dearly love to replace. He reached toward her, but at the last minute curled his fingers to his palm instead. “Miss Payne, I—”

  “No matter.” She shook her head. “Suffice it to say I appreciate now that my father hired you. I am indebted to you for your service until he returns.”

  “Yes…well…” A kidney punch would have been less stunning. His short nails dug grooves into his palms—into flesh that was clammy and moist and sickening. How to explain to this wide-eyed young woman that her father wouldn’t be returning home?

  Ever.

  Emily narrowed her gaze. Was that a tic in the corner of Brentwood’s right eye? Hard to tell, but she’d swear the strong lines of his throat tightened. Was she imagining it, or did her words affect him as deeply as they moved her? They were sincere—which was slightly shocking and a whole new sensation. But indeed…she was indebted to the man for her safekeeping. Something about Brentwood, knowing he was here now, housed beneath the same roof, made her feel protected. Sheltered. A feeling she’d not experienced since before last summer, and especially not earlier today.

  Her gaze returned to his—and she froze.

  He stood silent. Statuesque. Nicholas Brentwood’s sudden stillness spread from the hallway, wound through the gap in the door, and wrapped around her shoulders. Filling her. Quieting her. Quenching the hundreds of questions that burned on her tongue while igniting thousands more in her head.

  Tension heightened with each breath, until breathing was out of the question.

  Nicholas broke the spell first. He retreated several steps, shadows blurring the black outline of his frock coat. Dark hair spilled over his brow as he nodded. “Now that I see you are safe, Miss Payne, I bid you good night.”

  His deep voice caressed her an instant before he turned. Darkness bathed his body as he stalked down the corridor until he was submerged, leaving behind nothing but a shiver.

  “Good night,” she whispered then pressed the door shut and leaned her forehead against the cool oak.

  What was that all about? The air between them had been more charged than a lightning storm—and as unsettling.

  “Is all well, miss?”

  Mary’s voice spun her around, heart racing. Across the room, propped against their adjoining door and clutching a makeshift crutch in her free hand, her maid cocked her head. “I heard the knocking and got here soon as I could.”

  Emily frowned. Two, nearly three weeks, and still the girl couldn’t serve properly. A trifling injury never would’ve slowed Wren to such an extent. Still…her gaze lowered to the maid’s misshapen ankle. She’d never asked Wren to…what was it Mr. Brentwo
od had called it? Be her personal pack mule?

  “No need to fret, Mary.” Emily padded across the carpet and sat on the edge of her bed. “All’s well.”

  “Are you certain, miss?”

  The way her pulse fluttered? Or with the fine bead of perspiration dotting her brow? Emily sank against the propped-up pillows, losing herself in linen and lavender.

  No. She wasn’t certain at all.

  Chapter 13

  Morning rain pelted the window that reached from the floor to the ceiling of Mr. Payne’s study. The fat drops sounded like grapeshot to Nicholas, who paced the floorboards. Should he go through with this, or not?

  The gray light filtering inside the chamber suited his mood. The night before he’d wrestled with more than the bedcovers; he’d spent hours struggling with Ford’s suggestion to “retrieve the balance of that payment for your sister’s sake. Then remain on the case until it is solved for Miss Payne’s benefit.” It seemed fair. It wasn’t like he was stealing. He’d work for it, after all. And in truth, by the time he’d figured out the identity of Reggie’s killer, he’d likely be owed a great deal more than what was in Payne’s strongbox. The fee he’d been promised was for a simple guardianship, not the solving of a murder.

  Slowly, he pressed the door shut then turned and surveyed the room before he crossed it. Two framed pictures of a fox hunt adorned one wall, a stag’s head mounted between. To his right, a row of hiphigh bookcases supported a bust of Plato and a large cigar box. Neither sported a speck of dust, nor did the clock in the corner or the potted fern by the window. As he neared the big desk, he suspected that if he cared to bend over it, he’d likely see his stubbled jaw and bleary eyes reflected quite clearly.

  Pausing, he sniffed. Linseed oil and cherry tobacco. Yes, indeed. The Portman House staff did a fine job of keeping Payne’s sanctuary preserved.

  Scooting behind the desk, he slid out the right bottom drawer, just as he’d seen Payne do when they first met. It was empty. He shoved the drawer back in place and moved on to the next. And the next. Odd. No parchment. No blotters. No ledgers, quills, or sealing wax. The desk was completely cleaned out. Either the man had something to hide, or he’d never intended to return—

  Or someone had been here before Nicholas.

  He sank back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and mentally ticking off everything he knew for certain. The list was short. “Painfully short, my friend,” he whispered to the stag head, whose glass eyes stared into his from across the room. “You saw everything that happened in this study. What, I wonder….”

  He shot to his feet and closed in on the trophy. Cleanliness was one thing, but the odd-colored paneling below the stag’s right shoulder was quite another. No wonder he’d not found the strongbox in the drawer.

  Grabbing hold of the twelve-point buck, he lifted, twisted slightly, then slowly retreated a step. He stifled a grunt as he lowered the heavy head to the floor. By the time he straightened, his biceps burned—and so did his curiosity.

  Unstained by cigar smoke, hearth fumes, or daylight, the outline of the trophy preserved not only the wood but also the sanctity of a small door. Nicholas patted the buck’s head in thanks before pulling a leather kit from his breast pocket.

  With ease, he opened the panel, revealing another door. This one was outfitted with an ornate circular lock cover inlaid with brass. A slow smile slid across his lips. Good. Looked like a lever tumbler, one that would require a bit of time and skill, but entirely doable.

  Retrieving a short pick and a counterweighted lever arm, he repocketed his pouch and inserted the lever into the keyhole. It took several tries, but eventually he found the right balance, applying a gentle yet firm pressure to the lock inside. With his other hand, he inserted the pick.

  Now came the thorny part.

  Using minute movements, he fished around for the tumbler giving the most resistance, while at the same time, keeping his other hand deadly still. When the pick’s tip sent the barest tremor up his finger, he lifted, slowly, and…victory. The tumbler’s slot caught on the bolt’s post.

  He inhaled deeply. Halfway there.

  The fingers on his other hand tingled from inactivity, but he held them steady. One slip now and he’d have to start over.

  Footsteps clipped from the other side of the study door. Nicholas froze. Judging by the timbre and speed, Mrs. Hunt was on a mission—hopefully not one involving the dusting of a stag’s head or the polishing of a desk.

  Was it right to ask God to keep him from being detected?

  As the steps faded, he slowly let out a breath. Gathering his scattered concentration, he jiggled the pick half a hair’s width to the left. Two wiggles later, the second lever lifted. With both bars trapped in the slot, he shot the bolt and swung open the door.

  His shoulders sagged, and he sighed. The box inside had a lock as well.

  Jamming his tools between his teeth, he slid out the chest and padded over to the desk. This time he’d repeat the process sitting down.

  He used the steady thrum of the rain against the windows to fall into a deliberate trance. The tumblers in this one were worn—all the easier to skim the pick’s tip from lever to lever, yet trickier to get them to stay in the slot. Mrs. Hunt’s footfall returned in the corridor, but this time he dismissed the threat. She’d not enter the room. She’d send Betsy.

  When finally all the levers were wedged, he slid the bolt, opened the lid partway, then once again froze.

  Tapping steps echoed in the corridor and stopped just outside the study door. He slipped off the chair so fast, a muscle pulled in the back of his thigh. A bolt he didn’t want to hear clear a metal plate sounded from across the room, followed by the barest grind of hinges.

  How would he explain to a maid why he crouched like an overgrown bird behind his employer’s desk while clutching the man’s strongbox?

  “Betsy?”

  Mrs. Hunt’s voice carried from the back of the house. Yes! Go, Betsy. Go see what your—

  The hinges ground slightly more. One footstep crossed the threshold. Nicholas’s heart stopped. Did the girl have a hearing problem as well as a speech impediment?

  “Betsy!”

  This time the housekeeper’s tone was steel. The door clicked shut. Tapping steps retreated.

  And a single drop of sweat trickled down Nicholas’s temple. Briefly, he closed his eyes. Thank You, Lord. I can only assume that Your protection thus far means something.

  Swiping his brow on his sleeve, he regained the chair. He grasped the lid, opened the chest…and frowned. Disappointment—and dare he admit relief?—drained the last of his fine motor skills. He reached in and pulled out the single item gracing the velvet-lined box.

  At least the decision to take what was owed him had been made.

  Lifting a fat chunk of wax to within a hand span of his eyes, he squinted then flipped the piece over and inspected the other side. It was a key mold, and judging by the telltale starburst-shaped end, it was designed for a Bramah lock—

  Like the one he’d seen in Reggie’s study.

  He lowered the template and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Why would Payne want to empty out his business partner’s store of money? Wouldn’t that be like robbing oneself? He pondered that, until one of his earlier thoughts reared its head for the second time this gray morning.

  Unless Payne had never intended to come back. But why—

  Sharp yips bounded down the corridor and stopped at the study door. Nicholas slammed shut the box’s lid. No time for further pondering.

  Pocketing the mold and his pick set, he dashed across the room and slid the chest into the safe. He eased the door shut—while little paws scratched at the other—then bent and hefted the trophy back to its perch.

  Thankfully, the barking subsided as he straightened the stag’s head, and by the time he finished, the scratching had stopped as well. Glancing at the ceiling as he headed for the door, he shot up a quick prayer.

  Thank
You, God.

  Then he reached for the knob, swung open the door—and came face-to-face with a fuzzy muzzle held by a frowning young lady.

  “What on earth are you doing in my father’s study?”

  Alf squirmed in her arms, and Emily bent, relegating the pug to the floor. His paws hit the ground running—in the direction of the kitchen. Fickle pup. Just as well, though. She straightened and studied the man in front of her unhindered. Nicholas Brentwood’s face was shadowed by stubble and possibly fatigue, creased somewhat at the brow—and completely unreadable. If she’d surprised him, he sure didn’t show it.

  “The more pertinent question, Miss Payne”—his green eyes searched her face like waves lapping against a shore, wearing away the sand grain by grain—“is why you suspected I was here in the first place?”

  She frowned, hating the uncanny way he had of always making her feel like a half-wit. “You don’t corner the market on deductive reasoning, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  She lifted her chin, a more ladylike gesture than lifting her palm and slapping the smirk off his face—though not nearly as satisfying. “First, you were not at table in the dining room. Second, Betsy said your chamber was empty when I asked if you were up and about. And third…” She paused. Should she admit that she really hadn’t known he was in here? No. Better to let him think she was as keen an investigator as he.

  “Alf and I”—she nodded down the corridor where the pup had disappeared—“are an unbeatable pair.”

  “No doubt.” His gaze bore into hers, and he advanced a step, crossing the threshold and pulling the door shut behind him.

  Everything about the man was intense, and standing this close, the urge to run pounded with each heartbeat. She drew back, but only two paces—enough distance so she could breathe easier yet not enough to show retreat. He smelled of risk and possibility—faintly spicy and very masculine. With a definite hint of sandalwood soap. Interesting, though he’d not taken the time to shave yet this morn, he’d apparently washed off the sickening smell that had clung to him last evening.