“Now that I’ve answered your question, Mr. Brentwood…” she matched his stare, daring him to be the first to look away, “it’s only fair you answer mine. So I repeat, what were you doing in my father’s study?”
His gaze darted down the corridor, followed by a sweep of his arm. “Shall I explain on our way to breakfast?”
A small smile curved her mouth, victory tasting as sweet as one of Cook’s raisin cakes that she hoped waited for her on the dining-room sideboard. “Very well,” she conceded then turned and headed down the hall.
Nicholas fell into step beside her. “Your…visitor, shall we call him? Obviously the man who barged in so rudely yesterday afternoon was looking for something, some key bit of information only your father could supply. Other than the study or your father’s bedchamber, where else might that information be?”
She felt his eyes upon her as they walked, but no, she’d not get sucked into that green whirlpool again. “My father’s affairs are as foreign to me as they are to you, sir.”
“Are you really so surprised, then, that I investigated the room?” He stopped, allowing her to pass him by and enter the dining room.
Did he always have to be so logical? Ignoring his question, she crossed to the sideboard and selected the largest piece of raisin cake on the platter. Apparently Cook had been reading her mind—and good thing, too, for she would’ve requested the treat had it been absent.
She waited for Nicholas to pull out her chair. Then she sat and lobbed another question. “Did you find anything in Father’s study?”
He sank into the seat adjacent hers and reached for the coffee urn. At her nod, he filled her cup first then his own. By the time she stirred in a spoonful of sugar and a dollop of cream, he’d drunk his, refilled once more, and retreated behind the crisp sheets of the Chronicle.
Emily frowned. Her father often escaped in such a manner. Why was her guardian trying to avoid her?
“Well?” she prodded. “Did you find anything?”
His eyes peeked over the top of the paper. “Yes.”
The paper shot up, hiding his face and ending his side of the conversation.
But not hers. She leaned forward, reached out her butter knife, and slit the paper right down the center. The noise masked the rain buffeting the windows, but not his growl.
“Miss Payne, do you honestly think such antics—”
“You can’t possibly expect that I’ll let you get away with that snippet of an answer. Tell me, here and now. What did you discover?”
He sighed and folded what was left of the paper into a mound at the side of his saucer. For a moment, she wondered if he’d still refuse to reply. What recourse would surpass slicing his newspaper in half? Her eyes slid to the crystal pitcher next to the coffee urn, and a half smile begged to be released. Perhaps a cold bit of water over the head—
“What I discovered was a curious woman and her nosier pup.”
She sank back in her seat. Had she really fallen for that bait? “Droll, Mr. Brentwood. Very droll. Should Bow Street ever dismiss you, I daresay you’ve a career on Drury Lane writing dramatic dialogue.”
A rogue grin lightened his features and, as much as she hated to admit it, lightened the dreary gray morning, as well.
“I’ll take your advice under consideration, Miss Payne. So tell me, why was it you—and Alf, I suppose—were seeking me out?”
She speared a piece of raisin cake with her fork and savored the sweet bite before responding. “I did have other callers yesterday besides that blackguard that barged in. Miss Barker in particular.” She eyed the man across from her, but the mention of Millie’s name didn’t so much as twitch his eye. Hmm, that could be a problem, considering the deal she’d cut with Millie.
After one more bite for fortification, she continued: “Miss Barker reminded me that the Garveys’ ball is but a week away. Naturally, I’ve already got my gown, but I should like to add a few accessories—”
“No.”
She blinked. Was he objecting to the ball, the gown—though he’d not seen it—or her desire to purchase a new hair coronet and matching earbobs? “What do you mean, no?”
“Are you about to ask me to follow you about town while you shop for said accessories?”
Pleased that he understood her the first go-around, she loaded her fork with one more bite of breakfast cake. “Yes.”
“No,” he answered.
Her fork hovered midair. “Mr. Brentwood, you can’t expect me to stop my life just because some misguided fellow pushed past Mrs. Hunt and entered our home. I admit it was a frightening event, but—”
“Have you forgotten about Mr. Sedgewick’s murder?”
She set down her fork. Eating now was out of the question. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the dining-room windowpanes like bones in a grave. She shivered. Horrid thought, as bad as the image of Reggie’s final breath. “Of course I’ve not forgotten, but I find it hard to believe that his situation has anything to do with me. I am not now, nor ever have been, associated with business intrigues.”
“Are you really so self-centered, Miss Payne?” Brentwood’s voice lowered in timbre and gained in strength. “Did you ever consider it might have something to do with me?”
Her gaze shot to his. “What are you talking about?”
He sighed, giving her the distinct impression he chose his words as carefully as for a tot. “Let’s review. I’m charged with your safety, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Your father’s partner is murdered, a stranger breaks into your home, and your father turns up—”
He stopped. Suddenly. His eyes grew distant and hard. Either his coffee didn’t sit well on an empty stomach—for he had yet to fill a plate—or he’d been about to say something he ought not.
She leaned forward. “Turns up what?”
He reached for the coffee urn yet again. Three cups?
“Turns up unable to be reached, Miss Payne.” He took a sip before he continued. “Though he prepared us for that much before he left.”
The beginnings of a headache lurked behind her eyes, ready to spring out if this conversation became any more complicated. She reached for her own cup in hopes of drowning the pain. “I fail to understand what that has to do with shopping.”
“I need you to stay put for the day while I make a few calls of my own.”
Behind her, the rain thrummed against the glass. No one would call on her in such weather. The day would stretch unbearably long. Surely she could think of something to change his mind. And if that beastly fellow happened to return—aha!
She straightened in her seat. “I wasn’t safe here alone yesterday, Mr. Brentwood. What makes you think today will be any different? Perhaps if I accompanied you—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already sent for a colleague to watch the place. You see, Miss Payne, I generally try to think two moves ahead of the game.” He bit into his bread and chewed, deliberately holding her gaze.
Drat. As much as she hated to admit it, he really did think of everything. She pushed back her chair, appetite completely gone, and cocked her head at the same angle she’d seen her father employ time and again before he sealed a bargain. “I’ll make a deal with you, Mr. Brentwood.”
“Really?” He finished off his bread and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Why do I sense that wagering with you just may involve the selling of my soul?”
She tipped her head farther. “Is it for sale?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, hmm?”
She waited, holding, as if they played at nothing but a simple card game instead of the possible fate of her future.
At last, Nicholas broke the stalemate. “I suspect I may regret asking this, but what do you propose, Miss Payne?”
She flashed him a smile that had earned her many a dance with an unsuspecting beau. “As a reward for my best behavior today, you shall take me to Bond Street tomorrow.”
What went on
behind those eyes of his, dark as a forest and with depths she could only guess at? If he’d not agree to this…then what?
“Your best behavior?” he finally asked.
Her smile widened, and she tilted her chin. Millie wasn’t the only one with an arsenal of flirtatious moves.
His eyes narrowed, clouding to rival the storm outside. “That tactic might work with Mr. Henley, but it does not with me.”
Her shoulders sagged. Rotten man. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering.
“Nevertheless…” he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, “I suppose I can’t expect to keep you under lock and key. You’re hardly a criminal, are you?”
She bit harder. The only criminal in the room was him. Big bully.
“If I accomplish all I hope to today, I shall be at your disposal on the morrow.”
Her mouth dropped, quivering lip discarded along the way. “My complete disposal?”
A shadow crossed his face. “What have you in mind?”
She sniffed, going for a blend of proud vexation. “What makes you think I have anything other than shopping in mind?”
“Let’s just say I have my suspicions.”
She mimicked his smirk. He could suspect all he liked—for he had a right to. With him absent for the day, she’d have all the time she’d need to dream up and put a few newly formed schemes of her own into motion.
Chapter 14
Nicholas left behind the Payne townhome and crossed the street, sidestepping a mound of horse manure, then flipped up his collar against the rain. The shower was steady enough to drench any exposed skin. Annoying, but not enough to make him turn back for an umbrella. One more encounter with Emily, and she just might try a new tack to get him to escort her shopping. He’d rather take a bullet to the head than traipse around Bond Street today.
Or any day.
Entering the arched opening to the Portman Square garden—at the center of all the homes on Portman Lane—he cut an immediate right. Ten paces off, a tree trunk appeared to divide as a figure, dressed in deep brown, stepped out from behind it.
“Sure and it be a fine day to have me put on surveillance, Brentwood.” While Flannery spoke, he swiped his thumb and forefingers along the front brim of his hat, sending a spray of droplets off to the side. His red beard dripped with the excess. “I hope yer doublin’ what yer payin’.”
Nicholas smirked. “I wouldn’t complain if I was you, nor ask for further compensation. Ford doesn’t take kindly to mewling harpies.”
Flannery threw back his shoulders. “Watch it, or I’ve a mind to keep to meself the scrap Moore asked me to pass along.”
“Let’s have it.” Nicholas held out his hand.
Flannery reached inside his oilskin coat and produced a folded parchment. “What is it I’m watchin’ for, if I may be so bold?”
The question bounced around in Nicholas’s head as he opened the paper and read Moore’s scrawl:
Captain Norton. Billingsgate dock. Best I can do.
Watch your back, for I can’t. Off to Dover.
“Well?”
Nicholas refolded the paper before answering. “Keep a sharp eye for anything out of the ordinary. Though this”—he held up the note—“might lead me to the fellow you’re guarding against.”
Grant that it may be so, Lord. Pocketing the slip, he savored the first tang of hope he’d tasted in a long time. If Norton was the murderer, there’d be a fat chest of money somewhere on board his ship. He’d haul the captain down to Bow Street, collect his share from that chest, deposit the rest with Miss Payne, then see his sister off to better health. He closed his eyes. Yes, Lord, grant that it may be so.
He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Flannery’s sharp blues. “One more thing. On the off chance Miss Payne exits, follow her. She’s not to escape your sight. Understood?”
“Aye.” Flannery nodded then cocked his head. “But if she slips out the rear, I can hardly be held—”
“Drago’s covering the back. Any other questions?”
A sweep of wind howled in from the west, shaking the overhead branches. Even with his hat pulled low, Flannery took the brunt of the wet onslaught. He rubbed his face and flicked the water from his fingertips. “Ye’ll be puttin’ in a good word for me, then, with the magistrate?”
“Keep my ward safe, and…” Nicholas shrugged and stalked off.
“And what?” Flannery’s voice trailed him. “What, Brentwood?! Ye can’t be leaving me without knowin’—”
“Mind what I said about mewling,” he called over his shoulder. Better the man should be vigilant, prepared for dangers unknown, than slack about his mission. He winced as that thought hit him head-on. Did God ever use the same tactic with him?
After hoofing it past Seymour Street to Duke and another half mile down Oxford, he finally found a hack available for hire. The rain shield was missing and the springs were gone on the left, giving the cab a perpetual list to the side, but at least it had a roof.
By the time he reached Billingsgate, though, he wondered if a soaking walk mightn’t have been a sounder choice, for the driver had bumped through every rise and dip in the road. His teeth rattled even when his feet hit solid ground.
Thames Street, rain or not, bustled with people. Nicholas shoved past fruit sellers and fishmongers and veered into the nearest lane. Soot-smudged warehouse walls towered on each side of the narrow avenue leading to the river. The overpowering stench of mackerel and bloaters smacked him in the nose. Why on earth would an American merchant choose to dock at the largest fish port in London? Granted, a fair amount of other goods passed from deck to dock in this area, as evidenced by the added odor of Spanish onions, but a Yankee merchant…here?
He set his jaw, chewing that one over. Something wasn’t right.
All manner of vessels lined the river on this side of the bank. Many were small, wherries and skiffs, a single Gravesend shuttle sitting among them. This early in the day, most of the fishing rigs were still out to sea.
But directly to his left, a two-masted merchantman hunkered low in the water, no doubt ready to soon set sail. On deck, a few hands stowed ropes and tightened riggings. A leather-cheeked sailor descended from the gangplank. He was so raw-boned and angular, it hurt to look at him.
Nicholas increased his pace. “You there.”
The man lifted his face toward him. “Aye?”
Up close, the wrinkles in the fellow’s skin were as deep as a peer’s pockets. Nicholas slid his gaze to the man’s eyes. “I’m looking for Captain Norton. This his ship?”
“Who’s askin’?”
Nicholas shifted, allowing the bulge of his tipstaff to peek from beneath the flap of his coat. “The name’s Brentwood, on business from the Bow Street magistrate.”
“If this has anything to do with the papers, you best hurry over to Customs.” He lifted his chin, indicating the ungainly building that crouched like a beast on the waterway. “Too late.”
Nicholas frowned. “Too late for—”
“Is there a problem, Skully?” A raspy voice came from behind, heavy with an American accent and followed by the woodsy scent of Burley tobacco.
Nicolas turned and offered his hand to the captain—or was he a killer? “No problem, Captain Norton. Just a few questions. My name is Nicholas Brentwood, Bow Street officer.”
The captain’s gaze darted from his, to Skully’s, then back again before he reached out and gripped Nicholas’s hand. His fingers were strong enough to right a keeling ship on a raging sea, steady enough to train a pistol barrel at a man’s chest, and firm enough to shove past a housekeeper—
But his face was nothing like Mrs. Hunt’s description. Disappointment added to his weariness.
“So tell me, Brentwood,” Norton drew back his hand, “why should I answer to you?”
Nicholas hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Like I was telling your friend here—”
“First mate.” Pride sharpened Skully’s tone—the sam
e wounded egotism Nicholas used when someone labeled him a runner.
“Fair enough. As I was telling your first mate, I’m on business from the Crown.” Once again, Nicholas parted his greatcoat at the hip, making the tipstaff as clear to Norton as he had to Skully. “Shall we?” He tipped his head toward the boat.
The captain folded his arms. “Here will do.”
Nicholas studied Norton’s face, set as granite. The man’s gaze didn’t waver. No hint of a smile played on his lips. Apparently this was more about power than evasion.
“Very well,” Nicholas conceded. “I understand you had some business with a Mr. Reginald Sedgewick.”
“Sedgewick!” A storm darkened the man’s eyes. On the side of his neck, an earthworm of a vein emerged. “Rotten scoundrel!”
And then, spent as quickly as the fury of the spring tempest, a smile dawned on Norton’s face. He grabbed Nicholas’s shoulders. “You’ve righted things for me? Have you my money?” He looked past Nicholas to his first mate. “Hear that Skully? We’re not taking it on the chin, after all!”
Shrugging off the man’s grip, Nicholas scrambled to make sense of the abrupt change. Either the captain was playing him like a well-tuned violin, or this was a dead end. “Where were you two nights ago, Monday, April 6?”
Norton’s grin faded. “What’s that to do with—”
“I’m the one asking the questions here.”
The granite look returned, colder. Harder than before. “Then you should snippin’ well be asking Sedgewick, not me. He’s the criminal. Filthy thief.”
“Sedgewick’s dead, Captain, and unless you satisfy me, I’ll haul you in as the number one suspect.” Behind him, a whiff of air sounded. Nicholas spun. He caught Skully’s forearm before the man’s fist dented his skull, then he snapped the sailor’s arm around his back. If he yanked upward any harder, Skully’s shoulder would dislocate.
Which would be quite the nasty sight should the wiry man’s bone decide to pop out as well.
“This is exactly why America rebelled,” Norton sneered.
“I’m waiting, Captain. So’s Skully.” He nudged the man’s arm. Skully grunted.
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