“And so I repeat, please…take a care for him, would you?” A cough broke out, gargling her words. “Take…a…care.”
Jenny’s eyes widened, and a slow trickle of blood leaked out her right nostril. Her hands flew to her chest, her fingers squeezing the fabric of her shift as if the movement might force air into her lungs.
Emily shot to her feet. “Hope! Does she always do this as well? Is she going to be all right?”
The girl dropped her dolls, one rolling on the floor as she ran to Jenny’s side. She pulled the woman up to a sitting position, but still Jenny’s breaths fluttered out like a bird with broken wings. One by one, stark red drips mottled the blanket.
Hope’s eyes pooled with a well of tears. “No, miss. She ain’t never been like this. I don’t know what to do!”
Nicholas’s gaze ricocheted around his room. Chair, empty. Table, littered with a half-eaten crust of bread, a bottle, and a basket. Obviously Hope had been here. The bed was rumpled, a blanket thrown back atop it. At its foot, his campaign chest was untouched with padlock in place. His gaze skipped from there to the window, and he narrowed his eyes. The thread seal he’d attached from sill to glass was still in place—no one had slipped in uninvited. He rubbed at the knot embedded in his shoulder.
So…where was Emily?
Relocking the door behind him, he trotted down the steps and examined the bolt on the street-level door. No sign of forced entry marred the wood or the metal. Had she been lured out?
Ignoring the panic welling in his gut, he scanned the street. Afternoon light painted different angles and shadows, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. The barking tune of the fellow hawking rags directly across the road from him added kindling to a newly sparked headache.
“Rags a binny, rags a bone, buy yer rags an’ take ’em ’ome.”
Nicholas pressed two fingers against his temple. More like the rag seller ought go home and stuff one of his rags in his own mouth, so tatty was his voice. The man had been there since morning. Hadn’t he sold enough by now?
Wait a minute…he’d been there all day? Nicholas crossed the road at a brisk pace, dodging a passing bandy wagon.
“Rags a binny, rags a—” The one-legged fellow cocked his head like a robin spying a fat worm. “Need a rag, sir? I got the finest ’ere.”
Nicholas stopped an arm’s length from the fellow. Any closer and he’d gag from the rag seller’s sour body odor. If the man smelled that bad, how putrid were his rags?
Nicholas shook his head. “What I need is information.”
“All I gots is rags.” With perfect balance, Ragpicker kept his seat as he kicked his single boot against the tall basket on the ground. “Ye want one or not?”
Must everything cost him? Reaching into a concealed pocket in his greatcoat, he pulled out a ha’penny and held it up. “Did you happen to see a young lady, very pretty, exit that door over there?” He pointed toward his own lodging.
Dirty fingers snatched the coin from his. “Mebbe. Memory’s not so good, y’see.”
Nicholas sighed and held out another offering.
The coin vanished as fast as the gummy smile splitting the man’s face. “Aye. She were a looker, that one.”
“Which way did she go, and was anyone with her?”
The man opened his mouth, but all that came out was, “Rags a binny, rags a bone, buy yer rags an’—”
With a flick of his arm, Nicholas grabbed the man’s throat and squeezed. “You’ve been paid a fair amount already.” He let go, giving the fellow just enough time to cough and curse. “Now answer my question.”
“North,” he hacked. “With a girl.”
“That wasn’t so hard, hmm?” Retrieving a last penny, Nicholas handed it over then wheeled about and strode down Sherborne Lane.
First he’d chew out Hope for bringing Emily to his sister’s, then he’d have a word with Emily for—
His steps slowed, and he squinted. Surely he wasn’t seeing this.
Down a block, Emily strolled toward him, alone. Undefended. Unaware. Above her, one story up, a fat woman with a large bucket leaned out a window, about to drop her slops. Behind her, a black-bearded sailor—considering his golden-ringed ear and bowed legs—followed close enough to reach out and reel her in. To her side, a dray passed in the street, heaped so high with barrels, the slightest dip in the road would send one toppling her way. She’d be crushed. And in front of her, two men swaggered out of an alley, each carrying half-empty bottles of gin.
Nicholas shot forward, ignoring her gasp when he grabbed her by the shoulders. In five long strides, he guided her into a sheltered alcove of a nearby glassery, out of the pedestrian flow and away from public scrutiny. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. “You’ll be the death of me! How am I to keep you safe?”
Overly large brown eyes stared into his. Her drab bonnet only served to magnify the golden shimmer of the hair beneath. How could she be so beautiful that it tore into his soul?
Blinking, she drew in a breath. “I didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t think!”
She flinched.
He closed his eyes and counted to ten—then reversed from ten to one before opening them again. Sighing, he lowered his voice. “Where were you?”
“I was with your sister, waiting until the doctor settled her with some laudanum.” Emily frowned up into his face. “She almost died! Why did you never tell me of her?”
“There was no reason.”
“There was every reason! Had I known sooner, before I got into this dreadful situation, I could have helped.”
“You?” He stepped up to her, forcing her back against the brick wall. A smirk begged for release, yet he fought it. “Think on it. When I first met you, your world consisted of pampering a pug, hat shopping, and snagging that scoundrel Henley. Would you honestly have wanted to help my sister?”
The longer she remained silent, the more her bottom lip quivered.
“Maybe not at first.” Her voice was small.
But true.
Curious, he leaned in, inches from her face, and studied the depths of her luminous eyes. Gilt flecks floated atop brown, shimmering like candlelight against dark velvet, but no guile, no deception, swam in those pools. Never had he seen her so open, so unguarded.
The effect stole his breath, making it impossible to speak. Clearing his throat, he demanded an answer he feared. “What’s come over you? Tell me what changed.”
Saying nothing, she lifted her hand and reached toward him like a lost lover who’d finally returned home. When her fingertips grazed his brow, he turned to granite. The contact was white hot. One by one, she smoothed away every crease, every line that tightened his forehead. Her gaze tracked the motion.
His heart followed her touch.
When she pulled her hand away, he was lost.
“Everything changed,” she said.
Simple words, but the huskiness of her voice kicked off a complex reaction in his body. Blood pumped. A pang shot into his belly and sank. Low. Heat poured off him in waves. The thin space between them was a chasm too painful to bear. Pulling her close, he wrapped her in his arms, a groan rumbling somewhere in his chest.
She quivered against him—but did not protest.
Her name surfaced on his lips an instant before he pressed them against hers. She tasted of light, cinnamon, promise…all that was right and good. Her mouth moved against his with an intensity that surprised him, burning like the summer sun.
Closing his eyes, he breathed her in, and wondered if he’d ever truly breathed before. Her hands slid up his back, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. He slipped his hands lower, locking them into place at the small of her back. Bending farther, he trailed kisses down her neck and pulled her closer, drawing her hips against his.
“Emily,” he mouthed her name against skin so soft, he wanted to weep. When she arched into him, he knew he must have her.
And the thought turn
ed his blood to ice.
He released her and backed away. Time stopped. How long they stood there, he could only guess. He gaped, frozen in place by the host of feelings drifting around him like ghosts in a graveyard, each one howling from the separation. The memory of her body fused against his seared into his bones. God…what had he done?
She stared at him, drawing the fingers of one hand to her mouth. Slowly, she traced her lower lip, touching the swell. Her gaze was intense, the color in her cheeks deepening with each of his heartbeats. Was she reliving the kiss?
Or regretting?
“Emily—” His voice broke. What kind of guardian was he? “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Behind them, the usual sounds of London’s streets continued on as if nothing had happened. What a lie. Something had happened, leastwise for him. He could only guess what he’d done to her.
“Don’t be.” Lowering her hand, she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress then lifted her chin, proud and defiant as ever. “I’m not.”
Her words were as easy to grasp as feathers in the wind, but when they settled, a slow smile curved his mouth. Shaking his head, he grunted. “As I’ve said, you will be the death of me, woman. Come along. Let’s get you off the street.”
She fell into step beside him, the bustle of Eastcheap filling the silence until she spoke: “I am worried for your sister. She ought be moved to a nicer place. Somewhere warmer, or cozier, someplace”—she shrugged—“healthier.”
He arched a brow down at her, amazed at her shift from passion to empathy. “Why do you think I took your father’s offer in the first place?”
Her eyes widened, as if she’d discovered for the first time that he wasn’t an ogre. “But, my father, I mean…what will you do now?”
“In your case, I have a plan. As for my sister, well…” He looked forward, and instead of seeing the busy street in front of him, Jenny’s drawn face filled his vision. “I had a plan, once, but it’s not so clear anymore.”
“Nicholas?”
His Christian name on Emily’s tongue jerked his face toward hers. “Aye?”
“She asked me to remind you that God’s the One in control, not you.”
Once again he directed his gaze forward. The words ought be comforting, for indeed they were solid and true.
So why did he feel as if he were just about to jump off a cliff?
Chapter 27
Here you go.” Nicholas threw a blue dress across the Portman House sitting room. With the seams let out and a panel added onto the back, it looked like a crippled heron as it flew through the early evening light. Draped across Flannery’s shoulders, the bird would come to life in a spectacular way—one that would be talked about down at Bow Street for months to come. Truly, he ought not smile.
Flannery snatched the material with one hand and held the gown up. His scowl grew in size and depth the longer he looked at it.
Before the man could complain, Nicholas retrieved two precious oranges from a bowl on the tea trolley and rolled them across the floor. “And don’t forget these.”
“What’re those for?”
Without a word, Nicholas brought his hands up and cupped them to his chest.
Flannery glowered. “Sweet flying peacock!”
Nicholas dodged the fruit missiles, choosing to ignore the thwunk of them smacking the wall behind him.
“No! I won’t do it!” Flannery balled up the dress and chucked it to the carpet. “This goes beyond what ye asked in the first place.”
Nicholas rubbed his jaw with one hand. Negotiating with Emily for a spot to sleep on the floor in front of the hearth had been child’s play compared to this. “Think on it, Flannery. You know as well as I the past few days have produced nothing. Occupying her chamber overnight with the window cracked open. Me spending the bulk of my time absent from the house. Even you donning a bonnet and tooling about town in the carriage didn’t attract anything but some lewd remarks from a near-sighted drunkard. So unless you’ve a better idea, we give this a shot. Besides, who’s going to recognize you in a dress?”
Flannery folded his arms, his scowl softening at the corners. Progress.
Nicholas lifted his chin. “Need I remind you there’s a commission in this? We catch the villain; you become a full-fledged officer.”
His lips leveled to a straight line. Advancement.
“Sometimes duty calls for extreme measures. If you’re not up for it, perhaps this isn’t your line of work.”
Flannery narrowed his eyes. “Did you ever have to wear a dress?”
“No.” He paused long enough to let Flannery think he held the winning hand, then played his trump card. “But I did have to pose as a harlot in a molly house to snag a suspected parliament member with immoral tastes. I barely got out of there with my breeches intact. All I’m asking you to do is wear a dress and sway your hips as we walk down a few streets.”
“Pah!” Flannery swiped up the gown.
Victory.
Nicholas gestured toward the door. “Go change in the study. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”
Flannery stomped past him, mumbling all the way. Waiting until the grumbling faded then finally quieted behind the slamming of a door, Nicholas sank onto the settee and tipped back his head.
“Thank You, God, for small triumphs,” he whispered and closed his eyes. The past several days had been grueling, to say the least: keeping Emily occupied in a room hardly bigger than a cell at Newgate, keeping his own emotions in check while spending so much time with her—hard to do with the memory of her kiss forever etched onto his lips. It was a tight balancing act between that and despair over Jenny’s failing condition.
Failure weighted his shoulders as well, and he rolled them against the cushion. Why had the abductors not made another attempt? Did they know about Payne’s death? Was it safe to take Emily home?
A gruff throat clearing and heavy footsteps hauled him to his feet, and when Flannery swung through the door, Nicholas’s jaw dropped. Somewhere deep, laughter ignited, but if he let it explode, the game would be off—not that the knowing stopped an openmouthed grin from stretching his cheeks.
Flannery’s hand shot up. “Don’t be sayin’ anything. Don’t be sayin’ anything at all!”
Nicholas closed his mouth, every muscle in his gut quivering with the strain to keep from hooting. Flannery stood in front of him, for all the world looking like a dog-faced spinster. And an angry one at that. The long sleeves, poofy and opaque, hid his muscles—but not the hairy knuckles he bunched into fists.
“Don’t even think it. I’m warning ye, Brentwood!”
It took several deep breaths to assure he wouldn’t lose his composure when he spoke. “Fine. Let’s get to work then.”
Flannery stalked toward the door.
Nicholas snagged his skirt and pulled him back. “Not so fast. We start right here.”
“I thought the point of this was struttin’ about on the streets, not in some nimbly parlor. Hard to catch a fish when yer bait isn’t in the water.”
“After seeing you stomp across the room like an overgrown strumpet bent on a mark, trust me, we’ve got work to do here. With a gait like that, the only thing you’d catch is the pox from a burly wharf ape.”
Red crept up Flannery’s neck. “Are ye sayin’—”
“I’m saying let’s work on your deportment.”
“My…what?”
“Your poise. Your posture.” Nicholas threw out his hands. “Call it what you will, man, but you must learn to walk without losing your oranges.”
Flannery’s gaze shot to his chest. One fruit migrated south. The other had slid nearly under his armpit. He grabbed them both and resettled them front and center.
“Good.” Nicholas strolled to the door, allowing plenty of space for Flannery to practice. “Now then, chin up. Shoulders back. And with a slight sway of your hips, glide.”
In an instant, Flannery’s eyes changed from seaside blue to the dark gray of a tempes
t. Good thing the man was armed with nothing more than citrus.
“I will not—”
“Flannery,” he growled the name, “if this is to be believable—”
“Who’s to be believin’ I’m Miss Payne when I nearly equal your height, am wider in the shoulders, narrower in the hips, and a flamin’ carrot top to boot?”
Lifting a finger, Nicholas pointed to the window, where even now shadows blotted out the last bits of daylight. “Which is why we’ll take our stroll in the dark.”
“Oh, bloody—”
“Tut, tut.” He wagged his finger in Flannery’s face. “A lady never utters vulgarities.”
“Fie!” Flannery spit out. “This better be worth it. Chin, shoulders, hips, glide. I got it.”
“Then let’s see it.”
Muttering, Flannery kicked into motion. He tilted his head, shimmied his shoulders, and shifted his behind one way then another. The oranges slipped, the blue skirt swished, and the redhead went down. Hard.
Nicholas bent, riding out a wave of laughter that wouldn’t be stopped, until his lungs hurt and his eyes watered. Flannery let loose a barrage of foul oaths, which only made it funnier to see an Irishman in a dress cursing like a gambler on a losing spree.
“I never!”
Behind them, Mrs. Hunt’s voice sobered Nicholas enough to straighten and turn. She held out a note with his name penned on the front. As soon as he pinched it between thumb and forefinger, she whirled and whisked off down the corridor.
Flannery hollered after her. “I never did either!”
Nicholas wheeled back to the dour-faced man. “Go on and practice some more. I’ll leave you to it for a while.”
He retreated to the study and sank into the chair where he’d first met Payne. With the back of his hand, he wiped the moisture from his eyes then broke the seal on the parchment. Perfect timing for a diversion.
His gaze settled on the words, and as he read it twice over, he wondered how one could understand that which didn’t make sense:
Come at once. Your sister draws her last breaths.
—Dr. Kirby
For at least the tenth time, Emily flung open the door of Nicholas’s chamber and looked out. Once again, her shoulders slumped, tiring of the game. Nothing but darkness stalked up the stairs. Where was he? He’d not left her alone for these many hours since the day he’d first brought her here, which was not only unusual, but undesirable as well.
Brentwood's Ward Page 24
