Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  And entirely unfortunate.

  She tugged her cape snug against her shoulders, wishing it was Nicholas’s embrace instead of thin wool, then stepped out and shut the door behind her. What else could she do? If she waited any longer, she’d miss Wren. As it was, even with speedy steps, she’d have to meet Wren first to tell her to wait, then retrieve some supplies from the house. Or maybe Wren could follow her back and hide in the shadows. If only Mrs. Hunt would simply relent and listen to reason—and to her heart.

  She tripped on the last stair and flung out her free hand, slapping it hard against the wall. The resulting sting assaulted her palm every bit as much as the realization smacking her own heart. Who was she to judge Mrs. Hunt, when unforgiveness toward her father hid like a spider in a crevice of her soul? Sooner or later, she’d have to deal with that. Setting down the lantern, she took a deep breath and made up her mind.

  Later. Definitely later. Making it safely back to Portman Square took priority.

  She slid the bolt, opened the door, and blew out the lamp. Better to blend into the shadows than blaze like a beacon. Drawing on every trick she’d gleaned from Hope, she stepped out into the street and merged with the night. If Nicholas knew she was out here, he’d kill her.

  Unless the footsteps behind got to her first.

  Chapter 28

  Nicholas crashed open the door of the Crown and Horn and tore through the taproom. Cutting too close to a table, he slipped in a pool of spilled ale. His foot shot out, and he flailed, but quickly righted himself. The teetering table didn’t. Wood and grog flew, along with the patron’s insults and Meggy’s threats. Ignoring all, he bolted ahead and took the stairs three at a time.

  God, please. God, please. Not much of a prayer, but it was all he had left.

  He sprinted down the hall, his pounding feet rattling the sconce glasses in their holders. The sound mocked like skeleton’s bones, an eerie portent he’d rather not acknowledge. What if he was too late?

  Two paces from Jenny’s room, he stopped.

  So did his heart.

  Hope sat on the floor in the hall, her back to the closed door. Fresh tears slid down tracks already worn on her cheeks. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. They didn’t have to.

  He knew.

  She shot to her feet and plowed into him. In reflex, he wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed, but he didn’t feel his shirt dampen or the shaking of her shoulders. He didn’t feel anything. He wouldn’t let himself. Not yet.

  “Hush, child.” His voice sounded far away. Lost. Just like Jenny was to him.

  Guiding the girl over to the wall, he peeled her slim arms from his waist. “Sit. Wait. I’ll be…a moment.”

  She sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. Surely the waif had seen death many times over—but such was the effect of losing Jenny. And if it moved a hardened street child who’d known his sister not quite a month, what would it do to him?

  Turning, he sucked in a breath and crossed to the door. Each step took a force of will, his boots weighted as if his feet were ten stone apiece. But it wasn’t just his feet. Everything felt heavy. His lungs. His hope. His faith.

  Inside, a single lamp burned on the table. Light brushed a last glow of luminescence over Jenny’s pallid skin. Crazy laughter tightened his chest. What need did the dead have of light?

  The closer he drew, the more his steps dragged, the habit of walking quickly becoming forgotten. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, reliving a nightmare he’d hoped never to have to repeat in real life.

  He hadn’t been there for Adelina, either. An ambush ending in a firefight between the Portuguese and Spanish had laid him up for months and kept him from her as she lay dying. The Spaniards attacking her village spared no one, caring nothing for women and their screams.

  He should have been there.

  He should have been here.

  “Nooo!” His fists smashed into the bed frame, bruising his hands and jostling Jenny’s body, reanimating her if only for a second.

  The movement sobered him.

  Reaching out, he brushed back the matted hair from her brow. How much had she struggled? How great was the pain?

  “Ahh, Jen—” Sobs choked out his words. No matter. What was the use?

  Silently, he pulled out of his memory each time she’d answered “dandy and grand, as always.” Every “you worry too much.” And shook his head at the “you are not God, you know.”

  A groan escaped him. Oh, how well he knew that.

  He drew his hand back and held his breath. Still. Silent. Mayhap, if he listened hard enough, he might hear her sweet voice one last time, faint as the distant sound of chimes in the wind. What would she say? What would her last words have been?

  The sniffle of the crying girl in the hall and the muffled whoops of late-night revelers in the taproom quickly ended such musing.

  Rising, he grasped the blanket’s edge and drew it up—slowly—his gaze reluctant to let his sweet sister go. She looked peaceful. He’d give her that. And why not? She was now with the One she loved most.

  With a last long look, he pulled the blanket higher, covering her face.

  But not his shame.

  He stepped back and shuddered. He’d failed her, every bit as much as he’d failed Adelina. If only he’d gotten her moved to a better place, been able to pay for better care.

  Been a better man himself and come home to her instead of traipsing around foreign battlefields in a search of fortune and fame.

  “Good-bye, Jen.” The words came out rough and jagged, though truth be told, he was surprised they came at all. Her name hung in the air like a phantom then dissipated into the dark.

  He pivoted and stalked out to the hall. Hope sat balled up exactly where he’d left her.

  He reached for her. Inches away from patting her head, his fingers recoiled. “Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he turned and stomped off. Meggy said something as he crossed the taproom. Hard to say what, since all he could hear was the rushing in his ears. He ought arrange a time with her for the body to be removed—but thinking of his sister as a body was too foreign an idea to entertain. Too fragile. If he weren’t careful, all his thoughts would splinter into sharp points. Maybe if he walked awhile, fast enough and far enough, the fog in his head would lighten.

  He stormed out of the Crown and Horn and turned left, hoping with the desperation of a starving man that someone—anyone—would throw him a crumb of interference, for he dearly wanted a fight. The need to pummel and be pummeled quivered in his muscles and ached in his soul.

  In a mood blacker than the streets, he wandered up one and down another, through alleys, along the wharves. In defiance of the chill air, sweat made his shirt stick to him like a second skin. No one stopped him. None so much as commented, in spite of the challenge he glowered into the nameless faces he passed.

  Long past midnight, he turned toward Eastcheap. Sleep wouldn’t come, but morning would. Emily must be told. Life must continue. All the musts he should attend to echoed in his head, far off but real.

  Exhausted and empty, he pulled out his key. No resistance dragged against the bolt when he turned it. Recalling when he’d left—a lifetime ago now—he retraced mentally each step of locking the door. Yes. He definitely had secured it. He was too careful not to. He was always careful. Oh God, why hadn’t I been more careful with Jenny? A sob rose to his tongue, and he bit down hard, savoring the coppery taste.

  Then he yanked open the door and frowned at the lantern on the lower stair. A tremor rolled over his shoulders, traveled the length of his spine, and lodged deep and low.

  “Emily!”

  Heart racing—surprising, really, to know that it still worked—he flew up the stairs and, on a hunch, shoved the other door without trying the lock. It swung wide, hinges complaining at the force. His gut tightened. Hope plummeted. Entering the room would likely on
ly add to the nightmare, yet it was one more must that couldn’t be denied.

  God, please. God, please.

  Not much of a prayer, but it was all he had left.

  Ambrose de Villet stood in the dark, feeding off the blackness, soaking in its sanctification. His mother had died birthing him during the witching hour, and he’d spent each successive minute of his life anticipating the night. It was home, breath…sustenance. As satisfying as the rigid stance of the pregnant Englishwoman twenty paces from him. She feared him. He could smell it.

  And it was good.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a lump the size of a severed fingertip. Harder, though, and much more sweet in a bitter sort of way. Saliva rained at the back of his throat. He popped the horehound candy into his mouth, savoring the first tang sliding over his tongue. But the best, the most enjoyable, part was the cool trail that crawled up high and sank in roots just behind his nostrils. When he inhaled, the chill magnified a hundredfold. The shiver running through his bones was delicious.

  Too bad it didn’t last long enough. Not as long as he’d stood here, waiting for the Payne woman to meet her friend. Stupid girl. Stupid English. Four weeks on their rosbif soil had sullied him to the point of scrubbing his hands raw. By this time tomorrow evening, though, the darkness of a ship a’sea would wash clean the entire month of blunder and mishap.

  Biting down, again and again, he ground the candy until it was nothing but a sticky memory in the hollows of his teeth.

  Footsteps cornered the end of the block, beating a fast clip against the cobbles. Light enough for a female, determined enough that this was no wanderer. He flattened against the brick.

  “Wren!” The Payne woman’s voice was breathy as she closed in on the big-bellied sow. “I’m so glad you’re still here. Sorry I’m late. Things have been…difficult.”

  “Not to worry, miss.”

  Ambrose relished the quiver in her tone. It vibrated on the air, terrible and sweet, reminding him to reach into his pocket and pull out another candy.

  “I haven’t had the time to gather some things for you, Wren. Wait here, and I’ll—”

  “No. You must come with me. I…I have something to show you.”

  “What are you talking about? Where? What?”

  The muscles in his neck tightened. He’d been forced to walk a rope lashed between two roofs once. One misstep, one untrue placement of the foot, and failure would rise up from the ground. He liked heights about as much as the turn of the women’s conversation.

  “Not far. Not far at all, miss. Please! It’s important.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “Will you…will you trust me, miss?”

  “Wren, what’s wrong?”

  Ambrose swallowed the candy whole and stopped breathing. This could all fall apart and fast. Not that he’d mind killing the stupid English whore. A slow smile tugged at his lips. Ending two English lives with one snap of the neck would be satisfying indeed.

  His eyes widened. What was the senseless cow doing? She leaned in close, far too close to the Payne woman. This was not part of the plan. Was she whispering a warning? Steeling his muscles, he was about to step from the wall, when the large one turned toward him and began walking. He froze.

  “Wren…wait! I know something’s wrong. What is it?” The Payne woman raced after her.

  Ahh. His smile grew. The English whore was smarter than he credited. Whatever she’d said into Emily Payne’s ear had apparently worked. She stopped two paces from him, close enough that the pain on her face sent a jolt through his belly. This was going to be far more exciting than he’d expected.

  Emily Payne’s hasty steps suffered a quick death, ending when her eyes locked onto his. She jerked her face toward the woman with the ridiculous bird name. “Why did you—”

  “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Like a worm yanked out of a fish’s jaw, the pregnant woman turned and fled down the street, leaving the Payne woman gaping.

  Chapter 29

  By the time Nicholas reached Portman Square, the first hints of dawn soaked through the fabric of his greatcoat. The air was damper, chillier, and smelled like a musty cellar. The sky had yet to lighten, but that would come soon enough. God’s handiwork never failed.

  Unlike him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he swallowed a rising tide of despair and unlatched the front door. Surely he’d find Emily here. Mayhap she’d merely had enough of the oppressive walls in his small chamber and yearned for the spaciousness of her own. Maybe she simply missed her little pug. Whatever reason, he’d praise God to see her safe and sound in her own home—then he’d deal her a sound reprimand. Of all nights to vanish without taking his leave, she had to choose this one?

  He closed the door behind him and padded up the stairs. No sense waking the entire house, especially if Emily was curled up beneath her counterpane. Of course she would be. She had to be.

  Oh God, make it so.

  After two quick raps with his knuckles, he leaned close to her chamber door. “Emily?”

  Silence.

  He pounded harder. “Emily!”

  Nothing.

  The knob twisted easily—hadn’t he warned her to always lock a door? The same intuition that broadsided him as he stood outside Jenny’s room hit him anew. He swung the door wide and looked into the dark chamber. The scent of lilies taunted him on the inhale. So did the shadows reclining on the covers of Emily’s empty bed.

  If she wasn’t here, then where?

  Scrubbing his face with one hand, he retreated down the corridor, the stubble on his jaw as prickly as the possibilities of where Emily might be. The prospects were endless, most sinister, and a few he’d not entertain for a king’s ransom. He clung to the one innocent hunch left him and descended the back staircase to the lowest level.

  As housekeeper, Mrs. Hunt’s room was the first on the right at the bottom of the stairs. This time he didn’t bother to temper his volume.

  “Mrs. Hunt!” The door rattled in the frame. “Mrs.—”

  “Coming!”

  The bang of a wardrobe, some swooshes, and a whole lot of muttering preceded the slit-eyed, night-capped woman.

  “Mr. Brentwood!” The candle in her hand lit half her face, the other was shrouded in darkness. Never had she looked so weary. “Why…what—”

  “Is Miss Payne here?” He nodded toward her chamber. “Has she sought your company for the night?”

  The housekeeper’s eyes popped wide open. “Why, I thought she were with you, sir.”

  He wheeled about, raising both fists. Then at the last moment, he flattened his palms to the opposite wall and leaned his forehead against the cool plaster.

  His thoughts leaked out into prayer. “God, now what? Where is she?”

  He listened hard, straining to hear or feel anything. A nudge. A direction. A lightning bolt with a note skewered onto the end telling of Emily’s location.

  “What is it?” Behind him, Mrs. Hunt’s voice was as small as Hope’s. “What’s gone wrong?”

  His shoulders slumped as he turned to face her. “I’ll tell you what’s gone. Emily.”

  A knock, not as loud but just as urgent, crept down the hallway from the servants’ entrance. His eyes met Mrs. Hunt’s. “Expecting anyone?”

  “No, sir.”

  He shot down the corridor, the housekeeper’s nightgown and wrap rustling behind. Judging by the tap of her slippers, she matched his pace step for step. By the time he opened the door to a very small, very pregnant woman, Mrs. Hunt had gained his side. She swayed then grabbed his forearm.

  “What are ye doing here?” The housekeeper’s voice was a shiver in the dark.

  Nicholas looked from the unexpected visitor to Mrs. Hunt. Apparently this was no stranger.

  Without warning, a snippet of memory clicked into place, as deftly as he might pick open a lock—following Emily in the darkest hour before dawn, hiding in the sh
adows as she delivered a small bag…to the woman who now stood before him. Lauren “Wren” Hunt. That was it.

  No wonder Mrs. Hunt’s fingers dug into his arm.

  “Please,” Wren said, “just listen.”

  Behind them, the slap of sensible shoes hit the tiles, preceding the baritone voice of Cook. Should she ever choose to trade professions, there was likely a lighthouse in need of a foghorn somewhere. “What’s all this? Half the house awake and I’ve not even had a chance to boil water yet. Why—” A gasp punctuated her tirade as she drew near. “Look who’s come back.”

  Cook’s proclamation prodded Mrs. Hunt like a cattle brand. Loosing her hold on his arm, she instead grabbed Wren’s and pulled her inside. She swept past the gaping cook, calling out as she scurried along, “We’ll take tea in my sitting room. Mr. Brentwood, don’t dawdle.”

  Nicholas glanced up at the sky as he shut the back door. Quite an interesting answer, Lord. Then he turned and hustled to catch up.

  Eyeing the small room, he took a position near the hearth. Banked for the night, it offered no heat, not that it needed to. The housekeeper generated enough warmth as she bustled about lighting lamps.

  Across from him, a table with an inkwell and a stack of papers sat in front of a window. In the corner, Wren perched on one of two wingback chairs. No pictures graced the walls. No knickknacks adorned any whatnot shelves. Mrs. Hunt obviously kept the maintenance of her own rooms down to a minimum.

  While Mrs. Hunt flitted about lighting lamps, he studied the girl. “Have you seen Miss Payne? Has she met with you? Have you any information?”

  Wren’s eyes glistened a moment before she buried her face in her hands.

  “La, Mr. Brentwood. Give the girl a moment.” Mrs. Hunt scowled at him then plopped into the seat adjacent Wren. The stern lines of her face masked any emotion. The housekeeper would not only make a great sergeant but a piquet player, as well. “As soon as you’re able, Lauren, we’ll have the truth, and all of it.”