“Your rough-and-tumble ways are going to catch up to you one day, Brentwood. Soon you’ll be more scar than man.” Kirby left his side to retrieve a silver tray from a counter.
Nicholas wobbled, missing the doctor’s support—then recanted when Kirby returned. A needle dug into his arm. “Ahh!”
“Sorry. As I said, there’s not much pristine skin here to work with, and tugging the suture through—”
“Don’t explain. Just—” The needle stabbed again. Nicholas grunted. “Finish.” His request traveled on a groan.
“Oh? Pressing engagement, have you?” The needle bit thrice more before Kirby’s sigh and the snip of a scissor cut through the air.
After the doctor wrapped a fresh bandage over the site, Nicholas slid off the table. Two shelves materialized where the one had been, with double the amount of bottles. He threw a hand out for balance. Kirby was right. His lifestyle was catching up to him more quickly than he’d care to admit. Allowing the doctor to play valet, he eased his wounded arm into his ruined shirt and greatcoat.
Kirby did not miss his grimace. “I suggest you lay low for the day, Brentwood.”
The doctor’s counsel followed him into the corridor. He didn’t have time to answer, let alone lay low.
Not until he upturned every dock from here to the North Sea.
Stepping out into the black before dawn, he set his feet toward the Wapping Dockyards. By the time he turned the corner of Newman Street, a faint sliver of gray lightened the eastern sky. When his boot heels left behind cobbles for wooden walkways, the promise of morning spread across the horizon.
He scowled, the stench of emptied bilge matching his foul mood. Already the vessel farthest down the line slipped its moorings and floated toward the sea—and this was only one of many wharves lining the busy riverway, representing a smattering of the ships already lost to him. If Emily were aboard one of those…no. Better to not even brook the thought.
Squaring his shoulders, he approached the first ship, noting any twitchy reactions from those aboard. He gauged the captain’s responses to his questions through a filter of presumed guilt, all the while inhaling deeply. The slightest whiff of lily of the valley and he’d tear the vessel apart one-handed. He’d have to. The fire burning in his wounded arm rendered that limb useless.
But nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for him. His battered appearance drew open stares. Undaunted, he moved on to the next ship—and the next—until he investigated each floating hulk, eyed every passing man, and stalked the length of the quay from one end to the other. Now fully unclothed in the sky, the sun taunted him. In a defiant move to prove it wrong, he fished around in his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. Ten o’clock. Ten!
Terns screeched overhead, echoing the roar of frustration building in his throat. It would take him all day to scour the Greenland Docks then the East India’s. There was no way he could do this alone.
His shoulders sank, the movement releasing a fresh burst of pain in his arm. He needed reinforcements, sleep, faith…a miracle. God, please, just one. Or more. He frowned. Once the magistrate heard of Flannery’s fate, he’d be lucky were Ford to grant him even the lowliest grate cleaner to help him search for Emily. With the back of his hand, he scrubbed at the stubble on his face.
Better to not brook that thought, either.
Crossing to Newton Street, he hailed a hackney, and though he tried, a black cloud of malicious what-ifs and your-faults escorted him all the way across town. Admitting defeat never came easy—especially when it involved those he loved.
But at this point, he’d do anything, say anything, to get Emily back.
Sunlight warmed his face when his feet hit the cobbles in front of Number Four Bow Street. The shaggy blond-headed man leaning against the wall further lightened his spirits. Nicholas smiled for the first time in an eternity. Had anyone ever thought of Moore as a miracle? “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Officer Alexander Moore surveyed him from head to toe, frowning. “And you’re a sight. About time you haul your lazy backside to the station. I do all the work for you, and then you’ve the nerve to keep me waiting.”
Nicholas cocked his head, his gaze following Moore’s hand as it disappeared inside his coat. He pulled out a leather wallet, and without a word, handed it over.
Shutting out the bustle of carriages and pedestrians, Nicholas honed all his attention onto the money case. A scrolled “P” was engraved on the front—the same crest adorning Payne’s strongbox in his office. Judging by the thickness—or rather lack of it—he didn’t bother opening the thing.
His gaze locked onto Moore’s. “Where’d you find it?”
“Pried it out of the grip of a smuggler down Dover way. The money’s long gone, but at least I know what happened to Mr. Payne…and it wasn’t suicide.” Moore shook his head. “Those that deal with brigands never meet with a good end.”
“I expect you enacted justice?”
He flashed a grin. “Case closed.”
Maybe for Payne, but not Emily. Nicholas’s heart lurched. He tucked away the thought and the wallet. “Not quite. I need you to—”
“Tut, tut.” Moore’s hand shot up. “You should know by now, Brentwood, that I am always correct. I’ve got one more thing to deliver to you. Come along.”
Before Nicholas could grab one of the many questions swirling in his head, Moore’s broad shoulders vanished through the front door. By the time he entered the foyer, Moore was halfway up the stairwell, a question of his own spiraling down.
“Were you missing something? Or should I say…someone?”
The words stole his breath. His heart—dear God—was it even still beating? Nicholas took the stairs two at a time, nearly crashing into Moore’s back at the landing.
Moore stopped in front of the magistrate’s public receiving room and turned to him. “It’s fortunate the lady encountered me before Ford. He doesn’t know about your loose grip on your sleeping beauty, and with the humor he’s in today, it might be better if he didn’t.”
“I owe you.” Though Nicholas tried to conceal it, emotion thickened his voice.
Moore smirked. “That you do.” Then he pivoted and called over his shoulder as he strode down the corridor. “And Brentwood, I’ve enough work of my own to care for. Don’t lose her again.”
“I don’t intend to.” He grasped the doorknob as firmly as his resolve. “Ever.”
A deep voice hung in the thin space between waking and sleeping, balancing on the edge. One false move and the smooth tones might shatter into a thousand pieces. Too many to sweep. Too small to piece together. Emily shifted her head on the settee’s pillow—carefully—unwilling that the slightest jostle might fully awaken her. Of all the fitful dreams she’d suffered throughout the last few hours, this one was by far the sweetest.
The jiggle of the doorknob ended that aspiration. Her eyes sprung open, and she pushed up to sit. Officer Moore had encouraged her to rest, but that didn’t mean she ought be caught lounging like a slackard.
When the door swung wide, for the briefest of moments she wondered if a heart could explode. Hers pulsed in her temples, her wrists, her knees.
Her guardian stood framed in the doorway. Stillness surrounded him, or was that her breath that stopped? His hair was coated with a fine layer of gray ash. Soot and sweat and fear smeared across his brow. The heat of his gaze spread a wildfire of emotions through her veins.
He stepped forward, filling the room with his presence, banishing all the darkness and terror of the last month. “Emily.”
She launched from the settee and ran into his arms. “Nicholas!”
He pulled her close, wrapping his strong arms around her, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Thank God.”
She nuzzled into his chest, breathing deeply. He smelled a musky combination of blood and safety. Always the paradox, this man. Was it his wild unpredictability that drew her or the home her heart had found in his arms? She grabb
ed handfuls of his coat and held on, burrowing into him. For now she memorized the contour of the muscles beneath his shirt and the feel of his stubbly cheek rubbing against her hair.
“You’ll be the death of me, you know?” His voice rumbled in her ear.
“I was so frightened.” Tears garbled her words. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the relief leaking down her cheeks, dampening his shirt, washing them both.
“You’re safe, now. Hear me?” He pulled back and tipped her face to his. The rough pad of his thumb traced along her chin. “Safe, now and always, for I’ll not leave your side ever again.”
Pulling back farther, he slid to one knee. His green eyes blazed with a passion so pure, so candid, she shivered.
“This is hardly the time or place, but the past twenty-four hours have taught me nothing is certain, not even the best-laid plans.” His voice cracked, and he reached for her hand. He pressed a kiss into her palm before continuing. “You have stolen my heart, Emily Payne, a crime for which justice must be served. And so I ask…will you have me?”
Yes, without a doubt, was on the tip of her tongue, but “You’re hurt!” flew past her lips. She dropped to his level, her heart breaking at the stained, torn fabric on his arm. Why had she not noticed that first? “Are you all right?”
“I might be.” With a gentle nudge, he tilted her face back to his. “If you would but answer my question.”
She lifted her hand to his cheek, smoothing back lines of worry etched from years of care. All her dreams and hopes and plans were here, wrapped in the guise of a tattered, scruffy lawman. “I would have no other.”
His lips came down on hers, soft as moonlight, hotter than the sun. He tasted of cloves and mystery and sweet, sweet promise. She leaned into him, heedless now of his injury. A tremor shook through him—no. That quivery feeling was inside her. Deep. Low. She ran her hands up his back, feeling desire ripple along each smooth muscle. Unless he held her in place, she’d fall and never, ever be found again.
He groaned and pulled her closer, his lips forming her name against her mouth, her jaw, her neck. The warmth of his breath brushed a shiver along the curve of her collarbone. A crazy rushing sounded in her ears, heady, swirling, entirely intoxicating.
And a sobering voice boomed from the door. “This is not a brothel, Brentwood.”
Chapter 33
Nicholas shot to his feet, pulling Emily up with him. The magistrate’s face was granite. His mouth soured into a scowl that prickled over Nicholas’s scalp and crept down his spine. Of all the inopportune moments for the man to enter, he had to choose this one?
Emily huddled at his back. Her trembling filtered through the fabric of his coat—and he didn’t blame her one bit. He widened his stance. “I can explain, sir.”
Ford’s mouth flattened. Was he biting back words or too busy formulating a censure? The magistrate closed the door and advanced across the carpet, bypassing Nicholas without a glance. From the bank of windows, daylight collected atop his shoulders. He pulled it with him as he went, leaving a distinct chill in his wake.
“Pleased to meet you at long last, Miss Payne. I am Magistrate Ford.” He bowed his head then offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to a seat. Brentwood’s explanations are entertaining and somewhat long-winded. And judging by the looks of him,” he arched one brow at Nicholas, “this one promises to excel on both accounts.”
Emily’s wide eyes stared into his own, and he nodded his assurance—a confidence he searched for in every nook of his own soul. None was found. As Ford led Emily to one of the settees in an L-shaped arrangement near the hearth, Nicholas made haste to the other. The sooner this confrontation was over, the better.
Ford’s “uh-uh-uh” stopped him. “Remain center stage, Mr. Brentwood. I promised the lady a show, and you will deliver.” Flipping out his coattail, the magistrate sank next to Emily then pierced him with a glower. “Start talking.”
Nicholas shored himself against the mantel, grateful for the solid brick against his back. His thoughts of how to begin were nothing but vapor. Perhaps the end would work best, leastwise for Emily’s sake. “What you witnessed as you walked in, sir, is no stain against the lady’s character. I intend our banns be read beginning this Sunday, and in three weeks’ time, I would that you officiate at our marriage ceremony.”
If the magistrate had been wearing his judicial wig, his brows would’ve lifted it a full inch from his scalp. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Brentwood. Very entertaining!” He slanted a sideways glance at Emily. “Not that he isn’t a noble enough prospect, but are you entirely certain about matrimony to this man, Miss Payne?”
A slow smile brightened her face, and though she spoke to the magistrate, she locked her gaze with his. Joy sparkled there—unabashed and sincere. “I’m afraid I have learned to think things through the hard way, Mr. Ford, and while I appreciate your concern, my conclusion is that my best, my dearest, my only choice is indeed Nicholas Brentwood.”
His name on her lips was as sweet as her kiss, but as Ford turned his frown toward him, he shoved down the memory and stored it away for later. Careful to erase any emotion from his face, he straightened his shoulders.
Ford quirked a brow. “I don’t believe charming the lady into oblivion was part of the original guardianship arrangement. Nothing to be done for that now, I suppose. There are a few loose ends, however, that ought be tied up before you two embark on the marital journey. What of Miss Payne’s father?” He held up a hand, staying an answer, and turned toward Emily. “I know I promised you a show, my dear, but if you find the topic too sensitive, Brentwood and I can take this into my office.”
She lifted her chin. “Thank you, but no. I wish to stay.”
“A woman who knows her own mind, eh?” Ford cocked his head back at Nicholas. “She will suit you, I think. Go on with your tale—and this time start from the beginning instead of the end.”
The old man didn’t miss a trick. A good trait in one who warmed the judgment bench. Nicholas ran his hand through his hair. Ash and soot rained down. “The evening I began my employ at Portman Square, Mr. Payne departed to the Wapping Wharf, his wallet padded with what remained of his fortune and that of his partner, Mr. Reginald Sedgewick. Because of the passing of the recent ban on slavery, they were at odds as to which direction the business should go. Sedgewick favored tobacco and cotton. Payne, something a little more lucrative.”
Ford leaned forward. “Such as?”
“Smuggling. Payne needed a large sum of money and fast. Unbeknownst to Sedgewick, he’d gambled their business into quite the precarious position. So Payne took all of what they had and cut a deal with a Spanish smuggling ring led by a man known only as Sombra.”
“The Shadow. I’ve heard of him.” Ford stroked his chin. “He’s a villain, with quite the grudge against the East India Company. There are rumblings, according to Officer Moore, that the man’s intent is to undercut then monopolize the saltpeter and opium trades.”
Nicholas nodded. Like colored bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, all the details he’d collected over the past month rotated into a single stunning picture in his mind. He stepped from the hearth and began pacing the length of it, his steps matching the swiftness of his words. “Fearing Sedgewick’s reaction to the theft, not to mention the American captain who wanted to be paid for his delivery of tobacco, Payne hired me to see to Emily’s well-being until his return. He never guessed that other brigands might get to him first, steal his money, then hang him…yet that’s exactly what happened.”
He lengthened his stride, envisioning a dark-skinned Spaniard waiting for Payne. Lifting his good arm, Nicholas ran light fingers over a ridged scar on the back of his neck. He knew better than anyone what kind of a mistake Emily’s father had inadvertently made. “Payne never made his appointed meeting with Sombra—and one should never keep a Spaniard waiting. In retaliation, Sombra sent out his watchdog, Ambrose de Villet, to collect the promised amount then kill Payne for stand
ing him up.”
“But de Villet had no idea Payne was already dead.” Ford grunted. “Interesting.”
At the mention of her father’s death, Nicholas stopped in front of Emily, searching for a quivering lip or any other kind of reaction. This turn of conversation might be more than she bargained for, yet she remained expressionless, giving no hint she wished to flee.
Ford must’ve noticed his blunder, for he reached over and patted her hand. “Sorry, my dear. I’m afraid my blunt ways are somewhat ingrained.”
“A Bow Street trait, I assume, for I have often noted Nicholas’s directness.” Her brown gaze lifted to his. “Have I not?”
“Frequently.” The smile they shared burned through him from head to toe, so warm, so intimate, a flush rose on her cheeks, and he was glad for the stubble darkening his.
Ford cleared his throat.
Nicholas resumed his pacing—it was either that or a cold bath. “You are correct, sir, that neither Sombra nor de Villet had any inkling Payne had been murdered. Quite the contrary. Because I rarely left Emily’s side, de Villet thought I was the man. But here’s the twist.”
He paused and faced the settee. Both the magistrate and Emily pinned their gaze on him. “All that explains Payne’s connection to Sombra and de Villet, but I suspect that when Payne first contacted Sombra, he used his partner’s name, Reginald Sedgewick.”
Ford cocked his head. “Why the deuce would he do that?”
“With Payne’s gambling debts so widely known, he wouldn’t have risked Sombra finding out his net worth wasn’t quite what he purported it to be. That would explain why de Villet first went to Sedgewick’s home for collection. I believe Sedgewick and de Villet found out together about Payne’s dubious dealings.”
The magistrate shook his head. “That must have been quite the conversation.”
“Yes, and de Villet couldn’t let Sedgewick live with that much information, so he killed him.” Once more he studied Emily’s face for signs of grief or remaining horror from that terrible night. Her lips pressed tight, and he waited for her slight nod before he began again.
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