Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  “When de Villet paid a visit to the Payne household, only Emily was home. He made his threat quite clear—and if nothing else, he is a man of his word. Or was, rather. At any rate, he abducted Emily, held her for ransom, then sold her off while waiting for me to bring his chest full of money, which would have doubled his profits. He’d pay off Sombra and keep the rest for himself. My payment, however, was a little more than he bargained for.”

  Ford lifted a hand. “Hence your appearance.”

  “About that.” A ragged sigh rippled up from his lungs. The faded green walls of the room closed in on him, the exact color of the guilt squeezing his chest. He rolled his shoulders, wishing the words he had to say might as easily flow. “Flannery didn’t fare so well, sir. I never should have given him such a dangerous task. If only I’d devised a better plan. Something safer. His life hangs in the balance because of me.”

  “Pish!” Ford’s stern tone stopped him cold. “Stop flogging yourself, man. Flannery knew the risks involved. Such is the life of an officer. Better he know that up front than find out after a commissioning. I expect nothing more nor less than you see to him and keep me posted.”

  Of course Ford was right. Nicholas knew it in his head—but his heart would have none of it. Gritting his teeth, he methodically ground the remaining guilt into a thick paste and swallowed it. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. You rescued the fair maiden, and so I find you, a little worse for the wear, eh?”

  “Not quite.” Nicholas turned his gaze to Emily. “How did you end up here at the station?”

  Two pairs of eyes focused on Emily. A bug beneath a magnifying glass couldn’t have been more exposed. Shifting on the settee, she ran both hands along her skirt, hoping to coax out enough information without having to go into great detail. “I don’t have Nicholas’s flair for story telling.” Ignoring his snort, she continued. “Suffice it to say de Villet sold me to a captain with whom I’d had previous dealings. After a lengthy conversation, he let me go.”

  “Let you go?” The magistrate’s brows bounced upward. “You must be quite the conversationalist.”

  “Persuasiveness is one of Miss Payne’s hallmarks.” Nicholas crossed from the hearth to stand before her, offering both hands. When his fingers wrapped around hers, warmth shot up her arms.

  He pulled her to her feet, the green of his eyes deepening to a storm-tossed sea. “Forgive me for not asking immediately, such was my relief at finding you here. Are you all right? The captain didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “I am fine.”

  The worry puckering his brow hinted he wanted to know everything—and the thought of reliving the awful situation here and now added a whole new depth to her exhaustion. Her lips curved into a smile she didn’t feel, and she gave his hands a light squeeze. “The captain was too far into his cups to have hurt me, so truly, I am fine, though I should like to go home now. It’s been a long night.”

  For an unguarded moment, his shoulders sank, and an unexplained sadness pulled at the lines near his mouth. Then it was gone. Just like that. Leaving her to wonder if she’d seen the breach of emotion or not.

  Dropping her hands, Nicholas turned to the magistrate. “The lady speaks truth. It has been a very long night indeed. If you are satisfied, sir, may we take our leave?”

  Ford rose, tugging loose the neck cloth at his throat. “Your long night was nothing compared to that courtroom full of reprobates downstairs. But yes, I think we can officially say this case is closed, though I assume you’ll help the future Mrs. Brentwood settle her father’s estate?” Nicholas nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting some time off as well?”

  Emily held her breath. How Nicholas answered might very well be a clue as to where she lined up in his queue of priorities. Would he choose his job over her?

  He leveled his gaze at her yet spoke to Ford. “If you don’t mind.”

  “And if I do?”

  Nicholas shrugged, and she breathed in all the love she read in the lines of his face.

  “Bah.” Ford shook his head and turned to her. “For all his rough edges, Nicholas Brentwood is a good man. If he cares for you half as much as his sister, you will be well tended indeed.”

  Behind him, Nicholas stiffened at the mention of his sister. An almost imperceptible movement in anyone else, but one she now recognized as a serious sign of something important. Something bad. A monster swam beneath his cool exterior, and her own stomach tightened in response.

  “…wish you all the best, my dear.”

  She snapped her gaze back to the magistrate. How much of what he’d said had she missed? Playing it safe, she flashed him a smile and defaulted to a polite, “Thank you.”

  “Good day to you both.” The magistrate strode from the room.

  As soon as Ford’s coattails disappeared out the door, she turned to Nicholas. “What’s wrong? It’s about Jenny, isn’t it? I know it. What’s happened?”

  A halfhearted smirk lifted his lips. “Perhaps you ought think about becoming a Bow Street officer.”

  His attempt to lighten the heaviness filling the room fell flat. Dread of what he might be covering up squeezed her chest, making it hard to breathe. She reached for him, resting a light touch on his sleeve. “Nicholas, do not dodge the question.”

  He shook his head, looking older, worn, beaten. She could only imagine all the death he’d seen in his lifetime, more than any human should be asked to bear, but this…Her throat clogged.

  Oh God, please, not his sister. Not Jenny.

  “There was none sweeter than Jen.” His voice broke on his sister’s name, crushing her heart with the sound.

  Tears pooled in her eyes. A few slipped free and slid down her cheeks, landing on her lips. The salt tasted like bitter loss. “I am so sorry.”

  “As am I.” He pivoted and strode to the window, each step carrying him farther away, the space between them an eternity. How to reach him, to console, to comfort? All her years of mourning the lack of love from her father paled in comparison to the heavy weight bending Nicholas’s head. She stood in place, clutching handfuls of her skirt, unable to grasp the full nature of his pain.

  “I am an officer, Emily.” He stared out the window, his voice husky. “There’s no guarantee you won’t have to shoulder a grief like the one I now bear should I meet as untimely a death as my sister.” When at last he turned toward her, the intensity of his gaze weakened her knees. She grabbed the back of the settee for support.

  “I won’t hold it against you should you decide to change your mind.” His face was a mask, as if the real Nicholas had departed and nothing but a shell remained. “I once advised you to think carefully before running headlong into a marriage, and so I do now. Are you certain I am the man for you?”

  Was he? This demanding, rugged, by-no-means-wealthy man who’d barged into her life and taken over her world? She walked over to him, aware that her decision would mark them both to their dying day. Reaching for his hand, she lifted his knuckles, bruised and battered, to her lips. He flinched—or was that a tremor?

  “My best.” She moved her mouth to the next knuckle, speaking against his skin. “My dearest.” She kissed another. “My only choice.” She lifted his palm to her cheek, all callouses and strength, and leaned into it. “Is you.”

  Her name was a whisper, wrapping as tightly around her as his arms. It was a distinct possibility this man’s days would be cut short on London’s streets. But for now, she nuzzled into his chest. It had taken a long time for love to come her way, and she intended to memorize every beat of Nicholas Brentwood’s heart.

  Chapter 34

  Descending from the hackney, Nicholas reached into his pocket and flipped the driver a coin before both his boots hit the cobbles. Then he fished around once more to retrieve his watch. Not that he needed to. The morning sun peeking over Dr. Kirby’s rooftop said it all.

  He was late.

  The minute hand stood at attention, which
should have indicted him all the more. Instead, a bittersweet smile curved his mouth. The golden needle on the watch face pointed straight up at Adelina’s portrait—leastwise, what had been. Nothing but a ghostly collection of watery lines remained of her sweet face. He rubbed his thumb over her memory one last time, breathed out his final regrets, then released at last what could never be undone.

  With his nail, he pried out the worn parchment. Holding it up to a gust of wind banking in from Bowler Street, he whispered, “Good-bye,” and let her go. Adelina hovered for a moment, caught between earth and sky. He watched, mesmerized. How well he knew that feeling, the in-between and not yet. She spiraled once, twice, then rode a swift up-current toward heaven.

  Nicholas turned from the sight. His own heaven on earth waited for him at Portman Square, packed and ready to go. The sooner he finished this errand, the better.

  Ahead, Dr. Kirby emerged from his shop, bag in hand and hat on head. He pulled shut the door then stopped, wide-eyed. “Well, well, Brentwood. Aren’t you the dapper fellow today.”

  “More like uncomfortable.” Nicholas tugged at his cravat. He’d rather go hand-to-hand with a back-lane thief than choke and swelter in a suit. Thanks be to God, he’d only have to go through this once.

  Kirby snorted. “I’ve seen you slit-eyed, bled out, and unconscious, and yet you always spring back. Surely a little culture won’t hold you down.”

  “At least not for long, if I have anything to say about it.” He nodded toward the doctor’s bag. “I see you’re leaving. Mind if I step in and check on Flannery?”

  Kirby shook his head. “Too late, I’m afraid.”

  Nicholas sucked in a breath. The doctor’s blunt statement rattled through him as chill as the next gust of wind. Oh God, not Flannery. He’d seen the Irishman only two days ago. Noticed the first sprouts of new eyebrows growing back. The angry burnt skin on his neck and cheek had cooled into a waxy red patch, and he’d claimed it didn’t hurt so much. How could he be gone, just like that? So quickly?

  He worked his jaw, forcing words past the tightness in his throat. “Was he…did he…suffer much?”

  “Pah!” Kirby’s mouth pulled downward. “The only one suffering around here was me. Ever since I unwrapped Flannery’s face and freed his lips, it was all ‘oh for the bonny green isle’ and tales of his mother’s cooking. I couldn’t stomach it anymore, so I let him go home yesterday. I’m about to check on him, though. Care to come along—say…you feeling a’right?” The doctor paused, narrowing his eyes. “You look a bit pale, though admittedly I’ve never seen you without bruises or blood coloring your face.”

  “I’m fine, or rather I was until you scared the life out of me.” He straightened his cuffs then nailed Kirby with a glower. “Your bedside manner, Doctor, is lacking.”

  “Yes, so you frequently tell me.” The next windy draft knocked Kirby’s hat to a rakish tilt. With a swipe of his free hand, he straightened it then stepped away from the shop. “I’m off. You coming?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Just give Flannery my regards, would you? I…uh…have a more pressing engagement that I ought not miss.” He scrubbed his neck, hoping the doctor would not detect the rising heat burning a trail clear up to his ears.

  “Oh? Yet another of your famous pressing engagements, eh?” Kirby’s gaze assessed him. “Yet it appears this one is of another nature from your usual. Well, I shan’t be back until this afternoon, though from the looks of it, I doubt this engagement involves any fisticuffs.”

  Nicholas grinned as he watched the doctor set his long legs into motion. Somehow, Kirby had guessed—or come close to a correct conclusion about—what Nicholas would be doing this day. Did love show on a man’s face? Even one trained not to tip off his emotions?

  But the good doctor was right. He wouldn’t need Kirby for bandaging or stitches. Fatigue, maybe, for he intended to show Emily just how much he loved her—and that would take a very long time.

  Nibbling on her fingernail, Emily narrowed her eyes at the image in the mirror, blurring her focus to see more clearly the outline of her shape. Mary had worked hard the past few weeks to refashion this gown into a wedding dress, but the maid was no skilled seamstress. White silk poofed out a little too much at the waist, and…wait a minute. Emily turned, cocked her head, and yes. Just as she suspected. The fabric behind billowed out in a most unbecoming way.

  She spun to Mary, the quick movement attracting her pug. Alf scampered over with a yip, and she bent and wagged her finger. “Do not even consider it, little prince.”

  He parked his chubby little body at her feet and tilted his head at a sharp angle. One eyebrow rose then the other, back and forth until she couldn’t help but smile. “Scamp!”

  Straightening, she pointed to the dressing table, heaped with ribbons and lace. “Mary, could you bring over the blue satin? I think it will be just the thing.”

  Her maid retrieved the shimmery trimming and pursed her lips. “I like the idea of a splash of color, but where exactly would you like it?”

  She pressed the poof against her rib cage, flattening the fabric into place. “Tie it as a sash, and make sure to catch up the extra bit of fabric behind me.”

  “Ahh, good idea, miss.” Mary smoothed the ribbon into place then scooted behind her to tie a bow. “I’d like to thank you again for recommending me to Miss Grayson, though I daresay you’ll miss having a maid.”

  “Did I not tell you?” She quirked a glance over her shoulder. “Mr. Brentwood has secured a wonderful new assistant for me.”

  “Oh?” The maid’s tone pinched as tight as the ribbon she knotted.

  “Chin up, Mary. You know I’d keep you if I were able, but an officer’s salary doesn’t stretch very far.” In spite of herself, Emily smiled. Trifling over expenses would indeed be a challenge—one she’d forget about every night when Nicholas held her in his arms. “My new maid is nine years old, a sweet young thing he rescued off the streets. In time, Hope will become proficient, but until then, you’re right…I shall feel your loss.”

  “You’re very kind, miss.”

  A rap on the door and a yip from Alf ended the conversation. Mrs. Hunt peeked in, frightening the pug into the corner. “There’s a gentleman downstairs to see you, miss.”

  Emily sprinted, heedless of the impropriety and Mary’s complaints. Why care if a bow was looped to perfection when green eyes and broad shoulders waited for her in the sitting room? Shoving past Mrs. Hunt, she flew down the stairs and raced across the foyer, not slowing until she dashed through the door.

  Then she froze.

  Broad shoulders met her, all right, along with a barrel chest and cinder-grey eyes. Captain Daggett stood stiff as a ramrod, his hat clutched in front of him with white knuckles. “Good day, Miss Payne. I wasn’t quite sure if you’d see me.”

  “Well, I—” she bit the inside of her cheek, holding back the had I known it was you, I’d have turned you away. At the very least, she should call for John or Mrs. Hunt, for this rogue was not to be trusted. She opened her mouth, then paused. Where was her fear? Pounding heart? Why did his presence not instill any trepidation?

  On second look, his shoulders sagged. The usual hard set to his mouth softened with humility. Even the haughty gleam in his gaze was gone. For the most part, the outside trappings of the man were the same, but something was different on the inside.

  Taking a deep breath, she searched for the right words. “Good day, Captain. Excuse me if I seem a bit surprised at your visit.”

  He cleared his throat, looking for all the world like a man about to face the gallows. “Rightfully so. I merely came for…what I mean to say is…”

  The bill of his hat crumpled into a tight wad beneath his fingers. Morning sun from the window highlighted a fine sheen on his brow. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the man was every bit as broken beyond repair as his hat.

  A small ember of empathy sparked in a dark corner of her heart. “Go on.”

  His che
st swelled and ebbed with a sigh. “What you said in my cabin, that it’s never too late to make things right, well…I took that to heart. By God’s grace, I am a changed man. I wish to make things right with Miss Hunt and…” His gaze darted from door to ceiling and finally to hers. “I acknowledge I have no right whatsoever, and in truth expect to be turned down on all accounts, yet I feel compelled to ask. May I speak with your maid, Miss Payne? Fully in your presence or anyone else’s, of course. I should not like to frighten her, or hurt her any worse than I already have.”

  Emily pressed her lips tight to keep her jaw from dropping. Was he serious?

  “Wren is no longer my maid, Captain. She lost her employment when it was found she was with child.” She cast the words slowly, watching for his reaction as they sank in.

  Emotions rippled across his face, one chasing another. His hat, or what remained of the mangled bit of banded felt, dropped to the carpet. “Please, I…” He fumbled inside his greatcoat and pulled out an envelope, offering it over to her. “I know I shall never be able to compensate for what I’ve done, yet I wish to make some kind of amends. If nothing else, I would like to support the child and its mother. Would you see that she gets this?”

  The envelope weighed heavy in her hand, padded thickly with what felt like a small fortune. “I would be happy to, Captain.”

  “Thank you for your time, Miss Payne. You have been more than generous with me.” He swept up his cap and strode past her. “Good day.”

  She stood there a moment, hardly believing what had just happened, then crossed to the curio desk to tuck away the envelope. What a strange and wonderful oddity. Wren would want for nothing, leastwise financially.

  Out in the foyer, the click of the front door closed, then clicked open again. What more could the captain possibly have to say? When she turned, her heart caught in her throat. The long lines of Nicholas Brentwood’s body filled the doorway. His dark hair was combed back, his face clean-shaven and smooth. Sunlight brushed along the strong cut of his jaw. His white silk cravat stood out in stark contrast to his midnight-blue tailcoat. Matching breeches rode the curve of his thighs.