A Heart Deceived (10 page)

But it just might.

Taking care to avoid the washed-up sewage left over from high tide, he descended the stairs, staying close to the algae-covered wall. The other side of the stairway hung open, with a drop far enough to break a man’s neck.

On the bottom landing, a dark shape moved out from the shadows. Big. Obscenely big. A brief surge of fear caused Nigel’s step to falter. His foot shot out, and his bum smacked onto the silt-coated steps. He slid down the rest, landing on spongy ground.

“Nice o’ you to drop by, Thorne.” Buck yanked him up by the collar.

Nigel teetered, shoving down his rising panic. “I told you I’d be here, din’t I?” He brushed himself off, taking longer than necessary.

“Let’s have it, then.” Buck held out his palm.

If ever he needed his blessed mother’s gift of gab, now was the time. “First off, mate, I have a bit of a proposition you might be interested in.”

Buck merely shoved his hand closer.

Sucking in a breath of courage, he met Buck’s gaze straight on. “Ye see, ain’t no reason a shrewd businessman like yerself shouldn’t profit from this little transaction as well as Mr. Havisway. He need never—”

His head hit the wall, face mashing against the rocks. Before he could right himself, both of his arms were wrenched behind his back, fettered by Buck’s grip. He gasped at the searing pain in his right shoulder. Dash it! If Buck had knocked that joint out of place, why he’d … Actually, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do.

And the truth of it made him whimper.

“Shut up, ye tittering weanling. Just hand over the money, and I’ll be on me way.” Buck’s voice rasped into his ear.

Nigel grunted. “Lemmego.”

“What?”

Spitting out the blood from his cut lip, he chopped his words apart. “Let. Me. Go.”

Buck’s grip loosened. Nigel spun, tempted to pull the knife from his waistband, then sighed, giving up the ghost of that thought. Buck held a towering advantage. Nothing to be done for it, then. He retrieved a wad of bills. “Here, but it’s short twenty pounds.”

The money was out of his hand before the last of his words passed his lips. As Buck thumbed through the stack, Nigel’s heart beat overloud, pounding in his ears. He resolved himself to a permanent swim in the Thames, though he was already wet from the sweat slicking his flesh. Life had sure dealt him some rotten hands. What a horrid way to—

“I said, what’s yer proposition, Thorne?”

Nigel waggled a finger in his ear. Sweet nimbycock! Had he heard a’right? Perhaps there really was a God. “It’s … uh …” His voice cracked like a downy-chinned lad. “It’s like this … I’ll bring you Havisway’s twenty pounds and an extra twenty for yer trouble. Plus, I’ll set you up right nice at Mistress Pegg’s Bawdy House. And a fine time ye’ll have every night till I’ve paid you off.”

Buck’s face was granite. Not a twitch. Not an inkling to give away his thoughts.

Nigel loosened his collar, hoping these weren’t his last breaths. Surely he could come up with something more. “And I’ll … why, I’ll even throw in a tumble with ol’ Pegg herself. Ye’ve not had a woman if ye’ve not had Pegg.” How he’d get Pegg to agree to this was a mystery, but worth it if it worked.

“Triple it.”

He definitely had not heard right this time. Cleaning out his other ear, he cocked his head. “Sorry?”

“I said triple it. Twenty pounds for Havisway, forty for me.”

“Tr … tr …” Triple it? Nigel’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Ye got seven days, Thorne. Not a day more.” Buck shoved past him and took the stairs two at a time, slippery silt and all.

Nigel leaned against the wall, as high-strung as when he’d come. True enough, he’d not be drinking the river water this night.

No. He’d simply put it off a week.

11

Ethan dangled his legs over the edge of the potting shed’s narrow table. Though Miri had provided him with a pillow and blanket, his body ached from a night spent on the unforgiving wooden planks. He rolled one shoulder, then the next, working out the knots in his muscles.

Light filtered through chinks in the lath. Daylight. How many hours had he slept? His chest still burned, and breathing was a chore … but the nausea and dizziness had disappeared. Actually, he felt pretty good, minus the guilt of murder and grief of losing a friend. Blowing out a long breath, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. How easily this brooding would vanish with one plug of opium. He licked his lips, the bittersweet aftertaste so real that he swallowed.

Sighing, he pushed off the table. Better not to dwell upon it.

On his right, shovels, a dung fork, and several grubbing hoes stood like soldiers against the wall. Cobweb chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and when he inhaled, his nose tickled deep inside. The whole place smelled like mushrooms. Atop a wooden crate sat a jug, a basin, and a tankard covered with a cloth. Not your standard garden shed fare. When had that arrived?

So … he’d not only slept—apparently he’d slept like the dead.

He reached for the jug and emptied it into the basin. The cold water bit his hands, stinging his skin as he splashed it onto his cheeks. He scrubbed his face and neck, dampening his collar. How far removed he felt from his youth, when heated water was served him from a silver pitcher. He shook aside the image. Truly there was not much he missed about his former life—except for a warm bath. Ironic that the lifestyle he’d chosen since provided neither baths nor warmth.

The door scraped open, and he looked up from his washing. Miri entered, her curves silhouetted against the outside sun—tiny waist, broad hips. What a shape. He could consume her with one embrace.

A backdrop of sunlight haloed her head. Spirals of hair glinted into a blend of tawny copper, framing her face. How might it look if he loosened those hairpins, release those curls to fall from shoulder to waist, and—

Enough. He flicked the remaining water from his fingers and wiped his hands on his pants, hoping his smile did not reveal his thoughts.

“Good morn.” She crossed to his makeshift bed and set down a tray, then undraped some clothing she had slung over her arm. “I see you are feeling better.”

“I am.” He rested his back against the shed’s wall, willing the rickety wood to hold him. “This is a curious infirmary you have brought me to, Miss Brayden, though I am grateful for your care.”

She whirled, bracing herself against the table. If she were a bird, she’d have taken flight. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

Shame raced through him. Not only had he frightened her, but the answer to either question might earn his banishment. Yet he owed her the truth. Working his jaw, he prayed that words would magically flow. “My name is Ethan Goodwin. I am … was … a friend of your brother’s.”

She frowned. “Roland hasn’t any—”

“Will’s friend.”

The change in her expression was momentous, like a woman seeking news of her condemned husband. She stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Please, where is he?”

A lump the size of Westminster lodged in his throat. He’d give anything to erase the anguish in her eyes, especially since he was the cause. “I am sorry to say that Will is no longer … I mean, he …” He blew out a ragged breath and swiped his face. “Will is deceased.”

“No!” All color drained from her cheeks. “Not … not Will.”

She swayed, reaching one hand back toward the bench.

Without thinking, Ethan closed the distance between them and scooped her into his arms, lest a swoon overtake her. As suspected, his embrace did consume her, so well did she fit against him. Under different circumstances, he would never let go.

As it was, she struggled, and he loosened his grip.

Her hands flew to her face, but she did not wail as he expected. Just a few, quiet, deep moans—as from one who knew well how to wield sorrow.

The lump in his throat turned to dust. “I am sorry, truly.”

She swiped her eyes with her sleeve. “As am I, Mr. Goodwin.”

“Call me Ethan.” The request came out before he could stop it. Ridiculous timing on his part and a complete breach of etiquette, but still … the rising desire to know her friendship would not be forced down. She must think him mad.

Perhaps he was.

Beneath a pool of tears, eyes the color of autumn oak leaves searched his. “It is not seemly, Mr.—”

“Ethan.” He softened his tone. “Please, I am certain Will would have had it no other way.”

At the mention of her brother’s name, her lower lip quivered. The dam broke, her cheeks flooded with silent weeping. “Was he … did he … suffer much?”

Her grief hit him as a physical blow, wrenching his heart. He never should have come here. She would have been spared the pain that now etched her brow—pain birthed by him. Avoiding details that would only burden her further, he said simply, “It was a speedy end.”

“Oh.” Her word was a whisper.

“Miri … I …” Sweet heavens. What to say? He drew in a breath as shaky as hers. “I am sorry. Truly. Your brother … he meant a lot to me, more than—”

“Please.” She turned from him and gripped the table, her body rigid as the spades against the wall. The fabric of her dress rippled as if she clenched each muscle into oblivion. “Say no more. Not … yet. Not now. Mayhap another time.”

Helpless, he wove his fingers together and squeezed. So many emotions at once. Too many. One little chunk of opium would quell these volatile feelings. He licked his lips with a craving so strong he could taste it.

After an awkward silence, her shoulders rising and falling with each of her breaths, at last she spoke—and the emptiness in her voice almost killed him.

“I have brought you a few things.” She pulled away the cloth that covered the tray of food, but his eyes fixed on a bottle next to the plate.

Laudanum.

Ethan blinked. Had his very hunger conjured the opium tincture? Impossible, and yet … there it was. Close enough to reach out and grab.

His hands shook as temptation to shove Miri aside and devour the drug rattled through him. Such an act, of course, would be unforgivable, especially for a gentleman’s son. He loosened his hands and planted his feet, restraining the beast within.

“Fresh clothing.” She indicated the pile of fabric lying on the table. “I doubt they will fit, but it will do until I can launder yours. And here is some food, though I don’t suppose you’ll be needing this now.” She removed the amber bottle.

His heart stopped. “No!”

Angling her head, she faced him. “What?”

The drug’s bitter tang already rained in his mouth. He ran both hands through his hair. He should let her take it. Dispose of it far, far away. That’s what Newton would advise, but Newton wasn’t here.
God, help me.

“Are you all right?” Miri’s hand rested on his arm.

He jerked from his trance. When had she drawn so close?

“You are trembling.” Concern clouded her gaze. “Perhaps you ought to sit.”

He gritted his teeth. He’d already looked the fool too many times in front of her. “I’ll be fine once I eat, I am sure.”

She chewed on her lower lip, obviously considering his words. “Very well. Eat and rest. But if you feel the need …” She retraced her route to the table and set down the bottle. “Use this. Twenty drops, mixed well into your drink. The apothecary was quite clear with those directions. I shall return later to collect your soiled clothing.”

He stood immobile for long after she left, his eyes fixed upon the temptation. The woman had no idea what an enticement she presented—on more levels than one.

The gravel crunching beneath Miri’s feet grated on her raw emotions. She stopped, and the sound stopped, but the grief raging inside her roared out of control. Would it ever fade? So still did she stand, an orange-tipped butterfly flitted past her at arm’s length. How dare the world continue on undaunted? She lifted her face to the sun, but even that brought no joy. Joy? Hah. The concept was as rancid as a piece of rotted meat.

Hugging herself, she closed her eyes, spring’s warmth failing to reach her soul. The beggar—Ethan—could be a liar, she supposed. Maybe Will wasn’t truly dead. But why speak such a morbid tale if it weren’t true?

Her younger brother, her dearest, her best … gone. And she’d not been there to ease the pain or fear of passing from known to unknown. But what cut the most was that she’d never had a chance to say good-bye, not on the day he’d left home or the day he’d left the earth.

And worse, where was he now?

An eerie sensation shivered through her. Something more than grief. A fine bead of perspiration broke out on her forehead as the hairs on her arms raised.

Fear.

She whirled, facing the rectory, her skirts swishing with the movement. Other fabric moved as well—a curtain swinging back into place. Third floor, farthest window on the right.

Roland’s chamber.

How long had he watched her? Had he seen her anguish? Had he seen her bringing the tray to Mr. Goodwin?

Clamping her mind against further questions, she hastened her steps to the back door. Mayhap Roland had merely been enjoying the view, though not likely. Or he could have been pondering over some obscure passage of scripture as he stared outside. More believable. Besides which, in her grief she’d stood still for so long, he might not have noticed her. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.