A Heart Deceived (12 page)

Nigel flew out the door to the sound of exploding shards of glass. Saucy indeed.

“And don’t you come back, ye hear?”

Gads! The whole neighborhood could hear. He took the stairs two at a time, rebounding between wall and railing in his haste, and did not pause to close the door behind him as he fled onto Stocking Lane. His eye smarted, and his cheek nipped where she’d slapped him. Just to be on the safe side, he kept a vigil of glances over his shoulder should she follow. He winced at the thought of the reception Buck would obtain when he went to claim his promised spoils.

Nigel blew out a big breath. When would his luck ever change?

He left Old Nichol behind and traipsed toward home. One full day, and all he’d mucked up was a measly five pounds. Five pounds! A far cry from the sixty required.

Tugging at his collar for air, he ran circles in his mind trying to come up with a new source of money. By the time he neared his flat, defeat engulfed him.

Until a sharp jab poked him in the back, pulling him from despair. He spun, fists raised.

Constable Duffy snuffled at him. “In a scrappin’ mood, eh? Looks like you’re already nursin’ a right fine shiner.”

Nigel lowered his hands. “What ye sneakin’ up on me like that for?”

“Not sneakin’. Been waitin’ for ye.” Duffy paused to scratch a patch of greyish-brown hair behind his ear, one side of his mouth curling with pleasure. Maybe the man had fleas.

“And?” Nigel asked.

The scratching slowed until finally Duffy quit. “I happened to swing by the Chancery today, and imagine whose name I hear bandied about.”

Nigel folded his arms. His thin repertoire of virtue did not include patience, especially today. “Out with it!”

“Ethan Goodwin, that’s who. Seems there’s a …” Duffy rubbed his palm up and down his pant leg, watching the action with an exaggerated stare.

“Fine, fine.” Nigel sighed and rummaged in his waistcoat, retrieving a shilling.

Yellowed teeth shone through Duffy’s prickly beard as he pocketed the garnish. “Seems there’s a genuine gent a-lookin’ for him, same as you. Some kind of solicitor from up Yorkshire way, goes by the name o’ Spittle, or Swindle, er … no, it was Spindle. I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t give a flappety niglet about the man’s name. Why, Duffy? Why would a solicitor be lookin’ for Goodwin?”

“Well, that I’m not so sure of. He shut himself up with a barrister, closin’ the door afore I could hear the rest, and that’s the truth of it. One thing I do know, though, is that before the door shut tight”—Duffy leaned closer and lowered his voice—“I heard the word
entail
. Though mightta been impale, or exhale …” Duffy’s face scrunched, and he tapped his chin as he thought out loud. “Maybe even inhale, though ’tis doubtful, that. Most big entailments run through the Chancery, and if Goodwin’s the man they’re lookin’ for …”

Nigel patted the tender skin around his eye, pondering Duffy’s tidbits. Hmm. If Ethan had an inheritance coming to him, perhaps his luck was about to change after all.

13

An entire day, a never-ending night, and now finally dawn’s grey light slanted through the potting shed’s gapped walls. Ethan lay on the makeshift bed, eyes burning as he mindlessly watched dust motes floating in midair. His right hand was numb, frozen into a claw from clutching his bottle of life for so long. Life? Huh. More like torment. Ever since Miri had brought the laudanum to him yesterday, a battle had raged within. He should drink it and be damned, but conviction weighted him as much as lack of sleep—and he was tired of both.

He pushed off the table and flung the bottle against the far wall. Glass shards exploded. Liquid splattered. A bold move, to be sure, and hopefully not a mistake.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, he wheeled about. Miri stood just inside the doorway, eyes wide.

“I …” Blinking, he tried to select one of the countless excuses parading through his mind. But as she stood there, the picture of innocence in her white day dress, he knew that each fabrication would be a further stain upon his character. He’d ruined one too many relationships by building on a foundation of lies—not this time. Not with her.

He lifted his chin. “I broke the bottle of laudanum.”

His blinking was contagious.

“I see. Well … not really, but …” Her skirts swished as she took hasty steps to the table and set down a small covered dish. “My apologies. It is a meager breakfast I bring.”

He scrubbed his hand across his jaw. Amazing. She’d not asked a string of endless questions—not even one. What kind of woman was this Miri Brayden? He closed the gap between them, standing near enough to inhale her freshly scrubbed scent. “Are you not going to demand an explanation?”

She remained silent for so long, he began to think she would not answer.

At last she faced him. “Look, Mr.—”

“Ethan.”

She frowned. “You owe me no explanation. What you choose to do or not is entirely your own concern.”

A rogue urge struck him to reach out and trace the dimple in her chin, the sweeping curve of her cheek. Instead, he clenched his hands so tight, his knuckles ached. “You are more than accommodating, for I feel I owe you my very life.”

The blush of a June rose highlighted her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. “Do not even think it. I did no more than—”

“You did more than many others. Please.” He laid a hand on her forearm. Beneath the fabric of her sleeve, an interesting mix of frailty and strength met his touch. “Accept my gratitude. Without you, I would have perished.”

The enormity of his own words hit him hard. He owed the Brayden family his life twice over now. Without forethought, he ran his thumb back and forth along her arm.

She did not pull away. Neither did she look up. She merely stared at his hand. “I hope to return your clothing by the end of the day. I am sure you would like to be on your way.”

Leave—now that he’d discovered her? “No!”

She snapped her gaze to his, fear and curiosity competing in her eyes. As much as he desired to calm her, his hand would not be stopped. He reached up and touched a wispy lock of her hair.

Miri jerked free and scurried to the door.

A pox on his street-harsh ways! He stepped toward her, then stopped. Chasing her would serve only to frighten her further. He held up his hands, palms out. “Forgive me. I fear my manners are lacking.”

She paused at the threshold, rubbing the place on her forearm where he’d touched her, then slowly turned. A phantom of a smile softened her face. “Oft am I reminded of my own lack. Seems you and I have a thing or two in common, Mr.—”

“Ethan.”

“If nothing else, sir, you are consistent. Good day …” Her smile grew. “… Ethan.” Closing the door behind her, she left as silently as she’d come.

And it took everything within him not to follow. He sagged against the table and ran his hand through his hair. Why had no one claimed this remarkable woman as a wife?

He took up the bowl of porridge and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. As he ate, he dug deep into his memory for fragments of conversation about her with Will. Nothing had been said of suitors or betrothals. More often, Will had fretted about her safety, such as it might have been with their father—an overbearing man who’d driven Will to the streets in the first place.

Bowl emptied, he set it down and slanted a glance toward the broken laudanum bottle. Was she really any safer with him? A long, slow sigh escaped him. Once she learned of his past, of his part in Will’s death, she likely would not think so.

In the middle of scrubbing the final dinner dish, Miri paused. She’d been caught up in roaming the land of sweet memories from forever ago. Life had been a laughable journey for Will, and most often he’d taken her along for the ride. A tongue lashing from Father? Naught but a hilarious anecdote in Will’s retelling. The day she’d burnt her hand on a coal grate? Will’s sock-puppet show had erased that pain. When Roland had left for seminary and she’d cried because part of her left with him, Will had filled the void with a sack of candy and a reenactment of how he’d stolen sweetmeats from a fat baker who’d been far too sweaty to catch him.

A dull thudding pulled her back to the present, but the noise was certainly not from her pot hitting the side of the washtub. She tucked a spring of hair behind her ear and listened more intently. The banging traveled all the way from the front door. Someone was ambitious with their knocking this evening. Why could not Roland or the bishop see to it?

She wiped her hands on her apron, an oversized relic belonging to Mrs. Makin, then untied the strings and heaped it atop a counter. Capturing loose hair strands, she left the kitchen and sped along the corridor. Each time she tucked up one curl, two more sprang loose.

A twinge settled in her belly when she remembered Ethan fingering her stray wisps earlier that day, leaving her rather unsettled. He was a bold man, to be sure. Bold as Witherskim, yet not nearly as offensive. There was an incongruous air about Ethan Goodwin. Something at odds. His appearance, his attire, were that of a gypsy, but looking past the outside, a gentleman resided within.

As she neared the study, an odd sound came from behind the closed door. Bass. Monotone. Foreign yet … She paused. Familiar.

She leaned closer. Inside, Roland droned on and on, quite passionate about something. His words were not in English, but neither were they gibberish.

And then he stopped. Suddenly. Did he sense her presence?

The hairs on her arms prickled. In the silence, she debated making a run for it. He’d hear the floorboards, though. She’d be a fox in a snare, her brother the trapper.

Laughter assaulted the evening air a second before the banging on the front door renewed. Perspiration dotted Miri’s forehead.

What to do? Pretend no one was home? Drat. That would never work. She should not have lit that lantern in the sitting room before remembering to wash the dishes.

Speeding away from the study, she compiled a mental list of reasons why no visitors could be admitted. Plague? The pox? A nasty sniffly nose? She sighed. Much too overblown. A simple headache would have to suffice.

The front door rattled in its frame by the time she reached for the knob.

“Good evening, Miss Brayden.” The apothecary, Jonathan Knight, flashed a smile bright enough to shame the sun.

But not bright enough to banish the Roland-shaped shadow looming from behind her. Her stomach sank. This could not end well.

Mr. Knight looked past her to her brother. “Good evening, Mr.—”

“What the devil is this about?” Roland’s voice boomed.

Miri cringed in reflex. Yet perhaps if she might muster enough courage to divide, she would conquer. She turned to Roland. “Don’t trouble yourself, Roland. I will see to Mr. Knight. I am sure—”

“And I am sure, Miriall, that I should like to know what the man has to say at such an hour.” Roland angled his head. “In the sitting room, if you please.”

He spun and stalked away.

Miri snuck a glance at the apothecary. Mouth agape, he apparently was speechless.

She jumped at the opening. “My brother’s ways are sometimes a bit, er, harsh, Mr. Knight. You may leave now, and I will make apologies for you.”

“On the contrary, Miss Brayden.” He doffed his hat and fingered the brim. A peculiar twinkle lit his blue eyes. “I shall be happy to oblige your brother.”

She forced a smile. The man had no idea what an opportunity he’d turned down. “Very well. This way.”

She led him into the sitting room, where Roland took up his usual lord-of-the-manor-pose against the mantle. He eyed them as they entered, remaining silent.

“Have a seat, Mr. Knight.” Miri nodded, indicating a chair. She sat in another, then looked to Roland. The sooner this interview was ended, the better for all of them.

As the apothecary crossed the room, the scent of tobacco and mint traveled in his wake. A pleasant smell, one that she savored, for it would likely be the only agreeable part of the evening.

Roland lifted a hand and studied his nails. He flicked his thumbnail over the others one by one, making annoying clicks. Had he already forgotten that this interview was the result of his insistence?

Miri opened her mouth to move things along—

And that’s when Roland finally decided to speak. “I believe I asked what this is about, Mr. Knight.”

The apothecary stiffened. If he was this put off by Roland’s abruptness, how would he react if her brother totally lost control?

“Roland, perhaps we ought to first offer refreshment. Mr. Knight is a guest, after all.” Miri turned to the apothecary, placating him with a smile. “Would you like—”

“Enough, Miriall. Let the man speak.”

Toying with his hat brim, Mr. Knight faced her brother. “I simply came to call upon—”

“My sister is not to be called upon.” Roland lowered his hands and set his jaw into a grim line.

Heat traveled up Miri’s neck, settling in her cheeks, especially as Mr. Knight shot her a curious glance.

“Not that I hold any objections to calling upon your sister, sir, but that is not the intent of my visit. I came to check on your hired man, whom I understand is currently down with the rheum.”