A Heart Deceived (15 page)

The clerk, Willy, wore his clothes like a peg on the wall. Painfully thin, the lean edge about him hurt to lay eyes upon. Nigel smiled. Oh, this would work out well, it would.

Willy slammed shut his ledger so forcefully, the desk wobbled, and his quill fell out of the inkwell. “Books are closed. Make yer way out.”

Groans and murmurs issued from the long line of people yet waiting to address the man, but they were fools. Let them shuffle off only to return the next day … and the next. Justice lumbered slow as a lame ox here in the court of Chancery, but Nigel knew how to feed the beast—or at least Willy. He pulled off the last of the wrapper on a steaming meat pasty, then fanned the scent of buttery crust and beef with a wave of his hand.

Willy snapped his head aside, devouring the pie with his eyes.

Nigel smiled. Just as he’d predicted. “A long day, this one, eh, Wills? Quite ran away from me, I don’t mind sayin’. No time for me to eat this now, I suppose.”

Willy nodded while wiping a drip of moisture from the corner of his mouth. “Aye, long indeed, Thorne.”

“Hate to see this pie go to waste, but if I don’t get off to old Pegg’s soon, there’ll be more than the piper to pay, if you know what I mean.” He inched the pie closer to the clerk, who ran his tongue along his lower lip. The poor fellow probably didn’t even hear him. “I wonder if you might—”

Before Nigel could finish, Willy snaked out his hand then sunk his teeth into the crust. His eyes closed, and his eyebrows lifted clear into his receding hairline. A mangy cur wouldn’t have been happier with a good scratch behind the ear. “Mmm.”

Hook set, Nigel started reeling. He leaned closer so Willy wouldn’t miss a word over his smacking lips. “There’s a certain patent I seem to have misplaced, Wills. Has to do with the Goodwin entailment. Ethan Goodwin, that is. You wouldn’t happen to still have that close at hand, would you?”

Willy shoved the last bite of pie into his mouth. “Whyn’t you shee da keeper o da rollsh?” Bits of pastry flew out his lips.

“I did see the keeper of the rolls, mate, but seems that particular writ ain’t made it that far yet.” Brushing off the crumbs that had landed on his shoulders, he stepped around Willy, then peered into the tall wicker basket on the clerk’s other side. “Must still be in there, eh?”

Willy dragged his sleeve across his mouth, leaving behind a greasy smear to compliment the many ink stains. “Can’t say.” He grabbed a coiled lid from the drawer beneath his desk and slapped it atop the basket, all without climbing down from his stool. “Come back tomorrow.”

Nigel narrowed his eyes. Greedy little hobgoblin. He reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a gold piece, one he’d shined just in case. “Tomorrow I might not have any coins left. Why, I might just lose it all tonight a-gamin’.”

The money disappeared faster than the pie, finding a new home inside the clerk’s pocket. At last Willy stood and offered the empty stool. “Well then … s’pose I should take a little leg stretcher afore I pack up. You won’t mind watchin’ the station for me, will ye, Thorne?”

“No, no, not a bit. Happy to help.”

As soon as Willy turned his back, Nigel dove into the basket. If the writ had been deposited yesterday, the little bugger would be at the bottom. Casting aside scrolls that could make or break the lives of myriad nameless faces, he searched for the document sealed with Barrister Wolmington’s crest.

Spools of paper collected at his feet, none with a fancy
W
impressed into red wax. Perspiration beaded his forehead by the time he got down to the last few, all just beyond his fingertips. No wonder the hanaper’s office always seemed to employ lanky-limbed clerks.

Lifting the basket, Nigel dumped it over and shook until the last scroll bounced out. The flash of a red seal lured him to follow the runaway document as it rolled past the desk. He bent like a washerwoman, scurrying after the blasted thing. The scarlet
W
taunted him with each revolution.

Finally, it rolled to a stop—at the toes of a pair of glossy black shoes with paste buckles reflecting the glow from the wall sconces. Willy couldn’t afford a fine pair of stampers like those, but who else would be in this part of the Chancery at such an hour?

As he slowly unfolded, Nigel’s eyes traveled upward. Attached to those shoes were legs in white silk stockings, topped by black velvet breeches edged in silver embroidery. Above that, a matching dress coat adorned with a lacy cravat at the neck—all belonging to a pinch-faced man regarding him as one might observe a cadaver.

“What goes on here?” The man’s tone crackled with authority.

Mouth suddenly dry, Nigel wetted his lips. He shuffled through a deck of mental images of Chancery officials but came up short. He’d never seen this swell before. “I … uh … why I’m helping out ol’ Willy is all. Bit of a tipover … the basket, I mean.”

The man tapped his index finger atop the carved handle of his walking stick, the lines in his face squinching tighter.

Nigel puffed out his chest, unwilling to let some tart-faced dandyprat bully him around. “Why are ye hereabouts when it’s after eight bells?”

Squatting to retrieve Nigel’s coveted scroll, the man then straightened. He turned the document over, examining it. “I came for this.”

“No!” Nigel made a swipe for the paper. “Ye cannot take official papers like that.”

The man held the scroll aloft with one hand and lifted his cane with the other, then drove the point against Nigel’s chest. “I may if the document originated with me.”

Nigel stepped back but refused to retreat, anger burning in his gut. “Who the nocky do you think you are, then?”

The man’s lips pursed tighter than a fat madame’s corset. After studying Nigel for a moment, he lowered his cane. “Spindle is the name. Mr. Spindle, solicitor and esquire, not that it signifies. And you are?”

A slow smile tugged Nigel’s mouth. If he played this hand just right, he could win—more than what he owed Buck. He thrust out his hand. “Pleased to meet ye, I am. Very pleased, sir. I had no idea. Thorne’s me name, Nigel Thorne, bailiff and …”

He pumped Spindle’s hand longer than necessary while scrambling for some kind of distinguishing hallmark. Whyn’t his father—dirty scoundrel—have left him a fancier title? “I’m the best catch-pole and shoulder-clapper around. If there’s ever a man what you need to ferret out, I’m the one to find ’im for ye. None better in all of England.”

One of Spindle’s brows rose. “You don’t say.”

“I do, indeed, sir. Nary a man escapes good ol’ Nigel Thorne.” He hooked his thumbs inside his lapels and struck a pose so stately, he shouldn’t be surprised a bit if the man took him on as a partner for life.

Spindle snorted.

Then turned and walked off.

Nigel blew out a tirade of whispered obscenities. He’d spent two full crowns on that meat pasty and for what? To fatten up Willy while his own purse shriveled, that’s what. He narrowed his eyes and swung around to grab up the scattered documents and slam them into the basket, each successive scroll an ugly reminder of how he’d wasted his time and money.

Behind him, footsteps grew louder. If Willy had the nerve to scold him for this mess, he’d turn around and pop him a good cross hook. He might anyway just to lighten his foul mood. “Keep your gob shut. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Very well.”

Nigel straightened and slowly turned.

There stood Spindle, leaning with a two-handed grip on his walking stick, the scroll peeking out of an oversized braided pocket at his side. “But it will be most inconvenient for me, sir, to offer a proposition with my
gob
in a closed position.”

Satisfied with Roland’s even breathing, Miri turned from his bed to cross the chamber. The dark of night had long ago devoured dusk’s shadows, and she shivered from the increasing chill. Dressing Roland’s wound and settling him into a nightshirt had proven harder than she’d anticipated.

Exhaustion burned her eyes, and she craved the sanctuary of her own quilts. Sorting through this day’s drama would require clear thinking, and that required a solid eight hours of slumber. Her shoulders loosened just thinking of warm blankets and mind-numbing sleep. She reached for the door and pulled.

To her astonishment, Bishop Fothergill stood poised to knock. “Oh! Miss Brayden.” His fist lowered to his heaving chest, which he thumped several times. “You startled me.”

Shadows flickered grotesque deformities upon his face. Candle glow highlighted the underside of his cheeks and jowls, freakish as a lightning-lit gargoyle. Clearly it was she who had the right to be startled.

Fothergill craned his neck to look over her shoulder. “Has your brother taken ill?”

Miri frowned. The bishop had chosen the wrong occupation, for he’d make a fine interrogator for the Spaniards. She stepped into the corridor, pulling shut the door behind her. “My brother is not quite himself this evening.”

“It was the church’s sincerest hope that retirement in the country would aid your brother’s health, not deteriorate it.” Fothergill sighed so lustily, his candle’s flame sputtered. “And I had hoped to speak a few words with him. Ah well, naught to be done for that now, eh?”

“Perhaps on the morrow.” She stepped past him, hoping to escape further questions. “Good night, sir.”

Beneath the carpet runner, floorboards creaked as Fothergill gained her side. “Might I have a few words with you, then?”

She did not slow her pace. “Me?”

“Yes.” He huffed. “If you don’t mind.”

“Why should I?” She shot him a sideways glance, trying to determine whether his request stemmed from civility or suspicion.

A trickle of sweat trailed the side of his face. The more he exerted, the stronger the scent of garlic. Heavy breaths punctuated his words. “Earlier this eve … I met with … the squire, Mr. Gullaby.”

Miri stopped.

But so much weight did not easily come to a halt, and the bishop shot past her.

She waited for him to notice and return, then waited some more as he caught his breath, all the while remembering the allusion to rumors that Gullaby had mentioned at the apothecary’s shop. If Fothergill’s ears had been filled, she would know with what kind of manure.

The bishop produced a handkerchief and swiped his brow. “It seems the squire witnessed a squabble between your brother and Mr. Eldon … the day before Eldon went missing.”

“And?”

He shook out his cloth with a snap, then repocketed it before answering. “I was wondering if you knew anything about a quarrel.”

Miri hesitated. The memory of the angry voices she’d heard the morn of the vicar’s disappearance surfaced as a worm from the dirt. She promptly pecked it to death. “I know nothing.”

The bishop thrust out his lower lip, clearly agitated. “You lived beneath the same roof as both these men. Did you notice frequent conflict between them? Hear any harsh words spoken by either party?”

She bit her tongue, mind whirring until she could answer in truth. She’d listened that morning with sleep-drugged hearing, sluggish of consciousness, removed by corridors and stairs and doors. The tones had been harsh, but the voices indistinguishable, and who knew what words were spoken?

“No,” she said at last.

“Were threats made or implied?”

“None of which I am aware.”

Like a fish out of water, Fothergill puckered his lips several times. “Well, are you aware, Miss Brayden, that Mr. Gullaby saw your brother raise a riding whip against Eldon? No strike was made, I’ll admit, but what would give him cause to behave with such violent intent?”

She stifled a smirk. Knowing Roland, it could have been as small an offense as an improperly tied cravat. “I am sure I do not know.”

The bishop narrowed his eyes, and she got the distinct impression that had he been behind a pulpit, he’d have called fire and brimstone upon her head.

“Have you no suppositions whatsoever, woman?”

She lifted her chin. “None, sir.”

He shook his head, and flaps of skin jiggled. “You are as singular as Mr. Good.”

Looking past him to the stairway, she hoped he’d take the hint. She didn’t give a fig for whoever Mr. Good might be. “If that is all, Bishop, I should like to retire.”

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass. “Oh … one more thing. I expect a replacement for your hired man to arrive tomorrow. As I was not able to wrap up my business in town this eve, I shall leave promptly at cock’s crow. Set up Mr. Good in some vacant quarters, would you?”

Nodding assent, she escaped down the stairs, frustration building with each step. Just what she needed. Yet another person to keep ignorant of Roland’s illness and Ethan’s presence.

17

Sitting in awkward silence broken only by the occasional scrape of a knife upon toast or clink of a spoon to eggshell, Miri eyed Roland over the rim of her teacup. No hint of his childlike behavior remained from last night. He sat aloof, speaking nary a word about it—or anything else, for that matter. Thus far, a simple nod when she arrived at breakfast had been the extent of his communication.

She narrowed her eyes, trying hard to see the boy behind the man. The creases at his mouth and brow blurred, lending a younger appearance. If she angled her head and squinted a bit more, his frown didn’t seem nearly as austere. And if she imagined a smile, an outright grin, Will came back to life in his features.