A Heart Deceived (16 page)

“Are you ill?”

She jerked into perfect posture, saddened that his question broke the spell. “I am a little fatigued. And you?”

“Fine.” The shadows beneath his eyes belied that statement.

His cravat rode higher on his neck than usual, and a large flourish of fabric hung lower than normal. Though he’d obviously taken pains to hide it, Miri knew what lay beneath his shirt. “Are you feeling—”

“Did I not say I am fine?”

His harsh reply threw cold water on the warmer feelings he’d stirred last evening. She set down her cup and picked up her spoon. Taking a bite of soft-boiled egg, she closed her eyes and savored it. Gratitude that Mrs. Makin had resumed her place behind the stove filled her as tangibly as the mouthful.

“You eat as a condemned woman. Mind your manners.”

Her breakfast turned to paste. She opened her eyes. “I am merely thankful for Mrs. Makin’s talents.”

“That is no excuse to behave as a common harpy sitting down to a plate of mutton.” He dabbed the side of his mouth with a napkin, his sour countenance leaving her in doubt whether he’d ever enjoyed a morsel of food in his life. “However, I will admit I am thankful as well. Her culinary skills far outweigh yours.”

Miri frowned and set her spoon next to the eggcup, resentment eating her appetite. The past three days she’d taken on the whole of the rectory’s chores, for both the housekeeper and Old Joe. This was her reward? She plucked the napkin from her lap so forcefully, the butter knife rattled.

Roland cast her a dark look. “Sulking does not become you, Miriall. Please refrain from it in my presence.”

She pushed back her chair, considering that as an invitation to leave his company.

“Beggin’ yer pardons.” The scent of cinnamon heralded Mrs. Makin’s entrance into the dining room. She dipped first to Roland, then to Miri. “There’s a Mr. Good a-callin’. I’ve seen him to the sitting room. Says the bishop bid him come, though why, I can’t imagine. Rather a roguish lookin’ fellow, if I say so myself, and furthermore, you wouldn’t believe what he’s wear—”

“Your opinion is not required.” Roland slapped his napkin on the table, leveling a sharp gaze at the cook. “Do you see the bishop in attendance here?”

She lowered her eyes. “No, sir.”

“Then why the devil disturb us? Of all the half-witted requests.” Roland’s face flushed, matching the hue of the humiliated cook’s. “Tell the man—”

“Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Makin.” Miri’s stomach twisted in empathy. She stood, hoping to divert further ranting against the cook. “I shall see to Mr. Good. The bishop informed me of his impending arrival.”

“Did he, now?” Roland narrowed his eyes at Miri. “When?”

Mrs. Makin gave a curt bob, then dashed out, making the most of the pause in the conversation.

Longing to follow, Miri backed toward the door as Roland stood and approached, forcing a calmness to her voice that she didn’t feel. “I spoke with the bishop last night.”

“Intriguing.” He bullied her against the doorjamb, his muggy breath hitting her forehead. “Am I to understand that you are the bishop’s intimate confidant?”

Miri gasped. Of all the insidious accusations. “Of course not.” She twisted aside, but there was little space to escape.

“You are not dismissed. I am not finished.” He pressed closer, giving her no room. “How is it you are aware of a new staff member that I know nothing about?”

She looked up—what a mistake. With eyes wide and nostrils flared, he would disturb a king’s man with his unyielding gaze. How tired she was of fear. “I fail to see why this upsets you.”

“Because you do not outrank me! Your station here is barely above that of the kitchen help. In truth, the staff is more useful than you.”

His words rang in her ears, and she abhorred their accuracy. “Then surely you do not object to hiring a new man.”

“Object?” He smiled with all the mirth of a dog baring its teeth. “No. My objection is that you scheme behind my back with the bishop, usurping my position.”

“Do not even think it—”

“What else have you been up to, Miriall?” His fists shook at his sides. “What else!”

Miri flinched. She’d read of lions, the threat in their roar from sheer volume alone, sometimes causing their prey to die from fright—and she knew exactly how that would feel. “Please, calm down.”

“Calm down!” His tone bordered on demonic. “Who are you to tell me to calm down? You, who drove Father to apoplexy with your slatternly, pitiful ways?”

She lowered her head. If she could crawl beneath the rug, she would—anything to hide from Roland and the past. But she could hardly see the carpet through a veneer of tears. “You cannot blame me for Father’s temper. Nor his death.”

“I can, and I do.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. Had she not condemned herself time and again for the very same crime?

“Because of you, Father spent the last years of his life a paralytic. You pushed him beyond his limits! You send me beyond mine. I daresay it was even you who drove Will from the house.”

“Stop! Just … stop.” Teardrops slid down her cheeks, darkening the fabric of her dress where they fell.

“Save your weeping, woman. It holds no effect on me. Rather you should plead for your soul before God.” At last he stepped away, allowing free passage out the door if she wished.

But she stood, immobilized by the truth, sniffling and wiping tears that refused to stop.

He strode past her as if she held all the significance of a mealworm. “Go to your chamber. I shall tend to Mr. Good myself.”

“Very well.” She whispered the words, catching the irony—for things were far from well.

Finally gaining some semblance of composure, she lowered her hands. Her half-eaten egg and cold toast remained on the table, the scraps a guilty reminder that she’d not yet brought Ethan any food. Temptation urged her to dash upstairs and escape to her chamber, yet compassion called for her to attend the beggar first.

Dabbing her eyes with her apron, she headed for the door. The confrontation, while ugly, didn’t rankle her nearly as much as the fact that it had been set off by nothing.

Ahead of her in the corridor, Roland disappeared into the sitting room. A second later, his shout carried from the chamber. “What the devil are you doing in the vicar’s clothing?”

Nigel tugged the hem of his vest, then smoothed his lapels, straightening any major wrinkles. He’d employed much care in dressing this morn, and it would not do now to enter Barrister Wolmington’s chamber looking the part of a rumpled lamplighter. His life—or death—might hinge on this meeting with Spindle and Wolmington, and by God he’d not let something as simple as a stained sleeve skew the results.

“You may enter, Mr. Thorne.”

The clerk’s words ended his primping. Nigel sidestepped the man on his way into the barrister’s office.

The room smelled old. Old and tired. Years and years of documents and arguments and decisions. Decades of sweaty, tearful, anguishing court cases passing in and out the same door he’d just walked through.

Or the odd smell could be from the ancient man sitting behind the desk, adjacent to where Spindle stood. Endless stacks of paper, strewn like so many legal bones spread across a desert, almost hid the tiny man. Though Nigel had never met the barrister, he’d heard stories of the giant lawyer who brandished English law as powerfully as a knight with a lance. Such a reminder was hard to reconcile with the shriveled little shell eyeing him. He didn’t speak a word.

But Spindle did. “Have a seat, Mr. Thorne.” Spindle stepped from his place by the only window gracing the chamber, and with a nod of his head, indicated a leather wingback across from the desk.

Spindle waited until Nigel sat before taking up residence on the other side of the desk, his height adding emphasis to Wolmington’s small stature. “I have requested this meeting with you and the barrister, as you both may help me succeed in my quest.”

Nigel shot a glance at Wolmington, searching for a sign of censure. His paper-thin cheeks didn’t so much as twitch. If Wolmington was nothing more than a pawn in the game that Spindle played, then how powerful was Spindle? Nigel pursed his lips. It probably didn’t matter, as long as Spindle counted Nigel among the players.

“Happy to help, I am, but … uh …” Nigel leaned forward. “What exactly am I helping with?”

“Recognize this crest?” Spindle advanced, holding out his hand.

Nigel squinted. The man wore an enormous gold ring on his forefinger. A rampant lion sat in the middle of a shield with some fancy squiggles decorating the top and bottom. The whole pattern was engraved, used for marking wax seals, and from the handcrafted looks of it, mighty important seals at that, for three rubies encrusted the middle. He shook his head. “No, sir, can’t say that I do.”

Spindle resumed his post beside the desk. “Then allow me to educate you.” He lifted a brow, measuring Nigel with a critical look before continuing. “Understand, however, that what is spoken within these walls stays within these walls. Is that completely clear?”

Bobbing his head, Nigel sat back. The seasoned upholstery molded against his body, a cozy niche for what would no doubt be an interesting tale.

“The coat of arms I’ve just shown you belongs to the Earl of Trenton, one of the wealthiest families in all of England.”

“Pardon my askin’, but”—Nigel cocked his head—“if that little bauble belongs to the earl, what you got it on yer finger for?”

Spindle’s lips flattened. Not a frown, really, more like the way Nigel himself might dismiss one of Duffy’s comments. Hmm. Why would Spindle look at him like that?

“I am the estate’s solicitor, Mr. Thorne.”

“Oh, right.” Nigel paused for good measure. “Righty-oh.”

After exchanging an unreadable look with the barrister, Spindle continued. “Recently, the earl and his son met with a tragedy—one I would prefer not to expand upon. It is enough to say they are deceased.”

Nigel nodded. Apparently he’d be hunting a killer, then. No worry. He’d track a hotheaded Frenchy clear over to the Indies as long as Spindle awarded him a fat sum. Anything to pay off Buck. But how did Ethan Goodwin fit in? He was street scum. Low life. Capable of nothing but thievery or … murder? Of course. Nigel lifted his chin. “So the gents met with foul play then, eh?”

“Yes, but that is hardly the point.” Spindle waved a hand in the air as if the question were a fly to be swatted. “As solicitor of the Trenton family assets, and more importantly the accompanying title, it falls within my duty to find the heir of the estate. No one can inherit without me first making every effort to find this man. If he is not located, the title will go dormant. All lands and wealth will be absorbed by the crown, disrupting the lives of many a tenant. The very commerce of countless villages on Trenton land will suffer from the time-consuming length of the exchange. This is no small thing of which I speak.”

Huh. Nigel tapped his finger on the chair’s arm. So, as Duffy had told him earlier, this was an entailment case, but Duffy better clean out his ears. The stupid bloke had said this involved Ethan, which apparently it did not. Still, even if this mess didn’t entangle Goodwin, he might yet win a full purse by finding some other nimbycock inheritor. Nigel straightened his collar then looked at Spindle. “I take it you want me to find yer lost little rich man for ye. Alrighty then. I’m game, mate. Who is it I’m looking for?”

Spindle looked down his long nose and clipped his words. “The man I seek is named Ethan Goodwin.”

18

Ethan stood, drawn to his feet by a sudden sense of self-protection. Outside the sun shone, but the sitting room dimmed considerably as a dark shape filled the entryway. A man of Will’s height stood in the threshold, glowering. His hair was severely pulled back and fastened at the nape, setting off high cheekbones and a defined nose—definitely a Brayden family feature. But as the man curled his fists and looked about the chamber, Ethan detected none of Will’s merriment or Miri’s compassion. Rather, the wildness in the fellow’s eye and tilt of his head was unsettling, not unlike a frenzied stallion he’d once seen put down. Will had never looked that crazed, even after a good bit of carousing.

The broad-chested man folded his arms, barely disguising the wince that crossed his face. His waistcoat was fastened up tight as if secrets were buttoned inside.

“Well, man …” His tone might impale a victim by volume alone. “Are those the vicar’s clothes, or are they not?”

“They are … uh …” Ethan glanced down. There was no denying the way his legs escaped much too early from the breeches or rationalizing why the shirtsleeves ended at his forearms.

“Please,” a soft voice said from the door. “I can explain.”

As one, Ethan and the man turned.

Pale-faced and puffy-eyed, Miri looked as if she’d not slept since the last time Ethan had seen her. What had happened to draw her so?

“Is there no end to your defiance?” The man strode toward her, a predator on the prowl. “You were told to go to your chamber.”

Miri tipped up her chin, a brave gesture belied by the slight tremble rippling the hem of her skirt. “Roland, I—”

So this was the infamous elder brother, more daunting in real life than Will’s descriptions credited him—and Will had been none too generous.