A Heart Deceived (25 page)

Miri stood near the door, wringing her hands, as if somehow she might wash the night clean of this chaos. The magistrate tipped his head toward Roland and his handlers. Roland stalked out unaided, pausing only long enough to say to his sister, “Carry on, Miriall, as you always do.”

Before Ethan could make his thick tongue move, Mr. Handy and his equally helpful partner yanked him from the stable and halfway across the backyard. He’d had no time to say good-bye to Miri and likely never would. Remorse hammered as painfully as the pounding in his head.

“Up you go, maggot. I hope they tie the rope ’specially tight ’round your neck.” Mr. Handy put some muscle into heaving him upward, above and beyond what was necessary.

Ethan plunged forward, smacking his chin on the wooden planks of the cart. Behind him, a door clanged shut, followed by a rough “Haw!”

The cart lurched, and Ethan used the momentum to swing into a sitting position. Either it was exceptionally dark in there, or he was about to pass out—possibly both, and either a good thing.

“Did you commit murder?”

The question shot out from nowhere and everywhere. Was God in the cart too?

“Well, Mr. Goodwin?”

Ethan lifted his head, then winced at the shooting pain in his jaw. Across from him, blacker than darkness, Roland hunched like a creature of the night.

The stunning realization hit him that Roland’s words were not slurred, nor did the stench of spirits foul the close air. “You’re not drunk.”

Roland laughed, the rusty sound of a tool not often used. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Why else would you …” Ethan’s brain worked faster than his mouth, shuffling a deck full of Roland’s freakish behaviors into some kind of hand to deal out. But a few cards were missing. “What have they got on you? There’s no way they can link you to Thorne. Are you the reason the vicar is—”

“You are a strange mix of character, Mr. Goodwin. You smell of indulgence and privilege and the gutters. You’re a gallant con, a gentleman clothed in degradation. Contradiction is in your blood.”

Ethan’s heart beat faster. The man had no idea how right he was. “And what are you?”

“Why … a protector, of course. A protector of divine virtue and holy standard. I am a jealous lover of the church, sir.”

“Jealous enough to kill?”

A snort traveled through the dark. Hard to tell if it came from Roland or one of the horses.

“That’s the question I daresay everyone will be asking.”

Ethan measured his words. Too many and the height might topple this entire conversation. “How will you answer?”

The groan of the wagon grinding over the uneven roadway was the only answer he received. Ethan leaned back, then thought the better of it when his skull bumped in time to the ruts. The wagon wheels mumbled a low-tone rant.

Ethan tilted his head—those weren’t wheels.

“Threw it away, he threw it away. I warned him, yes, yes, I did. Lusting after a woman is one thing, but … oh, the shame. The shame! Better to run away. Better to die. He knew my secrets. Shh. Shh! Yes, but how much worse are yours.”

Roland’s voice gained in intensity. “No! I will not speak it. No say. No say. I will not tell of your demons, and do not speak of mine. Leave, Eldon. I shall have to execute God’s judgment. If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out. Your hand, cut it off. Your manhood, sever it. Sever it, you hear? Or I will. Now … leave!”

Acid burned a trail up Ethan’s throat. Thank God Roland’s hands were tied.

“Why are you still here?” Roland leaned forward. “You said. You said!”

Ethan swallowed the vinegar taste at the back of his mouth, then forced out calm words. “I am not Eldon.”

“SHUT UP!”

Ethan closed his mouth. The cart swayed in silence once Roland’s voice quit reverberating—

Until the night breathed a whisper. Many whispers. All of them one with Roland’s breaths. “
Vos es fatum. Ego sum fatum. Fatum, fatum, fatum.
”

Reaching back to boyhood, just beyond his fingertips, Ethan strained to remember those dull Latin lessons. A dream? A dome? No.

As their bones rattled on the dark road to the inevitable, Roland chanted—doomed, doomed, doomed.

Miri clutched her shawl with one hand and a lantern in the other. Night air waged a brisk assault against her cheeks, and cold crawled up her stockings, fanned further by her swishing skirts. She hardly felt either. Feelings belonged to the living.

Pleading with the bishop had gotten her nothing more than a sore throat. She was done with him. Done with Mrs. Makin’s clutterings and flutterings as well. Accompanied or not, she would find help from somewhere or perish in the trying. If she were gored while taking the bull by the horns, then so be it.

Off to the side of the road, a glowing pair of yellow eyes reflected her lantern light, then scurried back into the brush. An eerie appearance, but it failed to raise any gooseflesh along her arms. Her own safety mattered not a whit. Not anymore.

Deverell Downs was tucked in slumber as she crossed the stone bridge. Though she couldn’t see the water in the dark, the shushing river below scorned her. Only highwaymen and women of ill repute went about at this owlish hour.

She quickened her steps. By the time she pounded on the apothecary’s door, her breathing sounded as ragged as her knocking. “Mr. Knight!”

Pausing, she peeked into the window at the door’s side. No light.

She set down her lantern and used both fists. “Open up! Do you hear me? Open this—”

The door yanked wide, and she stumbled forward.

Mr. Knight’s arm righted her. “Good heavens. Is someone that ill?”

“No … I … my …” As much as she wanted to ask for his help, breathing took priority.

He retrieved her lantern and led her inside, then pulled his stool from behind the counter. “Sit.”

The order might have been nothing more than a command to a dog, so empty did his voice sound. He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. His usual impeccable appearance was askew, with a woolen wrapper thrown hastily about his shoulders, covering an ankle-length nightshirt. His feet were bare. His hair loose.

“This is highly irregular, Miss Brayden.”

She wondered if he had any potions or salve that might ease his frown.

“I have nowhere else to turn, sir. I thought that you might—”

“Why don’t you turn to your hired man, miss? I am sure Mr. Good would be more than happy to help you.” Mr. Knight’s face—why had she ever thought it handsome?—tightened into a stern mask.

Miri massaged her temples. Jealousy wasn’t something she had time to deal with right now. “He’s been taken, along with my brother, and I don’t know where. Please, Mr. Knight. Would you speak to the magistrate? A mistake has been made, but he will not listen to me. Neither will Mr. Buckle.”

He cocked his head. “On what matter?”

Miri averted her eyes. “Murder.”

If he sucked in a breath any harder, she’d be caught in a swirling vortex.

“Murder! Really, Miss Brayden.” He stalked to the door and opened it. “I cannot help you with this matter. I am an apothecary, not a lawyer. I suggest you speak with the magistrate yourself. Now, good night.”

Tears pressured her eyes to release them. Pride dammed them in. She stood so quickly, the stool tipped over and crashed to the wooden planks. By the time the noise stilled, she’d crossed the room and grabbed fistfuls of his nightshirt. “If there is any honor in you, Mr. Knight, you will help me see that justice is carried out.”

“Contain yourself! Honestly, Miss Brayden, you are more than hysterical.” He pried the fabric from her hands. “Again I say good night.” With one hand, he shoved her backward, and the door shut in her face.

Out on the street, waiting for her with open arms, her old friend defeat embraced her, along with his companion—despair.

Miri’s shoulders slumped. Now what?

27

Nigel slipped a finger between the cinch and the horse’s belly. A little flappy, but tight enough. If the saddle slid and ol’ Ethan boy knocked his noggin on the ground, oh well. The horse stamped in agreement, or maybe from his cold hands. Nigel rubbed his palms together, then blew into them. Blast this predawn chill.

Mounts readied, he led them from the stable. The moon had long since donned its nightcap, yet a cloudless sky with innumerable stars lit his path.

He tethered the horses near the door of the village lock-up—which was nothing more than a seldom-used storage shed abutting the back of the inn. Prisoners were simply not kept in Deverell Downs. They were either carted off or executed.

A chair sat empty next to the makeshift jail cell. Several bottles littered the dirt nearby. Apparently Mother Nature had called away the deputy on duty.

Nigel glanced at the locked door where Ethan lay on the other side. Was he sleeping? Pacing? Angry or bewildered? A slow smile lifted the corners of Nigel’s mouth. One thing was sure—Ethan would be surprised to see a ghost.

He spun away and retrieved a sturdy club from the pack on the back of his horse. Running his fingers along the length, he admired the hard hickory. He smacked his palm a time or two, approving the way it slapped the dark around him.

“That you, guv’ner?” A lantern bobbed wildly around the corner of the inn, illuminating a whiskery man long in years and short on balance. He tripped and swung his arms wide, the light spilling one way, then another.

“Aye, it’s me.” Nigel kept his voice low and quiet. No sense tipping off Ethan and losing the element of surprise.

The keys at the deputy’s side jangled louder the closer he came, and a waft of ale traveled with him. “Sure you won’t be waitin’ till sunup? Make for an easier time a-stayin’ on the road.”

The way the man bobbed and weaved, he could hardly stay on the path.

Nigel nodded toward the door. “I got men waitin’ in London for this one.”

Wiry eyebrows climbed up the man’s forehead. “He that dangerous, guv’ner? Maybe you ought not go alone.”

Spreading his feet wide, Nigel once again thwacked the club against his open palm. “I won’t be taking any chances.”

The old man swaggered over to the chair and set down his lantern. He retrieved a flintlock pistol from within the confines of his coat, then cocked it. “Me neither.” Which might have been impressive had he not belched afterward.

Nigel scrubbed his face with one hand. “I’ll handle this, mate. Just cover me.”

“Righty.”

He readied himself in a crouch while the deputy unfastened the lock. The hinges rasped as the door yawned open.

Only darkness tried to escape.

Nigel neared the opening, but his light didn’t illuminate past the threshold.

“Grab the lamp,” he whispered to the deputy and was tempted to add, “and put down that gun.” The tipsy fellow could as soon shoot him in the back as Ethan.

Raising his club, Nigel waited until he could make out the shapes inside. His heart thumped against his ribs when he caught sight of a pair of unblinking eyeballs staring at him from a dark corner. He tightened his grip, prepared to beat back the man should he lunge.

The man didn’t budge. The fixed gaze reminded Nigel of a stuffed lizard he’d once seen at a sideshow. His own eyes watered in response. Whoever lived in that body had already moved out, likely posing no threat.

Still, it paid to be careful. He took a tenuous step forward, as did the deputy with the lantern. Light stretched into the lower corners of the small shed, highlighting a familiar form. Legs sprawled, Ethan sat, leaning against the wall, head back and mouth open. Nigel squinted. Was that Ethan? The man’s face was so swollen and bruised, it was hard to tell.

A smirk twisted Nigel’s lips. That was him, all right. No doubt about it. Looked like ol’ Ethan boy had been up to his usual shenanigans even in Deverell Downs. This was a member of the aristocracy?

“On your feet, Goodwin.” He nudged Ethan with the tip of his boot.

Ethan’s head bobbed, and he blinked. Several times. Surely it was hard to understand how the man you thought you’d sent to the grave suddenly took to walking the earth again.

“You!” The murder in Ethan’s voice would have been enough to curdle Nigel’s blood, but the primal rage that shone in his eyes frightened him more.

Nigel swung.

Ethan crumpled.

The man in the corner merely stared, and from behind, the deputy whistled. “Guess you don’t take any chances, now do you, guv’ner? Did ye kill ’im?”

Nigel threw the club out the open door, narrowly missing the deputy, then grabbed Ethan’s feet and pulled. Once outside, he dropped to his knees and bent over Ethan, listening.

What if he had killed him?