A Heart Deceived (26 page)

Miri awoke with a start. The bed-curtain fabric she focused upon comforted after such a terrorizing nightmare. La, what an overactive imagination she harbored. Roland would no doubt accuse her of reading contraband novels if he knew the course her dreams had taken.

She turned her head on the pillow, relieved to escape the lump of her chignon—until she realized she never went to sleep without first taking down her hair.

Bolting up, she wobbled on her feet and reached to steady herself. Her arms tangled in the shawl she yet wore. The thick taste in her mouth, her rumpled skirts, and her dirt-encrusted slippers still on her feet all testified that she’d not experienced a nightmare. Roaming from Harper’s to the magistrate’s to the squire’s, pacing outside the jail until threatened at gunpoint to leave the village, every shocking, torrid bit of last night had been real.

She stumbled to the door and leaned against it for support. Like the stabs of pain felt after the shock of an injury wears off, emotions jabbed her, increasing in intensity. Stunned disbelief. Betrayal. Fear. But what violated her heart most was the realization that moments after love had been offered to her, it had been snatched away.

Her stomach soured, and for a moment she feared the dry heaves that dogged her all the way home from the Downs last night would return. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. How could everything she’d held onto slip through her fingers so quickly?

Closing her eyes, she whispered, “God, is this a cruel joke?”

Trust Me.

Her eyes flew open. Only her ragged breathing filled the room, nothing else. So why had she heard those two words so clearly?

And then, just as audibly, more came.

Sometimes faith is a moment-by-moment thing.

That was definitely a memory. She could still hear the warm inflection in Ethan’s voice when he’d said it, the touch of his finger upon her lips.

Ahh, his touch.

She shoved down a sob as she remembered the sanctuary in his arms when he’d asked her to be his. If she dared relive that moment she’d never return, for she would dwell there, becoming as lost as her brother.

Roland! Dread shook her as she yanked open the door. She had to find him and Ethan before it was too late. Flying down the stairs, she grabbed the railing just in time to keep from smacking into Mrs. Makin.

The cook’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Oh my! I wasn’t expecting you to pop out like that.”

“I beg your pardon, truly, but I am in a hurry.” Sidestepping the woman, she descended the last two steps.

“You’ve gone and missed breakfast already. All this rushing about isn’t good for the stomach. I fear for you, miss, all pale and drawn. Shall I make you some—”

“No.” The thought of food gagged her. She glanced back on her way to the front door. “Do not wait dinner on me, either.”

“But you should not—”

Whatever the cook had to say was shut out by the sealing of the front door. Miri’s legs shook as she crossed the front drive. Maybe she should have grabbed at least an apple, but judging from the zenith of the sun, she was late enough already.

Hiking to the Downs took a lifetime, especially after a face-first tumble when she tripped over a rock. She lost a shoe but pressed on without bothering to reclaim it. Horrid imaginings drove her to move faster. What if Roland already wore a strait-waistcoat and was calling her name in some cold asylum chamber? Worse, what if he swung from a tree, feet dangling, noose about his neck? And Ethan—would he be hanging next to her brother? Why had he been charged with murder? He hadn’t even been in the village when Mr. Eldon went missing. How could they possibly tie him in to the crime?

She pressed her hands to her head, only then realizing she’d forgotten a bonnet. A sudden longing for a reprimand from Roland gaped like a raw wound. If only things could go back to the way they were, she wouldn’t mind his lectures so much.

The village was nearly as empty as it had been on her midnight trek. Most of the shops looked closed, and no wagons bumped along the main thoroughfare. Odd for a market day. Not so strange, though, considering that Roland and Ethan’s inquisitions could yield enough gossip to feed Deverell Downs for years to come.

Outside the Cricket and Crown, a gaggle of women drew into a tight circle. And where vultures clustered, there would be found a body, or bodies, as the case may be—Ethan’s and Roland’s, no doubt. The public house’s door was propped open, and a huddle of boys pressed their noses to the front window. Beside them, two men with pipes, smoke puffs collecting in a cloud above their heads, gestured toward the pub while they spoke.

As Miri approached this gauntlet, she faltered. Her appearance alone would give cause enough for shunning, but being blood-related to the indicted was worse. She stared at the patch of ground her steps ate, bite by bite, blinding herself to their raised brows and knowing gazes.

But it did not shut out their words.

“He’s mad as a March hare, I tell ye. Likely runs in their family.”

“It’s all for show. He’s a cold-blooded killer, I say.”

“Moonstruck, that’s what. The man is positively dotty, and I daresay so’s she.”

“Shhh! She might hear—”

As if she hadn’t already. Miri frowned, escaping into the press of bodies filling the Cricket and Crown’s main room. Most of the tables had been moved to the walls, providing plenty of space for the attraction. A murmur of hushed voices hung like a fog, punctuated by official monologues from ahead. The noise filled her ears, and in a layer below, heard more by her heart than her ears, Roland mumbled something in reply.

Fanning themselves toward the back of the crowd, Mrs. Tattler and Miss Prinn angled their heads together, whispering behind their raised fans. Miri gave them a wide berth as she wormed her way toward the front.

On tiptoe, she peeked over the shoulders of village men, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ethan or her brother. Mr. Knight stood in the front row, blocking her view from this angle, with Miss Candler at his side.

Miri darted sideways a few bodies and tried again. No good on tiptoe, but if she jumped just a bit, she saw fragments. Seated behind a table near the great hearth was Squire Gullaby, the magistrate Mr. Buckle, and Bishop Fothergill. There were also a few men she didn’t know. Why could she not see Ethan or her brother?

The squire’s voice carried loudest, managing to override the snippets of conversations going on about her. “The real question is gaol or the asylum. Though Mr. Thorne’s testimony on the position of the body does not rule out foul play, it is certainly a moot point in light of the mental state of Master Brayden. I move to conclude this hearing by committing the man to the Sheltering Arms Asylum.”

Miri’s heart constricted. The truth she’d feared for so long had finally been shook out and hung on a line for the world to see.

“I concur, gentlemen,” said Bishop Fothergill. “The sorry end of Mr. Eldon may never be known by man. But God knows, and His supreme justice will be carried out. Time will reveal Brayden’s innocence or guilt, either in the complete restoration of his mind or a deeper plunge into the depths of insanity, according to God’s judgment. Furthermore—”

“Seeing there are no objections”—Mr. Buckle broke into Fothergill’s speech—“this case is closed. Mr. Knight, please step forward and sign the document committing Roland Brayden to the Sheltering Arms Asylum.”

“No!” Miri shoved past the last wall of gawkers. The inertia tripped her up, and she flung her arms wide to keep from falling. “Please …”

Her entreaty stuck in her throat.

Time stopped.

So did her heart.

Roland was on his knees at the side of the table. He rocked forward and back, forward and back, a revolting reminder of his teetering mental balance. His hair hung in his eyes, and an angry purple bruise colored his jaw. Apparently it didn’t hurt too much, for his lips moved, though no sound came out. His cravat was missing. His shirt was torn open. And a stain darkened the front of his breeches where he’d soiled himself.

Miri slapped her hand to her mouth, stifling a cry. As horrible as her brother had been to her, she’d never wish so much shame upon him. The magnificently terrible sight froze her in place. She wanted to look away, but her eyes would not turn aside. Was this how Roland felt, as unattached to his own body as she was to hers?

A sharp bang on the table was followed by Mr. Buckle’s voice. “Take him away, Mr. Handy.”

The same man who’d hauled Ethan off the night before grabbed the back of Roland’s collar and jerked him up. Roland’s eyes widened. His head swiveled side to side as if the sudden movement had loosened a fastening. Either he refused to cooperate or his feet mutinied, for despite the command of Mr. Handy, Roland did not budge.

Mr. Handy clouted him in the head. “I said come along.”

“Don’t!” Her heart broke afresh from the shocking transformation of her proud brother into a prodded beast. “Please treat him gently.”

A sneer twisted Mr. Handy’s face, and he shoved Roland forward.

Miri stepped up to the front table and planted her palms on the cool wood, hoping to mimic the intimidating stance Roland had used on her many a time. “Mr. Buckle, make him stop.”

“The situation is beyond my concern now, miss. Yet there is another matter to be discussed, and by coming here willingly, you’ve saved me much trouble.”

“I … I don’t understand.” Miri straightened slowly, conflicted between keeping an eye on Roland to make sure he was not further mistreated and paying attention to Buckle’s words.

The magistrate shuffled through some papers. “Miriall Elizabeth Brayden, you are likewise summoned to an inquisition concerning the state of your mental capacities.”

“What?” The room started to spin. “Me?”

“You are Miriall Brayden, are you not?”

“I … yes, of course.” She patted down her hair, painfully aware that she probably presented no better an appearance than had Roland. Lifting her chin, she fought for composure. “Who brings these charges?”

“I do.”

Miri turned toward the voice, though she needn’t have.

The nasally tone said it all.

28

Horseflesh and leather. Hard to say which woke Ethan first—the smell or the feel. More likely it was the pain that cut through his stupor. Half his face ached as if every bone had been shattered. His hands were bound so tightly behind his back that, beyond the stretched sinew in his arms, he felt nothing from the waist down. With each plodding step of the horse that carried him, his belly rubbed raw against the saddle. For the life of him, he could not remember how he came to be hauled about like a gutted stag.

He arched his neck, hoping to gain some clues as to where he was and why. One eye refused to open. The other couldn’t see much past the chestnut’s shoulder.

“Hey!” His voice rang in his ears, making him dizzy. He laid his head back down, hoping the rising nausea would back down as well.

Another horse, farther on, blew out a snort.

“Whoa, now. Ease up.” The command came from ahead and, while not particularly menacing, halted the mounts at once.

Ethan watched the patch of bracken beneath his horse slide to a standstill. Individual fronds came into view, followed by a pair of scuffed boots.

“Awake then, are ye?” The boots disappeared, stomping toward the back of his horse. “Off ye go.”

Moments later, his world flipped, and he whumped to the ground. Pain spiked into body parts he didn’t know could hurt, and he groaned.

“Gads, but ye’re a soft-boiled dandyprat.”

Ethan shook his head, trying to clear the fog that clouded his reasoning. Other sounds receded as the man’s voice circled in his brain like a marble in a funnel. With each revolution, he came closer to identifying it. Round and round and—

He reeled to his feet. “Murderer!”

Nigel Thorne cocked a lopsided smile. “Killing a rat is hardly murder.”

Ethan’s gut churned. All the guilt he’d suffered over a crime he didn’t commit twisted into a crazed desire to commit the crime. For one intense moment, war waged in his heart. The old Ethan would’ve thought nothing of lethal retaliation, but now … could he really send a man into eternal damnation?

He bent and charged. Killing Thorne might be out of the question, but a little physical justice could not be denied him.

Thorne stepped aside, leaving one foot snaked out—which Ethan noticed too late. He landed face-first, stunned.

Thorne’s laughter added more injury. “Seems I’ve got the upper hand once again, eh, Ethan boy?”

The fine thread between hatred and reason slowly unraveled. Ethan pushed to a sitting position, breathing hard. “Not for long, Thorne. I will see justice carried out for Will’s murder. You’ll be hanged. You hear me? Hanged!”

Thorne cast his head aside and spit a stream of tobacco juice, then ran the back of his hand across his mouth before facing him. “Who’s to believe a known opium eater against the word of an upstanding lawkeeper such as me?”

“Upstanding? My sweet—”

“Tut, tut. Yer makin’ yer shiner go even more purple.”

Blackness edged in, darkening his slim hold on vision. He filled his lungs, time and again, until the light-headedness receded. “What’s your game, Thorne?”

“No game at all, mate. More like a bargain, or a barter, so to speak. We’ll agree that the murder of Will Brayden will go unsolved. I’ll vouch for your innocence; you vouch for mine. In return for your silence and a stipend of … oh, let’s say”—he glanced skyward, his lips moving as if numbers were painted in the clouds—“one hundred per annum. O’ course I’ll need an up-front payment of a hundred. That oughtta do ’er. In return, I won’t pin the blame of ol’ Will’s murder on you.”

Thorne’s words made no sense. Mayhap he’d been hit in the skull one too many times. Ethan shook his head to clear it. “You’re saying I should pay you to keep you from blaming me for something I didn’t do?”

“It’s like this,” Thorne said methodically, as if speaking to a wee tot. “My face is known at court, yours in the gutters. A court of law won’t waste a precious minute listening to your defense. It’s that easy.”