A Heart Deceived (3 page)

Miri dared look up. Was he truly extending her grace?

“Henceforth you will take better care in minding your tongue and your time. This parcel of weed and sticks is incapable of producing anything of use.” The frown on his lips softened, though it never quite became a smile. “I expect more from you than tending to that which is beyond salvation. Am I quite understood?”

Clamping her lips together, Miri nodded. She understood.

But she could not agree.

Drizzle and darkness. Fog and murk. Miserable companions, comforting as death. If the grim reaper did chance to appear, Ethan would embrace the wraith with open arms. But not even that specter would brave the Old Nichol slum on a night such as this. Dank air settled into his lungs, and a tremor wracked through him. He tugged the threadbare fabric of his coat tighter and pressed on despite his wavering determination.

“What’s it been now … two days? Three? You suffer in vain, my friend.”

Above the clamor of London’s sleepless streets, the words carried on Will’s gin-soaked breath. The odor added yet one more offensive layer to the stench wafting from the open gutters, triggering Ethan’s nausea. Ethan doubled over and emptied the contents of his gut, adding to the waste. Even after the half-digested remains of the small bread crust hit the muddied lane, he remained bent, dry heaves clenching his belly.

“You don’t have to go through this. You know I’ve the cure for your ills.”

Straightening on shaky legs, Ethan nodded, then wished he hadn’t. Dizziness nailed him, and he grabbed Will’s sleeve. “The cure is—”

“Let me guess … God.” Will shrugged him off, though a smile deepened the dimple in his chin. “Believe me, in the past few days I’ve heard enough from you about God this and God that. Where is your God now that you shake and heave and hurt? If this is your idea of a better life, then I’ll have none of it.”

Pain hammered in Ethan’s temples, and he closed his eyes against it. Mayhap his friend was right; his life certainly wasn’t any better—physically, at any rate. The price of abstinence exacted a cost higher than he’d bargained for. Abandoning his wicked lifestyle had sounded like a good idea while sitting on that church pew, but now—he clamped his lips, forcing back the relentless sickness.

“Your newfound piety will be the death of you. Here.”

Ethan opened his eyes to his friend’s outstretched palm. The lump resting there looked like tar and smelled of poppy seed, settling his stomach at once. Desire shook through him, harder than the chills that had rattled his bones for the better part of the evening.

Perhaps he had been rash in his decision. Even a tot was weaned gradually from his mother’s milk. He ran his tongue over cracked lips, pulse racing. He could start a new life—a good life—tomorrow.

“Well?”

No mortal could bear such temptation—especially not a man like himself. Newton would understand, wouldn’t he? Would God?

Will shoved the piece closer. Relief, escape, euphoria—all within grasp, inches from his fingertips.

Ethan snatched the opium and clutched it to his chest, trembling.

“Good man.” Will clapped him on the back and set off with his long-legged gait, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, then.”

Ethan hesitated. The longer he stood, the more the fog condensed, beading along strands of his unkempt hair, dripping into his eyes and clouding his vision. An utterly foreign feeling of abhorrence at what he was about to do began deep in his chest and spread outward. This was wrong. He knew it.

But it would be the
last
time.

He swiped moisture and guilt from his brow with the back of his hand, then strode to catch up with Will.

His friend veered off the lane, disappearing into an alley that led to the door of their flat. Hardly bigger than a wardrobe, the lean-to housed all sorts of vermin, both human and rodent. Ethan rubbed his thumb against the silky lump in his hand. Soon it wouldn’t matter where he laid his head.

Increasing his pace, he cut the corner too sharply. A coughing fit raged through him, and he stumbled over a hump of rags.

“Ye scarpin’ prigger! Watch yer step.” The rags shifted, then stilled.

Ethan bent, hacking until he caught his breath. “Sorry, Jack.”

He should have known that the crossing sweep would be balled up about now, but his thinking had turned to wet wool—thick and heavy. Once again he brushed the hair from his eyes and wavered on unsteady feet. The rolling clouds of mist thinned in the narrow passage, and though darkness yet reigned, he could see much better.

“Well, well, just the lackey I been waitin’ on nigh the better part of the eve.” A deep voice, raspy as kicked gravel, met Ethan’s ear an instant before a figure emerged from the side of the building. “Right fine of you to show up, Ethan boy. Not mannerly to keep a business partner waitin’.”

Ignoring him, Ethan sidestepped the man. Fingers bit into his shoulder and yanked him backward, causing his treasure to fly from his grip. Anger filled the hollow in his gut. “Knicker off, Thorne.”

“Surly pup!” Thorne grunted. “Pay up, and I’ll be on me way.”

“No, I’ll be on mine.” Ethan jerked free. He never should have come back. Not tonight … not ever.

Thorne spun him around. A knife blade flashed in his hand. “I said, pay up.”

Ethan’s heart beat erratically. Why was breathing such a chore? Mind racing, he scanned the dark alley for a bottle, a stick, a broken bit of brick. Anything. He’d lost his jackknife, his dagger, his boot blade. Everything … except his soul.

“Caught you with your britches down, did I?” A smile split Thorne’s face. “Yer such a wastrel. Can’t even defend yerself. Ethan Goodwin … ha! Oughtta be Ethan Good-fer-nothin’. You’ll either die at the gallows or of the pox.”

“I suppose that depends upon whether I embrace your principles or your women, doesn’t it, Thorne?” Ethan widened his stance, prepared for anything once that insult hit home.

Thorne’s smile vanished. He advanced a step, glowering. “Then it’ll be a direct route to Newgate for you.”

Newgate?
God, no. Anything but that. Please.

Sweat dampened Ethan’s shirt until it stuck to his back like a second skin. He’d watch his blood spill in this alley before he’d rot in a jail cell. Bare hands would have to do. He lunged for the knife.

Thorne sprang forward, slashing.

The blow knocked Ethan to his knees. A new kind of wet, warm and sticky, soaked into the front of his shirt—from the inside out. Pressing his palm against his ribs, he gasped. Drips trickled down his side as he pushed up to his feet. “You cur! You miserable little—”

Will shot past him, a dagger of his own clenched tight and aimed at Thorne’s heart.

Thorne snorted, then feinted into a crouch. At the last second, he twisted. Will’s blade swung wild, throwing him off kilter.

Just the opening Thorne needed. He thrust upward, a blur to Ethan’s eyes. The close alley walls muffled Will’s cry as he lurched backward.

Time stopped. The awful thud of Will’s head smacking the ground sounded overloud in Ethan’s ears. His friend—his only friend—gasped for breath like a fish on sand, an alarming amount of blood pooling on his chest.

“No!” Ethan grabbed Will’s knife, rage narrowing his focus to one potent thought.

Kill Thorne.

He stabbed. Blade met bone.

Thorne’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped, followed by his body. Two twitches later, Nigel Thorne lay still as a corpse.

Ethan cast the dagger aside, then turned and knelt next to his friend. With the last of his strength, he shifted Will’s head to his own lap that his friend might breathe easier. But gurgles accompanied each of Will’s labored breaths.

“Hold on, Will.” He rocked him as a babe in arms. Will’s friendship had ever been closer than a brother’s. Much closer—and well did he know it. “Hold on.”

“Did you … did you kill him?” Blood snaked past Will’s lips and oozed down his chin.

“Hold on!” Ethan swallowed back fear, and his throat tightened. God … what had he done? This was all his fault, and for what? A meal’s worth of pocket change? He tugged at his collar with a free hand, unable to breathe. How had everything gone so wrong when only days ago all had been made right?

“You cannot …” Will struggled, wide-eyed. “Do not stay here. Go … west end. Find my sister. I know she’ll—” Will gasped. “She’ll help you.”

Beneath Ethan’s grip, his friend grew limp. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. “No!”

Ethan jerked his face to the sky. Blackness stared back, nothing more. “God! This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not for Will. Not like this. Take me, not him!”

“… not worth it …”

Ethan bent, angling his head to catch his friend’s words.

“… she will … help.” Will sucked in a shuddering gulp of air and breathed out his last words. “Seek Miri.”

3

Nigel Thorne stiffened his arms and legs, playing the part of a dead sewer rat left to bloat in the alley. Ethan Goodwin’s heavy breathing had long since fled into the night, but Nigel lay there just the same. No sense taking chances. He’d already wagered and lost enough blood for one evening. If not for the bag of quids tucked beneath his waistcoat, Goodwin’s blade would no doubt have ended him.

He opened one eyelid to the thinnest of cracks. Complete blackness stretched into an endless void. He widened the slit. Impossible. Even with the heavy fog, he ought to at least see a lighter shade of grey.

Both his eyes flew open. The longer he stared, the harder he tried to distinguish some kind—any kind—of variation in the darkness, yet the darkness deepened more. Black crawled in and made a home behind his eyeballs. Gads! Maybe he really was dead.

He jerked up his head. His hat rolled off to the side, and, without the thick felt inches from his face, everything sharpened into focus. Ash heaps. Horse droppings. A pile of rags. And a corpse—one for which he’d rather not take the blame.

Pressing the heel of his hand against the gash near his ribs, Nigel sucked in a breath and staggered to his feet. The alley closed in on him, and he waited for the spinning brick walls to slow into straight lines. He took one step, then spewed out curses. Holy hobnails, but that hurt!

With each step thereafter, he used up every profanity he owned, then borrowed a few he’d heard down at the wharves. Slowly, leaning against shops and posts and sometimes a random drunkard, he worked his way to Shoreditch and finally climbed the stairs to Mistress Pegg’s Bawdy House.

Woozy from pain and panting, he shoved open the door and stumbled into the entryway. A thick waft of perfume mixed with sweat and the soured stench of too much gin stole the rest of his breath. He banged his hip against a small table at the bottom of the stairs, toppling an oil lamp. Grunting, he hung the rest of his body against the stair rail.

“Lovey?” he hollered up the flight of steps.

Giggles from behind closed doors and a few suggestive euphemisms came from above, but no Pegg.

He tried again. “Lovey! It’s me, your Nigel.”

Hinges creaked, followed by floorboards flexing. Pegg appeared at the top of the stairs. Her frilly robe gaped open, revealing a long string of pearls wrapped twice ’round her neck and dangling low onto a half-laced corset. A stocking encased one plump leg. The other wore a lone garter. Nigel licked his lips. Too bad he’d wasted the evening’s tussle with Goodwin instead of Pegg.

“You shoulda came earlier, luv. I’m already occupied—oh!” She narrowed her gaze on the upper half of his chest, where blood darkened the fabric. Her bare feet flew down the stairs. “What happened? Oh, lovey. Here. Let ol’ Pegg help you.”

She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, and he leaned into her, inhaling her trademark jasmine scent and catching a chaser of some other fellow’s shaving tonic. He’d be jealous—if he didn’t know he alone held her heart.

“Come along, dearie. Your Pegg will fix you up, she will.”

They shuffled into the sitting room, where she lowered him onto the settee. Nigel sank against the flat cushions, grateful to land. “I knew ye’d do me right, lovey. You always do.”

Finally at rest, he closed his eyes and listened to Pegg bustle about. Fatigue had nearly claimed him when searing pain cut across his torso.

“Ow! Sweet nocky, that hurts!” He scowled at Pegg, who had tugged off his waistcoat, the fabric meshed with dried and fresh blood.

“Man up now, lovey.” Pegg met his gaze. “Yer shirt is next. Ready?”

At his nod, she yanked. Burning white torture cut into him, ripping, stabbing, nauseating. He grit his teeth so hard, his jaw crackled in his ears. By the time she tucked in the edge of the fabric band, he was one big throb of agony. The bandage held tight around his torso, but it still felt as if his guts could spill out at any moment.

He eased back, wincing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say ye’re trying to kill me, woman.”

“Dead ye’d be without my help, ye blighter.” Pegg crossed her arms, and her bosom jiggled—a welcome distraction from the pain. “Don’t you go forgettin’ it was ol’ Pegg’s kind hands what set you to rights.”

“No, wench.” He sighed. “I’ll not be forgettin’. I pays me debts, and I make sure others do the same, startin’ with good ol’ Ethan boy.”