A Heart Deceived (33 page)

At last the coach stopped swaying. The door opened from the outside, and Ethan waited for Spindle to exit.

Spindle angled his head. “After you, sir.”

Sir? Surely this was a joke. He studied the man’s pinched face for a trace of humor. Not a muscle twitched.

Fine. Ethan stepped from stair to gravel. The drive led to an enormous brick Tudor. Sun glinted off so many panes, he blinked. Whoever owned this mansion didn’t care a fig about window taxes.

Marble lions flanked the main door. Spindle grabbled hold of the knocker and rapped it against a brass plate with a fancy, engraved
W
.

The door opened immediately. Apparently the footman had nothing better to do than sit on a cushion behind it and wait for a rap—and by the looks of his plush livery, that’s exactly what he did. From the tips of his gilt-cord shoulder knots down to his white silk hose edged in lace, the man was nothing more than a bauble.

“Mr. Spindle and Mr. Goodwin to see Barrister Wolmington.” Spindle handed the footman a card.

So they were seeing a barrister. Which law had he broken to earn a visit to the man’s house?

The footman glanced at Ethan, hesitating longer than protocol allowed. Not that Ethan blamed him. Fresh from Newgate, he didn’t quite fit the décor of the place.

Spindle cleared his throat.

“This way,” said the footman, shaken from his musing. He executed a perfect military pivot, then led them through a foyer big enough to hold a state dinner. All the while, he rested his gloved fingertips upon his nose. Ethan lifted his arm and sniffed. Did he really smell that bad?

The footman parked them in a sitting room off to one side. As soon as he left, Ethan turned to Spindle. “I’m not sure what your game is, but we both know I don’t belong here. There’s no need for charades on my account. If I’m in some kind of trouble, just tell me now and get it over with.”

Spindle flipped up his coattails and took his time settling on a chair. At last he looked up. “You are very direct, sir.”

“And you are not.”

A thin smile drew up the corners of Spindle’s mouth. “I daresay you are an astute judge of character, sir.”

Ethan swept a hand from head to toe. “Do I look like I deserve the ‘sir’?”

Spindle choked, coughing so hard he pounded his chest. Ethan fully expected him to dislodge a fur ball.

The footman returned, giving Ethan the evil eye as if he were to blame for the red-faced Spindle. “The barrister will see you now.”

Spindle stood, yet again deferring to Ethan to precede him.

Ethan fell in step behind the footman, and when he did, the man lifted his glove to his nose once more.

“Don’t worry,” Ethan said. “You’re not downwind of me.”

The man’s shoulders stiffened.

Ethan smirked.

They entered a room done in burled maple paneling and port-colored carpeting, much smaller than the sitting room and foyer combined. Pipe tobacco scented the air. Tooled leather wingbacks occupied the space in front of a large desk. Next to it sat a man, his foot propped on a padded stool. He was shriveled, like an empty walnut shell that’d been tossed aside.

“Banes.” His voice suggested much more strength than Ethan would credit him. “You are dismissed for now, but do not go far. And for heaven’s sake, stop covering your nose.”

The barrister frowned, then turned to them. “Cheeky fellow. Rather a good looker, though. You’ll not find one taller or with better turned out legs.” He nodded at his own foot. “Forgive me, gentlemen, if I don’t rise. Flare-up of the gout, I’m afraid. I see you’ve found your man, Mr. Spindle.”

“Indeed, sir,” answered Spindle.

“Good. Good. Your documents are all in order there.” He pointed to a stack of papers on the far side of the desk, then gazed at Ethan. “Do sit, Mr. Goodwin. This shan’t take long, but you’ll be much more comfortable seated.”

Ethan lifted a brow as he sank onto a chair. Why would a barrister be concerned about his comfort? He ran his fingers absently over the fine upholstery and leaned forward. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

“You look rather amused, Mr. Goodwin. Is this really such a novelty for you?”

“Your pardon?” Ethan asked.

“Wealth,” the barrister answered.

Ethan snorted. “I wasn’t aware that gout affected one’s eyesight. Surely you can see—at least your footman did—that I am not a wealthy man.”

The man waved his hand as if he flicked a fly, then glanced at Spindle. “Are you prepared, sir?”

Spindle gave a curt nod. “Quite.”

“Then proceed,” said Wolmington.

Ethan sat back and folded his arms. “By all means.”

“As I have noted, you are very direct.” Spindle positioned himself in front of Ethan and leaned back against the desk, looking down his nose at him. “Not unlike your father.”

Ethan rolled his eyes and stood. “If that’s what this concerns, count me out.” He turned to leave.

“Please, sir, if you would but listen.”

Spindle could have no idea what he’d just said. Ethan wheeled about and jammed a finger against the man’s chest. “Listen? You mean like how my father listened to me? The family butler paid me more attention than that man! Why should I listen—”

“Your father is dead, sir.”

Ethan’s hand dropped. Dead? The word bounced like a rubber ball. The more he tried to grasp it, to feel it, the more it ricocheted about. He should be sad. He should be overcome, or undone, or … something. Though he tried, searching every nook inside him, he felt nothing. The part of his heart that should be welling with grief was bone dry. Parched white bones, long dead.

He relaxed his jaw, unaware until it loosened that he’d been clenching his teeth. “You’ve wasted your time dragging me from the streets. My brother, Richard, will see to everything. He always does.”

“Your brother is deceased as well.”

The ball bounced back, springing and jouncing so that his breathing turned irregular. Weak in the knees, he sat. “What happened?”

“Highwaymen,” answered Spindle. “Your father liked to travel rather … ostentatiously, making for a tempting target.”

Ethan rubbed his eyes, pushing back the headache screaming for release. “That’s putting it mildly. My father was a pompous, prideful—”

“Sometimes sorrow is best expressed in silence, Mr. Goodwin,” interrupted the barrister.

The reprimand, though disguised, slapped his anger down to size, and he nodded. “Point taken. Go on, Mr. Spindle.”

“As I was saying, Lord Trenton and your brother, Richard, were to attend a state affair. It ran late. They should have taken lodging, but there was a hunt early the following morn, one your father was loathe to miss.”

Of course. His father always made time for entertainment, just not for his second son. Ethan stood and paced the small room, hoping to walk away from the bitterness nipping at his heels.

“They were on a stretch of road in Sherbourne. Apparently Lord Trenton refused the highwaymen—”

“Refused?” Ethan stopped in his tracks. What a fool.

“I cannot say it was the most prudent of decisions—”

“Let’s call it what it was, man. Pig-headed. Greedy. Asinine!” He glared at Spindle as his words echoed off the walls.

Spindle tugged at his collar.

“You are upset, Mr. Goodwin. Might I suggest you resume your seat?” asked the barrister.

Ethan ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to run and run and never—

“This belongs to you, now.” Spindle cut through his thoughts and stepped toward him. “Hold out your hand, sir.”

Spindle shook open a small velvet bag and dropped a heavy golden ring onto Ethan’s palm.

And that’s when it hit.

He staggered back to the chair, the ring breathing life into memories he’d long ago thought dead. The few tender moments. Some laughter, sparse but real. Sanguine days from early childhood. Things he didn’t want to remember, because to do so would remind him just how big his loss really was.

Just like that, no more family. How many times had he wished for this? Now that the moment had arrived, the relief he expected to feel was overshadowed by a remorse so strong, it bound his heart. He hung his head. A fine sweat dampened the hair on his brow. This signet belonged to his father, to Richard. It always had and always would.

He held out the ring to Spindle. “Take it. I was never trained for this. I was the black sheep put out to pasture. I can’t—”

“You are.”

Looking up, he locked eyes with Spindle. “You don’t understand—”

“You are Lord Trenton now, Ethan Goodwin. That’s all there is to it.”

Though it’d been the smallest of possibilities all along, he never dreamed the title would fall to him.

And likely neither had his father or Richard.

Ethan burst out laughing, hard enough that tears wetted the creases at his eyes. If God could make a carpenter into a Savior, a slave trader into a reverend, why not an opium addict into an earl?

“Are you all right, sir?” Spindle leaned forward, concern accentuating his pinched features.

“Probably not,” Ethan managed between laughs.

“There are a few documents to sign. When you’re ready, that is.”

“I’ll never be ready. Oh, don’t frown so, Mr. Spindle.” With one hand, he scrubbed his face, wiping away the last of his mirth. “I did not say I wouldn’t sign.”

He’d be a fool to turn down an opportunity such as this. Pushing out of the chair, he took up a quill from the desk, then scratched his signature where the man indicated.

“You know, Spindle.” Ethan set down the pen when finished and eyed the man. “I meant it when I said I don’t have a clue as to how to run an estate.”

Spindle cocked his head. “Are you asking for my assistance, sir?”

“Begging is more apt.”

“Direct and humble.” A smile softened the tight lines of Spindle’s face. “I think we shall get on famously, my lord. I accept.”

“Good.” He stepped over to the barrister. “I’m … uh … not familiar with operating on the acceptable side of the law, sir, but from now on, I intend to.”

Hearing his own words struck a chord deep within. Here was his chance—the one he’d mused about in a church sanctuary a lifetime ago—to lead a respectable, God-fearing life. Closing his eyes, he silently prayed.
Amazing, God. Simply amazing. You have done above and beyond anything I could have planned. Thank You.

“Are you all right, Mr. Goodwin?”

He blinked. The barrister’s brow furrowed at him. Half a grin lifted Ethan’s mouth. “Yes, sir. I believe that I am, or will be with your help.”

The barrister’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve got style, my lord, and a bit of cheek. I like that in a man. I should be happy to assist you any time.” Without rising, he reached to a side curio and rang a bell for the footman, Banes.

Ethan took the hint and crossed to the door. “Thank you both, gentlemen. It’s been a rather eventful day.”

“I daresay,” said Spindle. “I shall file the appropriate documents, then contact you, my lord.”

Banes entered. Before following him out, Ethan turned to Spindle. “So … what exactly do I do now?”

And behind him, in just above a whisper, the footman said, “Might I suggest a bath, sir?”

“Come on, Lil. Please? For me?” Miri propped the girl up and held a spoon to her mouth. Most of the thin broth dribbled down Lil’s chin, but some slipped past her deformed lips. Miri couldn’t blame the girl for not wanting to drink the foul stuff, especially if it tasted half as bad as it smelled. It made Miri’s own eyes water just to serve it.

Lil’s chest fluttered. Miri set down the spoon and eased the girl’s head to the pallet. Lil blinked up at her, then slowly closed her eyes.

Miri closed hers as well.
Please, God, don’t let her die, nor my brother. And wherever he may be, please watch over Ethan.

How long she sat there, she couldn’t say, but long enough that her head bobbed, jerking her awake. She rose, careful not to jar Lil, then stretched and arched her back. Though fatigue numbed her mind, the muscles along her hips and spine had plenty of feeling—sharp and relentless. She pressed her hand to them and kneaded. Bending over pallet after pallet was getting to her.

Surveying the big room, she tried to think of whom she might have missed. Most of the women were here now, laid out like bits of cloth on a drying field. A few remained in their rooms, babbling as usual, but the overarching sound in the great room had changed to lungs gasping for breath and pain-filled moans.

A fickle lover, Sheltering Arms had exchanged its embrace of madness for death.

“Miss Brayden.” Dr. Pembernip summoned her from the doorway with a crook of his finger.

She wound her way through the maze of pallets, her feet unaccountably slow. Looking down, she fully expected to see someone holding onto her ankles. Funny how far away the floor looked.

“I’ve mixed up a new batch of powders.” He held out an envelope. “Stir this in with the broth, and we’ll see if it doesn’t put everyone to rights.”

The pungent scent of garlic wafted up, tickling her nose as she grasped the envelope. A sneeze shook her whole body.

The doctor cocked his head. “How are you faring, Miss Brayden?”