A Heart Deceived (18 page)

“A pearl is rarely admired without first having been polished, Mrs. Makin. Perhaps we ought to give the man a chance.”

A grin tugged his mouth upward. What a rare woman. He smiled all the way to the front door and would have worn the grin out into the yard, except for a strange chanting that pulled Miri’s sweetness from his mind.

He backtracked a few steps and stopped in front of a door near the foot of the stairs. It was ajar, as if once having been slammed had bounced open a bit from the shock. Inside, a man’s voice droned. Low. Monotonous. Foreign—not the accent, just the words. He leaned his ear closer.

Auribus tenere lupum … Auribus tenere lupum … Auribus tenere—

Ethan raked a hand through his hair. Tutored by some of the finest masters England had to offer, he identified the language as Latin, but the meaning? Drat his clouded thinking. Either he was going crazy, or the man inside the room mumbled something about wolves.

Curiosity edged him near enough to peer through the crack in the doorway. A black blur paced at the far end of the room, facing away from him. Roland. His singsong rhythm increased with each pass, faster and faster. With no forewarning whatsoever, he jolted to a halt, then slowly turned. Roland’s wide, dark eyes burned into his own.

Ethan jerked away and hastened toward the front door. It opened before he reached the knob.

“Ah, Mr. Good. How fortuitous! I’ve had a dreadful time, dreadful.” Brushing past him, Bishop Fothergill plunked down upon the entry bench. The seat groaned at impact. Hatless, wigless, breathless, the bishop fanned himself while muttering, “Trying, very trying.”

Ethan glanced back at the study door, heart rate ratcheting.

It was shut. Completely.

His breathing slowed, and he turned to Fothergill. “Sorry to hear of your ill fortune, sir.”

“Ill fortune, indeed. Well said, man, well said.” The bishop brushed bits of soil from his breeches before continuing. “Partway to town, Champion threw a shoe, or rather lost one, in the muddiest of all ruts possible. Why, I had no choice but to forfeit my business and return here.”

Ethan retreated a step as dust clouded from the bishop’s clothing. No wonder the fat little man looked such a wreck. “I shall tend to your mount at once.”

Fothergill rubbed his hand over his stubbly head and looked up with a half smile. “I knew you were just the man for the job. Yes, yes, do see to Champion, though with the wind knocked from my sails, I doubt I’ll return to town today. Champ and I will make a fresh start of it on the morrow.”

His gaze traveled over Ethan from head to toe and back again, smile fading. “I had hoped you’d give up your penchant for eccentric dress.”

“Actually, sir … you see … I—”

“Here.” Fothergill withdrew a leather pouch from inside his waistcoat and tossed it over. “After Champion’s cared for, hie yourself into town and see that you find something more … well … fitting, I suppose.”

The small bag weighted Ethan’s hand, and his thoughts took a direction of their own. That many coins could buy a substantial amount of opium. He scrubbed his face with his free hand before pocketing the money. Amazing how quickly clouded thinking could turn wicked with no effort whatsoever.

Behind him, an almost imperceptible creak of a floorboard sounded from the direction of the study. Ethan shot a glance over his shoulder, but the room remained sealed.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Good?”

He turned back to Fothergill and gave a slight bow. “No, sir. I shall venture to town directly once I’ve finished with your horse.” Stepping closer, he lowered his voice. “I wonder, though, if first you wouldn’t mind deciphering a bit of a puzzling phrase?”

Soft folds of skin jiggled as the man bobbed his head. “What is it?”

“
Auribus
…” Ethan closed his eyes, reliving the moment, then blinked them open. “
Auribus tenere lupum.
”

The bishop pushed out his lower lip. “What on earth would make you say something like that, Mr. Good?”

“Just something I overheard and was curious, is all.”

Fothergill rubbed a thumb along his chin as he repeated the words. “
Auribus tenere lupum
—I hold a wolf by the ears—means ‘I am in a dangerous situation and dare not let go.’ There is not a more hopeless state in which to live. I suggest you beg God’s mercy for the poor soul who uttered such.”

Ethan nodded. Foreboding filled the hollow in his gut.

Like a smack of lips, the sound of an opening door came from behind, and Ethan spun. Through the smallest of cracks, one dark eye locked gazes with him.

Miri snugged her pelisse tighter at the neck, wishing she’d thought to grab a muffler. Though some warmth remained from the sun’s debut, the fickle spring air was decidedly more chilly than when she’d first set out from the rectory. Pewter clouds masked the sky, and countless village chimneys added to the general greyness hovering atop Deverell Downs. The closer she drew to Harper’s Apothecary and Tobacco, the more her own spirit mimicked the thick and sullen heavens. Not that she minded running an errand for Mrs. Makin, nor gave a second thought to acquiring the medicine Old Joe needed. Her steps slowed from the notion of facing Mr. Knight after their last embarrassing encounter.

She stopped to admire Mrs. Chapman’s new baby. Then she waited for Mr. Foster to finish sweeping in front of the cobbler’s when she could have gone around. And she really needn’t have traded so much news with Miss Prinn.

Passing by the millinery, she paused, wondering if she dare dally longer to scoot in and investigate the opportunity for employment. She peered through the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Tattler in the front room. Behind the window, hats of all sorts stared back at her, an emerald bonnet with a puffed crown at center. Lacy gold ruffles peeked from beneath the brim, quite the beauty.

Smoothing the frayed satin ribbon on her own bonnet, she sighed. In a life far removed, she’d kept up with London’s fashions—her mother made sure she did. Clinging to Mama’s hand as a little girl, visiting shop after shop, she’d never wanted for the latest pretty trifles. Miri closed her eyes, hoping to catch the magic memory. If she sniffed, she might just smell her mother’s sweet verbena scent.

Instead, her nose wrinkled from a sudden waft of horehound and onion.

“Oh, that I were the bonnet you so admire,” a low voice whispered into her ear. “To sit upon your head and nestle against your silken tresses.”

Sickened, Miri turned and opened her eyes. She was trapped between the shop and Clive Witherskim.

“Good day to you, Miss Soon-to-be-Madam Witherskim.” His cheeks, nipped by the cold, reddened in splotches.

A shiver ran the length of her. The thought of becoming his wife frosted her more thoroughly than the weather. “Good day, sir.”

“Sir? No, no, my pet, that will not do. You may call me Clive, or sweetling, or your own little puddin’ pot, hmm?” His lips parted into a smile crowded with too many teeth.

Miri swallowed. She’d lose her morning eggs all over his ridiculous shoes if he kept at it. “Excuse me.” She darted around him.

He caught up and snaked his arm through hers. “No need to be timid with me, dearest.”

“I am not your dearest.” She shot forward.

He lagged, his grasp slipping off, but after a few tippity-tapping footsteps and several huffs and puffs, once again he caught up to her. “Sorry … what … was that?”

“I am on an errand, Mr. Witherskim. I have no time to dillydally with you now.” Or ever, more like it. She grimaced. Why could the man not see or hear her constant rebuffs?

This time when he linked arms with her, he yanked her close. She staggered sideways, and he snatched the advantage, encircling her waist and snuggling her against his side. His breath collected on her neck like so many blisters as he leaned in. “Dillydallying is not what I have in mind.”

That he had a mind was debatable. She wrenched from his grasp. “Do not take liberties, Mr. Witherskim.”

He wobbled to the point that she thought a slight touch to his shoulder might tip him and he’d splat onto the mud-slogged rut in the road. As tempting as it was, Miri whirled and hurried to Harper’s front door. Smoothing things over with Mr. Knight didn’t seem nearly as distasteful as before. It was a lifeline.

“Wait!”

From the corner of her eye, she caught Miss Prinn gaping at the drama. Miri’s cheeks heated. Fabulous. This would be gossiped about all over the Downs. She shoved open Harper’s door and dashed in. The overhead bell bounced to the floor, its jingle degrading into a rattle.

Three sets of eyes skewered her—Mr. Knight, Mrs. Tattler, and the magistrate, Mr. Buckle. Miri’s heart sank. Mrs. Tattler was the proficient gossipmonger Miss Prinn could only aspire to be. No wonder she’d not seen her in her shop.

The door scarcely closed before it swung open again, cracking the wall. Bottles teetered on shelves like chattering teeth as Witherskim barreled into the shop. He scooted to Miri’s side, wheezing, tiny droplets flying from his mouth every time he exhaled.

Hemmed in such close quarters with Witherskim plastered to her arm, she felt all the coziness of Harper’s store vanish. She was caught more thoroughly than a marmot in a snare—and felt just as desperate. She’d chew her own leg off if it would help.

She twisted violently, and they both stumbled. Mr. Buckle stepped forward to catch her arm, but there was no salvation for Witherskim. He bumped sideways into the L-shaped counter. A great, glass carboy lurched to the edge, then fell. The container shattered to bits, releasing an ever-widening pool of buckthorn syrup. Its aromatic scent immediately filled the shop.

“Oh my!” Mrs. Tattler’s voice was as pleasant as the breaking glass.

Mr. Knight stepped from behind the counter, first eyeing the mess on the floor, then Witherskim, and finally landing on her. “What goes on here?”

Witherskim straightened his waistcoat and lifted his chin. “I should like to know that very thing.” He stepped toward Miri, his thick-heeled shoes tracking the orange syrup across the wooden planks. “Your manner has been most displeasing, dearest.”

Once again, all eyes focused on her. A sudden glimmer of understanding lit Mr. Knight’s blue gaze as he put two and two together. She could see he remembered Roland’s words and deduced that this man was her betrothed. Fighting a rising tide of nausea, she ground her teeth.

“Mr. Witherskim, I am not now, nor ever have been, your
dearest
.” She spit out the word like a pit from an olive. “Nor do I have any intention of becoming so in the future!”

A beet would have to blush to match the shade of Witherskim’s face. She should probably be ashamed to have caused him such public humiliation.

But she wasn’t.

Mr. Buckle’s eyebrows competed with Mrs. Tattler’s to see whose could raise the highest. Mr. Knight merely cocked his head. “Is Master Witherskim not your betrothed?”

Ignoring the opening of the front door—for let the whole of Deverell Downs hear her final word on the matter—she squared her shoulders and looked down her nose at Witherskim. “No. He is naught but a foolish schemer.”

“You presume to call me a fool?” Witherskim grew at least two inches, either inflated by rage or standing on tiptoe to best her height. Likely both.

“It is no presupposition, sir. It is God’s truth.”

“My offer is rescinded.” His volume increased with each word. “I would not marry you if you were the last woman in the whole of Bedfordshire … or the whole of England, for that matter. You, Miss Brayden, are the worst sort of disgraceful tease. Furthermore,” he shouted, rearing back and enunciating clearly enough to be heard in York. “A pox on you and your mad brother as well!”

Miri gasped.

He’d said it. Aloud. Her worst nightmare dragged into the light of day—before the magistrate’s and Mrs. Tattler’s wide eyes … and even bigger mouths.

Everyone was speechless, except for a deadly calm voice that said from behind her, “You dare raise your voice to a lady, sir?”

20

Ethan stood at the threshold of the apothecary shop, studying the scene. All heads turned toward him. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find Miri still at Harper’s. Evidently, however, the small assembly was even more astonished at his entrance.

But something other than surprise crossed the face of the primp-dressed man next to Miri. The curl of his lip and squint of his eye read wounded pride and … murder? Ethan snorted. Why would the little toady yell at Miri and then face him with unbridled rage? Amusing, in a twisted fashion.

“This is no lady I address.” The man’s tone was pinched, like a toddler who had been told no for the first time. He cast a dark glance at Miri. “She is a trifling strumpet of the worst kind.”

Ethan’s amusement vanished. His pulse quickened, and he stepped forward, straining to keep his words even and calm. “You may apologize
now
.”

“Bah! Who do you think you are?” The skinny man looked him up and down. “You’re no better than she, you raggedy blackguard.”

Tension hung heavy, thick and sticky as the mess on the floor. Ethan cut a glance to the other men nearby. One gent was handsome in a dandy sort of way. His well-groomed hair was brushed back and fastened above a tailored white shirt collar that peeked from a black apron. This must be the apothecary. Why did he not take charge of the events unfolding in his own shop?