Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (4 page)

How extraordinary. Jonathon hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should feel highly affronted or highly amused. Then he considered his circumstance. He could give his name and title, of course, and elevate the matter to one of minor crisis. He would be treated with grave deference—once he’d properly established his identity, that is. The newssheets would blast the story from the front pages. A scandal reaching all the way from Liverpool to London would ensue.

But what purpose would that serve? Not that he gave a damn about scandal, but as he considered the matter more closely, he came to realize that stealth would have markedly greater advantages.

Far better to let the matter play out. The woman had said his injury had appeared grim; she had feared he’d been mortally wounded. The men who’d attacked him would likely draw the same conclusion, particularly if he didn’t surface for days. Very well. Let Richard believe he had succeeded in seeing him dead—if indeed that had been his intention. Jonathon would return to London as unobtrusively as possible, hire a private investigator, and get to the bottom of the whole sordid business.

“Sir?” Constable Williamson prompted again, his pencil beating an impatient tempo against his pad. “Your name?”

Lord Jonathon Clifford Beaman Hollinshed IV, Viscount Brooksbank, Baron Contreau.

Aloud he said only, “Brooks. Jonathon Brooks.”

Chapter Five

Brianna shifted impatiently as the interview between Constable Williamson and Mr. Brooks finally drew to a close. For the fifth time in as many minutes, she dug her hand into the pocket of her skirt and felt for Arthur’s pocketwatch. She traced the hour and minute hand, then rubbed her thumb over the tiny ridges edged around the bezel. Nearly half past eleven. The mail coach heading north toward London was scheduled to depart at noon, as it had every day for the past week.

Only this time, she would be on it.

Over the objections of Sister Mary Louise and Father Tim (who expressed grave concern for the safety of a woman traveling alone), she had purchased a single coach ticket. She regretted worrying them, but she had no choice in the matter. Her valise was packed and ready, waiting by the door. All she had to do was make her farewells and she would be off.

First, however, there was the matter of Mr. Brooks to contend with. Fortunately the man appeared as anxious to leave Liverpool as she was. The moment the door closed behind Constable Williamson he reached for his boots and tugged them on.

“Fine pair of boots you have there, Mr. Brooks,” Father Tim observed.

Brianna frowned. When not preaching, he was a man of few words, and those he did say meant something. What importance could the quality of Mr. Brooks’ boots possibly have?

Before she could guess his intent, Father Tim continued, “How fortunate for you to be in possession of an excellent education, as well.”

At that, Mr. Brooks straightened. He regarded the older man with an expression that could only be defined as wary. “Sir?”

“Your accent.” Father Tim smiled pleasantly. “It’s Oxford, isn’t it? The constable might not have noticed, but I certainly did. A few of my colleagues at seminary were privileged to enjoy a comfortable upbringing, and it was reflected in their manner of speech.”

“How very astute of you to recognize it.”

Father Tim gave a modest shrug. “That is, after all, my line of work. In the words of our Lord, I am a fisher of men. My task is to gather lost souls and bring them into the fold.”

At that, Mr. Brooks relaxed slightly. A hint of sardonic humor crossed his face. “I appreciate your concern, Father, but despite my current circumstances, I am hardly a lost soul.”

“No, I don’t think you are. Neither, however, do I think you are a common ruffian, as Constable Williamson was so quick to believe. Your clothing—or rather, the clothing you were wearing the night of your unfortunate attack—coupled with your manner of speech, negate that possibility.”

“Again, your discernment is to be admired.”

Just the slightest hint of mocking humor in Mr. Brooks’ tone, as though he were privy to some clandestine joke which eluded the rest of the group. Father Tim chose to ignore it and pressed doggedly on.

“Forgive my boldness, sir, but Sister Mary Louise is convinced that divine providence has brought you to our door, and it would be remiss of me to ignore that possibility. You appear eager to leave Liverpool. Might I inquire as to your occupation and destination?”

Mr. Brooks hesitated, as though searching for a reason to object to the question. Apparently finding none, he answered, “I am a valet. My residence is in London.”

“Is that so?” Father Tim beamed. “How extraordinary.”

“Sir?”

“I believe you are in a unique position to do us a great service.”

Confusion clouded the man’s eyes, then abruptly cleared. “Of course,” he said, giving a curt bow. “Naturally, I am in your debt. If you will provide your address, I will send a bank wire once I return to London, which I hope will satisfactorily express my appreciation for all you’ve done, as well as reimburse any expenses you’ve incurred on my behalf.”

Father Tim shook his head. “It isn’t a monetary contribution I am interested in—although funds for the less advantaged are always in dire need—but rather, a service.”

“A service?”

Beside her, Sister Mary Louise gave Brianna’s arm a gentle squeeze, then she stepped forward. “Mr. Brooks,” the sister announced, “You are the answer to our prayers.”

Heavy silence echoed through the room. A spark of devilish delight entered Mr. Brooks’ gaze. His eyes were blue, Brianna noted. Deep, sapphire blue.

As she watched, a slow, sardonic smile curved his lips. “I mean no offense, Sister, but if I’m the answer, surely you need to say a different prayer.”

Brianna released an involuntary laugh, then clamped her jaw shut, arranging her features into what she hoped resembled polite deference..

If Sister Mary Louise sensed her amusement, it didn’t show. She turned to Brianna and said, “I told you the good Lord was listening.”

The levity Brianna had felt just seconds earlier vanished as comprehension dawned. “You can’t mean…”

“I certainly do. This is the man who is going to escort you to London.”

“I beg your pardon?” This from Mr. Brooks, whose handsome features had frozen in an expression of blank stupefaction. He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Certainly it is,” Sister Mary Louise said, waving away his objection. “Mrs. Donnelly is leaving forthwith for London. She is in need of an escort. You just said you’ll be traveling to the same destination.”

“Well, yes, but… My circumstances prevent… I’m afraid I can’t possibly—”

“Among other things,” put in Father Tim, cutting off Mr. Brooks’ rambling objection, “my profession requires the ability to make rather quick—one might even say instinctive—judgments as to a man’s character. You did not strike me as the sort of man who would abandon a lady in her time of need. Particularly a lady who was so selfless as to put your safety before her own.”

“Of course not. But—”

Enough. “Thank you, Mr. Brooks. No further explanations are necessary. You are under no obligation to me.”

She slipped on her navy wool cloak and fastened her bonnet. Fixing a warm smile on her face, she turned to Father Tim and Sister Mary Louise, embracing them each in turn. “Thank you for everything. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I’ll be just fine. I’ve made it all the way from Canton. I am quite confident in my ability to navigate my way from Liverpool to London.”

She reached for her valise, but Mr. Brooks’ voice stopped her.

“I’ll take her.”

She turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

“The duty is mine,” he said to Father Tim, the burden of assuming an unwanted obligation clear in his tone. “I’ll see the lady safely to London.”

Brianna bristled. “Might I point out, the lady is standing right here. There is no need to speak of her as though she were a leg of mutton to be delivered to a butcher.”

At that, she gained his full attention. He surveyed her from the tip of her toes to the top of her bonnet. The corners of his mouth curled upward in a smile that would have melted icicles off a roof in Siberia. Good Lord, the man had
dimples
. Deep, moon-shaped crescents that bracketed a row of perfectly white teeth. And how absolutely superfluous to boot. As if he needed the advantage of dimples to enhance his golden appeal.

The clothing he wore, as poor as it was, did little to disguise his physique. The garments’ previous owner had been a man of some girth. While the shirt settled comfortably across Mr. Brooks’ broad shoulders, it draped loosely around his waist, recalling to Brianna’s mind the hard, flat planes of his belly. The trousers were far too short, but that awkwardness was remedied once he tucked them into his boots.

“My apologies,” he said, in a voice as smooth as Cantonese silk, “it was not my intent to insult or ignore you, Miss—”

Mrs.,” she corrected. “Mrs. Arthur Donnelly.”

“Mrs. Donnelly, then. It will be my privilege to escort you to London.”

“I assure you, it’s not necessary.”

“I must insist.”

“Must you?” Really. His high-handedness was too much. “Exactly how do you propose to do that?” she challenged.

He gave an indifferent shrug. “I’ll simply hire a coach to convey the two of us—”

“On a valet’s wages?” She arched one dark brow. “If you had your wages, that is. Or were in possession of any money at all. I believe that was made forfeit in your unfortunate encounter in the alleyway.”

“I—Ah. I see. Point taken.” He blinked in surprise, as though startled at the reminder of his lack of funds. “How remarkable. It appears I am the mutton after all.”

The sound of a bell ringing echoed down the street, followed by the call of the driver of the mail coach for all northbound passengers to board. Good heavens, she’d lost track of the time. Giving a promise to write once she arrived, she pressed a kiss against the Sister’s withered cheek, then Father Tim’s. She sent the handsome stranger a curt nod.

“Good-day, Mr. Brooks. Good luck to you.”

She turned toward the door, but Mr. Brooks was there first, his hat and coat in hand. He followed her into the hall, then up the church basement’s narrow flight of stairs.

They emerged together into a blustery fall afternoon. “I believe Sister Mary Louise is correct,” he said, his long strides easily matching her hurried pace as she rushed toward the mail coach. “Divine providence has brought us together.”

Brianna slanted him a glance, but didn’t stop moving. “Is that so?”

“Mrs. Donnelly, it is imperative I reach London as quickly as possible.”

“Hmm, well, I’m certain you’ll find a way.”

“Five pence, please.” The coachman held out his palm. Brianna dug into her reticule and supplied him the coins, then stepped aside and watched as his young assistant secured a fresh team to the coach. A wave of excitement washed away the anxiety that had been dogging her for weeks. By her reckoning, she should reach London in five days, and then her employer—

“Stake me the funds to travel, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Mr. Brooks. She’d quite forgotten him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Once we reach London, I’ll double any expenses you incur on my behalf.”

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “How very generous. But what assurances do I have that you’ll pay me back?”

“Why, you have my word as a gentleman, of course.”

As if that was all she needed. Preposterous. Yet he spoke the words with such regal authority—chin up, shoulders back, his gaze unblinking—so clearly affronted that she might be tempted to question his honor, that she was foolishly inclined to believe him.

“A gentleman?” Beside her, the coachman let out a coarse guffaw. “If this bloke’s bothering you, Miss, I’ll get rid of him.”

Mr. Brooks rounded on the coachman, ready to deliver a searing rejoinder, but Brianna held up a hand to stop him. She thought for a moment. Years of work in a Cantonese pub had helped her develop an instinct for men who meant trouble, and those who didn’t. That instinct told her that this man was trustworthy enough. Even Father Tim had vouched for his character. Bringing him with her was a risk, but it was likely safer than traveling alone. Besides, she could certainly use the extra coin once she arrived in London.

“Make it triple the amount, and I will allow you to serve as my escort. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”.

“Splendid. You may see to my valise. I’ll supply you with other duties as our journey progresses.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Splendid.”

He sent the coachman a frigid glare, then grabbed her bag and swung into the coach after her, muttering beneath his breath as he did, “That settles it. I must be the sheep, for I am definitely being fleeced.”

Chapter Six

Good Lord, was this how the general public traveled? Jonathon shook his head. A wonder there weren’t riots in the capital.

He rode facing backward, uncomfortably wedged between two portly gentlemen, one of whom reeked of cigar smoke, the other of grilled onions. Other than the fact that the mail coach was the first—and only—conveyance scheduled to leave Liverpool that day, the vehicle had little to recommend it. The springs were so poor as to be nearly nonexistent, the velvet seats were ripped beyond repair, and the windows were drafty. Cold air whipped through the interior, but did little to dispel the musty, vaguely sour scent that permeated the vehicle.

The polite, empty chatter of seven strangers confined to a small space had extinguished itself. Now they simply lumbered on. The driver made constant stops to deliver and collect mail, slowing their progress. His team had evidently been trained, with admirable success, to drag the coach through every hole, rut, ditch, and other obstacle on the road. As they hit yet another bump, the vehicle rocked precariously, causing the man to his left to slam into his wounded shoulder. Worse than the physical pain, however, was the fact that the sudden motion roused the man to his right.

That worthy gentleman had been soundly sleeping. Now he gave a loud snort and shook himself awake. He looked around the cabin, frowned at the general air of gloom, and took it upon himself to entertain them with a monologue of such unrelenting tedium he bored everyone, including himself, into a stupor. His attempt at conviviality finished, he drifted back to sleep.

Jonathon found himself longing for his private coach, where he could stretch his legs without fear of kicking a fellow passenger in the shin. A tightly-sprung coach with a properly trained driver and a spirited team of geldings. A coach with soft leather seats, fresh blankets, and a basket Cook had filled with wine, bread, cheese, flaky tarts, and other refreshments for the journey.

And why not? A privileged indulgence, perhaps, but he was certainly able to pay for it. The one thing Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, had was money. Oh, there were members of the peerage who outranked him socially, but few men in England could rival him in terms of wealth. His investment portfolio staggered even him. Granted, he’d inherited the bulk of it (as Richard had so helpfully pointed out), but that hardly signified. He frowned as he considered his current predicament. The only thing he’d always had in abundance, besides money, was luck. But at the moment both seemed to have deserted him entirely.

He shook off the uncharastically maudlin thought. He was alive and on his way home, and surely that counted for something.

His gaze shifted to his traveling companion.
Mrs.
Donnelly, he reminded himself, recalling his initial physical reaction to the woman. She might be beguilingly lovely and smell delicious (her skin carried the kind of scent that made him long to nibble the delicate column of her throat, just beneath her ear), but she was married. Taken. A missionary, as well. And though his moral compass occasionally bent, he had never sunk so low as to knowingly seduce another man’s wife. Still, he found his eyes returning to her again and again.

She had spent the initial part of the journey occupied with a pencil and a journal, an adorably earnest frown between her brow as she scribbled away. Now she held a slim, leather-bound volume open before her. He suspected she used her absorption in the book as a ruse to preclude questions or conversation, for he hadn’t seen her turn a page in more than an hour. Not that he blamed her. She was squeezed four to a bench that might have comfortably fit three. Like him, she’d been seated smack in the middle—penance for being the last to board.

To Mrs. Donnelly’s left sat a heavyset matron whose enormous bosom seemed to defy gravity, being bolstered upward by thick corset stays, an engineering feat every bit as marvelous and complex as a the riggings on a four-masted vessel.

The matron’s daughters sat to Mrs. Donnelly’s right. Two rosy-cheeked country maids of perhaps sixteen or seventeen whose muffled conversations were punctuated by high-pitched fits of giggles. He had thought them innocent, but was soon obliged to reconsider that assessment. The coach rounded a bend and the girls sent him sly, deliberately provocative smiles. They exchanged a silent signal, then let out dramatic sighs and fanned themselves as though overly warm. They shrugged off their cloaks.

Well. Now this was interesting. Nature had endowed them as generously as their mother. As he watched, the sisters squirmed backward in a motion calculated to catch the seat of their gowns and drag down the bodices. Seconds later the coach hit a particularly bumpy stretch of road. Obviously the girls were familiar with the route, for the jarring motion sent their bosoms bouncing up and down, their flesh as soft and inviting as bin of peaches.

A marvelous display. And they weren’t finished yet.

The first girl drew her tongue over her bottom lip and arched her back. Her sister, not to be outdone, pressed her palms between her skirts and invitingly edged her thighs apart. Scandalous. Shocking. Such naughty, naughty girls. Jonathon couldn’t help but smile at the impromptu burlesque. Nor could he look away. How astonishing. Perhaps public transportation had something to recommend it after all.

Unfortunately the stimulating diversion ended all too quickly as the matron caught wind of the girls’ antics. She rapped her cane against the carriage floor and sent her daughters a fierce scowl. The girls sobered immediately, drew up their cloaks, and their giggling ceased.

Pity. They still had a long way to travel.

* * *

Brianna Donnelly had been blessed with a natural facility for words. Nuances of language came easily to her. That ability had served her well in Canton, with its foreign quarter drawing an influx of people from around the globe. She could speak English, pray in Latin, barter in Hindi, recite poetry in Farsi, sing in French, and swear in Mandarin. On any given day she might be obliged to perform any one, or perhaps even all, of those tasks.

In the science of arithmetic, however, she was not particularly gifted. That had been her late husband’s forte. Arthur had managed the household budget, handled the accounting ledger at the pub, set aside funds to pay taxes, duties, and other assorted fees associated with living in a bustling foreign port. And thank goodness for that. To Brianna, mathematics was nothing but a dreary chore. Now, however, as she did her sums for the third time as she bounced along in the crowded mail coach, she realized she had made an error.

She looked at the schedule in her hand, calculating the number of stops between Liverpool and London. She and Mr. Brooks would have to switch coaches more often than she’d presumed. Which unfortunately meant there would be an extra night’s lodgings, as well as additional meals. No matter how she worked it, she simply did not have the funds to cover the entire cost of two people traveling from Liverpool to London.

She bit back a sigh and rapped her fingers against the schedule.
Blast and bloody blue hell.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. It might be a nuisance, but the problem was not insurmountable. They would simply have to make adjustments to their travel to accommodate their limited funds.

That decided, she turned her attention out the window as they came to a village. The coach slowed before a modest inn and the driver reined in his team. He jumped down, pulled open the coach door, and set out the steps. The passengers lumbered out of the vehicle, stiff and ungainly after hours in the cramped coach. Mr. Brooks collected her valise and turned to usher her inside, but she drew back and tilted her head, indicating the dirt lane that led through the village.

“Walk with me?”

A brief flash of surprise entered his gaze, but he nodded his assent and left her valise with their driver. They fell into step beside one another. Gray, blustery clouds hung low in the sky. The wind whipped at her skirts, but Brianna didn’t mind. It felt wonderful to stretch her legs. She was in no hurry to crowd into the inn with the same tight group, nor did the threat of inclement weather worry her. She found the rough twilight air exhilarating. After the stuffiness of the coach, the chill breeze washing over her body felt as cool and refreshing as an open-air bath.

They strolled in silence down the main road of the village as the day’s light slowly faded, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Small shops and houses dotted the lane. Brianna noted a boot maker, milliner, bakery, and general mercantile, all of whom proudly displayed their wares in their windows. The homes they passed were lit within by the soft golden glow of oil lamps; fires crackled with the hearths.

“Is this what all of England looks like?” she asked.

“This?” Mr. Brooks made a sweeping gesture at the village at large, then released a derisive breath. “No.”

She turned to him in surprise. “You don’t like it?”

“Don’t like what?” A wry smile played about his lips. “The dreary shops, shuttered pub, hatched-roof cottages, puddles of muck beneath our feet, or the smell of manure that hangs over everything?”

“Very well,” she returned briskly, “what sort of town do you like?”

“London.” His face showed unmistakable pride of place. “One can never grow bored of it. It’s nothing like this. There you have commerce, theater, dining establishments, parks, clubs, colleges, fine homes, museums, and sport. In short, everything required for civilized person to find contentment.”

She nodded, doing her best to ignore the tremor of apprehension that knotted her belly. The city certainly sounded exciting. It also sounded expensive, exclusive, and exhausting. The sort of place that would embrace Mr. Brooks—tall, handsome, educated, and cultured—but find Brianna herself (with her shorter stature, decidedly foreign looks, and outspoken manners) sadly lacking.

She pushed the worrisome thought away, turning her attention instead to her companion. “Were you born there?” she asked.

“In London? No. I was born in Hampshire. Just outside the lakes district.” He hesitated, then slid her a sideways glance. “Do you know it?”

She shook her head.

His shoulders relaxed slightly and he released a small breath. He seemed relieved at her ignorance of Hampshire geography, as though in that short exchange he’d given away more of himself than he’d wanted to.

How peculiar. The man was a puzzle. For all his breezy charm and dimpled smile, she couldn’t help but sense that he deliberately held part of himself back. There was a something about him that hinted at another persona entirely. It wasn’t merely in the way he spoke—his occupation was a valet, after all, so he could have easily learned to mimic his employer’s imperious tone and mannerisms.

No. It was Mr. Brooks’ manner of answering questions that caught her attention. She’d noticed it when he’d been interviewed by Constable Williamson, and then again when conversing with the other passengers aboard the mail coach. He would hesitate ever so slightly, as though carefully considering questions that should have had easy answers. 

No matter. Let him keep his secrets. Once they reached London they would part ways, she would collect the sum he’d promised her, and the man would no longer be her concern.

They reached the end of the lane, turned and began to retrace their steps. “Well. I find the village utterly charming. Only…” She lifted her hand to the brow of her bonnet and peered about her. “Where’s the castle?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Surely there’s a castle nearby?”

“A castle?”

“I thought all the villages in England… Never mind.” She shook her head, wanting to dismiss. the topic. But it wasn’t to be. Feeling his curious stare, she confessed, “It’s the books I’ve been reading. Dramatic novels.” A rueful smile curved her lips. “Growing up in Canton, I was given to understand the English landscape would have castles strewn about like shells in the sand.”

“Ah. Well, there may be one lurking about somewhere, but I rather doubt it.”

“I suppose next you’ll try to convince me there isn’t any such thing as a fire-breathing dragon.”

A small smile tugged his lips. A dimple appeared. “Here? Certainly not. I have it on the best authority that all the real dragons live in China.”

“Touché.”

She matched his smile with one of her own. Their eyes met and a frisson of understanding passed between them. The moment stretched, growing larger and imbued with an emotional weight, almost as though they’d known each other for years, rather than mere hours. There was something else in it, too. Brianna felt the same physical tug she’d experienced when she’d bathed his wound. An undercurrent of desire flooded through her, shocking her with its intensity.

Mr. Brooks was the first to recover from the spell that held them frozen in its place. He gave his head a slight shake as though to clear it. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely hoarse. “Mrs. Donnelly…”

“Yes?”

“Your husband was unable to accompany you to London?”

“No. My husband passed away a year ago. In Canton.”

“Ah. I see.” A score of emotions flashed through his eyes, but they vanished too quickly for her to read. “My sympathies.”