Brandt turned, put the bottle in his waistcoat pocket and left.
He stepped outside and for a second his feet refused movement. But he took a breath and strode towards his room.
Then, he stopped again. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached into the pocket, pulled out his purchase, wrestled the clothing under his arm so that he could remove the bottle stopper and took in a savouring breath. Mary’s scent.
He wondered what Mary would have advised about the big-bonneted woman. He’d never seen eyes widen so when she first saw him.
He wagered she’d not get that picture from her mind easily. Not from the look on her face. His lips turned up. He didn’t think he’d ever shocked a woman so. Well, she shouldn’t have opened his door. Not before the sun set anyway.
That was his life now. Nights of drinking. Days of sleeping.
He felt the familiar ache. Felt the anger, the sorrow and the unfairness. Putting the stopper back in the bottle was easier than putting it on memories.
He didn’t like the early hours, but couldn’t pace the streets at night. Even in the morning, the fog could make his footsteps haphazard.
He’d walked the streets so many mornings until he could collapse into sleep that it had become a routine. Many of the merchants watched for him now, particularly when they needed help lifting something. At first they’d offered to pay him, and occasionally he took payment in goods, and he’d pass them along to someone at the tavern. But everyone knew not to talk with him much.
When the day began to warm and his feet hurt, he turned to his lodgings and let himself inside.
Brandt looked at the wall. He realised he didn’t know what day it was and he was not even sure of the month. He had lived like this for—how long exactly he didn’t know, but years. He had felt no life in him for such a long time.
And now some haughty high-born near-spinster wanted him to kidnap her from her father so she could take money from the man.
He didn’t know why he thought about her. She had a ridiculous criminal mind. Indelicate snorts. An uppity little nose. Layers of skirts which fluffed when she walked. Garments not weighted down with street crust. Probably smelled of sunshine from drying in the breeze.
He needed not to think about a spoiled heiress headfirst on her way to ruin.
And if he didn’t help her, she would gather speed on her downhill roll. Another man hired to kidnap her might not respect her upbringing.
He let out a deep breath, shut his eyes tightly and rolled his head back, cursing. Rage bubbled in him.
She should not have sought him out. She had no right to ask such a thing of him. Of anyone.
Then he remembered the fear in her eyes and the pause before she stepped inside her house. As if she had to force herself. He picked up a brandy bottle, drank from it deeply, but slammed the bottom on to the tabletop. He could not drink himself into oblivion and he couldn’t ignore someone who hated to walk inside such a house.
He stood and the fingers of each hand stretched out of their own volition, almost clawing, and he noticed the twitch.
The drink. No food. No sleep. His memories. He could not care for himself any longer and now this woman plagued him—wanting him to rescue her. How could he help another when he could not help himself?
Never in his life had he felt so trapped. Those damn lost eyes of hers kept appearing in front of his face.
He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe calmly. Blackness surrounded him and he didn’t think he could live much longer as he had, yet he had no wish to change his life. None.
But then he thought of his wife, Mary, and how he’d not been able to save her, and the rest of it.
A few shovels of dirt and life was to go on.
They’d shared their youth, their innocence, and he’d known he had to marry her. Fought hard to marry her. And what had it got her? A few shovels of dirt. And no life to go on. He would have traded places with her. Begged in the night hours to trade places with her, because without her, he was dead. At least one of them could live.
Helping Miss Wilder wouldn’t ease his loss.
But he might end with a rope around his neck, he realised, and pictured himself at his own hanging. He almost laughed. A rope would burn, surely, just as the brandy did at first. But he’d got used to the drink quickly. He supposed in the time it took to look at the sky, he could grow used to the bite of the rope, then he wouldn’t feel the caverns in his heart any more.
He’d not done much but traverse back and forth from bottle to bottle in the last few years. He’d heard his share of rude songs, and crude jokes and vulgar tales. They would still be there tomorrow. The day after tomorrow and the day after that.
The comfort of the tavern rested in its sameness. Even if the tavern closed, two more would take its place. He’d always have a bottle to hold him.
He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it up. He grabbed it from the air, slapping it on to the back of his hand, covering it with his palm. Heads, he’d kidnap her. Tails, he’d change his lodgings and forget he’d ever viewed her treacherous—innocent face.
He remembered her with such clarity it seized his thoughts. When her lashes flickered, it was as if feathery fans fluttered above her eyes.
He wondered how she looked when she laughed. If her chin quivered? If she tilted her head, or blushed?
But most of all, he wanted to see the hair she hid under a mountainous hat from a crazed milliner.
It was not right to think so. Not right to think of another woman besides Mary.
He stood there, hand covering the coin.
He slowly moved his palm away and squinted. Tails. Was it tails to take her, or tails to leave her be? He took the coin in his right fist and with his left, backhanded the empty brandy bottle hard enough so the glass smashed into the wall.
He took a breath and then flipped the coin again.
Brandt wore dark clothing and, as dusk fell, he took both horses and went to the woman’s house. He’d noticed the sky clouding. He wasn’t waiting until Sunday morning at half past eight and fifteen steps beyond the street corner and half a bottle past the refuse in the road. The woman wanted to leave her stepfather. That he could take care of. She could save her blasted instructions for her next kidnapper.
Nor did he want to be hanged if something went wrong. He really was picky about things like that. Tavern floor, fine. Noose, tight. He’d never even tied a cravat tightly. Things went smoother in the darkness. Fewer eyes watched. Usually the people who were about at such hours would go to great lengths to avoid notice and tried to avoid anything which might bring questions their way.
Looking up, windows on the first floor flickered with candlelight and silhouettes of figures moved beyond the curtains. He could take her away. He could hide her. He had the perfect place—waiting, but not for him. She could step over the threshold there. He couldn’t, but she could.
He tied the horses near the back of the house. He’d tried to hitch them as if they belonged to a house because if someone nicked them, he was going to be in a bind. Horses irked him. Heiresses irked him.
He noted the dim light from an upstairs window and then the corner ones. He knew the end room was more likely the master’s chambers because it received window light from both sides and had the ability to open more windows if the room became stifling. Then, when he saw the curtains being closed, he saw the shape of a valet, not a maid.
He moved to get sight of the other side window and could see only the dimmest of lights behind