Kincaid’s brows knit together. “She’ll bolt.”
“Bolt?” Shaldon fiddled with his neck cloth again, considering.
No. Kincaid was wrong. Jane was proper, calm, a rock. “In spite of her help last night, in spite of what happened between…me and Lady Jane, she’s not the impetuous sort.”
“No?”
The raised eyebrow made his stomach churn again. He pulled the neckcloth off and mopped at his head. The cloth came back stained. Blast it, he was bleeding again.
“Have her look at that,” Kincaid said slyly. “Mayhap she’ll get impetuous and convince you she’d make you a proper wife. One not so impetuous as to switch out a counterfeit painting for your ransom.”
An ache started up in his shoulder. “Enough.” Kincaid’s experience of women—of one woman—had soured him about matrimony. In any case, he wouldn’t allow anyone to speak ill of his dead wife.
Theirs had been an arranged marriage—Felicity had been set to marry his brother the earl, and when he’d upped and died she’d settled for the spare, tolerating his refusal to give up his work for the Crown. Felicity had always loved a good flutter, a hell-for-bent ride, and her own way in things, but she’d done right by the estate and the children. He’d been gone much of the time, and when he wasn’t, they’d rubbed on well enough together.
The ache crept up and gripped the back of his neck.
But sending the counterfeit painting—he’d never have judged her capable of that.
Still, he had no need for a wife now, placid or otherwise.
* * *
It was near dark when Jane left the kitchen, her candle held high, lighting the shadowy servants’ staircase. She’d left Jenny and Ewan to see to the men coming in for their dinner. Cup after cup of tea had kept her awake while she bided her time until the house was quiet.
Passing the dining room, she peeked in. A few last rays of late summer sun eked in through the westerly window. The table had been cleared of all but a brace of candles and the white tablecloth, and a few of the fiddleback cherrywood chairs sat pulled back, as if the men had left hurriedly. In the far end of the room, the sideboard loomed in the shadows, two more branches of half-burned candles at the ready. She stepped closer and let out a long breath.
The canvas still lay there.
She scanned the room. Shaldon wasn’t lurking here. Perhaps, after the events of the previous night, he had turned in early.
She tiptoed across the wooden floor to the sideboard, lighting the branch of tapers there.
Someone had removed the painting from its frame and stretchers, leaving it bedraggled, the crimped sides standing up to form a platter of dark canvas with a heart of shimmering light.
Reverently she smoothed out the edges of the ancient canvas and studied it. She had seen a Caravaggio last winter, or rather a copy of one, brought back from Italy by a marquess’s son. This work was in much the same style. Two luminous characters, anguished, clothes tattered, eyes raised to heaven, glowed from a well of gloom and shadow. She had been wrong—the work wasn’t at all ugly.
This brooding, dramatic, priceless painting should not be a pawn in the conflict between Shaldon and San Sebastian. Making it disappear would be a blessing to everyone.
She would seek Madame La Fanelle’s cousin’s assistance. Madame had gained Barton’s trust; she and her associates and family had withstood Bakeley’s rigorous screening before his investment. She could trust them also.
And perhaps theft wasn’t required. Perhaps she could just borrow this masterpiece, sell enough copies to pay the debt, and surreptitiously return the original to its owner. She would have to ask Madame’s cousin what he thought would be best.
She drew a fingertip along the crease of the canvas where it had been tightened against the wooden stretchers, marveling that such a fragile thing should hold up so well. Along one edge, dark marks, ink perhaps, had bled through from the underside. Lifting the edge and peering closer, she could make out a series of numbers.
Strange.
The work was much smaller than the Caravaggio she’d seen. It was about the size of the small landscape that hung in the bedroom she shared with Lady Perry. She spread her hands wide, taking its measure.
Rolled up, it would fit nicely in the gold-painted rolling pin.
“Where is my daughter?”
Alarm pounded through her. She dropped her hands to her side and froze, eyes shut tight against the flare of panic.
Bloody Shaldon tracked her everywhere.
Warmth touched her waist like a bolt from on high, sending hot desire wriggling inside her. Since his turn with the laudanum, Shaldon wouldn’t stop touching her.
When this was over, she would think seriously about taking a lover, if she could find some gentleman as appealing as Shaldon who would have her, as old and poor as she was.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing only his beard-shadowed jaw. “I couldn’t resist the temptation.” Her voice shook and she eased in a breath. “I’ve never seen a real masterpiece.”
“It is remarkable, I suppose.”
Unlike many of his peers, Shaldon didn’t collect art. Shaldon House boasted only family portraits and a few paintings of favorite horses and landscapes. His interest lay in collecting and squashing his enemies.
Her heart pounded wildly. If all went right, she would soon be in that number.
“Have you seen Lady Perry, my dear?”
His breath tickled her ear, and the hand at the back of her waist slid a bit further around, bending her to him.
She lifted his hand away and turned to face him.
Dark eyes sparkled in the candlelight, completely unreadable. She rooted her feet resisting the urge to step away, risking the nearness. She could see the pulse in his temple and—
“You are bleeding, Shaldon.”
A bead of blood sparkled and threatened to roll down his cheek. His neckcloth was loose and stained red where he must have mopped at his wound. Under the neckcloth, his shirt flapped, more blood coloring the white linen there.
She dug in her pocket for her handkerchief and pressed it to his head. His hand wrapped hers and his gaze softened, setting her insides melting again.
When this was over, she was definitely seeking a lover. Not Shaldon, of course. Not him. She must not fall any further into his enticements.
She drew her hand away and studied the wound. “Sit down, my lord.” She nudged him into a chair, pressing the cloth to his head again. “We’ll hold this here for a few moments. Do close your eyes.”
His lip quirked. “Why?”
“I can see the pulse in your temple pounding. You must take deep breaths and calm yourself.”
“Must I?” he asked, lifting a corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “I find that difficult to do when I’m around you, Jane.”
But he obliged her by closing his eyes, the half-smile still in place, and she counted out sixty seconds, studying him.
Scrapes and splotches of bruising colored his jaw under the black and gray scruff of his beard. He’d been too beaten up for a comfortable shave. The skin on his knuckles was cracked and still raw. The night before, the dragoon’s surgeon had tended to wounds on his chest. The spreading blood on his shirt meant that something was wrong there underneath the white linen.
She pulled her handkerchief away and his eyes flashed open.
“There. The bleeding has stopped.”
“Has it? My pulse is still pounding, Jane.”
She gritted her teeth. “But there is blood on your shirt and it is spreading. I’ll have a look at those injuries.”
“Very well.” He shrugged an arm out of his coat sleeve, wincing.
“Let me help you.” Standing behind him, she wouldn’t feel so exposed, or so tempted.
She pulled the coat and waistcoat away while he flung off his neckcloth and pulled out the tails of his shirt. She peered over his shoulder and took in a sharp breath. Blood spotted the shirt in several places.
/> “You should not have been up moving around so,” she said.
“Yes, yes. Help me out of this, Jane.”
He raised his arms and she pulled the shirt over his head and gasped.
Fresh bruises and scrapes layered old scars that crisscrossed his back.
The Duque de San Sebastian had done this. She knew it. This she didn’t have to ask.
Under all his fine tailoring, he was every bit as broad and as muscled as his henchman lying up in the bed, but Shaldon had suffered more. Those scars explained his drive for vengeance.
She circled around him and dropped to her knees. Every inch of his chest bore bruises and abrasions over more scars. When she raised her eyes, he was watching her.
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and tried to rise, wobbling. His hand shot out and steadied her, his other reached for her waist.
Someone knocked firmly on the door, and Jane jumped back.
Shaldon had left the door ajar. Blast it. Whoever was there had seen them.
Chapter 5
“Enter,” Jane said breathlessly.
The door moved a few inches. “Is there aught else you need tonight?” Jenny’s voice came from the other side.
She let out a long breath. “Bring some hot water and clean towels, the salve left by the surgeon, and my sewing kit.”
“The surgeon felt stitches weren’t needed,” Shaldon said.
“Because he’s a poor hand with a needle. Or perhaps you wouldn’t hold still for him.”
“It’s true I prefer your doctoring to his.”
Her cheeks heated. Before the retching started, no doctoring would have taken place between them last night. Shaldon would have had her skirts up and her spinster self under him as soon as he’d reached his bed.
“Are you going to examine me, Jane?” he asked warmly.
“When Jenny returns with the water.”
He took her hand in both of his and she gulped in air.
“I must clean off the fresh blood first.”
His warm touch crept up her arm, as insidious as his hot gaze. Kincaid had whispered that this warmth, this seductiveness, was due to the laudanum. Shaldon certainly had never been amorous with her before.
And yet there’d already been whispers about her presence in his home. His children might know little of his reputation, but she’d heard the talk over the years from the first time she met him in Kent, little more than a child herself. She’d been half in love with him herself for an afternoon.
A man this handsome, apart from his wife for so long, a man like this had women whenever and wherever he wished. She might like to be one of those women, but with the Spy Lord, it could never be on her terms. His price would be far too high.
“Your assistance has been invaluable, Jane,” he said.
Her breath eased. That had been said with a bit more propriety.
“I’m glad to have been of assistance to Lady Perry.” And she could help the girl more—and her own plans. “You asked me to make the journey here to preserve Lady Perry’s reputation. However, it appears you’ve solved that problem by sanctioning her marriage to Mr. Fox. I don’t know how much more I can do for a woman of four-and-twenty.”
“And?”
“She won’t wish to be parted from him, and I don’t think it’s wise to do so. You should let Fox travel with her.”
“And what of your safety when everyone has left?”
“It will only be for a few days.”
His mouth firmed. “Would that I could stay here myself and protect you, Jane, but the King is demanding my immediate presence.”
“I see.” The King’s command was not at all surprising. After so many years ruling in his father’s stead as regent, Prinny would have his grand coronation, and an earl, even this earl, disobeyed at his own peril.
Thank heavens for that order. It would get the troublesome Spy Lord out of her way. But she must somehow make sure he left the painting at Gorse Point Cottage. If he took it with him to London, it would be ten times harder for her to steal, especially if she was delayed caring for Kincaid.
“If Fox travels with you, and if Bakeley will see to the Special License, Lady Sirena can arrange for the wedding clothes and a small celebration. You should not delay the wedding.”
A frown started between his eyebrows.
“Or, perhaps, Lady Perry and Fox can travel to Cransdall with some of your men and marry there by banns in a few weeks.”
His frown deepened. “It may be too dangerous. The men traveling to Cransdall will be carrying the painting.”
Her heart slammed into a rapid beat.
He wasn’t taking the painting to London. He wasn’t leaving it at Gorse Point Cottage. He was sending it to his country home, a place she’d never visited; a place a hundred times more difficult to steal from.
“It’s that valuable?”
“To the man who wants it, yes.”
He glanced at the painting, and when he turned back to her, there was a light in his eyes that she couldn’t decipher.
“Jane. Tell Lady Perpetua that Fox may come with us. Ewan will stay here with you. You’ll be safe with him. He’s acquitted himself well on other occasions for us. As soon as Kincaid heals enough to travel, you may return and help Lady Sirena with the wedding preparations. I fear she’ll need your help.”
“I assure you, Sirena is capable of arranging a gown and a small—”
“No.” He squeezed her hand. “Lady Perpetua and Mr. Fox will marry by regular license at St. George’s with absolutely all of the ton present and accounted for.”
“I see.” Poor Perry, and poor Fox. “To delay the wedding—is that wise?”
“The days will pass quickly. He won’t change his mind.”
She shook her head. “Is there not more possibility of danger for him?”
“He won’t have the painting or the prisoner. He’ll be safe at Shaldon House.”
“Let me speak plainly, my lord. What if Lady Perry is—”
“Jane.” He raised her hand to his lips, sending ripples of warmth through her. “I would have liked to have removed her from further temptation of that sort. I would have liked to stay here myself and protect you. But you are right that it will do no good to separate them. Removing the painting and Sir Richard will take away the threats to Gorse Point Cottage as well. You’ll be safe here. Though I don’t like leaving my women with such slim protection.”
His gaze was intense and promised volumes, although of what she couldn’t be certain.
Not love. Not fidelity. But, oh, there was desire there. It would only require her surrender.
She wanted to weep. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his bed.
The letter weighed heavily in her pocket, reminding her of her duty. If only the letter was a packet of bank notes.
A muffled clattering below signaled that they would have only a few more moments.
* * *
Blast it, he finally had this woman alone again, and the servants would come back and interrupt them. Would that he could stay on with her here and send everyone else away.
She lifted the corners of her lips in a taut version of a smile. “My lord, it must be said that I am in no way your woman.”
Not yet, perhaps, but soon.
“Let us say then that your safety here is of great import to me, because I hold you in high esteem, my dear.”
Her breasts rose on a sharp breath. “When will the painting be transported to Cransdall?” she asked.
And why that question?
But, of course, she was worried the Duque or his men would attempt to seize it here.
“And Sir Richard? Will he be here much longer?”
Both the painting and the prisoner were dangers. “One of the MacEwens will take the painting, the other will escort Sir Richard. They’ll leave the day after next, after…”
He’d forgotten. “Fox can’t travel with us tomorrow. H
e’s to stretch and reframe the painting.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, and then she quickly recovered her composure. “Why not transport it rolled? Though I suppose that might damage the paint even more.”
The matter-of-factness of her tone sent a thread of wariness through him. He blinked it away. That was his suspicious nature—an old habit. He could trust Jane. “Yes, stretching will preserve the finish.”
“Well, then, you forget, I’ve been pinching my genteel farthings for years. Don’t let the task keep an affianced couple apart. Fox may leave with you on the morrow. I’m perfectly capable of preparing and packaging the painting for transport.”
“Are you, indeed?”
He let a long moment pass turning over her words and her now cheerful demeanor. His old habits had kept him safe these many years.
Steps clattered up the stairs growing louder and nearer. They had few moments left and he had more to say.
A blush crept up her still-smooth cheeks. When she returned to London, when they’d got past the coronation, then he could recommence his seduction. He must not rush her. And he must set things straight between them now.
“Jane, about last night…my actions…I should apologize—”
“You were drugged.”
The blush had flamed into anger, not at all the reaction he’d been after.
“Kincaid explained your behavior to me. The laudanum spoke, and you were not responsible for your actions.”
Blasted Kincaid.
“No. A gentleman would—”
“A lady would understand.” She tugged her hand away. “And I do.”
“Here we are, my lady.” The maid arrived with a tray, and Ewan clomped in behind her with two buckets of steaming water.
Jane’s sharp look pained him. “We’ll say no more on that subject, my lord. Now, let’s have a closer look at those wounds.”
* * *
The next morning, Jane lingered in the parlor shamelessly eavesdropping.
Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord Page 4