A Pursuit of Home

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  His threat was an empty one, Jess was certain. Well, mostly certain. Actually, not certain at all. The man had spent the night in the corridor just to make a point.

  “Very well,” she said quietly, stepping out of the room and closing the door silently behind her. “Let’s go. I doubt anyone knows I’m in London, but we’ll have plenty of time to wander the streets and see if anyone is following us before we pay a call.” Perhaps she could scare him into staying here and making use of the comfortable guest bed for the remainder of the night.

  He said nothing, simply followed her down the corridor, footsteps thudding enough to make her wince. London was noisy, even this early in the morning, so his heavy, well, normal footfalls wouldn’t be a problem. It was simply the principle of it.

  As she passed through the kitchens, where a scullery maid was just starting to stoke the fires, Jess grabbed a small loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese. She didn’t look back to see if Mr. Thornbury followed suit as she slipped out the door and into the back alley.

  The air was thick with pollution and morning dew. Clouds hung low, skittering across the moon as it slid down the sky and the first rays of sun took its place. Her lungs protested the return to the city after three years of country air, but the rest of her breathed a little easier as she munched on the bread and cheese and disappeared into the anonymity of an awakening London. At this hour, it was all delivery people and workmen. None of them cared who she was unless she got in their way.

  “This is probably a different side of London than you’re accustomed to seeing, Mr. Thornbury.”

  “Indeed it is, Miss Smith. Doesn’t make it bad.”

  Jess stumbled to a halt and stared at him. “What did you call me?”

  “Miss Smith. If we’re going to keep conversing with each other, the proper address issue needed to be resolved. Since you won’t provide me with your surname”—he shrugged—“I gave you one. The other option, aside from correcting me, of course, is that you call me Derek.”

  Why, the conniving . . . she had half a mind to let him continue calling her Miss Smith, but it had been the one part of disguises she’d never managed well. No matter where she was or how she was dressed, she couldn’t remember to answer to the wrong name. “Derek it is, then.”

  “You’re a funny duck.” He chuckled softly and shook his head before taking a bite of the bread in his hand.

  Jess said nothing as she continued meandering about the area, keeping to the lesser-traveled roads as she watched for any suspicious activity. As they walked, Derek chattered, pointing out interesting architecture and where old buildings had once stood. Jess made appropriate noises and, as their safety became apparent, relaxed enough to find the conversation surprisingly enjoyable, or at least tolerable enough that she didn’t feel the need to stuff his cravat into his mouth.

  Perhaps because it was a far more pleasant conversation than the one she was going to have when she stopped stalling and took them to see the man who had sent the letter that started this adventure.

  Did he care if she showed up, or had he simply tracked her down out of a sense of honorable duty?

  Fretting about it changed nothing. It was time to act.

  As if Derek could sense the change of purpose in her shift of direction, he asked, “Are we returning to the Institution?”

  “No.” Jess almost wished they were. She’d rather break into a building than face the inquisition that awaited her. “But we are going to Pall Mall.”

  They moved into the nicest part of Mayfair along with the early coating of sunlight. The gas lanterns were being doused as they passed the gates to Carlton House, the quiet inside indicating the prince regent likely wasn’t in residence.

  Jess stumbled a bit. She didn’t much care about the regent, but what if the man she needed to see wasn’t home? What if the family had retreated to Kent or one of the other estates? As much as she wanted to delay this reunion, she really needed to know what he knew.

  Finally, she came to a halt in front of a large house. Rows of windows marched across the front, still and silent. There would be servants up, but probably not anyone else. Not that it mattered. Seeing the servants was going to be almost as bad.

  Now all she had to do was decide what to tell Derek.

  The woman was insane. Derek swallowed hard as he looked up at the house. “This is the Duke of Marshington’s residence.”

  “Yes.”

  He swallowed again, took a deep breath, and counted to five, but she didn’t expound upon her answer. Obviously they were here because Mr. Cathers had mentioned the duke owned one of the paintings, but Derek’s deductive skills stopped after that. “Do you have a plan?”

  “For what?” She didn’t glance his way, just stared up at the house.

  A wave of dizziness rolled over him and landed in his gut. She didn’t have a plan? Every move she’d made over the past few days had pointed to her being a person who always thought five steps ahead, and yet here she stood in front of the house of a man with an exceedingly dangerous reputation that went far beyond the mere political power of an old dukedom, and she didn’t have a plan?

  He took her hand in his and began walking, hauling her farther down the pavement, away from the house. The warmth of her hand jolted him from his shocked stupor, and he stared stupidly down his arm as if he couldn’t quite fathom the idea that they’d both run out without gloves.

  He’d never taken a woman’s hand without at least one of them wearing gloves.

  He dropped her hand as he stumbled to a halt, and she tripped to a stop next to him, looking amused. “What are you doing?”

  His thumb rubbed across his palm, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to retain the sensation of her skin against his or remove it. Not that it mattered. What mattered was getting away from the duke’s house until they had a plan. He dropped his grip on his own hand and resumed his path. “I’m walking. We can’t stand and stare at the duke’s house while you formulate a plan.”

  Jess fell into step beside him. “He has one of the paintings. We need to see it.”

  The chill of dread that had balled in his stomach traced down his arms and removed any lingering warmth from his palm. “So you were going to do what? Break in? Dress up as a servant?”

  “I thought I’d use the ridiculously large and ornate brass knocker and see what happened.”

  He looked up to find she’d somehow steered him on a path that had brought them right back to the front of Montgomery House, only this time they were at the door instead of across the street.

  Before he could stop her, she’d stepped up, wrapped narrow fingers around the metal ring, and slammed it against the brass plate twice. As expected in the home of upper aristocracy, the door opened almost immediately.

  Rather less expected was the man on the other side of it.

  Derek’s knees threatened to run off by themselves.

  The duke had seemed more than formidable on the two occasions that Derek had seen him across the room at a large formal function, but standing two feet away in his own doorway, wearing breeches, riding boots, and a hard glare? The man was downright terrifying.

  Jess’s brain had to be addled with desperation, the same kind that sent hopeless soldiers charging toward the enemy lines with nothing but a sword and a single shot pistol.

  Derek stepped a bit in front of her, drawing the duke’s slicing grey eyes to him. “Good morning, Your Grace. Deepest apologies for disrupting you, as it appears you are on your way out for a morning ride.”

  The duke’s mouth pressed into a firmer line. “I can delay it.”

  “Yes. Good.” Derek cleared his throat. “Splendid.”

  The duke’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. Derek pressed on, coming up with a story as he went, an action doomed to bring nothing but disaster raining down on their heads.

  “I am Mr. Derek Thornbury, an art and antiquities scholar from Oxford. It”—he coughed to try to ease the constriction in his throat—“ha
s come to the attention of my colleague and me that you are in possession of a painting of particular interest to our current, er, work. If it pleases Your Grace, we’d like to, ahem, study it.” He paused and attempted to swallow, but his mouth was so dry it simply caused an uncomfortable convulsion in his throat. “At your convenience, of course,” he scraped out before falling into terrified silence.

  “You and your, ahem, colleague?” the duke asked.

  “Yes.” Derek glanced over his shoulder to see Jess staring at him. Her face seemed expressionless, but there was some definite emotion lurking underneath that he couldn’t identify. He turned his attention back to the duke, who looked quite simply irritated. “Miss, er, Smith.”

  One eyebrow shot up as the duke settled himself more comfortably against his doorframe. “Miss Smith?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Derek was accustomed to talking to members of the aristocracy who had solicited his services. Over the years, some—such as Chemsford—had become friends. He’d never approached one on his own before, though, particularly not one with a reputation such as Marshington’s.

  The hard face and impression of power gave credence to every rumor he’d ever overheard about the man. No one knew where he’d been for almost ten years, and the speculation ranged from dead to privateering to War Office spy.

  At the moment, Derek believed every single one of them.

  Except dead, of course. That was more likely to be Derek if his heart didn’t stop trying to flee through his boots.

  “And you thought eight in the morning would be convenient?”

  No, he hadn’t, but then again he hadn’t thought he’d be knocking on a duke’s door this morning either, and if he had, he would never have dreamed the duke would answer it himself. Derek fought the urge to frown in case the duke misconstrued its meaning. Why was the duke answering his own door? “In all honesty, sir, I was expecting to converse with the butler.”

  A soft snicker drifted over his shoulder, and Derek slid his foot back a bit until it connected with Jess’s toe. Now was not the time to show amusement.

  Perhaps she was on the verge of hysterics? Had her bravado finally failed her? Should he toss her over his shoulder and make a run for it?

  A hint of amusement made an appearance on the duke’s features as well as one side of his mouth curled and his arms dropped to his sides. “How fortunate for you that I happened to be the one nearby. We can dispense with the delay my butler’s sending you away would have caused.”

  The duke looked Derek up and down with a brief glance and then aimed his gaze over Derek’s shoulder at what little could be seen of Jess before he continued to speak. “Let me make sure I understand this. I am supposedly in possession of a painting that has you and your, er, art colleague excited enough to be up and dressed and about London at an hour reserved for those who actually toil for a living or want a good run on their horses before the parks clog with displays of the latest finery.”

  “That would be the sum of it, yes,” Derek said with a gulp.

  “I had no idea my family had procured anything of any value beyond eliciting jealousy among their peers. Do come in.” He pushed the door open wider and stepped to the side.

  As Derek stepped inside, a sort of calm slid over him. This situation was feeling more like what he was accustomed to. The introduction had been unorthodox, but he could now continue the conversation as he normally would. A deep breath filled his lungs for the first time since he’d rolled through Jess’s doorway this morning.

  The door shut behind them with a click that echoed through the tall, marble-floored front hall. Derek turned to see the duke leaning against the portal, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “Now, Jess, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here and why you’re letting this man risk an aneurysm of the heart trying to protect you?” He tilted his head, all attention on the little blond woman staring mutinously back at him. “Or should I call you Miss Smith?”

  Bright color appeared on Jess’s cheekbones, and her body lost a bit of its tension as her shoulders slumped. The fire Derek had grown accustomed to didn’t disappear, though. Her teeth were clenched together as she glanced from Derek to the duke.

  “You know him?” Derek asked, sidling closer to her, ready to step between them if need be. Although there wasn’t much he could do. They were in the house of a powerful duke. He could do whatever he wanted and everyone would believe his tale.

  “Oh yes,” the duke said, showing no sign of the threatening animosity from moments earlier. In fact, a wide smile slashed through the shadows. “Didn’t she tell you? She was once my wife.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jess narrowed her eyes at the man who had not only saved her life but become one of her only friends in the years after she’d lost her family. She didn’t much appreciate his joke, even though she’d made the exact same one the first time she’d met the woman who was now his duchess. This situation was completely different.

  Yet, as difficult as that joke was going to be to explain, it lightened a bit of Jess’s dread. She’d expected his first words to be scolding or indifference, not teasing.

  Seeing Ryland again had overwhelmed her with unexpected emotion so deep it had momentarily frozen her in place. That was the only reason she’d allowed Derek to step in front of her. He deserved a measure of respect for doing that.

  She’d rather expected him to run across the street and hide behind a lamppost the moment she’d knocked on the door. That he hadn’t was the only reason Jess wasn’t doing so herself.

  That, and the fact that Ryland was blocking the door.

  “We weren’t really married,” Jess said, hoping the impossible, that she could keep Derek from producing a plethora of new questions about her past. When Jess had made the statement to the future duchess, Ryland had already decided he wanted to marry her and was going to have to tell her everything anyway.

  Jess had no romantic notions toward Derek. Yes, it had been noble of him to try to protect her, and the sensation of his ungloved hand in hers had been far from appalling, but she didn’t want his attentions.

  One side of Ryland’s mouth kicked up. “In some countries, if both parties declare themselves married in the hearing of another person, it’s legally binding. I could be committing bigamy right now.”

  Ryland had always had a bit of a dry sense of humor, but it would seem the quiet life of a retired spy had honed it. Still, it wasn’t like him to display it in front of a stranger.

  A glance at Derek revealed his avid curiosity had been awakened. She wouldn’t be getting out of this without a full explanation. Unless she could distract him with something else.

  “It was the middle of a war,” she said, directing her gaze back to Ryland. “I doubt anyone is going to knock on your door to enforce an obscure marriage law. Besides, even if we could prove which government jurisdiction we were under at the time, none of the options exist anymore.”

  Getting out of France all those years ago hadn’t been as easy as hauling Jess out of the floor. Afraid of what would happen if anyone knew Jess’s true identity, they’d stayed hidden in the countryside for a month, posing as a strange and awkward husband and wife. Then they’d created a story about Ryland finding Jess in a trunk at a French encampment. They’d been a bit better at the ruse a couple of years later when they used it to gather information on one of Napoleon’s generals.

  As ridiculous as it sounded, it was at least a quick explanation. Her royal lineage and her years spent spying for England might take a bit more time. She spared a look in Derek’s direction, only to find him looking far from confused. He understood—or had at least drawn some conclusions—if the look he darted from Jess to Ryland and back again and the paleness of his countenance were anything to go by.

  “I think he may need to sit down,” Jess murmured. She wrapped her arms around one of Derek’s, prepared to guide him gently to the floor if everything became too much for him. She wouldn’t blame him. Fainting held a cert
ain appeal right now.

  Ryland nodded toward a nearby door. “You’re welcome as far as my drawing room until my curiosity is satisfied.”

  The drawing room was good. The large room was full of antiquities and art that could distract Derek. They might even hold his attention long enough for Jess to keep this conversation with Ryland at least a little bit private.

  Derek’s eyes didn’t wander about the room, though, as she helped him to a sofa. They stayed glued on her.

  No private conversation, then. She cleared her throat and turned away from him. “I’m sure Price will let me explore the place.” Ryland’s enormous ex-smuggler of a butler had always found Jess amusing. He wouldn’t throw her out.

  “Price is no longer employed here,” Ryland said with a smug half-smile.

  As much as Jess wanted to ask where Price had gone, she didn’t. Ryland was hardly going to offer her information. Unless, of course, it was in trade for something he wanted to know.

  “Jeffreys.” Jess had been close to Ryland’s valet, too. “He likes me.”

  “He’s angrier at you than I am. I believe he’s preparing the boiling oil as we speak.”

  Probably true. “Your wife, then. She’ll do anything to be rid of me sooner.”

  Ryland burst out laughing. It was a sound Jess hadn’t heard much, even though she’d known the man for more than ten years. He’d become her mentor, teacher, brother, at times even something resembling a father, and eventually a friend, yet she’d rarely heard him laugh like that. There wasn’t much to laugh about when trying to survive while finding the thing that just might save your country from annihilation. When his laughter subsided to a chuckle, he said, “You might be surprised. Motherhood has made her a rather protective hen.”