The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Hello, Mr. Roundman. I’ve a letter to post, please.” She set the wrinkled letter, then the fee, onto the smooth wood counter separating them.

  “The Bellman would’ve been by later or tomorrow, m’dear. Or your uncle would frank it, I’m sure.” He scooped up the paper and coins, then turned away to complete the business.

  “Yes, I’m certain he would, but I enjoy the exercise.” She also didn’t want her uncle to know what she was about. Still, she couldn’t leave without buying something from one of her favorite shopkeepers, so she pointed to yards of lace draped over a cord stretched between two shelves. “May I have a length of that gorgeous lace as well?”

  “Of course, milady!” Mr. Roundman measured and cut, his large hands surprisingly delicate on the intricate lace. “Do y’know, this is straight from the Beer lace ladies in Devon, and is the very best you can buy.”

  “Is it now? I wouldn’t expect less from you, Mr. Roundman.” Cat searched her mind for details of his life, then leaned against the counter just as he had done a moment before. “And how is Mrs. Roundman?”

  “She’s well enough.” He turned away to wind the lace and called over his shoulder, “And the little ones, too.” After he’d handed her the bundle, she smiled at him.

  “Do say hello to Mrs. Roundman and the children.”

  “So I will, milady.” He grinned, showing a blank space somewhere on the left. He’d had a tooth pulled since she’d last seen him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Roundman. Now, I must return home. Good day.” She nodded, waved, and pushed open the outer door. Only to find rain pelting the street and her maid nowhere to be seen.

  Cat pressed her back against the stone building. Angling her head to keep the cold rain from her face, she searched the street. It seemed the deluge had caught everyone unawares, as those on foot were scurrying for shelter. Lightning flashed and thunder roared a moment after.

  “Brilliant.” Even if she had brought an umbrella, it would do no good in this storm.

  Water began to seep through her pelisse and she shivered, then put her hand uselessly over her head to hold off the rain. She would have to go back into the haberdashery. Already her skirts were wet and her bonnet would be completely ruined. The street had emptied of foot traffic, so she spun on her heel to return to the shop to wait out the storm.

  “Come wit‘ me, milady.” The patter of hard rain nearly washed away the hoarse whisper and she almost missed the words.

  But a knife streaked through the drops, shining dully inches from her face. It was quite noticeable, as was the patched clothing and worn cap of the ruffian.

  She was being robbed in the middle of Oxford Street.

  Chapter Five

  Panic rose up, bright and hot, so that her heart clattered against her rib cage. Her gaze focused on the knife. It seemed alive, ready to strike. She fumbled with the drawstrings of her reticule as she tried to extract it from her wrist, but her gaze did not leave the knife.

  She thrust the beaded bag at him. “Here, take my reticule.”

  He shook his head, and Cat saw nothing but a scruff of dark whiskers beneath the brim of a cap pulled low. “Come wit‘ me, milady.”

  “No, no. The money, it’s all in the reticule.” The knife was so close to her belly. She could not breathe. The blade was just there, only inches away. Rain beaded on the metal, drops swelling as large as her terror.

  “’Tisn’t the blunt I’m after,” he rasped.

  Wind gusted, lifting her skirts and whipping them around her ankles and calves. Thunder roared through the air again.

  “Then what?” She cast about the street for a rescue, but the rain had become a horizontal assault. The street was empty save for a few carriages careening through mud and manure, occupants probably focused on returning home rather than an abduction on the street.

  Where was her maid? Anyone?

  “’Tis you I’m after,” the ruffian said. Fingers gripped her upper arm hard, pressing into the flesh. He tried to push her forward, shoving his unwashed body against hers so they would move down the street.

  She balked, instinctively pushing back.

  But the knife.

  The knife.

  She felt it now, a slight pressure against her pelisse, but not a cut. There was too much fabric between it and her ribs. For now. Her mind reeled, terrified that such things could happen on Oxford Street. In daylight. But it was not daylight. The gray rain had forced an early twilight and she was alone. Which meant she could only rely on herself.

  Cat let the man pull her forward by the wrist, let him think he had her cowed. Let him become complacent. Then—

  “Bastard!” She drove her free fist into his jaw. Pain sang through her arm, mixing with rage and power.

  He’d not expected it. She saw that in his shocked eyes clear enough. The man’s head snapped back, revealing missing and blackened teeth beneath the whiskers and cap. She gasped as his knife went through the pelisse, just far enough to know she was lucky to be spared death.

  Jerking away from him, Cat stumbled over her own skirts as she tried to run. Gentlemen down the street rushed from a carriage to a club to avoid the rain. She gathered her breath for a scream, but the ruffian’s arms snagged her middle, pushing the air from her lungs before she could make a sound.

  Suddenly he was there. The man she had bumped into on Park Lane.

  His greatcoat swirled around him as he lashed out at her captor. She stumbled as the ruffian freed her unexpectedly and she went down hard on her hands and knees. Even through her gloves, she felt the sting of the pavement on her palms. Struggling past her skirts, Cat staggered to her feet.

  The man from Park Lane kicked out his foot in a fast arc. The ruffian had no chance against him—he was untrained and unskilled, that much was clear when he failed to even attempt to dodge. The foot of the man from Park Lane caught the ruffian mid jaw and he dropped to the walkway.

  Cat had half a mind to assist in some way. She leaped forward with no definite plan—and stopped short when the man from Park Lane leaned down and grabbed the ruffian by the lapels, then jerked him to his feet.

  “Who sent you?” The question was terrifying in its lack of emotion.

  “No one!” The ruffian struggled, his hands gripping the fists of her savior.

  “Don’t lie.” The man from Park Lane slammed the ruffian against the nearest wall. Once, twice. Held him there, feet dangling inches from the ground.

  Cat flinched with each hit, but did not look away. She wanted to do the same.

  “Don’t matter,” the man gasped, breath heaving as he looked up into the falling rain. “They aren’t after her. She’s just leverage, they said.”

  “What do they want?” her savior asked softly. Menacingly.

  Cat stepped forward, pushing into the driving, whipping wind, unsure exactly what she was doing. But her would-be abductor shook his head and the man from Park Lane pulled him higher off the ground. The ruffian’s feet scrabbled in the air, useless appendages against raw fury.

  “They want the gov’nor to fall in line,” the man gasped. “He’s not delivering what he promised.”

  “What did he promise?” It was another question delivered in a low, soft voice that gave Cat chills. Then it was drowned out by a crack of lightning and a roar of thunder.

  “I dunno. But—well, they don’t tell me.”

  “I see. You just do the work.” Her savior stood unmoving, greatcoat swirling about him and still holding the man in the air. “Tell them she’s not to be touched or they’ll answer to me.” With that, her savior dropped the man onto the walkway. The ruffian stumbled, recovered, and ran. In seconds, he was swallowed by the streaming gray rain.

  “I don’t understand.” Cat’s bonnet lifted in the wind, caught, and was ripped from her head. Rain pounded against her face, her body. She could barely see beyond the water clinging to her lashes and forcing her to blink. “Who are you? Who was he?”

  “I’m Jones, my lady.”
The man set a respectful finger against his bare head in introduction, as his hat had fallen somewhere in the scuffle. Water plastered dark brown hair to his skull.

  “I don’t understand what he wanted.” She shouted it above the howling wind. It nearly lifted her from her feet and pushed her straight toward the man called Jones. He caught her, arms going around her and folding her in.

  “You.” He looked down at her, eyes fixed on hers. The irises were brown—a deep, dark, rich brown, with no hint of green or gold. One of his arms fell away. The other ushered her toward the haberdashery, guiding her body with only a touch of his arm against her waist. She nearly turned into him, hoping for his arms to come back around her.

  “I don’t understand,” she shouted again into the wind as he led her against the brick building. It was not shelter, precisely, but if she pressed herself close enough to the rough surface the rain seemed less inclined to pummel her.

  And then he was there in front of her, blocking the rain so that it pounded on his back instead of on her. He leaned close, almost over her, the heavy fabric of his greatcoat cocooning her.

  The cold water on her skin heated in the strangest way. The scent of man and rain surrounded her and she breathed deep, unable to help herself.

  “I cannot guarantee they won’t try again, my lady.” He spoke so quietly, so intensely, it was almost to himself. If he had not been so close, if she had not seen his lips move, she would not have heard him above the wind and rain. But his eyes never left her face. “Do you know why he wanted to abduct you?”

  “No.” Unease rose and grew in her. She gripped his shoulders without any thought of the impropriety and felt his strength beneath the heavy greatcoat. “Do you? Tell me, what is happening?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head and pulled away from her slightly. “Go back in the shop and get warm. Then go home. I’ll follow and see he doesn’t bother you on the way.”

  “My maid—I don’t know where she has gone.” Breathless, she only stared up into the dark eyes of the stranger who had become less of a stranger in these past minutes.

  “Wait in the shop. She will find you, no doubt, when the storm is over.”

  With that the man, this Jones, left her. The rain began its relentless pounding again now that she was not protected by him. Cold pinpricks pelted her face and neck. He stood a few feet away, waiting, then he jerked his head toward the haberdashery.

  “Oh. Yes.” Her mind had gone blank. She’d heard his words, but the loss of his heat and protection had distracted her. Cat turned and ran into the shop, pulling open the door and tumbling inside. She glanced over her shoulder as the door fell closed behind her.

  Jones was already gone.

  “My lady!” Mr. Roundman exclaimed, drawing near and clucking over the state of her wetness.

  Cat heard the shopkeeper’s words, felt the drying cloth he placed around her shoulders. When her maid arrived later she was full of apologies. She had been at the window of a different shop and ducked in when the rain started. She hadn’t come out until the rain slowed.

  Cat barely heard her. Someone had tried to abduct her. Why? And what should she do?

  Jones’s words echoed in her mind.

  I cannot guarantee they won’t try again.

  Chapter Six

  Jones smoothed a hand over the worn pages of the first book he had ever purchased. He’d pored over the pages, examining every word, every brush stroke of the paintings. That mankind could learn something and share the knowledge through the printed word had been a marvel to a boy from the rookeries.

  Even a marvel to a man who had scrimped and saved and gone to bed hungry to have enough money to buy something so frivolous as a book. But this naturalist’s handbook contained a painting that had captivated him long ago. Two butterflies sharing the page, the one at the bottom had small, spotted brown wings—a sad little species compared to the brilliance glowing above.

  Morpho helenor achillaena in Latin, or as he had first read it, Lepidoptera I. Papiliones I. Nymphales VIII. Potamides C. Conspicuae d.

  He didn’t know what any of those words meant, but he knew what he saw—an exotic butterfly native to the warmer climates. The color of its wings was just as he remembered, though it had been months, perhaps a year, since Jones had last looked at the page. Those wings were a dazzling blue he’d never seen anywhere in his life. Iridescent. Incandescent. Brilliant. Luminous.

  None of those words did the color justice.

  None of those words could accurately describe her eyes.

  He had followed the baroness and the maid back to Worthington House, as promised. No one looked at them twice along the way, even though the baroness was wet and bedraggled.

  She was beautiful even then, though she looked a proper mess.

  Jones touched a fingertip to the stunning butterfly wing dancing across the page. He could only say that her eyes had been like this. So blue they sent a man’s heart soaring and his knees to the ground.

  Yet he had made a mistake.

  She had seen his face twice now. The baroness knew what he looked like, had spoken to him. He had even defended her in the street. He would not be able to hide from her easily as he investigated Wycomb.

  He supposed it did not matter now. She was already in danger. Whoever Wycomb was involved with—and whomever he had angered—knew of her.

  She’s just leverage. They want the gov’nor to fall in line.

  For a moment in the street, Jones had thought to take her away with him, to protect her. His intervention would do nothing but alert Wycomb of the investigation.

  Being among the bosom of the ton was probably the safest place for her, at least for now. The ton’s prying eyes could often be protection enough, and if she were in danger from Wycomb, he would have long ago attempted something. Still, it was time to take the next step. The gov’nor was involved in something right enough.

  “Not that book again, Jones. Don’t you think you’ve read it enough?”

  Jones stilled, his hand frozen over the wings of the butterfly. That was the voice of the only man who knew what the book meant to Jones.

  “At least I read, Angel.” He closed the book, setting his hand over the smooth leather cover for one more moment to regain his equilibrium before facing his mentor.

  “I read, too. Quite a bit, in fact.” The man facing him grinned smugly as he sat on the edge of the study desk. He crossed his legs and cocked his head, the leather thong holding his hair in a queue shifting against his back. “I read recently that a certain someone is on special assignment.” Golden brows rose. “No details were provided.”

  “No.” Jones stood, picking up the naturalist handbook to slide it back onto the bookshelves. If there was a slight pang in his chest because he had not been ready to close the cover over the blue butterfly, he was confident it didn’t show in his movement. “And I can’t tell you about it.”

  “Ah.” Angel only grinned more broadly. “One of those assignments, then. I won’t pry, but do have a care for your hide when you’re hunting one of your own. British spies aren’t stupid. More, Lilias would like you to join us for dinner in the coming weeks and I’d hate to tell her you died because you were spying on another spy.”

  “How is your lady?” Angel’s wife seemed like a more prudent topic than his current assignment.

  “She’s well, as you would know if you visited more often.” The Marquess of Angelstone’s lips curved up in a wry grin. “Which she told me to tell you.”

  “Please convey my apologies. I’ve been busy.” Guilt sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, so he rolled them to release the tension. “I’ll try to visit soon.”

  “Oh, stuff it, Jones. We all know you’re not one to sit down to a family dinner.”

  How could he when he didn’t know what family was? “Still, I should—”

  “Not be concerned.” Angel waved Jones’s future absence away with an elegant hand. “Lilias’s confinement is drawing near and she w
as simply hoping for company other than my mother and sisters-in-law.”

  “I’ll make time to see her, then.” It was a jolt, remembering that the woman who fought on the fields of Waterloo was going to have a babe. He’d seen Lilias only a few times since she’d begun to swell with child and it was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

  “There’s more, Jones.” Angel’s tawny eyes sobered, and the laughter faded from his voice. “I have to go to Italy, probably for a few weeks.”

  “An assignment?”

  “Yes, there’s an informant there who is in some trouble. With Lilias so near her time—” He broke off, breathed deep, then started again. “I know she’ll be well. She has two months yet and she is healthy. My mother and sisters-in-law are there, and the physician and midwife will attend. But…” His voice trailed off as he straightened his shoulders. “Jones, I never really thought about what fatherhood meant, until I realized I might not come back from this mission. If I don’t—”

  “You will.” Jones said it calmly, because if a spy doubted for even a moment that he would return home, then he never would.

  “I know. But if I don’t return, I need to know someone is watching out for Lilias and the child.” Angel breathed deep and looked straight into Jones’s eyes. “Will you?”

  Something burst through him, something bright and powerful. Pride, though that seemed too pale a word. Perhaps it was gratitude, except he did not deserve such an honor. “The Earl of Langford would be better suited,” Jones said, referring to another spy. A peer. A trusted friend.

  “And I know Langford will take care of Lilias, too, but he also has his own family to protect. I want someone else—someone I trust implicitly—to watch over her while I’m gone and if…Well.” Angel rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Will you?”

  He asked as if Jones didn’t owe every second of his life to the man. “Of course.”