“Good.” Angel looked down at gloved hands and spread his fingers wide. After a deep breath, he closed his fists again and looked up at Jones. “Good.”
He seemed so vulnerable just then, in a way Jones had never seen even when Angel was falling in love with Lilias. It wasn’t fear, precisely. Nor was it worry or sadness. It was a strange combination of all of it.
Which was why a spy should never fall in love.
“Truly, Angel, I’m sure Lilias could protect herself well enough.” Jones decided he wanted a brandy to lighten the atmosphere and strode to the decanter. “She almost brought down a trained assassin, after all.” He gestured to the golden liquid, then stopped.
He was offering Angel his own brandy.
Angel didn’t hesitate, but simply nodded his acceptance. “She probably would have bested the bastard if it hadn’t been raining and dark. More, she was wading through the Serpentine. At least she wasn’t wearing skirts that day.” Angel snorted and his scorn seemed to bring everything back to recognizable ground. “Well, if you do visit, she’ll stop pestering me. She’s unbearable with all this inactivity, and if you’re not careful, you’ll be her next project.”
“Project?” Jones handed a snifter to Angel, who swirled it and sniffed before sipping.
“Every day it’s something new. New drapes for the morning room, folding gowns for the baby, searching for the perfect set of tin soldiers our child won’t be able to play with for years yet.” Angel shrugged his shoulders and pushed away from the desk to study the shelves. “Lilias is bored now that the physician has restricted her activity and she can’t ride or fence or—in her words—have any fun. By the way, where are my field glasses? These are all yours.” Angel was frowning as he studied the sets lined up on the shelves.
Jones shifted uncomfortably, the muscles inside his belly and chest going tight. He’d made a decision he had no right to make, surely. “I put your pair upstairs. In your old—in your room.”
“Oh good. I rather like that pair. I’ll have to collect them before I leave.” Angel tossed an easy smile over his shoulder that made the tight muscles inside Jones relax. “We both know I’ll not be staying in this house for many more nights, Jones. I’ll need to visit, but with Lilias and the babe—no. I’ll not be here.”
It was what Jones feared. Not the lack of a roof, as he could rent a room easily enough with his pay and the money he had diligently set aside. But this house, Angel’s bachelor quarters, had been a mainstay in his life. It had been the only safe place for too many years.
“I can begin moving out my items tomorrow, my lord, if you intend to rent or sell soon.” The very words drove a hole in Jones’s heart, and he hoped it did not show on his chest.
“What are you talking about?” Angel spun his body around, his eyes wide, mouth turned down in a frown. “I’m not selling or renting this house.”
“But if you’re no longer staying here, then it’s not needed. Training has moved to other locations.” He supposed the house had outlived its usefulness.
“It has, but you’re still living here, aren’t you? I’m not selling it as long as you’re willing to stay.”
Pride roiled in Jones’s chest. “You don’t need to pay for me. I can find my own place.”
“Why the hell would you? This house is ideal. The locks, the training room, the weapons store.” Angel spread his arms wide, as though by doing so he could gather up the entire house and all its contents. “You’ve lived here almost as long as I have, longer now that I’ve moved to my family’s townhouse. It isn’t my place any longer, Jones. It’s yours. And we may still need it in the future.”
“I can’t pay for the upkeep,” Jones said flatly. “My salary doesn’t run to this kind of house, and I won’t allow you to pay for it.”
“The service will pay for it.”
Hope could wound as much as drive fear into a man’s heart, he decided, dropping into a chair. “What?”
“Sir Charles approved it months ago. The house is yours to use, Jones, as long as you’re working with the service. After that, it reverts to me. But Sir Charles—well, let’s just say he wants the spy hunting his spies to be happy.”
He should not feel such relief and joy. It was only a house, one that didn’t belong to him. But he could remember the night Angel had brought him here, and that he’d been warm, well-fed, and comfortable for the first time in his life.
“We should use it for more training, then.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. He didn’t want to have other people underfoot, along with all the emotional maintenance and bickering that required appeasing. But emptiness was a waste for a building such as this. “I’ve no experience in training, but we have space for it.”
“Jones.” Angel’s voice held more command than Jones had heard this past year. “It’s yours, for the foreseeable future. There may be training required at some point, but for now, the space is yours.”
Jones looked at the shelves, at the instruments he’d laid out there. He thought of the training room and the hours he’d spent honing his skills, the room he’d slept in and made his own after his training was complete.
The townhouse was a gift, for however long it lasted.
“Take it, Jones.”
It wasn’t that simple. A man didn’t accept gifts of this magnitude. But—
But.
“For now.” Jones looked up into Angel’s amber eyes and felt twin spires of gratitude and elation. Only Angel would know what this gift meant. “For now.”
Chapter Seven
Cat set her palm on the handle of the study door, but did not turn it. She simply let her hand rest there a moment as she stared through the midnight gloom at the inlaid rectangular panels of the closed oak door.
She had heard what the ruffian in the street had said that afternoon. She was leverage so the “gov’nor ” would fall in line.
There was only one man in her life who could be called gov’nor. With no father, no brother, there was only one person close enough to her, in theory, that she could be used to such advantage.
What was her uncle doing that a lowborn thug had been dispatched to keep him in line? In truth, she didn’t care what happened to Wycomb—unless it touched her lands and her people. Her abduction would most definitely put Ashdown Abbey and all the rest at risk.
She turned the door handle without any conscious connection of brain to hand. Still, the handle moved, the door opened. Her decision was made.
Her father had commanded this room before his death, though Wycomb claimed it for his own when he’d moved into the townhouse, stating until there was a new lord, he would see all would be kept in order there. Coals burned in the grate beside the desk, banked beneath a thick layer of ash for the evening. The low, red glow and occasional lick of flame emitted enough light for her to recognize furniture, though it did not penetrate the shadows covering the dozens of shelves ringing the perimeter of the room.
She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness and her bare feet warm themselves on the thick rug. It wasn’t difficult to see her uncle’s things scattered over her father’s desk once she studied the play of firelight over wood and paper and glass. Correspondence, a pair of spectacles Wycomb rarely used but refused to discard, an inkwell and quill.
More important, somehow, the room was losing the scent of her childhood. It had once smelled of old leather and dust from ancient books, of horse and out-of-doors. All of the things her father had loved. Now the room smelled of her uncle’s bay rum cologne and—she sniffed. No, it was not just her uncle she scented. Some semblance of out-of-doors and man remained, but it was something not quite her uncle, nor her father.
Perhaps because the room did not belong to either of them.
Sadness welled, but she pushed it away. She had a task to accomplish.
Cat moved to the sturdy desk, a great affair with heavily carved legs and a dark finish. Family legend said the desk belonged to the first Mary Elizabeth Fran
ces Ashdown, but Cat did not believe it. Either way, her fingers curled around an elaborate brass handle and she drew out the top right drawer. She couldn’t see the contents clearly, but she had no desire to light a candle and draw attention to herself. Reaching for the poker, she shifted aside the ashes in the fireplace behind the desk and stirred the logs to let off enough light to see by.
The drawer was filled with quills, paper, and various sundries. Nothing of any use. A snap and the drawer was closed again. She reached for the next one—then her hand jerked on the cold metal as a sound ricocheted through the silent house.
Footsteps in the hall. Hard and sharp, as if their maker were ready to poke holes in the parquet floor. She knew the beat of those steps. She also knew every squeak of wood and shift of the house, and precisely where her uncle walked in the hallway.
Panic streaked through her. He was nearly to the door.
Her gaze darted around the study, searching for the best location to hide. There were chairs and curtains, but none of these would be big enough.
The door pushed open, hinges silent and well-oiled.
There was no more time.
Cat dropped to her knees behind the desk, grateful the rug masked the thud. Hoping her uncle wouldn’t sit at the desk and discover her with a swift kick, she scrambled into the nook between the massive drawers propping up each side of the desktop.
And came eye to eye with a man who had no business being beneath the desk.
Cat drew in a lungful of air to scream, but the man covered her mouth with his hand. An arm banded around her waist, drawing her forward in a rush of linen nightshift.
She could not breathe. The arm was too tight about her waist, the wide hand over her mouth. Fear clogged her lungs. She was pressed against the man, against a strong, hard side, and though coals in the fireplace shed enough light she could see, panic blinded her.
Her uncle’s footsteps drew close, driving two holes of terror into her. Terror of Wycomb, and of the stranger.
Cat stared at the man beneath the desk.
Jones.
That was the single name her savior had given her.
Her mind wheeled and swooped and spun, trying to connect all the facts. The street, the ruffian, Jones—who was now here in her home—hiding.
Yet so was she.
Wycomb moved more loudly than usual, his feet shifting swiftly over rug, wood floor, then rug again as he crossed the room.
Trapped against Jones, Cat could only look at him. Her heart drummed against her rib cage, loud enough Jones would surely hear. She was practically on his lap, the structure of his coat pressing against her skin through the thin linen. His ungloved hand was still over her mouth—warm, but dry and strong. Also very male and foreign. She wriggled against the arm holding her in place and contemplated biting the hand covering her mouth.
He shook his head once, sharply, his message clear enough.
Don’t move. Don’t speak.
Wycomb’s polished boots appeared in the opening beyond the desk. Tassels still slipping over the surface, the footwear planted themselves right in front of her. A clink sounded as a candle was set down on the desk above, throwing an additional glow to the space beneath the desk.
She should scream, loudly, but then Wycomb would know she was there. He would ask why she’d been in the room, why she was hiding beneath the desk.
With him. The stranger. Jones. The very man she had not immediately revealed.
She was doomed. It was too late; she could not explain her behavior.
Cat stared into Jones’s eyes. They were dark, haunted by the flickering shadows from the glowing coals nearby, and focused on her face. The rough pad of his thumb stroked once against her cheek, leaving a sensitive trail along her skin.
Strong brows rose in question.
Conscious of the shoosh of papers above, of the tassled Hessians crowding the opening, Cat nodded her head, slowly, so Jones would understand she would not scream. A moment passed, his hand still pressed against her mouth. Then it fell away, and with it a sense of warmth.
But he did not otherwise move. Her nightshift pooled around them, Wycomb’s boots whispered against the carpet, and still, Jones did not move. He only looked at her, evaluated her.
Oh yes. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see he was thinking.
But so was she.
They were very close. His leg pressed against hers, an arm still circled her waist, hot on her skin with nothing between them but her nightshift. She could smell some combination of man and fresh air. It was drugging, that scent of his.
She jerked as a drawer above opened. The underside wood was pale and unfinished, nothing like the deep glossy brown of the rest of the desk.
Jones also studied the drawer, but she believed perhaps he was listening more than looking. His eyes were narrowed, his head tilted slightly to one side. He looked intelligent, and not the least bit like a thief. Nor did he look like the savior she’d thought him in the street, with the air of watchful danger that hung about him now.
The space beneath the desk seemed suddenly to be shrinking, even as the heat rose.
The drawer above slammed shut and Wycomb muttered a curse. “It must be here.” Another drawer opened, this one to the right. Jones turned his head toward the drawer, held there, again cocked to one side. Listening. Then that drawer, too, slammed shut and Cat jumped. Jones set a hand on her arm, perhaps to steady her, perhaps to quiet her.
A small piece of paper dropped onto the coals in the fireplace just beyond the desk. Jones surged forward as though he intended to burst from their hiding place. His fingers tightened on her arm, pressing against her skin. But it was too late for whatever Jones wanted. Wycomb’s hand came into view, the poker he held shoving the paper into the coals.
In seconds, there was nothing left but glowing ash.
Wycomb’s Hessians disappeared, leaving only two oblong imprints in the thick rug. Cat let out a long, nearly silent breath as her uncle’s footsteps faded across the room. Another moment and his boots sounded in the front hall, then a quiet opening and closing of the door leading to the street.
Wycomb had left the townhouse at nearly three in the morning. Which left her alone with Jones.
She twisted away, expecting him to tighten his grip. But his arm loosened, leaving behind nothing but quickly fading heat.
“Wait, please.” His voice was pitched low and held neither command nor plea, but a confident steadiness that calmed her racing heart. “Only a few minutes, as he may return.”
“We’re simply to sit here under the desk?” she whispered.
“Yes.” She couldn’t decide if she should laugh at Jones for suggesting it, or herself for agreeing with him. They didn’t want to be caught now.
It was also disconcerting to realize she had become they.
Jones was not an ally of her near-abductor or he would not have saved her. He was not an ally of Wycomb’s, or he would not be hiding beneath the desk.
Which meant he was the closest thing to an ally she had.
“Well.” Drawing in a deep breath, she murmured, “Hello again, Mr. Jones.”
Chapter Eight
“My lady.”
He looked at her upturned face, at the cheekbones highlighted by the glow of the coals. Authority and dignity angled her chin. Lady and haute ton were all but visible in the baroness’s flawless skin. Her hair, though tied at the nape with a ribbon, was free to riot down her back.
He had been right. Banked flames.
“Why are you here? I am not so foolish as to believe in coincidence.” Baroness Worthington whispered her question into the semi-darkness beneath the desk, accusation rather than fear edging her words.
“Neither am I.” He raised his brows. “It is interesting to make your acquaintance again under these circumstances.”
“Mm.” The sound she made was combined irritation and disbelief, but she did not argue. She might not have revealed his presence to Wycomb, but she was al
so hiding.
Which begged the question, why?
As silence spread its quiet, waiting wings around them, Jones slid his gaze to the nearby fireplace. Delicate ash clung to burnt wood, lightly waving in the air as though some unseen breath moved it. Disappointment gathered beneath his breastbone, then faded away. The document was lost, and there was no benefit to dwelling on its contents. It was enough to know Wycomb would enter his study in the early hours of the morning to burn it.
“Are we finished under the desk? I would like to stand, please. My legs are aching.” There was a dry humor to her words, and he wondered if she were amused by their situation. Certainly the two of them hiding beneath a desk, one after the other in order to avoid discovery, would be comical to witness.
“It’s probably safe.” Etiquette warred with protection in his mind, as he debated allowing her to leave the cubbyhole in advance as a lady should, or leaving before to ensure her safety.
She did not wait for his direction. She solved the dilemma by shifting to her hands and knees amid the swish of linen.
“This is so odd,” the baroness muttered as she crawled from beneath the desk. Her nightshift caught beneath her knees and she wrestled to free the fabric. He was treated to the most delightful pulling and stretching of thin linen over her bottom. “It’s also embarrassing,” she finished.
“I’m finding the view enjoyable.” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. It was the most ungentlemanly comment he could make. Surely she would see, with a single statement, that he was nothing but a boy from the streets.
“I beg your pardon?” On her hands and knees, the baroness turned to look over her shoulder at him. She narrowed her eyes, but did not move. That lovely bottom stayed in front of him. Taunting him.
“My apologies, my lady.”
She scooted out from beneath the desk, movements quick and sharp.
“My words were inexcusable.” He did not look anywhere but into her eyes as he crawled from beneath the desk, refusing to allow his gaze to stray to any other part of her anatomy.
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 4