The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  He hoped it would put her at ease and make him feel less like a clod.

  “It was.” But she did not sound panicked or prudish, only drew in a long breath and let it out again. “You should not say such things.”

  “No, my lady.”

  But time mattered, so he unfolded himself to his full standing height, leaving her sitting on the study floor and looking up at him. She hesitated, then began to struggle to her feet.

  “Please, allow me.” He spoke softly, holding out a hand and hoping she would not be so disappointed by his lack of finesse as to refuse his offer of assistance.

  She stared at his hand with an expression he could not read. He looked down, expecting to see something frightening or strange attached to him, but he saw only his hand, gloveless to ease his search. It was not smooth or elegant as a man of her station’s would be, but wide, with blunt fingers and calluses.

  Still, she set her hand in his and let him assist her to stand. Soft and smooth skin moved against his hand with none of the roughness marking his own flesh. He wondered if she could feel his base birth through his very skin.

  Then she was standing and he let go of her hand.

  “Does your uncle often burn items in the fireplace?”

  “No. Yes.” A long, heavy sigh filled the space between them. “I can’t be certain. Why is it important?”

  “Mm.” He squinted at the fireplace and saw that a corner of the paper Wycomb had dropped into it had fallen well outside the coals. There would likely be nothing of note on such a scrap, but he could not ignore it. He bent over the coals, searching between flame and shadows.

  From behind him, he heard a soft voice full of command. “I have waited quite long enough for an explanation, Mr. Jones, considering our previous encounters.”

  “There is no need to call me Mr. Jones. Just Jones will be acceptable.”

  “Very well, Jones, I would like the truth.” She sounded more suspicious than she had before, but she bent over as well so they stared at the fireplace in tandem.

  He turned only once from his task to study the curve of her cheek and the long, slim line of her neck as she looked into the fireplace. Setting aside any thought of how the light glowed on her skin, he went back to his task. Reaching toward the edge of the hearth, he retrieved what was left of the document and studied the charred edge.

  She peered at the small scrap in his hand. “What does it say?”

  “Nothing. It is blank.” Jones slipped the fragile paper into his pocket to examine carefully later. He looked down into her pretty face, at the arched brows and serious mouth. “What now, my lady?”

  She did not move but stood before him, face drawn and concerned, body taut with worry. “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I.”

  When she inhaled and straightened, he did the same. They simply stared at each other, with nothing but the hiss of coals and sound of breathing between them.

  Finally, the baroness said softly, “You aren’t a very good thief.”

  “Apparently not.” A smile tugged at his lips, though he chose not to free it. “Neither are you. I wasn’t the only person caught.”

  “True, I suppose.” The baroness shifted uncomfortably, drawing her shoulders in. He imagined the creamy skin over her cheekbones would be beautifully flushed. “It cannot be coincidence that you are on Park Lane, then again on the street to rescue me, and now here in my home. I know my uncle, Lord Wycomb, is involved in something dishonest—or at least suspicious—or I would not have been almost abducted. But leaving me with no information places me at risk. I cannot allow that.”

  It was possible she was an ally of her uncle’s, or perhaps a pawn. Perhaps she was innocent. Circumspection, then.

  “I’m looking for information about your uncle’s activity.” He cocked his head and gestured to the desk, with its drawers she had searched not long before. “Much like yourself, I believe.”

  “‘Information’ sounds ominous.” Curiosity rang in her tone along with a certain satisfaction, as though her own thoughts were proved correct. But there was no surprise on her face or in her voice. “What kind of information?”

  “About your uncle. I believe he may be”—Jones paused, searching for words that would not overly alarm her, nor provide too many details—“experiencing some difficulties. I would like to know what they are.”

  “Why?” The baroness breathed in slowly, then out again. Her nightshift swirled about her ankles so that it came alive in the half light.

  “I work for a group of gentlemen who have an interest in determining whether your uncle is acting within the confines of the law.” He chose his words carefully. “Though occasionally unorthodox, they are within the confines of the law themselves so there is nothing to fear from them.”

  “Hm.” Her eyes narrowed, displeasure at his answer clear on her face.

  “What were you doing in here?” he asked, flicking his gaze toward the desk. “What were you searching for?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Anything that might indicate what he was doing and if the barony is at risk.” She let out a frustrated sound, then gestured toward the fire, then the drawers. “I have a feeling you are better at this than I. Don’t let me stop you.”

  He paused, considered her words. “Well played, my lady,” he said softly. He could not force her to leave while he concluded his search, and if he left now she would certainly continue hers and might find evidence he needed.

  “I rather thought so.” The smile she flashed was satisfied and well pleased.

  There was little left for him to search in any case. He had been nearly through the desk when the baroness had stepped into the study. All that was left were secret partitions.

  Jones tugged at his sleeves, pulling up the cuffs before beginning a methodical search of the last drawer Wycomb had opened. It was difficult to pretend the baroness was not standing only a few steps away, watching carefully with eyes the color of a tropical butterfly. Still, training won out over the hum beneath his skin and he ran his fingers across the inside of each drawer, searching for a spring or lever.

  “Are you looking for a hidden compartment?”

  Jones spared a moment to admire her quick mind. She was most definitely not a fool. “Yes, but I believe Wycomb just emptied any such space.”

  “Hm.” A quick glance revealed she was studying his every movement. But she also seemed to be thinking carefully. “If we are both looking for information regarding my uncle, perhaps we should join forces.”

  His fingers stilled in their path across the underside of the desk, then resumed with renewed speed. “No.” His mind was also moving with renewed speed.

  “I want to know whatever you know.”

  “That is not possible. What I know is only suitable for my superiors.”

  “Superiors.” She held herself still and though her face did not change expression, he knew her mind was spinning and whirring. Finally, after a moment of intense thought, her lips curved up in a sly smile. “And what I know?”

  “You?” He paused, fingers hovering over the tiny spring he knew would open the space Wycomb had already emptied. She had a point, he decided, moving again to locate the spring and press it lightly. Satisfaction welled in him as a small panel opened along the front of the drawer. It had taken longer than he’d expected to find it, but Wycomb had been a spy for as many years as Jones had been alive.

  The baroness gasped and bent over to peer closely at the drawer. She brought with her the delicate scent of violets and vanilla, and he leaned closer to bring it into his lungs and his memory.

  Her hand slid over wood, bumping against his lightly. She paused, fingers resting on his own. Holding. She looked at him quickly, lips parted. “My apologies,” she murmured, her gaze not leaving his.

  “It is nothing.” But her touch was much more. Soft, stirring.

  Long fingers slid away again as she searched the drawer.

  “It’s empty,” she said after a momen
t, her mouth turning down in disappointment. “It seems you were correct. My uncle has removed everything.”

  Jones stayed silent as he slid the panel closed again and shut the drawer. A space recently relieved of its secrets still contained knowledge. In short, Wycomb had a secret worth keeping, much as he had a document worth burning.

  She must have realized that fact as well, as her body straightened and quivered as though she were a plucked bow.

  “I want to know what he is doing,” she said sharply.

  Chapter Nine

  She had believed Wycomb was involved with unsavory creditors or a business arrangement that soured, predicaments solved by money and time. But this no longer appeared to be true. There was more, much more, or Jones would not be searching the room on behalf of his “superiors” and Wycomb would not be hiding documents behind a secret panel.

  Gripping the edge of the desk, Cat let fear and panic run their course, the emotions solidifying inside to form a ball in her stomach. When it had hardened, when she could control both, she looked back at Jones.

  A stranger. Handsome with his lean features and sharp cheekbones, even with the serious expression he always seemed to wear. She could not trust him, but her options were limited at the moment.

  “Am I in danger?” she asked, letting the darkness quiet the words. “Real danger?”

  “I do not know, my lady. Not for certain.” He shoved his hands into his breeches pockets, and though she heard regret in his voice, she did not see it in his broad shoulders or resolute face. “I’ve already taken some measures to protect you.”

  “Measures?” The word felt comforting, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “A watch.” Jones paused, looking around the study at the combination of her uncle’s and father’s possessions. “When you leave this house, I or one of my watch will follow.”

  “Your watch.” Not a guard, but a watch. It was not a guarantee of any protection. “What of my uncle?”

  “If you were in danger from Wycomb, my lady, he would have struck earlier.” His face was very grim, the full lips turned down and brows angling in. “I doubt there is concern from that quarter at present.”

  He sounded as though he were attempting to convince himself as much as her. In the end, though, they both knew there was no protection from her guardian inside the walls of Worthington House.

  “And the men he has dealings with?” That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Where and when would she be safe? “The one who abducted me on the street?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I could leave.” Whirling away, Cat stalked the shadowed corners of the room. She needed the privacy those shadows would afford her, if only to mask the burgeoning terror in her. “I could hide. I own hundreds of acres with cottages and villages. I could go anywhere in the world.”

  “You could hide.” He didn’t disagree and his voice held no reproach. Nor did he admit doing so might alert her uncle, though she guessed he understood that as well as she.

  She felt the censure nonetheless—not from Jones, but from herself. She could not run. Doing so might protect her life in the short term, but it would not protect her lands or people, nor would it end whatever was happening here. And of course, Wycomb had every right as her guardian to force her to return, should he find her.

  Staying was the only choice she could make.

  “I have no method of defense, Jones. Even if I should take to carrying a knife or a pocket pistol in my reticule, I have no experience using them.” She turned to face him as she came to terms with that. When she could be certain her shoulders would be straight and her chin could be lifted, she did so and looked through the gloom toward Jones. “But I am not defenseless. I have my own weapons. My eyes and ears, my knowledge of his habits and access to his life within these walls.”

  Jones was silent as he leaned over to stir the coals again. Something caught and flared in the fireplace so that the room began to glow more brightly. When he stood, the light gilded wide shoulders and a strong jaw. He still did not speak, but only watched her, waiting for her to finish.

  “Jones.” Cat said it decisively, knowing that if she made this pledge, she would have to stand by it. “I will give you any information I can learn or discover in exchange for what you know.”

  “No.” The word did not come out of his mouth harshly, but she flinched nonetheless. “I cannot make that bargain, my lady, nor will I lie to you about it.”

  Her inhale was very, very controlled. She restrained any impulse to blurt out an answer, choosing her response carefully. “What is your offer, then, Jones? Because I will not provide what I know without reciprocation.”

  “I will tell you as much as I can.”

  “That is not good enough. Not nearly good enough.” The moment hung suspended in time, their gazes piercing the pale light to meet.

  “I will give you the information that will keep you safe, and more where I am able.” He pushed away from the desk to stand straight again. “I will not do anything to subject you to danger, and I will protect you with my life if need be.”

  Cat could not think of more to ask from him, nor could she accept such statements as false, as this man had shielded her once already.

  Would it be enough?

  “I appreciate that you did not lie or make a promise you did not intend to keep.” That would have to hold her, she supposed. “But I have much to protect. I will not leave my lands, my title, and my people in jeopardy.”

  “And yourself?”

  “Protecting my life is what will protect the rest.” She ran a finger along the edge of the drawer with the secret compartment. “How will I contact you, Jones?”

  “You cannot. You will have to wait for me to find you.”

  “When?”

  “As often and as safely as I can.”

  It did not seem like enough, but she chose to accept it for now. It was too late, too unsafe, to continue here. She took a step backward toward the door, her nightshift billowing around her, and she suddenly realized she had been wearing next to nothing during their exchange. The very idea heated her skin in an oddly delicious way. “I suppose I should say good night.”

  “I suppose so.” He smiled, his lips tipping in a way that was intimate and amused all at once. “I bid you farewell, my lady.” He bowed, quick and efficient, without flourish despite his flowery words, then turned toward the windows.

  When he twisted the lock and pushed open the casement window, Cat realized what he must be doing.

  “Lock the window behind me,” he said, before slipping over the sill into the darkness beyond and lowering himself a few inches.

  Cat strode toward the opening and looked out. His face, pale in the light of the slivered moon, seemed to hang suspended in the night. Squinting into the darkness, she saw his fingers scrabble along the brick and stone, his boots wedged against the lip at the top of the window of the floor below. She curled her fingers around the edge of the windowsill.

  “You are three levels above the ground!” she whispered as he began to scale the side of the building.

  “Lock the window behind me.”

  As she watched, heart in her throat, he pressed himself against the brick. A moment passed, then another. He seemed to draw from some well of quiet stillness before he moved his feet again and began a steady descent.

  “Good night.” Her whisper floated into the darkness.

  She wondered if he could hear her.

  Chapter Ten

  “Thank you very much for the dance, my lord.” Cat sent her partner a warm smile and relinquished his arm as they reached the edge of the dance floor. She tried hard not to look over her shoulder for Wycomb. Observing without being observed was more difficult than she’d expected. “It was a lovely idea for the countess to host this impromptu ball.”

  Her partner, a fourth son who—however nice—would not be a proper choice as husband for the Baroness Worthington, bowed and looked at her with hopeful calf’s eyes
. “I’m grateful I had a chance to dance with you, my lady.”

  Perhaps coming from a dashing rake of the ton, the words would have had a different meaning. From this agreeable, eager fourth son, they were simply sweet.

  “Very kind of you.” Cat inclined her head, quite aware that if she showed him particular attention the gossips might make too much of it. “I must return to my guardian, however, as I believe we shall be leaving shortly.”

  “Of course. Please, may I escort you?” He offered his elbow, which she was honor bound to accept and did so with a pleasant smile.

  “Thank you.” She glanced around the room, gaze flitting over the dispersing dancers and the milling guests. It was ridiculous to be watching for Jones or the ruffian from the street. Neither would appear. But it was not amiss to watch Wycomb. There was surely no danger lurking here in the ballroom, but she did not intend to ignore him.

  “Is something the matter, Baroness Worthington?” The fourth son angled his head and she felt the arm tucked beneath hers stiffen. “Your, ah, grip indicates there may be a problem.”

  “No, of course not. My apologies.” She loosened her fingers and waved her other hand toward Wycomb, the painted fan she carried bumping lightly against her wrist. “My guardian is just there, deep in conversation, as per usual. Thank you for your company and the dance,” Cat said to her escort, who took his leave with a nod of his head and a nervous flick of his gaze toward Wycomb.

  Her uncle seemed particularly absorbed on this occasion. Dark brows angled fiercely down as he leaned toward his companion, a nice enough looking gentleman with clever green eyes and a face much younger than Wycomb’s.

  “Hello, uncle,” she murmured as she stepped beside him and into a pause in the conversation. “It was a most lovely country dance, and my partner was superb.”

  Wycomb did not look at her at first, but held himself still enough to impart displeasure. She heard his long, slow inhale of irritation. Then he shifted his shoulders and tilted his head just slightly to the left, as though he’d heard her but did not want to acknowledge her. It was a stance she had seen more than once, but she refused to be considered a nuisance and stayed her course.