With a twist of her wrist, Cat grabbed her dangling fan and flicked it open. Deliberately, she smiled at her uncle’s companion. “Have you tried the punch yet? It’s quite delicious.”
There would be no choice now but for Wycomb to introduce her. She nearly smiled at her uncle, but decided it would be baiting a predator. Still, a lady could always employ her social weapons.
“Baroness Worthington,” Wycomb said smoothly, though she heard the underlying impatience beneath the proper introduction. “May I present the Marquess of Hedgewood?”
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” The marquess smiled and bowed, his eyes as amused as the lips that curved up as he spoke. “My apologies, we were discussing business. But there is surely no business so important as to forget your loveliness.”
She nearly laughed at the platitude, but it was so typical of these gatherings she easily dismissed it. Cat extended her hand and let the marquess bow over it. “Lord Hedgewood.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of trying the punch, but I shall make certain I do. I believe there are additional beverages to be had. Anything I should try, particularly?” He cocked his head, seemingly prepared to consider her answer. His eyes were still twinkling at her and she wondered if they shared a joke Wycomb wasn’t part of. It certainly seemed so.
She pursed her lips. He was rather charming, this marquess. “I would suggest the pink champagne, but stay away from the lemonade. It’s ghastly.”
“Wise advice, then. Lord Wycomb, let’s postpone our business and take advantage of the social whirl. Good evening, my lady.” He bowed once more in that short, half-amused way men did when they took their leave, as though they expected the lady to stay their departure. Cat did not, and he turned into the crowd and faded away between bright gowns and somber jackets.
“The Marquess of Hedgewood would be a good candidate for your husband, Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb nodded politely at a passing acquaintance while he spoke and did not look at her. “You would be wise to curry his favor, as he is looking for a bride.”
Unease slid over her skin as quietly as a cool breeze. “Lord Hedgewood?”
“He has all the necessary attributes. Old blood, wealth, property. His family is not as old as your own, but it is quite as good as you will get.”
She was not interested, not even the least bit, despite how charming the marquess was. Cat also knew better than to outright disagree. “I shall take your recommendation under advisement, uncle.”
“You would do well to accept it as more than a recommendation.” Wycomb turned his head to look down at her with a gaze that did not pierce her skin, but felt as though it had. Blue and cold, his eyes ranged over features tight with control. “You must marry, and soon. There is more at stake than even your considerable fortune.”
Unease gave way to discomfort, the air that had been cool on her skin turning into a chill rippling up her spine.
“I don’t understand.” Her hand tightened on the thin wooden handle of the painted fan, and she wondered if a soldier did the same on the hilt of his sword as he went into battle.
“Nor do you need to.” Wycomb angled his head and gestured to the ballroom at large, pulling every giggling female and smooth politician and charming rake into their conversation. “I have made an extensive study of those unmarried peers with wealth and lands to match your own, as well as those who will be entering society in the next few years.”
“The next few—” She choked on the words. Did he think she would marry an untested boy, simply to secure her fortune?
“You cannot wait until you are thirty-five to break the trust, Mary Elizabeth.” He looked away again, leaving her with only his profile as a method of determining what he was thinking. “There is too much uncertainty. Too much could go wrong. If you die without an heir…” He let the words trail off, and she knew it was because he assumed that blow would strike her the hardest.
So it did. If she did not have an heir, the barony and all that it held would pass out of the Ashdown bloodline to a branch so far removed there was no Ashdown blood left. In short, it would follow the way of the earldom her father had held and which could not pass to her.
“I realize I must provide an heir.” She’d known and resented it all of her life. She wanted to huff out a breath in frustration, so she inhaled and held it instead. “I don’t intend to create an heir with just anyone simply so I can secure the title. I have centuries of history to think about, both before and after my lifetime, uncle.”
“Which may not last as long as you believe, my girl,” he said softly. His hands did not touch her, but she felt imprisoned all the same. “Consider his suit,” Wycomb continued, gaze as piercing as if the cold blue had become spears. “If not him, I shall find another man for you. But consider his suit, Mary Elizabeth, to secure the future.”
“I suppose life is fragile,” she said carefully. Fighting the urge to swallow hard, Cat looked out over the laughing ton swirling around the ballroom amongst candles and sweet flowers. Perhaps the flowers were so strong they could not scent danger or fear. “Illness could strike at any moment, I know. But I’m in good health.”
“Life is still fragile, as you said.” Now he did touch her, setting his hand on her shoulder. His fingers did not vise over flesh and bone, but were soft. Yet they were no less menacing for it. More, perhaps, because he could hurt her if he chose. “Accidents happen more often than you think. A wrong step, and such an unfortunate event could happen to you.”
His voice barely carried to her beneath the strains of the violins and chatter of the guests.
The threat still echoed beneath the words.
The chill in her spine became fear, then fear became terror as she looked into very cold, steady eyes showing not a shred of compassion, nor even humanity. What had he become?
This was wrong. All wrong. An heiress did not secure a husband by threat, and no uncle threatened his niece with…she could barely think it. She would have thought it a misunderstanding.
Except this man was so much worse than she’d expected.
“Good night, Mary Elizabeth.” He bowed, a proper and elegant movement, then smiled slowly. “Do enjoy the rest of your evening, my dear. I have some people I need to speak to, but please let me know when you are in need of an escort home and I shall oblige.”
He stepped away from her as a pair of breathless young ladies ambushed Cat from either side.
“Oh, my lady, isn’t it all exciting?” One chirped, her fan fluttering near her flushed face.
“So many interesting persons this evening!” The other followed suit, her eyes sweeping across the room.
Cat looked to either side at the vapid girls fluttering about her. She was trapped in the ballroom, gooseflesh prickling her arms and fear thrumming beneath her skin.
There was no escape.
When she left this room, she would take the fear with her.
Chapter Eleven
“Your report, Jones?” Sir Charles’s command was delivered from the center of Angel’s study—now Jones’s study—rather than an official building on Crown Street.
“Sir.” Jones glanced once at the chair behind the desk. It was his seat, his study, even his townhouse now that Angel had given it to him and the service was paying for it. Perhaps Sir Charles expected him to take the chair, as Angel would have done even with his commander present.
Jones stood in front of the desk.
“As we suspected, Wycomb must be driven in part by a need for funds.” He smoothed the grubby paper he’d jotted his notes on. It had already been used once on the opposite side so he could save a few pence. “I was able to obtain information on his finances from the bank housing his accounts—”
“Indeed?” Sir Charles said dryly. He swung his greatcoat off and laid it over the back of a winged armchair. The sword cane he favored already leaned against the upholstery. There was a time Jones would have manned the door and acted as butler for such outerwear, but now he lived alone—a
nd Sir Charles chose to forgo ceremony.
“It is not difficult to enter a bank to review the ledgers, if one is of a mind to do so.” Jones held back the amused smile threatening to curve his lips. He’d had the skill as a boy and had honed it, along with the ability to know exactly how much missing gold would send up an alarm. Only now, as a grown man, he didn’t abscond with money, but information.
Not that the money didn’t call to him on occasion, but he had set that boy aside many years ago.
His hands twitched on the paper, as though their flesh recalled long ago thefts in forgotten rookeries, when he craved money nearly as much as he craved food. The only difference between the two was that one could buy the other.
“I truly don’t want to know how you do it,” Sir Charles murmured. He held out his hand and Jones set the paper into it. Sir Charles tipped it toward the window to read it. The document was little more than a mass of wrinkles in the streams of spring sunlight.
“No, sir.” He had methods that might not be considered conventional, but they suited him. He squinted at the simple script marching across the mangled paper, but recalled the information easily without reading his notes. “Wycomb was in debt. Significantly deep in debt, in fact, just a year ago.”
“And now?” Sir Charles ran his fingers down a column of numbers, paused, then let out a long sigh. “That is quite an increase in only a year.”
“Yes, sir, and without a clear direction of where the funds originated from. His few properties were heavily mortgaged and he’d lost significant income in the markets.” Jones shook his head and paced away from the desk, running his fingers absently along the bookshelves. He’d read everything in this room, marveled that one man could have so many books—and that Angel would share them with an ignorant boy. “I don’t know what other expenses Wycomb has, but his accounts have been bleeding pounds for the past few years. And as we know, spying provides little true income.”
Sir Charles slid a gaze toward Jones, speculative brows raised, as he set the paper on the desktop. “Are you asking for additional funds, Jones?”
“No, sir.” He fumbled with his coat, tugging it more securely into place as he straightened his shoulders. He knew exactly how fortunate he was to receive his salary. “Only noting that Wycomb was in debt, and espionage would not provide the income he needed to dig himself out of that deep a pit. He was close to losing his modest family estate. He was never wealthy, his family has been living on credit for generations, as they are simply a branch of a larger family and are connected to the Baroness Worthington and the Ashdowns by marriage.” Jones set his hand on the scrap of paper.
He scrubbed his thumb over the digits. They were only numbers, of course, yet numbers translated to acres and houses and farmland. To tenants and servants and others who depended on the lord. More, those numbers, acres, and tenants belonged to her. “I also found out—with a few discreet inquiries of his stable boys—that his tenants on his small estate have been leaving for years. As his financial condition worsened, they’ve begun departing in droves. They claim mistreatment.”
“Hm.” Sir Charles set his hands behind his back, rocked his barrel-shaped body back onto his heels. Jones guessed they were both remembering the Flower and Wycomb’s mistreatment of her. “The Baroness Worthington? His ward?”
The sharp snap of wood and flames ricocheted around the room as logs in the fireplace broke apart. Sparks flew, and Jones looked toward the fireplace, somehow expecting the baroness to be there.
“I believe she knows nothing of the details,” he said finally, looking at the dancing fire and thinking of the baroness’s hair. “Wycomb has not asked her for funds because she does not control them—or at least, that is how it appears. Her inheritance is in trust and what income she regularly receives quarterly would not have been enough to settle his debts, though she does receive a significant amount.”
“He would have had to approach the trustees, then.” Sir Charles walked toward the fireplace himself. Picking up a poker, he adjusted the logs so recently broken apart. The sides of his mouth turned down in a hard frown. “I wonder if that is where the income originated.”
“I don’t know. Yet.” But he could find out. “Someone paid his debts, sir. Once those were paid, Wycomb began to grow his wealth. He is flush.”
“Which means we risk his escape.”
There was no need to respond to the truth.
“I’ve set the Gents to keep watch on him.” Jones folded his notes into a small, neat square as he contemplated his answer. Slipping the paper into this pocket, he knew he would be retrieving it later. Wycomb wasn’t the only spy who enjoyed a good fire late at night.
“The Gents?” Sir Charles pursed his lips. “Good. He’s not aware of them, to my knowledge, though I can’t imagine he would notice those ragamuffins if they stood in front of him.”
“Likely not. Also, I don’t believe bringing in other agents, even on a limited basis, would be beneficial. I don’t know of any who might be working with him outside of their assigned capacities, but it is a risk I’m not ready to take.”
“Agreed.” Sir Charles prodded the wood again, the movement idly contemplative rather than managing the fire.
“Finally—” How to admit to his commander he’d been caught by the baroness? “Sir, there was an incident with Baroness Worthington. A series of incidents, in fact.”
Sir Charles carefully settled the poker into its resting place before turning to face Jones. “A series of incidents.” There was no question in the tone, only a demand for explanation.
“As I was engaging in reconnaissance, I followed Baroness Worthington to Bond Street. She was nearly abducted.”
“By whom?” he asked sharply.
“A hired lackey. He said it was to force the ‘gov’nor’ to fall in line and deliver what he’d promised.”
His commander was silent for a long, long moment. Then he softly asked, “How do you know this?”
Now for the difficult moment. “I had no choice but to act, sir. I could not allow a woman—a lady—to be abducted by a criminal.”
“No. You would not.” Sir Charles strode toward a wingback chair, picking up the greatcoat draped over the muted leather back. “But you have also revealed yourself to Baroness Worthington as well as Wycomb’s enemy.”
Jones did not speak. There was nothing to say.
“And Baroness Worthington?” his commander asked. “How did she respond?”
“Shock, as you might imagine, but she recovered well. She punched him.”
“What?”
“Punched him, right in the face.” Why that amused him, Jones couldn’t say. “The lackey never saw it coming.”
“Isn’t that interesting.” The corners of Sir Charles’s mouth quirked up. “The second incident?”
“I was discovered by Baroness Worthington while searching Wycomb’s office.” Failure tasted sour on his tongue and burned in his belly. Yet he could not have prevented it from occurring.
Nor was he certain he would have, if he could.
“Discovered.” The many capes of Sir Charles’s greatcoat slipped over the chair back as its owner deliberately, slowly, set it back down. “This is no small incident, Jones. She could compromise the entire investigation. This entire office,” he said softly.
Sir Charles was right—and worse, he did not yet know of the bargain Jones had struck with the baroness. Jones squared his shoulders, ready to accept both blame and responsibility.
“Sir, she was searching the office herself, looking for evidence of what Wycomb is doing. I had been doing the same. Wycomb entered the office and she discovered my hiding place. I—” He broke off when Sir Charles’s hands gripped the back of the chair, fingers turning white.
“I beg your pardon?” his commander bit out. “Wycomb nearly discovered you both?”
“I have provided her with as little information as possible, and she has agreed to assist in the investigation.” It was not an answer to Si
r Charles’s question, but there was no answer that could explain the circumstances. Mentally flailing for purchase on the slippery slope leading to discipline, he squared his shoulders. “I believe she will be an asset.”
“Assuming she doesn’t reveal herself to Wycomb.” Cool brown eyes remained level as Sir Charles released his hold on the chair. With that same stare, he raised a brow and said, “Tell me how you intend for the baroness to assist you?”
A steady voice. A respectful gaze. His mind knew what was required, no matter the layer of panic spreading through him. A single misstep and his career would be ended—and he had nowhere to go but back into the rookeries.
“I don’t have access to the ton, sir.” The breath Jones drew in was deep and calmed the fear slicking a layer of sweat on his forehead. “The baroness does.”
“And Angel? Or another spy, such as the Shadow? They are both in that world, Jones, though the Shadow has primarily chosen inactive status.” One hand settled on the arm of the chair, large, blunt fingers tapping lightly against the leather.
“She has access to the household, in the open, without subterfuge or lockpicks. And since she had discovered me, I had little choice. Dismissing her might have led to the baroness revealing my presence to Wycomb.”
“‘Discovered’ you,” his commander repeated. “Are you losing your skills, Jones?”
It was a valid question, one Jones knew the spymaster had to ask. Jones drew a deep breath and fisted the hands he held behind his back. “No, sir. It was poor timing and coincidence, that is all.”
“Neither is an acceptable excuse.”
Jones nodded once in agreement. He held Sir Charles’s considering gaze, waiting for the moment when judgment would fall.
The silence stretched out, thin as the paper he’d folded into his pocket. He did not want this assignment removed, nor did he want a formal reprimand. But he had made a mistake—two, in fact—and agents had been reassigned for far less.
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