“Went to the docks, sir,” a young voice piped up from behind him.
“The docks?” He hadn’t followed Wycomb himself yesterday, being engaged elsewhere, and hadn’t yet received a report from the Gents in the interim. But—ah yes. He saw it now. “Did he visit the Anna Louisa?” He tapped his finger against the page, considering the ramifications.
“Yes, sir.” Another voice, this one older than the first and just beginning to crack, answered him.
He turned and surveyed the three boys in front of him. They’d ordered themselves by age, as they usually did: Rupert, Angus, and Young John. He had once been like them, searching for purchase in a world where there was none. He’d wanted nothing more than stability and food. These boys wanted the same.
He couldn’t save them if they didn’t want it. He could only offer an alternative to theft and gin—the same alternative Angel had given him.
“The Anna Louisa. You’re sure, Rupert?”
“Yessir.” Rupert stepped forward, his shock of red hair glinting over freckled cheeks and a thin face. He’d grown tall the last few months but hadn’t yet filled out his new frame. “He was down at the docks, talking with the cap’n. Was right angry, to be sure. T’was to be part of my report today, but I s’pose you already know.” His shoulders slumped slightly.
“I wouldn’t have guessed the Anna Louisa if you hadn’t told me he’d been at the docks.” Jones offered the statement as truth.
“Oh?” Rupert’s head lifted, and he grinned, revealing teeth too large for his narrow face. “Well that’s better’n being late.”
To hide his own grin, Jones glanced down at the newspaper and the notice in it.
The Anna Louisa. Departed India November 1. Arrived London March 22. India. What was the significance of that? Or was it the captain or crew that held significance?
“How long was he at the docks?”
This time it wasn’t Rupert who answered, but Young John, the smallest and newest member of the Gents.
“Sixty-two minutes, sir, give or take if I counted too fast.” He was only eight, but he had a meticulous nature that lent itself toward such factual details. “But he t’weren’t on the docks the whole time. He went below, too.”
“Aye,” Angus agreed, though looked to Rupert for confirmation. He was still shy, despite working with Jones for over a year. “’E went below for summat like twenty minutes and came back up right mad.”
“Didn’t shout at the cap’n, though.” Rupert grimaced. “More like he froze him with his eyes.”
“Eyes like that, them is scary.” Angus shrugged his shoulders as though shrugging off the memory. “Reminds me of me da, and ’e t’weren’t a nice’un.”
No. None of the boys had nice’uns, which is why they’d taken to the street.
“Good job, Gents.” Reaching into his pocket, he took the three coins he’d promised and flipped one to each of them. Young John missed catching his and it plinked onto the floor and rolled away. He chased it with a delighted hoot, as though something as simple as a good run was a little-experienced joy.
“What of today?” Jones asked, pushing the newspaper to the side of Angel’s desk.
No, his desk now.
The boys exchanged glances, a little hesitant. Concern etched into their faces, eyes widening. He could almost hear them mentally debating who was going to be the harbinger of bad news.
Rupert pulled himself up, apparently having decided it would be him, and tugged at his grubby shirtfront in preparation. “I been wi‘ ye the longest, so I’ll tell ye, sir. ’E gave us the slip, sir. Went into a pub—”
“A right nasty one!” Young John added, standing up onto his tiptoes to add emphasis. “In St. Giles.”
“But then ’e didn’t come out. Not from the front, nor the back, neither,” Rupert concluded. He snorted in frustration. “Waited hours, we did, until we sent Angus in to see what was what. The gov’nor t’weren’t inside, neither.”
“He t’weren’t anywhere, sir!” Young John shook his head a little wildly, his red-blond curls shaking. “But I ’as an idea ’bout where ’e went.”
“Is that so?” Jones raised his brows and leaned against the desktop, settling in to hear whatever idea Young John had concocted. “Go ahead.”
Young John wiped dirty hands on dirtier breeches and glanced once at the other boys before beginning. “Well, I think as how ’e changed ’is clothes inside the pub. ’E was carrying a leather satchel when ’e went in. I was thinkin’ as how ’e might have changed into other clothes so’s we didn’t notice him come out.”
Jones cocked his head, considering this bright child with the earnest eyes. “Young John, that’s a good theory. A very good one.” If Wycomb wanted to disappear, a disguise would be an efficient method. Jones rubbed his jaw, noting the slight stubble that he should have taken care of that morning. “If he did change his appearance, where did he go afterward? And why?”
“Dunno, sir.” Angus tugged at the shock of dark hair that fell over his forehead. “Mebbe back down t’ the docks.”
“Hm.” Jones looked back at the paper. It seemed he’d be paying a visit to the docks himself. “Well, gents. I have another assignment for you.”
All three of them straightened, expressions bright and eager.
“There is a loose stone in the wall at the back of the baroness’s garden. Check it in the morning and at night—but only in the dark.” He wouldn’t risk the boys being seen by Wycomb from a window. “If there is a note there, bring it immediately to me. Understood?”
“Aye, sir.” Young John grinned and hopped from foot to foot, too energetic to stand still. “I’ve never been in a posh garden!”
…
Whatever her uncle believed about the lords of the ton, a single night’s absence clearly did not hurt her marital prospects.
Flowers began arriving in mid-morning. Notes accompanied them, full of well-wishes for her quick recovery and disappointment she had not been part of the social whirl the night before.
Callers arrived next, leaving their cards in the front hall. At first, Cat indicated to the butler she was not at home, but Essie insisted she receive them. She sat in the drawing room, waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs as callers arrived.
“My dear baroness!” Two simpering girls and their equally simpering mothers arrived amid flowered bonnets and rustling skirts. “We hope you are feeling better today.”
“Yes, many thanks on your inquiry.” Cat remained seated, hands lying in her lap, and smiled politely at the ladies. “Did you enjoy your evening? I was disappointed not to attend the balls and soirees last night.”
They launched into enthusiastic descriptions of gowns and dances, perching themselves on settees and chairs. Aunt Essie’s embroidery needle dove in and out of the fabric as she listened. Cat held her smile, though her cheeks ached from the effort. Ten minutes later, Brown brought another visitor. He bowed, announced the guest.
“The Marquess of Hedgewood.” The butler’s tone held no censure, no emotion. “Lord Wycomb informed him you were at home.”
Cat’s smile froze, but she rose and held out her hand with all the grace her mother had taught her. “My lord.”
“My lady.” Hedgewood removed his hat and bowed over her hand, green eyes laughing up at her. “I had hoped to see you last evening.”
Her other visitors shifted and sighed and tittered. They would not stay more than a few additional minutes, even less now that they could spread the news that Hedgewood had called on her.
“I was unwell, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, your uncle sent word to me.” He squeezed her hand once, easily, then let it go and smiled. “I trust you are better today?”
“Indeed.” It was too late to stop the gossip. The ladies were standing, making their curtsies to the marquess and Cat, then bustling out of the room and down the stairs.
“Well, that should hold them.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cat raised
her brows at the marquess, not certain what he meant.
“They were hoping for a bit of gossip and I thought to provide it.” His lips tilted up in a half smile on one side. “I plan to offer for you, my lady, and your uncle indicated my suit would be accepted. I thought we might have a little fun as we went along.”
“Fun?” She spoke calmly, refusing to allow her voice or face to show her disquiet. “You have yet to offer, and I have yet to accept.”
“True.” His smile didn’t falter, but broadened to reveal a dimple on the left side. “We can always cite a difference of opinion if our union fails to come to fruition. But I doubt it will.”
Aunt Essie cleared her throat, held up her embroidery frame. “I’ve forgotten my yellow thread upstairs, dear. I need it for this flower pattern. Do excuse me.”
“Aunt Essie.”
“I shall return in five minutes. Less. I promise.” Essie disappeared through the door as quickly as their guests had, her skirts moving in the same rhythm.
“Well.” Hedgewood gestured to the bottle-green settee. The tailoring of his coat was flawless. Still, brass buttons shifted over his lean chest and striped waistcoat. “May we sit?”
After a final glance at the doorway, Cat murmured, “Yes, of course.”
What was her aunt planning?
Hedgewood sat easily, propping himself on the arm and setting his hat on his knee. Cat chose the chair opposite, perching on the edge and straightening her spine just as her mother had taught her.
“We do not need to stand on ceremony, do we?” The marquess cocked his head, eyes not laughing now. “I hoped to find a companion who was not too tight-laced. I thought you might be such a lady.”
She most certainly was. Yet becoming comfortable with the marquess felt tantamount to an acceptance of marriage. That, she was not ready for.
Still, she smiled at him. A genuine smile. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lord Hedgewood. I am not one to strictly follow the rules. It is only that my uncle has moved forward without informing me.”
“Ah.” Shadows came into his eyes and a frown tugged at his lips. “I see.”
“That being said, I am not adverse.” She suddenly found she wasn’t. Marriage to Hedgewood would not be the great love of her lifetime, but she could see it would be tolerable. “I simply wasn’t prepared.”
“Good. Very good.” The frown on his mouth tipped back into a smile. “I am glad to hear you are not adverse.”
“I know little of your family, my lord.” Keeping her spine straight, she let her hands go lax in her lap. A small concession. “Where is your country seat?”
“Dorset. Not near the water, however. My family holds land west of Shaftesbury.” Hedgewood’s gaze did not stray from her face, but flickered over it as though gauging her interest. Or, perhaps, her knowledge.
“I know the area well.” If she were to marry him, it would be best to begin their association as she hoped to continue. “My father and I often passed through Shaftesbury as we traveled to our properties in Somerset.”
He was serious when he spoke, all signs of charm dissolved into a firm, smoothly shaved chin. “I have heard you were involved in the management of your father’s estates.”
“Yes.” She would say no more.
Everything pivoted on this one moment. The extent of her battle with Wycomb, her lands, her future. Silence drew out between them, strong as the spring sun beaming through the tall drawing-room windows.
“There are some things,” he finally said, words slow as if he were choosing them carefully, “that you would not be involved with in the future, though I would willingly take notice of your advice on your family’s estates.”
She spoke just as carefully, lifting her chin a degree. “I am not yet certain if that is acceptable.”
“I see.” He did not seem angry, or even surprised, particularly. Handsome features remained neutral. Assessing.
“My lady.” Quiet words slipped into the room, preceding the silent Brown by only a moment. “A letter has arrived for you. It is marked urgent.”
The envelope was wrinkled, torn on one corner, but she recognized the handwriting of Mr. Sparks slanting across the paper. Thin lines, fast strokes, but heavy and dark.
“Thank you.” Accepting the envelope, she slid it into the space between her leg and the chair.
Silence stretched as Brown left the room. Longer.
“Do you need to read the letter?” Hedgewood’s neutral features had tipped down into a frown now, instead of the laughing smile she had become accustomed to.
Escape was Cat’s only thought. “I’m sure it is urgent—”
“A few minutes won’t hurt.” Aunt Essie was standing in the doorway, white hair piled higher than usual and sporting a comb with a paste bluebird. She glanced at the clock. “Why, at home hours have barely begun.”
“True,” Hedgewood said, standing and setting his hat on his head. “If you will excuse me, however, I must be going. I’ve business to attend to yet today.”
“My lord.” Aunt Essie stepped forward and held out her hand. “It has been a pleasure.”
“Miss Taylor. Lady Worthington.” He bowed, lingering over Cat’s hand. As she expected—as any lady anticipating a proposal would. “Farewell, my lady,” he murmured over her fingers. He let them slip out of his grasp and strode to the door. Through it.
When his footsteps faded down the stairs to the ground floor, Cat spun to face her aunt.
“What in the blazes was that? Leaving me alone with a suitor?”
“I—ah—” Aunt Essie blushed, the pink riding high on her cheekbones. “I thought, as he is soon to be your husband, that you might enjoy a few minutes alone. Hedgewood is very handsome, Mary Elizabeth.”
“I suppose.” Amusement could soften irritation easily enough.
“Forgive me? I know a proper chaperone would never have left, nor would your mother.” Excitement hovered around the corners of Aunt Essie’s eyes. “Only, Hedgewood possesses good humor and such a lovely mouth. Surely, a discreet kiss would not come amiss?”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Aunt, but he did not kiss me.”
Aunt Essie’s face fell. “That is unfortunate.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Well, then,” Cat murmured to herself, having made her excuses to her aunt. “We shall see what news Mr. Sparks has sent.”
She ducked into the nearest door and realized it was her uncle’s estate room—once her father’s estate room.
Also a place to hide with a man, as she had so recently discovered.
Shutting the door, she quickly tore open the envelope from Mr. Sparks and read the note.
Baroness Worthington,
The roofs are being replaced at a rapid pace. They will easily be repaired by winter, if not fall. A few roofs would last another year or so, but as your pin money would pay for the repairs, I chose to repair them in advance to keep ahead of the trustees. I hope this meets your approval.
The tenants are grateful, my lady, and know full well where the funds were derived from. Their goodwill and loyalty are the highest I’ve seen since your father’s death.
I will soon leave for an accounting and observation of the other properties. I shall send word of their state to you as well as the trustees, as usual.
The trustees visited Ashdown Abbey, and will be visiting your other large estates as well. Be well, my lady, and stay strong.
Yr. Humblest Servant,
Matthew Sparks
Cat crumpled the letter in her fist. The trustees knew what she had done, which meant Wycomb would soon know as well.
“Bloody buggering hell.” She leaned her head against the polished panels of the door and tucked the ball of paper into the pocket of her gown. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Another.
The roofs were being built. Whatever happened after, whatever the trustees did or didn’t do, the roofs will be built as she promised.
There was pride in that. Honor in that.
Her eyes flicked open to examine the estate room, the partially drawn drapes. The musty books her father collected. Art was here, too, on the walls and surfaces. Every vase and painting a testament to love of life rather than value. The massive desk allegedly belonging to the first Mary Elizabeth Frances Ashdown anchored the space.
Wycomb had emptied a secret drawer in that desk.
Jones had hidden beneath that desk.
She looked down at the letter in her hand. Mr. Sparks had given her the warning—the trustees and Wycomb would be approaching her soon. But there was more here than an unruly ward and her guardian.
She crossed the room, heeled slippers moving over wooden floor, rug, and floor again, just as Wycomb had the night she had discovered Jones.
Quickly pulling open the drawers, Cat gave a cursory glance to their contents. She attempted to open the secret compartment Jones had discovered, but could not locate the spring or lever. With hurried movements, she completed her brief search, then circled the room for anything out of the ordinary.
She found nothing.
But there must be something. Anything.
There was.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted over the desk, wavering as clouds shifted over London. Over the stack of fresh paper lined up precisely with one corner. Thin shadows crisscrossed the surface of the top sheet, tiny black dots dancing between them.
Narrowing her eyes, Cat scooted to the desk and stared down at the paper. The shadows and dots—lines and inkblots left from a quill used on the now-missing sheet above. Picking it up, she held it in front of the window, then shifted it so the light struck it differently. Over and over, shift and tilt and study.
7p. A____ Louisa.
The markings weren’t perfect, but it was enough. She had pored over the newspaper page her uncle had found so important and she distinctly remembered a ship called the Anna Louisa.
Was it seven tonight? Tomorrow night? Another day? Thoughts swirled, unfolded, reformed.
Wycomb would not be seeing her and Essie again until very late in the evening. He planned to be out until they met at a ball, despite his insistence the evening before that she make her ton appearances. If she knew her uncle, there would be little that would keep him from personally seeing she met her obligations.
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 9