The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  It must be tonight.

  She whirled, seeking the round, yellowed face of the clock on the mantle. Five o’clock. She had two hours to hide a note for Jones without Wycomb seeing her—anyone else would accept an excuse, but not he.

  Cat picked up the quill lying silent but ready, slid an unmarked sheet toward her. She looked down at the instrument resting between her fingers, at the tiny feathers lining the hollow shaft, the sharpened nib.

  The paper beside it seemed very white. Very empty. The feathers of the quill trembled, each white, downy barb fluttering.

  It would be her only weapon against Wycomb.

  She firmed her wrist and breathed deep, dipping the quill into the inkstand.

  Dear Sir –

  I miss your countenance, my darling. The handsome lines of it have haunted my dreams these past nights. I would be most honored if you allow me to gaze upon you once more. I should like to meet before half past six this evening, when I must leave. If you cannot come to me, then I shall leave the time and manner of our meeting to you.

  I will have much to share.

  Yrs. With Affection,

  C

  There. It was written—poorly written, but it was complete.

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, Cat blotted the note, folded it, sealed it. She did not use the seal with the Ashdown crest, instead, she melted and pressed a simple red wafer against the paper—a wafer like thousands in and around London.

  She might not engage in such clandestine behavior regularly, but she was not stupid.

  The blotting paper she tucked into the pocket of her gown. She would burn it—not here, as the embers in the fireplace had nearly cooled during the day. In her chambers, where the fire would be ready for curling tongs.

  The love note she would leave for Jones.

  If the note was still behind the stone by half past six, she would go to the docks herself.

  …

  The stench of the docks was sharp in his nostrils, as biting as the spring rain on his face. But the rain was a boon, despite the water already soaking through his coat and into his skin. People in the rain looked to their feet so their faces stayed dry—no one looked up into a raining sky, or at a spy.

  Jones huddled against the wall of a bricked warehouse, biding his time as he studied ships through the watery half light of dusk. The Anna Louisa was only one of many vessels moored on the Thames, queued up like so many doxies lining the wall at the nearby taverns.

  Dock workers and sailors darted through the rain, climbing up rigging and loading and unloading everything from kegs of ale for the crew and crates of wool and silk to be sold, despite the late hour.

  The Anna Louisa was quiet, however, her goods already unloaded and the crew on leave—probably making the acquaintance of the doxies. No doubt the ship would sail out again soon, but for now, there were only a few sentries posted.

  A wagon trundled by, the work horses straining to pull the mountain of barrels piled in the rear. Jones pressed himself against the building, a habit of training rather than a need to hide.

  The Gents were certain it was the Anna Louisa Wycomb had visited, and the newspaper the baroness provided confirmed. What had Wycomb wanted with the vessel? Shipment records, bills of lading for goods on board—Jones could access those through official channels. It was more likely an undeclared person or goods that were of interest to Wycomb. Such things happened with regularity.

  Jones rubbed a hand over his jaw. Perhaps he would work the local taverns, determine what he could about the ship. Sailors were an exuberant lot after months on the ocean. Pulling his collar up against the weather, Jones started down the cobbled street.

  Light footsteps pounded against the street, then drew level with him. Rupert, freckles almost invisible under the flush of his cheeks, nearly barreled into Jones. The boy bent over and set his hands on his knees, panting.

  “Sir—” he huffed out. “Sir—”

  Jones touched his shoulder, concern washing through him. “Take your time, Rupert. Catch your breath.”

  “Aye, sir. But—the baroness—”

  Concern spiked to fear, and he could not stop his hand from tightening on Rupert’s shoulder. “What happened?” The words whipped from him, fast and dark.

  “She left the town’ouse an’ ’ired a ’ackney, sir.” Rupert straightened, chest still heaving. “She’s—”

  But Jones didn’t need to listen.

  He could see her, not fifty yards in front of him. She wore a dark hooded cloak and leaned against a brick building just as Jones had done minutes before. Despite her attire, he recognized warmly red curls peeking from beneath the hood. Her face was pale and blurred by rain, but he knew her even from this distance.

  “Bloody hell. She’s here.”

  “Aye, sir.” Rupert jerked his head in agreement. Not one of the sodden orange hairs plastered to his skull moved. “She went ta the garden wall first, though, an’ checked the stone. There were a note there—we ’adn’t seen it yet, sir. T’weren’t there this morning.”

  Jones heard Rupert’s words, absorbed them, but his gaze never left the baroness.

  She wasn’t looking at him, had yet to hear his boots beating a tattoo on the cobblestones as he crossed to her. Rupert trotted along beside him, shoving at the hair streaming water into his eyes.

  Jones knew the precise moment the baroness recognized him. Her face turned his way and her eyes widened. For a moment, even though he was moving, stepping carefully along the street and through the gloom of evening rain, it seemed the world slowed. The dockworkers ceased their shouts, the casks rolling down the gangway stilled in mid roll, the wagons carting goods stopped.

  The earth ceased to spin.

  Then it all started again as he reached her.

  “Jones?” Her breath puffed out in shock.

  “Baroness.” No doubt he should not growl at a lady, but it was too late. “This is no place for you.”

  “I would not be here, but it is an urgent matter.” She bristled, shoulders tightening beneath the expensive cloak, chin tilting up. Her eyes narrowed, the iridescent blue taking on a sheen of anger. “I found something on Wycomb’s desk this afternoon. It was only indentations on paper, as if someone wrote on the page above it. I believe it said ‘7pm, Anna Louisa.’ Someone needed to be here, and you had not found the note yet—so I came.”

  “In a cloak anyone from the docks would steal off your back.” Panic clawed in his chest. He reached out, gripped her narrow, graceful shoulder. “When they see what is beneath the cloak, you will be lucky to have your body intact when you leave this place. If you leave.”

  “I don’t intend to risk everything I hold dear because I am afraid.” Her words were quiet but forceful. Her chin tipped up, though he had not believed it possible to lift it higher. “Wycomb should be here at seven o’clock, and I intend to find out what he is doing.”

  She shrugged her shoulder to dislodge his hand. He gripped harder, trying not to hurt her with the force of his fingers, but wanting to keep her safely in place.

  “Let me determine why Wycomb will be here,” he said. “Hire another hackney and return to Park Lane.”

  He looked down at her face, the lines of it shadowed by the hood. She was magnificent—a red-haired siren risen from the sea to lure men on the docks. He leaned forward, closer, to block her from view of anyone that might be passing by. Water sluiced from the roof, falling into the gap between his collar and neck to chill his skin, but he maintained his position.

  “No, I—”

  “My lady. Baroness.” He gentled his tone. Perhaps he had been too harsh. “It’s not safe here for a lady, and Wycomb might recognize you. Please.”

  She breathed deep, a slow inhale that held as much consideration as her gaze. Droplets of water clung to her lashes like so many diamonds, and a light flush moved over the delicate line of her cheekbone. She pursed her lips, and he knew a man would have to be dead not to find her beautiful.
r />   Beautiful and unattainable and a thousand times removed from his life.

  Frantic fingers scrabbled at his waist, tugging at the edge of his coat.

  “Sir.” Rupert’s insistent whisper layered with the patter of rain. Jones looked down, saw freckles stark against skin that had lost all color. “’E’s ’ere, sir. The carriage.” Rupert jerked his head to the right.

  Jones whipped his head to the side, the baroness doing the same. They stared at the carriage not fifteen feet away and the man exiting it. He moved carefully down the steps of the hackney, hat pulled low to avoid the rain and greatcoat swirling around him. There was no mistaking him for anyone but Wycomb, not with the dark hair edged with the silver, elegant clothing and handsome features.

  He was so close Jones heard the click of his boots as they touched the stone street and the swish of his greatcoat as he spun around to pay the jarvey.

  The baroness sucked in a breath, her hand vising around Jones’s upper arm, fingers digging sharply into muscles. “It’s him,” she said, words almost unintelligible.

  “Turn away!” Jones whispered, angling his body so his back was to Wycomb. He had no greatcoat to cover her with, no method of blocking her entirely from Wycomb, so his body would have to do.

  She did as he asked, spinning away so her back was pressed against his chest. He put his arms around her, set his hands on her forearms. He could not feel the heat of her body, nor even the shape of it through the fabric of his coat.

  But he wanted to, as much as he wanted to breathe.

  “Rupert, go,” he whispered to the boy, who scampered off almost before Jones finished speaking, footsteps scuffing on the stones. He would be safe enough, being accustomed to navigating worse than the docks.

  Jones kept his body angled, shielding the baroness from Wycomb’s view as best he could. She had bent her head and pulled the cloak around her, so there was little Wycomb would see beyond the hem of her skirts.

  But they did not look as if they belonged. As if they had a reason to be there.

  He set his hands on the baroness’s shoulders, turning her so she was pressed against the side of the building. Then he shifted so he was in front of her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Attempting to make us look ordinary.” He leaned in, trying to make his body appear amorous.

  He did not have to try hard. With her face turned up to his, those butterfly-blue eyes wide and her lips rosy and parted, he did not have to try at all.

  “Jones.” Her hands gripped his forearms tightly. “What is ordinary? Who are we trying to be?”

  A crystalline droplet fell from the edge of her hood onto her cheek, tracking down the pale skin to the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue darted out to claim it, and his belly clutched in reaction.

  “Lovers.” He could barely say the word. It did not pass easily through a throat tight with need. “A sailor and his lover. I don’t know how else to make you indiscernible from other ladies here, and indiscernible is all that is required.”

  “Yes, of course. Ordinary lovers on the docks.” Her gaze flicked over his shoulder briefly before focusing again on his face. “I can’t see him well. The carriage is beginning to move away, but my uncle is looking around—for someone, I would expect.”

  “Good.” Jones resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, knowing better than to even hint they were focused on their quarry. He would have to rely on the baroness’s limited view for information. “Good,” he said again, searching the lines of her face for some knowledge she might not have put into words.

  Her hands clutched at him, a quick, involuntary spasm. “He’s looking this way.” Her panicked whisper was accompanied by tensed shoulders and she began to move, prey scenting danger and bracing to run.

  Jones did the only thing he could think of to hold her in place and shield her from Wycomb, though it was not a new thought. He had been thinking of it for minutes already, hours, days. At that moment, it seemed he’d been dreaming of it the whole of his life.

  He kissed her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Her lips were soft and cool. They trembled once, then firmed beneath his. She did not part them, nor did she angle her head to encourage him, but the loosening of the hands gripping his arms told him her fear had eased.

  Then she did the unimaginable, sending a heady and unholy lust tearing through him. She rose on her toes to bring their mouths into better alignment. A simple gesture, one that probably meant very little to her.

  It meant everything to him.

  He could taste her more perfectly, her scent rising into the air to mingle with the rain. She stepped closer, cloak falling open to draw him between wings of expensive velvet. Her lips parted on a soft, quiet breath, body rising as if there had been a sudden shift in her awareness. Had she been kissed before? He thought not—she was a lady, not a doxy.

  He would do well to remember who he shielded her from, and more, the status of the woman who had moved from a few inches away to fully within the circle of his arms.

  With regret, Jones released her lips and angled his head so that he nuzzled somewhere near the graceful curve of her neck. He caressed temptation as much as regret.

  “Do you see him?” he rasped, wondering if she recognized lust in a man’s voice. “Is he still there?”

  “Yes, but he is not looking at us. Jones—” She broke off, lips close enough he could feel the heat of them.

  She pressed her mouth to his, chastely, lips together, but hard enough he felt the hunger in her. He couldn’t read the lines of her body, the planes of her face or curves of her lips, but he felt urgency. Her hand fisted in the edge of his coat, strong, small fingers twisting the fabric.

  He wanted to cup her cheeks, to taste her fully, but—

  Holding firm, he let her kiss him again before she pulled back, and when she looked up at him, he was certain she’d carved out a small part of his heart.

  “Is it— I was not ready for this, Jones.” There was no trembling, no fear in her. “I am not prepared for desire.”

  “Neither am I,” he murmured, belly clutching.

  He ought not to have touched her. He should never have begun this pretense, Wycomb or not, because he had known what it would lead to.

  Perhaps in his heart of hearts, it was why he had.

  She was something he could never be. No matter that he’d craved the taste of her, that the stunning blue of her eyes haunted his sleep. He could never have her, not in any reality. Under the pretense of espionage, he could pretend for only a moment—yet there was no honor in that.

  He did what he should have done in the beginning. Sliding his hands around her waist, he lifted his head away from hers so there was no promise of a kiss between them. He pressed her more firmly against the brick wall of the tavern. With the right positioning, he could block her body entirely, and if he were strong, if he controlled himself, he would avoid her temptation as he should have done.

  But her eyes, oh, those wide, hungry eyes, stared at him.

  What had he done?

  “Do you see him, my lady?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “The carriage is gone. He’s standing next to the wall, just as we are, to stay dry.”

  “There is no one with him?”

  “Not yet.” She shook her head, her eyes still wide, but now a light smile tugged at her lips. “Do you know, Jones, this is the second time you and I have stood in the rain like this.”

  “I remember.” He had not kissed her that time, though he had wanted to then as much as he did now. “It was wet.”

  “‘It was wet.’” Her smile bloomed, as bright as if the sun had pierced through the dull, variegated gray of the clouds above. A laugh slipped between her lips, the hands still holding the edge of his coat tugging slightly. “Oh, Jones, you have a way with words. Do all the ladies swoon at your feet when you speak such love-words to them?”

  “I do not speak to ladies.” He did not have any exper
ience with—what had she said? Love-words?

  “Do not worry. I was only jesting.” Her lips were still curved as she flicked her eyes to Wycomb. The smile died away instantly. “Someone has met my uncle.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They did not shake hands,” she murmured. “They’re only talking, standing side by side. The stranger is shorter than Wycomb and his clothes are not of the same quality. He’s wearing only a coat, no greatcoat, and a cap like yours.” Her eyes returned to Jones’s face, then moved up to his cap, then back to the two men. “Yes. Just like yours.”

  “Can you see their faces?”

  “Only from the side. Wycomb is—” She squinted, thick lashes nearly touching. “He is not angry, but he is not happy, either. The other man is frowning, and he is quite angry. He’s gesturing with his hands and arms, and is even pointing at Wycomb.” Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

  “What?” Rain poured from the slate roof above, tiny waterfalls pounding onto his shoulders rather than craggy rocks.

  “He poked Wycomb in the chest with his finger.” Incredulity swelled in her tone. “And Wycomb took a step back.”

  “Does he look scared?” He wanted to see for himself—needed to see it for himself—but doing so would risk exposing her.

  “Not scared. He’s furious.” She frowned as she studied the scene.

  “What is he doing?”

  “Nothing. It is how I know he’s furious.” She rose up to see better over his shoulder. “He’s not moving, and his head is angled to one side as though he’s amused at the other man’s ranting. When he stands so perfectly still, he is beyond furious. And, well, he becomes colder and colder as he becomes angrier—which sounds ridiculously foolish.”

  “No.” Jones shook his head, looking down into the pale face beneath the hood. A faint, embarrassed flush tinged her cheekbones. “You know him, how he reacts.”

  “I don’t recognize the man, but, Jones, he’s no dock worker or sailor. He’s not dressed in the same quality of clothing, yet his mannerisms, the way he moves and his skin, his teeth—he’s not lived a rough life. He’s of the aristocracy, or at least a merchant or of the gentry.”