“That is it?” She pulled her shawl tight. He looked to her face, unsure if she was shocked or angry.
“It must be.” He rubbed a hand against his chest, trying to ease the erratic beat of his heart. “Anything more is a risk. We never should have—”
“I know. I know. Only, I want you. I’ve never wanted someone this way.” The anger faded to a somber expression. She rose onto her toes, pressed her lips softly to his. “Be safe.”
She slipped out of the copse and began to pick her way toward the Abbey, leaving everything inside him aching for her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The chair was large—larger, even, than she’d thought it as a child. Her weight was not enough to create an indentation in the leather, her width not enough to touch each arm.
So it was.
She could not fill her father’s chair, let alone his footsteps or the needs of those who depended on her.
Cat shifted in the chair, trying to occupy more space. It didn’t work.
“All is not lost, my lady.” The soft words emanated from the doorway. Mr. Sparks stood there, framed by an ancient oak entrance.
This room, one of the oldest in the original Abbey, was not the official estate room, but the small space every baron and baroness before her had used for real work.
“You know me too well.” Her laugh held no mirth. An expanse of wood stretched out before her, scarred and scratched and worn from years of quills and ledgers. Stuffing peeked through tears in the chair beneath her bum. Around her was paper, leather, instructions, accounts. Nothing of comfort. Not even a fire. There was nothing here to demonstrate wealth, only dedication—in a space smaller than the butler’s pantry.
It was this desk her father had sat at each day, far removed from the formal space Wycomb commandeered at Ashdown Abbey. That formal area had always been for show and for storage of old accounts.
Here, in this tiny closet, the Ashdowns toiled.
“I’ve known you since birth, if you count the years before I began working for your father.” Light flashed over the lenses of Mr. Sparks’s spectacles as he stepped into the little room. “I don’t know what to tell you, my lady, except not to give up. There is always a solution if you look hard enough.”
“I’ve looked,” she said dryly. “Everywhere.”
Her looking had revealed nothing but threats, contracts, and a man that warmed her body but could not marry her. Her head tipped back against the cushion, hands curled around the arms.
She did not fit the chair.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t bring in her own chair. She was still Baroness Worthington. She still held the largest inheritance in Britain, and she still had power.
If she chose to use it.
Leaving behind the seat she could never possibly command, she stood, braced her hands on the scarred desktop. “Marriage to Hedgewood might be the only choice for now, but damned if I’ll accept it.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Sparks blinked, green eyes wide.
She couldn’t tell Mr. Sparks of Jones, of the investigation, of Wycomb’s dealings on the docks. But— “I refuse to give in without a fight.”
“My lady.” Alarm reverberated in voice and body, both edged with fear. He strode through the doorway as intent as any man ready to stop catastrophe.
She did not care.
“I came to a decision this morning, Mr. Sparks.” Just after an honorable common man had kissed her in the woods. Jones had touched her. Not just her body, but something deeper inside. His touch lingered there, giving her strength. She had accepted the role of observer to stay safe, but she would no longer. Wycomb wanted her to marry Hedgewood so immensely he was willing to threaten her at knifepoint.
She would find out why.
“I’ll not marry Hedgewood. I only have to discover my opening.” She grinned at Mr. Sparks. “Can you request a copy of the marriage contracts from the trustees? Will they provide it, do you think?”
“Yes, of course.” He removed his spectacles and used his waistcoat to frantically rub the lenses. “What are you planning?”
“To not marry Hedgewood.”
“Do not openly defy your uncle, my lady.” Mr. Sparks gripped the only other piece of furniture in the room—the small sideboard still holding the whiskey her father had preferred. “’Tis best to do it in secret, as we have been. Open defiance will only result in—well. I don’t even know.”
“Pain.” She already knew. “So be it.” She strode to the sideboard, lifted the decanter. Candlelight flashed over crystal, over amber-gold liquid. Pulling out the stopper, she sniffed at the liquor within. Yes, her father’s favorite.
She flipped over a snifter. Poured.
“We’ll be leaving in a few hours, I’m told. This is good-bye. But I’m not a pawn.” Cat raised her glass, saluted first Mr. Sparks, then the account ledgers lining the wall and the bottles of ink scattering the desk.
“I’m the Baroness Worthington.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“What problem are you trying to work out now?” The deep baritone voice drifted into the training room, as it had done when Jones was a boy.
He chose not to look up from the glinting metal in his hand. He knew what he would see. Angel would be leaning against the door, amusement quirking the corners of his mouth. Jones had witnessed Angel’s understanding laughter more than a hundred times as Jones had dismantled and rebuilt pistols to keep his mind busy.
Then again, while Jones might clean pistols when he needed to think, Angel played the violin. One wasn’t much different than the other once technique was considered.
“There is no problem at all.” Jones’s fingers found the familiar touchhole of the pistol in his hand. He plugged it with a small wooden pick, watched the firelight flash over the barrel.
“Mm hm.” Dry humor tinged Angel’s tone. “You have six pistols dismantled.”
Jones did not tell him it was the second time he’d cleaned the weapons since he’d returned to London that morning. He also did not care to talk about the problem of Cat and his spinning brain. “Is Lady Angelstone here?”
“Not today. I’m here on business, so she stayed at the townhouse with mother and the girls. But she is demanding that you come to dinner on Thursday. The Shadow and Grace will be there.” Angel’s footsteps were purposeful as he strode across the bare wood floor to the table near the fire. “Lilias says she has let you duck out long enough.”
It meant family. They were always welcoming, but it never failed that he felt uncomfortable. Still, Jones could not refuse Lilias. “I will come.”
“Good.”
“What is your business?” Jones asked, reaching for the thick fabric tucked between the pistol locks he’d removed. He wrapped it around his palm and fingers, then did the same with the other hand. “Stand back,” he murmured, sensing Angel stepping closer.
Angel did, keeping safely away as Jones picked up the pewter jug of water sitting in the coals of the fire. Jones carefully poured the boiling water from the jug into the barrel of the pistol, moving as far back from his own hands and the boiling water as possible. Water spilled out, stained the worn table he worked on, and dripped onto the first layer of the cloth he used to protect his hands.
The table had seen worse than boiling water. The marks scarring the surface told him that as much as memory did.
“Wycomb is my business.” Angel’s gaze was on the dismantled pistols as Jones dumped the water into a bucket. “I’ve not heard a whiff inside the ton. There’s talk of the baroness and her engagement, however.”
The jerk was involuntary, Jones’s hand jumping as he poured the second round of water into the barrel. He hissed as the liquid soaked through the cloth protecting his skin. Quickly, he dumped the water into the bucket and set down the pistol. Shaking the fabric from one hand, he set the jug onto the hearth with the other.
“Is it bad?” Angel asked, stepping forward to eye Jones’s hand.
“No, just tender.” The skin was tinged pink, but nothing more. “No worse than a spilled cup of tea.”
“Good.”
Jones could feel Angel’s gaze on him. He didn’t look up, not ready to meet his commander’s eyes. Not ready to reveal what might be on his face.
“At any rate,” Angel continued, though there was a question in his voice. “I’ve found nothing within the ton but the wedding to Hedgewood. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is.”
“No. You wouldn’t.” Whatever was happening, it was outside that world—or at least on the periphery. “I thought perhaps something or someone would show itself, but I expected few results.”
“What is happening, then?” Angel’s fingers moving in a rolling wave Jones knew meant he wished for his violin.
“I’m not sure.” Jones re-wrapped his hand, then moved the pewter jug back into the coals to reheat. Careful to keep his voice neutral, Jones asked, “What do you know of Hedgewood?”
“Very little. He switches political allegiances easily, depending on the topic. He is a shareholder of the East India Company, and is very vocal in Parliament regarding their sovereignty. I believe he feels they should be less regulated.” Angel began to pace the length of the training room—once the townhouse’s ballroom. “His fortune is vast, both estates and investments.”
“His family?” Jones didn’t even want to ask. He knew the answer, and he could never meet that lineage. While he waited for the water, he positioned a dry, well-used cloth around the end of the ramrod he used for cleaning.
“Ancient. Wealthy. It’s a good match for her, but a much better match for him.”
Jones’s attention pricked. “What do you mean?”
“Both families are of old lineage, direct lines going back five or six hundred years. More, perhaps. The titles are some of the oldest in the nation.” Angel reached for the cloth Jones had dropped to the floor. He began to wrap it around his hands. “Here, let me poor the water. It will be easier.”
“Aye.” It was a dance they had performed together since Jones was a boy. He picked up the pistol in one hand, held it steady as Angel brought the lip of the pewter jug to the barrel.
“The baroness’s inheritance is larger than Hedgewood’s holdings—but between them, they would control a meaningful portion of the country.” Angel poured the water in, splashing very little outside the barrel. “The House of Commons is powerful in their counties.”
“Ah.” Jones knew just the right amount of water was in the barrel and reached for the ramrod. “A joining of two significant houses.”
“Yes, though as I said, he will gain more than she will.” Angel moved away, setting the jug on the hearth.
“Are you sure?” Shoving the covered end of the ramrod into the barrel, Jones ran it up and down to wash the inside. He’d already done it that day, but a weapon could always be cleaner. Black powder had a way of spreading.
“That is the word in the ballrooms, and believe me, those women do not make mistakes as it applies to income.” Angel mock shuddered. “Is there any progress outside of the ton?”
“I’ve heard rumors that he has been seen in the rookeries.” Jones set the ramrod and wet cloth aside on the table, then dumped the dirty barrel water into the bucket. “But that would not be unusual. Assignments take all of us there from time to time.”
“True.” Angel picked up one of the dismantled locks, testing its movements. “Have you been yet?”
“No. I’m working out how best to approach that line of inquiry.”
“Hence the pistols.”
Jones didn’t comment. The rote and routine of cleaning the pistols was as much about Cat as Wycomb.
“If you do make inquiries in the rookeries,” Angel added. “It will not be Wycomb’s name but his face that will be important.”
“Aye.” He’d already thought the same, but Angel’s confirmation solidified his course. “I’d planned to have a drawing prepared and see if that elicits a response.”
“Be careful.”
…
She missed the feel of her lands beneath her feet. Not even twenty-four hours in London, and she missed the Abbey.
Unfortunately, she was stuck—feet neatly side-by-side on a Brussels carpet in bright Turkish patterns, bum planted on the plush silk cushion of a settee.
“Now that you have returned to the city, we may proceed with the engagement ball.” Black eyes peered at Cat through an ornate lorgnette, scouring Cat’s appearance from curled hair to blue leather half-boots. The Dowager Lady Hedgewood let the lorgnette fall to her lap, the thin chain looping through the ribbon beneath her bodice stopping it from falling to the floor. “I don’t generally approve of redheads, but you do seem to be well-behaved.”
“I try, my lady,” Cat said dryly.
“Ahem.” Aunt Essie perched on the edge of an elegant salon chair. “Thank you for your patience while my niece was away. As you might imagine, it was her duty to see to her tenants during such trying times.”
“Of course.” The dowager angled her head in acknowledgment, gray hair and tightly wound bun unmoving. “But now we have something more important to discuss. While you were in the country, I began preparations for the ball. It will be Thursday next, and held here, of course.”
Cat narrowed her eyes, unsure whether the dowager was being helpful or interfering. Either way, Cat didn’t intend to marry Hedgewood, if she could help it.
The lady stood, angular body dressed as severely as her hair. Striding toward an escritoire, she slipped a stack of papers from the desktop. “I have also developed a tentative menu and guest list.”
Shuffling the papers, she squinted at the thin script flowing across the surface as she returned to Cat.
“My lady—” Cat began.
“I shall leave the details to you, of course.” Veined hands offered the paper without a single tremor. “Once you have finalized your choices, I shall enlist my secretary and any servants you would like to join us to write the invitations—and ourselves, of course. As this will be the match of the Season, our guest list will be extensive.”
The lady sat again, spine significantly straighter than the chair back. She picked up her teacup, breathed in the steam curling from beneath the rim.
A pfft of irritation slipped from Aunt Essie. “You have it all planned, I see.”
“As I said, this marriage is the match of the Season, and it is also the joining of two very old, very great families.” Lady Hedgewood sipped, swallowed. “Hedgewood is also my only son,” she added softly. “I don’t want to step on your toes, Lady Worthington, but I also don’t want this wedding or engagement ball to be inferior. You were away.”
“I see.” Cat looked down at the guest list, the menu. The words were unintelligible to her eyes, as her brain was elsewhere engaged. She did not want to marry Hedgewood. Yet here, now, was not the time nor place to protest.
The place to protest was wherever in the vast Hedgewood townhouse its lord and her uncle were discussing the final details of the settlements.
“Thank you, my lady.” Cat supposed she could not blame the dowager—she was a mother. “I shall review your suggestions. Perhaps Hedgewood has suggestions as well.”
“He likely does, though if you can avoid asking Hedgewood, so much the better.” Pinched lips turned up on one side. “He is a man, dear.”
Silence.
Then, from Essie, a stifled laugh.
“I see.” Cat looked to the lists again, hiding a grin that could not be stopped. “I shall endeavor to ensure the engagement ball and wedding are all you hope them to be.”
Assuming she had to go through with it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“That went well, I think.” Aunt Essie settled into the carriage seat, smoothing skirts with one hand, adjusting her reticule with the other. “The dowager seems to be reasonable.”
“And has a sense of humor.” Cat tapped the guest list with her forefinger, the russet leather of her glove a
contrast to the cream-colored paper. Her finger jerked over the page as the horses began their work. “It says here on the guest list, Lord and Lady Gillespie, but only if you want to be bored by petrology. Lord studies rocks.”
“Good information to have about you, in the event Lord Gillespie asks you to dance.” Aunt Essie’s eyes gleamed, laughter crinkling the lines at the corners. “I think you may get along with the dowager nicely.”
“So it seems.” Cat glanced at her uncle, sitting beside Essie. He ignored them, riffling through a sheaf of papers of his own. Legs crossed as if in a drawing room and not in a crowded carriage, his trousers perfectly tailored—but the sharp planes of his face were tight as he read.
Essie cleared her throat, looking up at her brother’s profile. “How are the settlement discussions progressing? I know that the contracts are finished, but the details—”
“Are none of your concern, Essie.” Wycomb did not acknowledge them by meeting their gazes, instead placing the top sheet on the bottom of the stack. His gaze skimmed the next page. “I shall manage them.”
Anger flared, but Cat bit her tongue. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep her mouth closed and her eyes on the papers in his hand. What did they say? The paper was thin enough to see the slanting lines of ink from the back, but not thin enough she could easily make out the words.
The temptation to argue made her skin itch, the need to read the documents burned deep. But the fading knife mark at her collarbone burned hotter.
For now.
“Ho!” The call was loud, sharp, and accompanied by a jerk of the carriage. Thuds sounded above, horses whinnied. The door whipped open, letting in sunlight and a man wearing homespun clothes. He shoved Cat aside, pushing against her hip and ribs to move her before she could think to oblige. The door closed again, enclosing all of them with the sweet smell of something Cat didn’t recognize—and didn’t want to.
“You’re late. Still.” The man beside Cat rasped the words. Eyes fixed on a single point, he only saw Wycomb.
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