The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  Cat shrank against the seat, gaze flicking between the stranger and Wycomb. In the opposite corner, a white-faced Essie clutched her reticule, worrying the ribbons.

  “I told you it will take time.” Wycomb didn’t move. The papers he held did not waver, nor did his expression change as he continued reading them.

  “We ain’t got time. Customers are impatient.” A pistol appeared, metallic and hard in the small carriage and pointed not at Wycomb, but at Cat.

  She didn’t flinch. Didn’t have time to. The barrel was pressed against her rib cage before she could blink, before she could fear.

  Then fear rocked her, stealing breath and strength.

  “If you kill her, there will be no reason for me to comply.” Wycomb spoke slowly, looking up at his foe as if there were no weapon in the carriage.

  “’Tis why my pistol’s pointed at her,” the intruder growled. “We know where your worth comes from.”

  Cat held still, but every word, every movement stamped itself on her mind. Metal pressed against her ribs, and though it was not hot it seemed a brand.

  “Yes.” Wycomb set the papers on his lap. Casually, he re-crossed his legs, as if they were in a drawing room. But his eyes—those were cold, blue and merciless, and were fixed on the man beside her. “What you seek will arrive soon. I swear it.”

  “On the life of your niece?”

  “On the life of the woman who could provide me the money to continue our venture if other parts should fail. Our business is well beyond my niece, but she is a piece that should remain unharmed.” Blue eyes flicked once over Cat, held her gaze as if to ensure she would not speak. They flicked away again. “For now.”

  The pistol in her ribs eased away. Sharp pain receded to a dull ache that would soon fade. Cat tried not to flinch, to dive for the carriage door and plunge through it toward freedom. She was not alone. Essie was stiff in the seat across from her, eyes wide and terrified. The white curls peeking from beneath her bonnet trembled in tandem with the rest of her body.

  Wycomb calmly adjusted his cuffs.

  “I know you are paid to simply deliver a message. So be it. The message is delivered. Now go. Or I shall kill you.” His voice lowered—so low, so cold, it became sound coated by ice. The small pocket pistol materialized as though it had been in Wycomb’s hand all the time. “Go.”

  Death echoed in that single word. Soft, but final.

  The intruder’s pistol swiveled to face Wycomb, then Essie. Then the floor. “They will not accept lies.”

  “I do not give them. All will be well, with patience.” Wycomb uncocked his weapon pistol and pointed it toward the roof of the carriage.

  “It had better, or it’s your hide—and both of these two.” The man was through the carriage door, tumbling to the street before Cat could draw a full breath.

  Even then, she could not.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” Cat’s limbs flailed as she tumbled about, trying to regain her seat. “Who was that man?”

  “No one of concern.” The gun disappeared into Wycomb’s coat. Calmly, as if the episode had not occurred, he murmured, “Do not think on it.”

  “Do not think on it?” Oh no. She would not tolerate it. Cat leaned forward, bared her teeth—though she hadn’t intended to do any such thing. “I will think on whatever affects me, my lands, and my tenants. Every last one, from Kent to Cornwall to Northumberland.”

  A large fist backhanded her, sending her body and mind reeling. Pain exploded, splintering over cheekbone, jaw, eye. She fell back against the carriage seat while Essie let out a strangled cry.

  Shock coursed through Cat’s veins, cold and black. She leaped forward, sent a fist to Wycomb’s jaw. More pain sang up her arm, then turning to pleasure as his head snapped back. He grunted, but the blow did little to stun him. Wycomb grabbed the front of her cloak, jerking her forward so their faces were inches apart. She tried to push away, but his other hand gripped her hair, yanked hard so her head fell back. Tears welled of their own volition, but she grit her teeth and forced them back.

  She could see each bluntly shaved whisker dotting his chin, the light pink veins crossing the whites of his eyes. Fear burgeoned and grew in her, but she refused to give it rein.

  “Do not tell me not to think on it,” she said. The vicious tone echoed the pain needling her scalp and throbbing in her cheekbone. “This is my inheritance, and I will protect it.”

  Aunt Essie whimpered. In her periphery, Cat could see her pressed stiffly against the corner where plush seat met bare carriage wall.

  “It seems the little pussycat has claws.” The low drawl shivered up her spine. “Do not think you can play in my league, Mary Elizabeth. I shall not allow it.”

  The grip in her hair tightened. She scrabbled to free herself, one hand in her cloak front, the other tangling in her hair. He only pulled harder, forcing her head back until her throat was exposed and she could no longer see him. Only the black fabric-covered ceiling was in her view.

  Then suddenly he was there, looming large in her vision. “I will say this only once.”

  Essie whimpered again, terror swirling through the air, but Cat stayed silent. She would not capitulate.

  “You will do as I say, and ignore everything else you see and hear.” A knee forced its way between her legs. A hard thigh pressed roughly against her sex. She knew the difference between loving and force—knew, too, that she was at Wycomb’s mercy. “You only have one value. Is that understood?”

  “Yes—” she gasped. Her eyes watered again, this time with anger at herself for surrendering rather than any pain. “Yes. I understand.”

  …

  The rookeries stunk. Day or night, they stunk.

  He’d been back since boyhood, of course. Assignments led him there.

  It was never a pleasure. Never a time to reminisce about the past.

  Jones hunched his shoulders in the filthy, homespun coat he used for such work. It did not keep out the stench of shite or piss, nor did it keep out the memories of sleeping in the alleys—or of searching every whore’s face for features resembling his own.

  He was careful with the drawing procured by Sir Charles’s office. Showing it to the wrong person might ruin everything—not showing it would get him nowhere. Luck wasn’t running with him in the first and second pubs he visited. The patrons were too distrustful and too into their cups to be of use. The pubs only served as a place for decent ale—and the gin he avoided altogether. He’d tasted French brandy and fine wine at Angel’s table. Jones might have begun life drinking gin, but he’d never go back.

  The third pub he had more luck with, though it wasn’t in the pub itself. He’d shown the drawing briefly to the proprietor, who simply shrugged. Abandoning the patrons as too drunk to pay attention, he stepped out into the street.

  The door didn’t close behind him.

  Jones spun, already reaching for the knife in his waistband.

  The man standing there simply put his hands up in truce, tangled ropes of gray hair twisting in the faint breeze. “Saw yer sketch there.”

  “Ye seen ’im?” Jones butchered the words just as he had as a boy. It was an easy patter to fall into.

  “Aye, I know that face—not wot ‘’e comes round offen.” The man spit into the gutter of High Holford Street. “But ’e’s been ’ere right enough.”

  A rush of blood pumped through Jones, sending his heart into a frenzied beat. He kept his face carefully blank. “Why are ye tellin’ me?”

  “’E weren’t from in ’ere.” The man shrugged narrow shoulders hidden by a patched coat. “An’ I didn’t like ’is eyes, eh?”

  “I’d think others would ’ave noticed a man from out there.” Jones jerked his head toward the west, knowing precisely what “out there” meant.

  “Well, ’e t’weren’t dressed for out there.” Fingers chapped and red from work gestured in the same direction. “’E was dressed for in here—not wot ’e fit in entirely. Clothes don’t c
hange a man.”

  No, they didn’t. No one knew that better than Jones. A boy of the rookeries would always be a boy from the rookeries. Which mean Wycomb—however dressed—would still be an arrogant peer. “Who was ’e with?”

  “Well, now.” The man rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up, as though the crowded buildings and smoke-laden sky would provide an answer. “I don’ like ta say.”

  Which was an answer in itself, and sent satisfaction soaring through Jones. “Understood, sir.” If a man born and bred in the rookeries didn’t want to say, then Wycomb’s dealings were with a dangerous group.

  “I ain’t willing to risk me throat just to ’elp out, see?”

  “Nor would I, sir.” Jones tipped his head, touching his forefinger to the brim of his cap. “A working throat is an important thing.”

  The man’s lips quirked up, revealing a mess of broken and yellow teeth. “Clever.”

  “Yessir.”

  “’Ere. I’ll give you a bit more.” The man reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a short, whittled pipe. “Ye have tobacco?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Eh.” He didn’t remove the pipe, however, just clenched it between the broken teeth. “You don’t want to cross these men, boy. They ’ave their plans, and the plans aren’t falling inta place. You make it worse an’ they ain’t going to like thet.”

  Jones was getting closer. Here was a man who had seen Wycomb and those he was with. The fact that he didn’t want to reveal the companions was unimportant. It only mattered that they were dangerous enough he was wary. The rookeries were full of criminals, but there were ranks.

  “Where can I find them?”

  “Dunno. But if you ask enough questions, they’ll find you.”

  …

  My Darling,

  I have missed you since I was in the country. Not just your face and body, but your advice. We suit each other, you and I. If only we could be together.

  It seems jonquil is all the rage this Season, and so I will be wearing it at the Duchess of Torland’s ball tonight.

  Please find me, my darling. Soon.

  Yours,

  Cat

  “Aunt Essie.” Cat folded her message to Jones, once, twice, then sealed it with wax. “If anything should happen to me, leave Worthington House.”

  Essie’s eyes had been wild the last three hours as they sat in the drawing room, embroidering handkerchiefs as if nothing were amiss. It was where Wycomb had put them when they returned. He’d commanded they stay until he gave them leave, and neither of them dared countermand him.

  Until now.

  “Mary Elizabeth?” Her aunt’s voice was weak, fingers plucking at thread rather than creating elaborate flower designs.

  “Not today of course. Later.” Cat stood and strode across the room to her aunt. In low tones, she murmured, “Find someone you trust to stay with, or go to the countryside, the Continent. Whatever you must.”

  “I don’t understand what is happening.” Essie didn’t whimper, but her voice was a very shallow step away. Fear had opened her eyes wide.

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t know myself.” Cat set her hand on Essie’s shoulder, squeezed. “Be ready with clothes and pounds so you can leave if you must. Is that clear? Don’t wait for me, don’t fight. Just run.”

  “Just run.” Essie licked her lips, then let out a fast breath. The thread in her lap twitched as her fingers convulsed. “What of you?”

  “I am not alone.” The statement was both wonderful and terrible all at once. Jones would stand with her, but could not be hers. She leaned forward, set her mouth near Essie’s ear. The scents of powder and rouge and eau de parfum competed for dominance, but the mixture was familiar and comforting. “Run, Essie. Either somewhere nearby where you are safe, or far away where he won’t find you.”

  “I will.” Essie half stood as Cat moved away. “Mary Elizabeth? Cat?”

  It was the first time she could remember that Essie had called her Cat. “Yes?”

  “I know my brother.” A shudder rippled her soft frame. “He will find us if he wants to.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Her handwriting was beautiful. It flowed and dipped and soared across the page. Jones rubbed a thumb across the smooth stationery. However much he wanted to linger over the peaks and valleys of her words, there was more here than ink over paper.

  “Thank you, Rupert, for bringing the note.” Jones set the note on the edge of his desk. “Have you seen the baroness today?”

  “Yessir.” Rupert tugged at his bright hair, shades more orange than the baroness’s deep red. “I saw her this afternoon, coming from a fancy townhouse. Looked a mite off.”

  “Off?” A common word, but it sent unease spiraling through Jones.

  “Aye.” Rupert shuffled worn shoes on the patterned Aubusson rug. “’Er face was all red, and she didn’t walk. She near ran inta the ’ouse. The ol’ lady did the same. The gov’nor, though, ‘e strolled along easy as you please, though he weren’t lookin’ right neither.”

  “Mm.” Jones flicked at the note on his desk, let his thoughts shift through time and air as much as the paper shifted against wood and polish. Wycomb could hide any emotion—Jones had seen him do so. Cat could hide much, trained as she was to endure the ton.

  If she showed strain, then something was amiss—which coincided with her love note.

  He turned, studied Rupert. The boy was just on the edge of growing into a young man, all angular legs and arms. His pants were an inch too short, and one bare toe was visible between sole and cap of the shoe.

  “Wait here.” Jones slipped from the room, knowing the boy would do as asked. And he was about to send the boy out for more reconnaissance, along with the others.

  “Here.” He slipped back in, the items in his hand held out. “They should fit.”

  “Sir. Mr. Jones.” Rupert’s mouth opened and closed, a fish in the air gasping for water. “Boots?”

  “Aye.” The affirmative word was one he rarely said now, but it seemed fitting somehow.

  “For me?”

  “I thought you might need some soon and bought them a while ago when—” He stopped. Rupert’s face was bright with equal amounts of joy and disbelief. Jones swallowed hard, remembering the first time Angel had gifted him with a simple cap, because he didn’t have one of his own.

  Terror had filled him, because Angel had cared.

  Elation and pride had also filled that space in his chest, because Angel had cared.

  “You need proper gear to be a spy.” Jones shrugged, as if the boots were nothing more than a tool. It didn’t matter that Jones had agonized over the choice before purchasing them. “You can’t join our ranks if you can’t learn, and you can’t learn if you’re dealing with wet feet. Soon enough, you’ll be issued a weapon as well. If you decide to stay on.”

  The boy accepted the boots as reverently as any priest accepting the sacrament.

  “They are very fine, sir.” Rupert stroked the mediocre leather, chapped fingers running along seams as softly as the clouds touched the sky. “Are you certain they are for me?”

  A freckled face turned up, nerves and hope mingling on blunt features. Jones understood that look, probably more than the boy himself.

  “Yes. They are for you. I need my men to be ready.” He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, gripped hard. “Now, tell me more about the baroness.”

  …

  Cat could hardly bear the awareness that prickled her skin and kept her mind whirring. It was as though she were a lantern, burning day and night, with no reprieve from this state of watchfulness. It didn’t seem possible to be alert at every moment, but she was living it.

  The rhythm of the music continued its cheerful beat and her body performed the steps of the country dance, years of training keeping her movements flawless. But her mind was elsewhere.

  No one in this ballroom knew what lived in their midst. None of them knew the man commanding the edge of
the dance floor was a spy and a monster. And she must dance and smile and make conversation so that they would not know of it.

  “My lady, is something amiss?” Hedgewood’s brows drew together as the two of them met and separated and turned on the floor. “You appear strained. I’d prefer the ton believe this matched isn’t forced.”

  The words it IS forced rolled onto her tongue, but she bit them back.

  She sent Hedgewood an apologetic smile and shook her head. “It is nothing. Just weary of travel and worried about the Abbey and the tenants, of course.”

  Where was Wycomb while she danced? He had been circulating the ballroom most of the evening, though the card room had held his attention for a time. She’d noted everyone he’d spoken to, approximately how long, whether he was cold and formal or if he had turned jovial—though perhaps jovial was too strong a word. She would have termed his demeanor jovial for anyone else, but for Wycomb he simply became approachable.

  She met Hedgewood, followed the dance movements, and set her hand in his.

  “When you are my wife,” he murmured between the musical notes. “You needn’t worry about the Abbey. I shall see to it.”

  A few steps, a spin, and they were separated again. A chill spread over her skin, oppressive enough she could feel its weight. Cat circled the lady next to her, changed her position, and met Hedgewood again. His head was cocked to one side, the handsome face alive with enjoyment despite the speculation and discontent hovering around his eyes.

  “The Abbey shall always be my concern.” She smiled easily, as if they shared an understanding of the necessities of being the lord and lady. “It is my duty to be involved.”

  Hands gripped together, they circled once, twice, in time with the music.

  “No, your duty is to attend to my wishes.” The words slipped between lips tipped up in a contagious grin. He bent and pressed his lips to the knuckles gripped hard in his as they moved back into the line. Around them titters and sighs of admiration flowed beneath the violins. “My wishes are that you accept my directives.”

  “No.” She gave him the same smile, angled her head as they fell back, separating from the other dancers. Side by side, hands held, they faced the opposite line of dancers.