The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Why?” Angel frowned, cocked his head to the side. The gold queue of hair at the base of his neck shifted over his coat.

  “She’s not of my class. I have no right to her.”

  Silence could be huge and heavy, and as solid as any stone wall.

  “Do you love her?” Angel asked.

  “It doesn’t matter if I do or not. She isn’t for me.” Jones flexed his bare fingers.

  “I admit, there are a considerable number of difficulties lying in that direction,” Angel spoke slowly. Jones knew from the pacing of the words he was choosing them carefully. “She bears one of the oldest titles and estates in England. Jones, she’s—” He stopped, drew breath. “Hell. When it comes to bloodlines and lineage, she’s close to royalty. She’s connected to nearly every monarchy across Europe, with more blunt than most of them.”

  He knew that. He knew it all. A dull ache settled deep in his gut. “As I said, she isn’t for me. She’s promised to Hedgewood.”

  Angel didn’t answer, presumably because there was nothing he could say. Angel knew Jones was right. Somehow that confirmation allowed Jones to acknowledge the truth to himself.

  He wasn’t in love with Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown, the 13th Baroness Worthington.

  He was in love with Cat.

  His belly clutched and his heart did a long, slow roll in chest.

  “Damnation,” Angel said softly. “I can tell by your face. I’m sorry, Jones.”

  “No reason to be sorry. The truth is the truth.” He just wished the truth weren’t as sharp as any assassin’s knife—and though his childhood stood him in good stead as a spy, he could curse it now. Nothing would ever change the circumstances of his birth, and nothing would ever make him good enough for her.

  One of the little girls toddled toward him. She held out her rattle, beads first. Jones forced a smile and nodded, which usually worked with these small beings. It didn’t. She stood there, flyaway hair floating about her face, and said something utterly unintelligible.

  “She wants you to take her toy,” the Earl of Langford translated from across the room. There was no mistaking the laugher lurking beneath his voice.

  “Very well. Thank you.” Jones took the wooden rattle, folding it into his palm. The girl beamed at him as if she had just bestowed the crown jewels. What was the girl’s name? He couldn’t remember at first. Then, “Hello, Anna.”

  “This one is Sarah, Jones.” Their mother came forward, her smile blooming quiet and steady as she picked the girl up and swung the child onto her hip. “They are identical. I can barely distinguish one from the other half the time. They’re such a blur of feet and voices I can’t tell which girl I’m chasing.” Grace Travers, Countess of Langford, nuzzled her daughter’s cheek before giving her an affectionate kiss.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jones couldn’t think of anything else to say. He didn’t belong here, with these pretty families and their happy children. He knew nothing of family and children and love. Or of parents, for that matter. One of his was a mystery and the other had abandoned him.

  “What is the matter, Jones?” Lady Langford spoke softly, her silver eyes going soft. “You’re always quiet, but not like this.” The child snuggled into the curve between Lady Langford’s neck and shoulder, then stared at Jones with wide eyes the color of a summer sky.

  “Nothing is the matter.” What else could he say? He couldn’t tell this woman of Cat, or the feelings growing inside him that he had no right to feel. Still, the small child before him became a sudden want. He could see a child with Cat’s auburn hair and brilliant eyes. Or perhaps it would have his own brown eyes. There was no way of knowing.

  The ache in his chest became painful. He set a hand there, rubbed, just to make sure there was nothing wrong.

  “Who is she?” Lady Langford asked. “It’s unpardonable of me to question you, and quite intrusive. But, Jones, all of us know how difficult it is to find love when you are a spy.”

  “I believe it is time for me to become scarce.” Angel sidestepped away from them.

  “Coward,” Jones muttered darkly.

  “Absolutely.”

  Jones was vaguely aware of Angel’s wife Lilias pushing up from the settee and coming toward them, hand brushing her husband’s arm as she passed him. Her belly led the way, and her smile was softer than he’d seen in her before. In fact, all of her was softer. Her smile, her skin, her eyes. She seemed happier than even the day she was married, and Jones had thought he’d seen true happiness that day.

  “Don’t bother him, Gracie. I can see Jones is not ready to share, more’s the pity.” She set her hand on his shoulder and leaned up to kiss his cheek, bringing with her a clean, bright scent. “But we all understand.”

  She stayed close, her face lifted toward his. Jones glanced up at Angel, then at Langford. They were talking, each of them grinning as they watched their wives with amusement. Is that what love was? They seemed to understand their partners, let her speak for herself. The child growing inside of Lilias was out of Angel’s control, yet he didn’t hover over her. Langford’s other child—it must be Anna—ran across the room and tumbled to the floor, yet he didn’t rush over and pick her up. He simply watched her pick herself back up, then grinned in satisfaction.

  It was too much. All of it. The love, the family. The ties that bound them all together—husband to wife, friend to friend, parent to child—was simply too much to witness. Jones’s stomach clutched and he couldn’t quite draw breath.

  He had to go. Now.

  “Excuse me.” He bowed once to Lady Langford, again to Lilias. “I have an assignment—you understand?” His mind was reeling so that he could barely understand their murmured responses.

  He set a hand on the head of the child in Lady Langford’s arms. Blond curls slipped beneath his palms. Her hair felt clean. It shouldn’t matter that the girl’s hair felt clean, but that quick brush across his palm was magical.

  “I’m not meant for this life, my ladies.” He sounded like a stuffed-shirt prig. “But I thank you for the invitation to dinner.”

  “Jones.” Lilias held him in place with nothing but light pressure to his shoulder. “None of us know what to do with this life of spying and family. Just because it isn’t natural does not mean it is wrong or impossible.”

  “Thank you, my lady, but it isn’t for me. Even for visiting.”

  “It isn’t difficult to enjoy it, Jones,” Lady Langford said in her quiet way. “The difficult part is allowing yourself.”

  He could think of nothing to say, so he simply bowed to his hostess, then to Lady Langford, then the ladies chatting in the corner. A quick nod was all that was needed for the Shadow and Angel and he would be free.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Every stroke of the quill grated on her nerves. It would be the pleasure of Lord Hedgewood and Lady Worthington to invite you…

  Cat hated the words. Each one brought her closer to the engagement ball, closer to marriage to Hedgewood. Yet she could not ignore that the invitations must be sent. She blotted the ink, set the completed note on a stack of a fifty or so just like it.

  Across the dining table where they had spread out the invitation lists, Essie had a similar pile of stationery, though she was not writing. Instead, she fiddled with her quill, running it through her fingers as she stared out the window with unfocused eyes.

  “Aunt Essie?”

  The lady jumped, a squeak falling from her lips.

  “Are you well?” Cat asked, though she already knew the answer. Essie had been living between nerves and fright since the incident in the carriage.

  “Of course. Yes. Of course.” She bent over the paper, set the quill to it—but did not write. “No.”

  “I did not think so.” Setting the invitations aside, Cat leaned against the chair back.

  Essie lifted her face, eyes wide behind her spectacles. “How can you focus? How can you sit across the breakfast table from him, after what he did?”
r />   “Because I refuse to let him win.” She hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it was how she felt. “I can be afraid enough to be careful, but not so afraid that he wins.”

  Shaking her head, Essie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Cat doubted she fully understood. Aunt Essie was kind, sweet even, but there was little fight in her. She simply did not have it in her nature.

  “Remember,” Cat said carefully, looking over her shoulder toward the door to ensure they were alone. “If anything happens to me, leave immediately. Be ready.”

  Essie nodded, then looked once more to the invitation in front of her. Still, she did not write.

  “All will be well.” She thought to add, I promise, but decided she could not add that to her lie.

  The door opened and Essie jumped again. She made the same little sound as her gaze whipped toward the doorway. The butler stood there, expression mildly put out. She could see a second man behind him, cap removed and clutched in his hands.

  “A messenger for you, my lady.” Brown flicked his gaze toward the man. “He refuses to give it to anyone but yourself.”

  “Let him in.” She turned fully in her chair to face the door.

  Silently, but with mild irritation on his narrow features, Brown moved aside and let the man enter. Cat recognized him now as a footman from Ashdown Abbey.

  “Jacob, hello.” She smiled at him. “It is good to see you.”

  “Milady.” He nodded to Cat, then again to Essie. “Ma’am.”

  “You have a message?”

  “Aye, from Mr. Sparks. He said I should deliver it to no one but you.” The footman reached into his coat and drew out a packet sealed with red wax. Stepping forward, he offered it to her. “Mr. Sparks said you should read it immediately.”

  “I will, thank you.” Heart thumping, she took the packet and turned it over in her hands. There was no indication what it held beyond several papers. “Brown, see that he is provided food and rest before he leaves again for Ashdown Abbey.”

  “Thank you, milady.” The footman beamed at her and touched his hand to his forehead in farewell.

  “Please follow me, sir.” Brown bowed to Cat and closed the door behind them.

  Curiosity burned in her, and she quickly broke the seal and opened the outer layer. Inside was a carefully folded sheaf of papers. She recognized Mr. Sparks’s handwriting as if it were her own.

  My lady,

  I obtained a copy of the marriage contract and have studied it at length. I am not a solicitor, but I am familiar enough with legal language that I can read it easily. I am sorry, but I cannot see a way out. The document is carefully drafted, and very much in Hedgewood’s favor.

  I wish I had a better answer for you.

  Yr. Humblest Servant,

  Matthew Sparks

  Despair could be heavy, both on the body and in the soul. Cat dropped the letter onto the table and frantically read the other papers. It was the contract itself, copied in Mr. Sparks’s script. Eyes quickly moving over the words, Cat read each provision.

  She found nothing on the first read, nor the second. Nothing that would give her freedom.

  Nausea rose in her throat, bringing with it a sour taste.

  “What has happened?” Alarm shot through Essie’s words. “Mary Elizabeth, you look ill.”

  “I must marry Hedgewood.” Cat had to force the words out, pushing them beyond the need to retch.

  “Yes, dear.” Essie looked down at the invitations, back up again. “It will not be so bad. You will be away from here, safe, with a husband possessed of good humor—all of which consoles me, just now.”

  It did not console Cat.

  “Excuse me, Aunt.” She needed to be alone with her misery.

  Her bedchamber brought her no solace. It did not soothe any part of the pain in her chest. Cat hadn’t realized how much she had hoped the contract would free her until that hope was gone.

  Even through the choking agony of defeat, Cat knew she must dispose of the note. Stirring the banked coals to life, she dropped the note into the embers. It smoldered, caught flame, and melted into ash. The contract she folded small. Moving to her escritoire, she opened the bottom drawer, set the paper in the back corner and covered it with the leather-bound ledgers there. They were old household accounts, written in her mother’s tidy script, and no longer of any use.

  Except to Cat. Now.

  When she had finished hiding the note, Cat stood in the middle of the room, staring at rose-gold streaks of light from the setting sun. She would have to dress soon for the evening engagements, force herself to smile to the ton—perhaps even Hedgewood. Wycomb would escort her into ballrooms, lies upon lies spewing from his mouth as he murmured platitudes to lords and ladies.

  Oh God. She could not do it.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The street was quiet and warm, with a light breeze. A perfect summer night. Yet the ache in his chest couldn’t be fixed by the pretty gold and rose sunset or the scent of roasting meat or the laughter of families. They simply didn’t know what it was like to be alone. Truly, truly alone.

  He started to walk, not sure where he was going. This was the West End, where carriages bore the aristocracy to soirees and dinner parties and Parliament. This was a world he knew nothing about and couldn’t even imagine beyond what he’d seen through windows. He didn’t belong here.

  She did.

  He looked up at Cat’s window, because that was where he’d walked to. It wasn’t far from Langford’s townhouse, and he’d spent hours here lately. Of course he would head here if he wasn’t thinking. It was logical. Still, the ache in his chest was anything but logical, and he hated the feeling.

  He shook it off and looked to the townhouse. The rear garden was empty and quiet, the mews behind him busy with grooms and horses and carriages being readied for the night’s adventures. Was she at home? Perhaps she was preparing to attend a fancy gathering. He wished she were standing at the window and could see him. She might wave, or even open the window so he could see her face.

  He was pathetic for even thinking it.

  Whatever was moving through him and causing this longing and need and heat was nothing she would feel for him. She was a baroness in her own right, with centuries of blue blood behind her. He was nothing but riffraff from the rookeries, with no ability to provide for her—not that she needed him. She was an heiress.

  His hand fisted, heart and mind full of more emotions than he could name. He should not be standing here in front of her house. It would do him little good to stare straight into the face of a life he wanted and couldn’t have.

  Langford and Angel had made it work. They had children and wives, and were by all accounts happy. They’re lives were not normal and sometimes they had to leave their families. Langford was partially retired and rarely accepted an assignment. Lilias had been pulled into the family and wasn’t alone when Angel was on assignment.

  Cat would be alone. Even if Jones could marry her, when he left for assignments, she would be left alone. Not that there was any reason to think about it. There was no point in even considering what would happen in those circumstances.

  He started as the terrace door opened, a figure slipping into the deepening shadows of the garden.

  Cat was not at the window, but picking her way through the garden toward him. A light shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, its pale pink-and-white design twisting over the surface. Her hair was unbound and tumbled down her back, its waves shifting in the evening breeze.

  It was not quite daylight, not quite dusk. Anyone who looked out the window would see them.

  “Why are you here?” she asked quietly when she drew close to him. He could just make out her scent over the heavy, sweet blooms surrounding them.

  He didn’t have an answer, so he said nothing. He watched and waited, hardly able to breathe for fear she would leave again.

  “Jones.” His name was a sigh on her lips. “I cannot stay here long. Wycomb i
s at home.”

  “I have no reason for being here. None.” It was an honest answer, yet he could not continue with such honesty. He couldn’t tell her he was in love with her. “My apologies, Cat.”

  Her eyes were very blue as she studied his face. Twilight had fallen and any of the pale gold light left of the day had given way to blue-gray.

  “You are the most exasperating man.” She reached out her hand and set it against his chest. Even through the coat and shirt he wore, he could feel the warmth of her hand.

  “I don’t understand.” But his heart was thumping hard beneath her palm.

  “You’re here, at dusk, when we could be seen, for ‘no reason.’”

  “I only wanted to see you.” The words burst from him, though he had not intended to say them.

  “Why?” Her hand stayed there, pressed against his chest. He wanted to lay his own over it and tangle his fingers with hers. He wanted to bring her hand to his lips and kiss each fingertip.

  When she stepped closer, it took all he had not to touch her. Her face tipped up, the sweet, red mouth too close to his.

  “I don’t know.” He could barely speak beyond the need growing inside him. Her mouth was there, full and ripe. But he did not taste. He could not.

  He dared not.

  Still, the need to kiss her clawed and tore at him. Desire raged beneath his skin, consumed him. Her eyes were partly lowered as she watched him, as though she were nearly asleep. Nearly dreaming.

  “Why will you not kiss me?” She breathed the words. Her gaze dropped to his lips and sent lust streaking through him.

  “I cannot.” A fist seemed to clutch his heart and lungs, squeezing so that he couldn’t draw breath.

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  He only shook his head. They were one and the same. Kissing her would only lead to the impossible.

  No matter how much he wanted to.

  He shouldn’t even touch her. Yet her hand still lay over his heart, and he wanted that small contact between them. He wasn’t certain he could touch her bare skin without aching inside in a way that would cause him to do something idiotic.