The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  “It must be Henri. Wycomb.” The Flower leaned forward, elbows on the filthy table as if it were as clean as the table in the ton townhouse she now shared with her husband. She sent a fast glance toward Cat. “No one else would bring us all here.”

  “True.” Jones set his hand in Cat’s, certain she would be uncomfortable in this hovel of a pub and still wearing her nightshift and cloak. She squeezed once, then slipped her fingers out and set them on the tankard.

  “He is—” Cat struggled to find the word, though her carriage did not change. She turned the tankard, a quarter turn, then a half. “Wrong,” she finally said. “Everything about him is wrong. It is almost too much to tell.”

  “Yes. Oui.” The Flower crossed her arms over her coat and shirt. Satisfaction pursed her lips. “He is wrong. There are parts of him that are good, do you understand? He works hard for this country, but there is something wrong in his soul.”

  “That is exactly it.” Cat looked to the Flower, exchanged a glance. “You know him well?”

  A long silence reverberated through the room. The Shadow and Angel both looked to the Flower, then to Cat. Jones opened his mouth to respond, but decided to follow the lead of the other men and stayed quiet. They understood women better than he.

  It was the Flower’s turn to struggle now. Though she was adept at hiding her thoughts, Jones recognized pain rippling over her pretty features. She lifted her tankard, drank deep, and set it down with a thunk.

  “Yes.” Dark eyes glittered fiercely when she met Cat’s gaze. “As well as you, I think. He was my commander for ten years.”

  “I see.” Cat slid her hand across the table scarred with knife marks and stained by ale. She curled her fingers over the Flower’s clenched fist. She spoke no more, only looked to Jones.

  The Flower turned her fist up and opened it so that she gripped Cat’s fingers. Jones looked at those joined hands. One small, skilled, and from the rookeries. The other was small, elegant, and from the ton.

  If he hadn’t loved Cat before, his heart would have fallen from his chest.

  “What has he done?” The Shadow tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “He is well respected as an agent. If we are taking him down, you had better be right.”

  “He is dealing in opium,” Jones said shortly. “Worse, he gave the baroness to the opium dealers to obtain ransom from her fiancé.”

  “Who is providing money to fund the opium den,” Cat added.

  “Also, Wycomb is my assignment from Sir Charles.” There was no longer any need for secrecy. Flicking his gaze between the Shadow and Angel, Jones recognized understanding in their faces.

  “Does he know that?” the Shadow asked.

  “As Wycomb and I fought over Cat—and I lost—” Jones added bitterly, failure settling into the base of his belly. “Yes. That was when he abducted her.”

  “Good enough.”

  “What is your plan?” Angel leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms, long fingers tapping over one bicep. “If Wycomb knows you are ready to bring him in, he will not return to Worthington House.”

  “The Gents said Worthington House is in an uproar. They know the baroness is missing, and though Wycomb did return briefly, it was only to gather a few items and leave again.” Jones shifted, simply to ensure his pistol was still beneath his coat. It felt as if Wycomb’s gaze were on his back.

  “Henri will run.” The Flower narrowed her eyes and lifted one shoulder in casual confidence. “We will not let him.”

  “I agree.” Jones nodded once, sharply. He had failed Cat, failed his commander. He would not do so a second time. “I believe he may return to the opium den—particularly as I don’t know if he is aware Baroness Worthington has escaped.”

  “Oh, just say Cat.” She waived his formality away with a laugh, shaking back her hood. “I’ve been walking around London wearing only a nightshift under my cloak.”

  “Jones.” The Flower frowned at him, then looked to Cat’s cloak. There were no windows in the back room, but the lamp light clearly revealed fabric smeared with grime. “You should know better.”

  “With all due respect, Flower,” Jones responded dryly, raising a brow in impatience. “I was concerned about her life, not her attire.”

  “Accepted.” Though the Flower’s tone did not echo the word. “Still, she needs clothing. I will see she has it.”

  “Merci.” Cat spoke it with a perfect accent, as so many well-educated ladies of the ton did. Blue eyes warmed so that he once more thought of the tropical butterfly—one he could never catch.

  The Flower laughed, bright and sweet, and pushed at the cap restraining her unruly hair. “No, my dear. I am as English as you. Only—well. I have a disguise, do you see? A French opera dancer.”

  “I see. The whispered rumors I’ve heard about Wycomb in the last few years now make sense.” Cat’s expression shifted, as if some fact had been settled between them. “Aside from my nightshift, we should discuss Wycomb.”

  “There we go. Back on topic, though no less important than nightclothes.” Angel winked at Cat, then sent his gold gaze toward Langford. “Shadow, what are your thoughts?”

  “As I understand it,” Langford said slowly, rubbing a thumb along the rim of the tankard set before him. “We do not know if Wycomb is aware that Baroness Worthington escaped.”

  “We do not,” Jones confirmed, blocking out the amusement he’d felt at the exchange between Cat and Flower.

  “Then we must keep watch on the den. Beginning now, before he learns the truth.” Langford’s bright eyes moved around the table, as if seeking agreement from each of them. He pushed his ale away as if he were finished with it, though Jones knew it was nearly full.

  “What if the opium dealers have already sent a message?” Cat leaned forward, setting the arms of her now filthy cloak on the tabletop. Her hair was bound in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, and there was a faint streak of dirt along her cheekbone. She’d never looked so beautiful—and he had never been so proud. “If he does not return to the den, we will be wasting our time.”

  “How long has it been since he left you there?” Angel asked, reaching for a hunk of the simple brown bread sitting beside the pale-yellow cheese in the center of the table.

  “It was just after dawn yesterday.”

  “Not much more than a day and a half, then.” Angel looked at Jones, nodded once before biting into the soft slice layered thickly with butter. “Your choice as to the next movement, Jones.”

  “The opium den.” Jones was certain Wycomb would reappear there. “He will not return again to Worthington House, and even if he knows Cat is gone, he will still try to obtain his part of the ransom. Wycomb will want his money and then will disappear.”

  “What is your plan?” the Flower asked.

  He didn’t know. “I can’t take Cat back into the rookeries. I can’t expose her to Wycomb again.”

  “No. She’ll be his leverage if he finds her,” the Shadow agreed. “It is also not safe for her there.”

  “There is somewhere I can stay.” Cat set her hand on Jones’s forearm. Long fingers were white against the sleeve his brown coat, though dirt clung beneath the short nails. “Somewhere to hide if need be.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “You’re not doing anything illegal, eh?” Bill’s left eyebrow tilted down beneath a bald skull gleaming in the setting sun. He looked to Cat, to Jones, back again, filling the doorway with his bulk.

  “I only need a safe place to stay for a few hours.” Cat was conscious of the desperate bustle in the street at her back, of the reek of urine saturating the air. More, she was conscious of Jones standing beside her. “It is important.”

  “I like you, milady, but I’ve work to do today.” The scowl on Bill’s face was ferocious. “I’m not inclined to share my rooms for reasons I don’t understand—particularly as I’m leaving.”

  “I cannot provide details in full.” Cat glanced to Jones, whose face was impassive a
s he took in the street around them—no doubt watching for danger. For Wycomb. “It is complicated.”

  “Aye?” Bill planted his legs inside the doorframe, as if he’d grown there. “Tell me.”

  She weighed her words carefully. “A man sold me to the opium den for ransom. Jones hopes to apprehend him.”

  “This Jones needs to stash you somewhere while he goes about his business, eh?”

  “That, and I need to keep watch.” Jones jerked his head toward the door of the den.

  A long silence followed. Cat held her breath, misgiving pinging through her. They were exposed on the street, on display to Wycomb should he arrive at the den just then. She rubbed damp palms on her cloak, and though instinct made her want to turn around and look for danger, her mind told her that doing so risked detection.

  “Come in.” Bill stepped aside, the scowl on his face only a little less ferocious.

  “Thank you.” Unutterably grateful, Cat smiled and crossed the threshold. As the door closed behind Jones, hiding them from the eyes of the street, she found her worry lessening.

  The room was no less spartan by day than by night. Without the glow of the fire to soften it, she could see the shabbiness as well—though the smell of toasted bread warmed the space.

  “Have you had supper, yet?” Bill asked grumpily. He gestured toward a bundle of cloth near the hearth and a roasting stick. “I’ve bread and sausages.”

  “We have.” Jones was at the window already, pushing aside the ragged fabric to look out at the darkening street. He turned then to face Bill, brown eyes solemn. “I am indebted to you.”

  “Aye.” Bill’s lips quirked up, amusement clear in the half light of the room. “Iffen we see each other again, I’ll be sure to call in that favor.”

  Something passed between the two men Cat didn’t understand. She could almost see it in the air.

  “Understood.” Jones nodded, as if in acceptance of an unspoken agreement.

  “Now, I’ve work to do, as I said.” Bill crossed his thick arms, squinted at the two of them. “I’ll be back later. Milady, if Jones here leaves you for any reason, keep the door locked until I return, eh? Don’t go wandering about St. Giles alone.”

  “I will.” She smiled warmly at the tall man in his threadbare clothes. They owed him a great deal, more than she could ever repay, but she promised herself she would do what she could as soon as this ordeal was over.

  “Good.” He retrieved a cap from a peg near the door and settled it over his smooth head. “I’ll be back.”

  The door snapped shut behind Bill, the finality of the sound renewing her unease. Jones snatched the stool with a single hand and immediately went to the window again. He positioned the seat, lowered himself and pushed aside the curtain so that a slim crack of blurred glass was revealed.

  “Can you see the door of the den from here?” Cat asked softly, leaning close to see for herself through that long, thin triangular crack. She set her hand on his broad shoulder, let it linger there. Beneath his coat, muscle twitched and rolled against her palm.

  “Well enough.” He turned his head slightly, as though to determine just how close she truly was. Too close, apparently, as he drew a long breath and leaned away.

  “I would have you nowhere near Wycomb when I find him.” The words curled through the air, barely audible.

  The dry laugh that slipped out scored her throat. “I don’t particularly want to be near my uncle, either.”

  She did not want to face Wycomb. Nor did she want to be inside the opium den again. That door opened to nightmares, to the sickly sweet scent still lingering in her hair. To memories of Wycomb that refused to give up their corner in her mind.

  Her fingers curled into Jones’s shoulder, searching for an anchor. She found one. Just there, when she needed it. A large, capable hand, callused and rough, pried her fingers loose and twined with them.

  “I don’t know how long we will have to wait for Wycomb.” Jones’s eyes were solemn when they met hers. A corner of his mouth tipped up before he spoke again, easing the fear crawling under her skin. “I’d prefer my shoulder to be in working order when we do. I might have to defend your honor.”

  He brought her hand to his lips, pressed them softly to her knuckles. The kiss dove straight to her heart.

  “My gentleman hero.”

  Cat meant it, with all her being.

  Jones might not believe it, but she knew what was in his heart. She wanted it. Always.

  “Will you go with me? To Colle di Val d’Elsa?” The words rushed from her. She had not known they were there to be spoken, but they had been in her mind for a long time.

  “What?” The hand that had been so gentle on hers tightened. Not painfully, but with strength that imparted shock. “What?”

  “Come with me. We can live there, just as you imagined. No one will know us, there will be no society to snub us. No tenants, no trustees. I can—”

  “Cat. Stop. We can’t.” His fingers fell away from hers, leaving her hand curled around nothing but cool air. The tear that now lived permanently in her heart deepened.

  “We can.” Desperation could be cruel. It could fill a soul so that the skin felt tight, so sound and sight sharpened to the single point of a lover’s eyes. “I don’t need Ashdown Abbey, or the trust. It’s you that matters, don’t you understand?”

  “You can’t give up a five-hundred-year legacy for me, Cat. I won’t allow it.”

  “But you’re willing to give up us? To give up love?” She angled her body, trying not to come between Jones and the window, yet wanting him to see her.

  “It’s your life. It’s everything you are.” He tipped his head back, closed his eyes briefly. The stool creaked with the movement and light from the street shifted over his face. “I’m nothing, Cat. We’re nothing.”

  Oh God. Words twisted and tore at the heart, didn’t they? But she set her feet into the worn planks of the floor. She knew what she wanted.

  “All the tenants who rely on me can be managed by Mr. Sparks. Jones, I don’t need to be there.” With those words, something rolled from her shoulders that she had not even known was weighing on them. “I’m not my father, Jones. I’m not his father, or his grandfather. I’m not the first Mary Elizabeth Frances Ashdown, either. I’m Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown. I’m Cat, first. The land will always belong to me, and then my children—only I am not needed to run everything.”

  “Cat.” Jones set warm hands against her waist and pulled her forward. She went, willingly, looking down at the square jaw, at the eyes filled with shock. At the cheekbones that sharpened in moments such as this. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.” She smiled, with all the brilliance that shone in her heart. “We can’t be together here. So, we will be together somewhere else.”

  “It is impossible.” He sighed, leaning forward so that his forehead rested just beneath her heart. “It can’t be possible.”

  “It can, if we want it to be.” Every fiber and sinew that knitted her body together told her this. “Our life can be what we make it. Here in England, we will never be able live freely. There, in Colle di Val d’Els we can. It’s that simple.”

  “Hope can be a bitter thing, Cat.”

  Tears formed a throbbing ache in her throat when he turned his face to the side so his cheek now pressed against her breast. Arms slid around her waist, drawing her near.

  It was she who drew him in for comfort. She who circled him with love as her arms circled shoulders sagging beneath their burden. Standing here, with Jones seeking her comfort and hope a small, bright dream growing between them, the moment both tore at her and healed the chasm in her heart.

  “I love you, Jones.”

  A relieved and terrified shudder wracked him, so that the wide, broad shoulders became momentarily frail.

  “Come with me,” she whispered, seeing little beyond the thick brown hair so neatly trimmed. Tears shadowed her vision and blocked that familiar sight from h
er. But she wasn’t ready to cry yet. Not yet.

  He had not answered.

  He was silent for what seemed like an age. Two. Civilizations might have risen and fallen in the time that he did not speak. Only the steady drip of rain and the rhythm of their breath filled the room. Then, finally, Jones moved.

  He stood, unfolding his body from the safe hollow she’d created for him, looking down into her face, searching her eyes. Cupping her cheeks, he set his mouth to hers. He gave of himself, with gentleness and sweetness, with a soft fury that stole her breath.

  This was home. Not Ashdown Abbey or the townhouse in London, nor any other estate. Home was not a physical location. It was with Jones.

  She moved closer, gripping the rough linen of his shirt, opening her mouth beneath his so that she could give of herself as well. His mouth devoured hers, fiercer than anything he had shown her before.

  “Cat.” The single word was rough with that turbulence as well as urgency. “Wycomb is on the street.”

  Jones pressed his lips to hers once final time, then set her away from him with great regret. “Hedgewood is with him.”

  Her body had stiffened with fear. He regretted that he had caused it, but better she was scared than so confident she put herself in danger. A second look through the gray-blue dusk showed Wycomb and Hedgewood both stepping into the opium den.

  Now. It must be now.

  “Here, take my knife.” He pulled it from his boot, offering it to her hilt first. The low firelight glinted on the blade he ruthlessly maintained.

  “You might need it, Jones.” She shook her head, backing away from the weapon.

  “I have others.” Two others, just as easily accessible to him and as familiar as old friends. “I also have my pistol.”

  Carefully, as if she expected it to strike as quickly as a snake, she accepted the knife. It was large in her small, dirt-streaked hand. “Are you going into the den?”

  “Yes, before it is too late. Lock the door as soon as I leave.”

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “You as well.” He gave her a fast, hard kiss, aware that time was passing quickly. “Lock the door,” he said again.