The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

“I see.” Sir Charles’s reply was stilted, though Jones sensed some amusement beneath the words.

  Jones turned back toward the room, smooth glass cupped in his hand. “Sir.”

  Sir Charles accepted the snifter, swirled and sniffed. “Jones, I expect a full report from you later today, including any information Hedgewood provides.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jones looked to Cat, still wearing her cloak and nightshift. Her hair had lost its usual luster, though the fire of it couldn’t be entirely dimmed by dirt. The stained cloak was wrapped firmly around her, but the nightshift beneath had grayed. “I will start as soon as I see her ladyship home. I’m certain she needs rest.”

  “I need a bath, first, I think.” She sipped the brandy again. Her gaze did not leave Jones, staying level with his over the rim. “Sir Charles,” she said slowly, turning the full force of that iridescent blue on him. “What of Hedgewood?”

  “That remains to be seen. It may be that he is brought before a jury, or he may be released. It is not yet clear.” Sir Charles frowned into his glass. “I see what you are concerned about. Your marriage.”

  “Specifically, the contract my uncle signed.” She breathed deep, knuckles whitening as she gripped crystal. “I am unclear if it stands.”

  “Do you want it to?” Sir Charles asked slowly, the lines on either side of his mouth deepening.

  “No,” she said, words sharp. “I do not.”

  “I’m certain that with a little influence, shall we say,” Sir Charles said slowly, a considering expression moving over his face. “A judge could be persuaded that Wycomb was not in his right mind when he signed it. A peer of the realm involved with opium, attempting to ransom his ward—a case could be made that the contract is void.”

  It would not entirely settle her future, Jones knew. She was still just shy of gaining her majority and a new guardian would need to be appointed, though perhaps by the time the contract was declared null she might have reached twenty-one. Even then, her inheritance would still be held in trust until she married—it seemed to Jones she would be at the beginning again.

  And still unattainable.

  Cat’s features firmed, candlelight gilding the delicate planes. “If that can be achieved, I would be grateful.”

  “I am certain it can—I am quite on good terms with His Majesty.” Sir Charles stood then and sketched an elegant bow for so stocky a man. “Good day, my lady. Jones.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  “Flower, a word before I go.” Sir Charles set his empty snifter on the sideboard, gathered his sword cane, and strode from the room.

  “Au revoir, my lady,” the Flower murmured as she followed the spymaster, perfectly silent in her men’s boots.

  Cat’s face relaxed when they were alone, and she let out a long, drawn out breath. “There is hope, then.”

  “You won’t have to marry Hedgewood.” Jones slipped the now empty snifter from her fingers and replaced it with his own hand. Twining his fingers with hers, he brought them to his lips, kissed the hands she had finally been able to wash in his chamber above.

  “I could marry you,” she said.

  He paused, his mouth still pressed against her sweet skin, then drew away, but did not release her hand. He was not ready to, though he knew what his answer would be. “You cannot marry me, for all the reasons we already spoke of.”

  “Then in Italy, in Colle di Val d’Elsa.” A plea edged her words. It tore at him, rending a long, thin cut through his soul.

  “I cannot go to Italy with you,” he said softly, sorrow layered over the words. “I am needed here.”

  “I don’t understand.” She shook her head, unbound hair moving and shifting over the hood lying on her shoulders. “I don’t understand,” she said again, voice rising.

  He only had one purpose. One skill that gave him worth. “I am a spy, Cat. I will always be a spy.” Freeing his hand, he gripped her shoulders. “Even if we went to Colle di Val d’Elsa, you would not leave your life behind. You will always be the Baroness Worthington. Part of me will always live in the rookeries. We’ll never be free from our pasts.” A long, slow breath shuddered out. “Neither of us.”

  A log snapped in the grate. Jones’s hands twitched on her shoulders before they both looked over at the lick of flame and burning coals. The logs burned a dull red, the color ebbing and fading only to grow again, stronger, then flaring into life.

  “I do not want freedom, Jones.” Cat looked away from the coals and at him. Into him, as if she could see the scars he bore on his soul. “I only want to go to a place where our differences are not as great.”

  There was no breath. Not from him. Not from her.

  “Where our differences are not as great.” He sighed, hands falling away from her shoulders. “Colle di Val d’Elsa.”

  “I’m going.” She spoke firmly, not asking him, but telling him. Her gaze held his, pinning him with the tropical blue. “I have a few trustworthy footmen, perhaps a maidservant, who would travel with me as chaperone. I can hire a guard.”

  “It is not safe. You would be in danger—”

  “As if I have been safe in my own home these last weeks and months? No.” She shook her head and lifted her chin, wrapping the filthy cloak around her as if it were a velvet mantle covering a gown of silk. “I wish to see it, and I will do so.”

  “Do you expect me to come with you to protect you? Is that what you think—that you can manipulate me into changing my mind?” He ground out the words, though he knew they were untrue and unfair, and paced away from her. He set his palms to the surface of Angel’s desk—his desk—and pressed them flat against the cold, polished wood. He knew a chair sat beyond the wood, but he could not see it.

  Only the woman speaking behind him seemed solid.

  “I will see Colle di Val d’Elsa,” she repeated. “And I will wait there for you.”

  “Don’t, Cat.” He couldn’t bear the building pressure inside him and pushed hard against the desk surface.

  “I will be there in two months. In four. Even six. I will be there, waiting for you. All I ask is that you send word if you do not intend to come.”

  “You cannot wait for me. I’m nothing.” He spun to face her and found she had stepped just behind him.

  “You’re everything to me.” Dirt smudged her cheek and one lock of long, curling hair had fallen over her face. A fierce light came into her eyes.

  “Jones.” The male voice was soft, but there was an edge. A sharp edge that allowed no argument. “Hedgewood is ready.”

  Angel stood in the doorway, gold hair unbound and amber eyes shuttered from his thoughts. Jones knew he had heard some of their words, though whatever he thought he did not reveal.

  Time stretched thin, winding around them. Jones fastened his gaze on hers and he found himself memorizing the faint pattern of her iris. Point, valley, small point, starburst. It was a pattern he might not see again.

  “Go,” she commanded, expression clear. “Do what you must. I will wait.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I will promise you six months, Jones. That is all I will give you.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Cat tucked her knees up and wrapped her arms around the pouf of her skirts, so that she was folded into and around herself. Laying a cheek on one knee, she gazed out at the rolling hills and ancient houses built into the countryside.

  It was beautiful. Every stone house glowed in the bright Italian sun, each terra-cotta roof absorbing the heat and sending waving lines into the blue, blue sky. The dark squares of the windows marching across the sea of homes seemed sharp. Below the labyrinth of houses, the earth opened up to trees and valleys and vineyards, as far as the eye could see.

  A woman could weep at the beauty of Tuscany.

  Yet there was little beauty for her. Here, at the top of a hill near the house she had rented in Colle di Val d’Elsa. The Hill of Elsa Valley. The River Elsa snaked through the trees and stone, its shining surface just visible from
the lawns of the house—the house that was full of servants and furniture, but empty of everything she held dear.

  He had not come. Six months, and Jones had not come. Eight months, and still he had not come.

  Cat eyed at the letter lying on the thick, verdant grass beside her. All was well at home. Without her uncle to pressure them, the trustees had become more reasonable. Ashdown Abbey was well cared for by Mr. Sparks, the tenants were secure and happy, and her other estates were prosperous. There was no need for her to return.

  Only Italy did not hold her here.

  Setting her forehead against the hard, flat bones of her knees, Cat sighed long and loud. It was time to go home. Whatever waited for her there would not be what she’d left, of course. The scandal of a woman traveling alone, the difficulties of society, even the humbling re-entrance to her own home would not sit well. She had left England for a man and was returning alone. Alone and abandoned.

  “Very well,” she said aloud, pressing her eyelids against her knees to stop any tears that might plan to escape. “I will return home. I will pull together whatever pieces of my life that are salvageable and return to England.”

  She flopped back onto the earth with a puff of air rushing from her lips.

  Tall grass and wildflowers danced around her head as she stared at dazzlingly bright clouds scattered over the sky. The sweet scent of the blossoms surrounded her as the breeze ruffled petals and leaves. Birds chirped while a bee buzzed above. She swore the flutter of butterfly wings was audible against this background of hilltop silence.

  She saw it all, felt it all, and yet something had turned cold in her heart.

  “You look like a faerie, lying among the flowers.”

  After one gasping, shocked, breathless moment, her lungs began to function again. Her view was only of the sky and clouds and waving flowers. She couldn’t see him, wherever he stood, but she knew his voice as well as her own.

  She did not answer, some primitive, protective part willing her voice to be silent lest she had only dreamed of him again.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Cat. I was detained.”

  Her breath hitched as the sob rose in her throat. He was here. Late, so very, very late, but he was here. He had not died by the hand of some foreign agent, he had not died during the crossing—and he had not forgotten her.

  “Ass.” She hadn’t realized she’d harbored anger, but it was mixed with joy and pain.

  “Yes.” He said nothing more, no explanation or further apology.

  Cat closed her eyes against the sunlight, against the dizzying relief that Jones was alive and beside her, and let the anger and fear wash away. For a moment, there was nothing but the buzz and lilt of the countryside in her ears and dark gratefulness behind her eyelids—then the grass sighed as he knelt beside her.

  She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to look at him.

  Had he changed? Would he still be the Jones she’d known eight months ago?

  A rough, calloused fingertip touched her mouth, skimming over her flesh as though hesitantly relearning a long-forgotten treasure. It moved to her hair, tangling in the mass she hadn’t bothered to pin up in weeks. There was no one there to see it.

  “I’ve missed you.” He whispered it, even as his hand stroked the unruly locks. “Missed you. Loved you. It seems I couldn’t stop loving you, even when I believed I would not come.”

  “Was it so hard?” She still did not open her eyes, but let the memory of his face live behind her eyelids. The dark eyes, the serious mouth.

  “Not hard, but time consuming once I made the decision to come. There were missions to complete before I could be reassigned.”

  His hand move from her hair to her cheekbone, the work-roughened pad of his fingers smoothing over her skin. He stroked once, gently, and she could no longer keep her eyes closed.

  He was the same. Leaner, perhaps, with tired shadows beneath his eyes, but he was the same. Jones. Her Jones. The dark, intense eyes, the lean planes of his face. Full lips she was desperate to kiss.

  He had come.

  There was sorrow around the edges of his mouth, drawing the corners down. His hand hesitated on her cheek, then fell way. His continued to watch her, as she lay in the grass and he knelt beside her. The sounds of the meadow became a low hum in her ears, barely a murmur against the steady drum of her heart.

  “Has it been so long that I have lost you, Cat?”

  For a moment, she could not answer. Had he lost her? She searched her mind, her heart. No. No, he had not. There was so much inside her, so much heart and love and purpose, and while she could live without him, and had these last months, she didn’t want to.

  “No, Jones.” She drew a deep, long breath, the bodice of her gown pulling and stretching even as her heart stretched to love more of this man. “You have not lost me.”

  The relief and joy on his face was beyond measure. Her throat constricted and burned with a fierce, desperate need to cry. His breath shuddered out with the same rhythm that shook his shoulders and for a moment she thought he was crying.

  But those eyes were dry when they rose to meet hers. Dry and bright with a turbulent darkness that called to her.

  “I was afraid you would not be here,” he whispered. “Every night I closed my eyes and dreamed of you here, in the golden light of Italy, but I never thought you would come.”

  “Jones.” Cat brushed aside a daisy dancing in the breeze and reached her hand up to cup his face. “I told you I would. I promised.”

  “Yes.” He pressed a kiss against her palm. “Yes, you did.”

  The sheer wonder in his voice made her want to cry again. This man—this wonderful, responsible, intelligent man—did not believe she could love him enough to wait. Her heart broke for him, then soared again. She’d kept her promise.

  “There is only us, now, Jones. Here on this hillside. I waited here for you every day, because I thought perhaps I would see you sailing down the river, or riding up from the village.” Her gaze skimmed over every feature, drinking in the face she’d only been able to see in her mind these last months. “Be with me here, Jones, where I waited. Love me on this hill.”

  Time spun out, filled with golden sunlight and the steady beat of the pulse in Jones’s throat.

  “It will not be our first time.” She smiled at him. “But you will be the last man.”

  Something went tight in Jones’s face—tight, but not angry. It was powerful, and so intense she shivered beneath his gaze.

  “Cat. My love.” His mouth touched hers, gently. Whiskers rasped against her cheek and sent delicious pleasure winging through her body.

  She twined her arms about his neck and met his lips as he lowered himself to the grass beside her. Slipping a hand beneath her back, he began to work the buttons of her bodice, quickly, and with almost frantic movements—though his mouth was lazy in its exploration of hers.

  “Jones,” she whispered. “Let us not waste time with our clothing.”

  He paused, looking down at her with such seriousness that her heart swelled with joy of being loved with a passion that excluded all else. “A very good suggestion.”

  They disrobed quickly, tugging at ribbons and laughing. Through it, she became more aware of every inch of her skin, of the scent of his skin and the warm Tuscan sun. When he lay her down on his spread coat, she was ready to bring him into her.

  Though his body was clearly ready, he waited, setting his mouth on her breast and his tongue to her nipple. She arched up, running her hands through the hair that grown during their time apart. It layered thick around his face and gave her more to tug.

  He chuckled lightly and moved his lips to the valley between her breasts. Each kiss he feathered there created a wave beneath her skin. That wave grew as he moved down her body, tasting her inch by inch. It was as if he were trying to match her body to his memory.

  Finally, he rose above her. She ran her hands up strong arms to grip his shoulders. So broad, and so willing. The stre
ngth there, the smooth skin rippling over muscle thrilled her.

  The intensity shone in his eyes again, darkly full of promise and love. He pressed against her core, hot and hard, his gaze never leaving hers.

  “I love you, Cat,” he whispered as he slipped into her, filling both her body and her heart. “I will love you always.”

  “Did I tell you of my new assignment?” Sated, ridiculously full of love for her, Jones reached for a strand of curling, deep red hair. He let it slip and slide through his fingers. Their happiness had been as slippery as those lovely curls, but he could no longer pretend he didn’t want to capture it.

  “No.” Her legs were tangled in his, though her arms were thrown above her head to rest in the tall grass. She was open to him, heart and body. “Is it here in Italy?”

  “No. England.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She sat up, quick as a flame might catch fire, to stare at him. Her breasts were exposed to the sunlight, and he could not help but run a finger from her shoulder, down the line of her breast to touch its pink tip.

  “I am entering partial retirement, much like the Shadow.” The idea did not fill him with fear as it once had. “Sir Charles will call upon me occasionally, as needed. The rest of the time, I shall attend to my estates.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is that all you can say?” He laughed, as it was such a pleasure to surprise her.

  She only blinked at him, sun shining on her freckled shoulders and turning her hair to brilliant flame.

  He sobered, though a smile still tugged at his lips. “I would have you marry me, Cat, if you are still willing. We could return home.”

  “How can we? The scandal will be horrendous. We’ll be ostracized immediately.” Her gaze flicked over his face, the blue that had haunted his dreams clouded with doubt. “Even if we manage the first wave of outrage, we’ll never be truly accepted again. You said yourself, the ton will always buzz with gossip when you appear.”

  “I did say that.” He set his arms around her, drew her warm body against his. “If we marry and lived here in Italy, Cat, what of our children? What happens when they return home to claim their birthright?”