by The Rogue
Jane sat on his bed with an unconscious Zeus in the dip of her skirts, stretching a sheep-gut penis sheath between her fingers. She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. “I’ve been at it for an hour,” she said, frustration in her tone. “But I cannot fathom what this is for!”
Ethan had been introduced to sheepskin sheaths at the tender age of fourteen by his most memorable tutor, a young man named Luther. Luther had been hired for his pedigree—he was the youngest son of the youngest daughter of the old Earl of Gatwick. To all appearances, Luther was a model young gentleman, courtly of manner and articulate when Ethan’s parents were about. It was not until Luther proposed to take Ethan on their first excursion to view the masterworks hanging in the Royal Academy that the young pupil saw his new teacher’s true nature. They only bothered to view the nudes.
Luther was as dissolute a wastrel as Ethan had ever met, then or since. Fond of the darkest of pleasures and strongest of spirits, Luther gave Ethan a day and night he’d never forget.
They’d started at one of the more ordinary pleasure houses. Luther had chosen a buxom redhead for himself and a pert blond miss for Ethan. Her name was Tilly and her nature was enthusiastic. Ethan had left her presence feeling quite pleasantly corrupted.
In retrospect, Tilly had been a virtuous nun in comparison to their further adventures. Jessamine was next, with her love of being spanked with the flat of a hairbrush. Then there was Lisette of the black lace stockings and odd-smelling cheroots—she was an expert in the fine art of erotic bondage, she told him, and proceeded to demonstrate for him with another woman.
On it went, that twenty-four-hour fall into sin and depravity. From one house of pleasure to another, with a brief stop at one house of pain, where Ethan learned that even he had his limits.
Still, it was overall a very satisfying experience. In the course of one rotation of the earth, young Ethan Damont experienced more than most men did in a lifetime. Not all of it did he deem repeatable, but some of it he did practice enthusiastically, again and again as his fortunes allowed.
But not accompanied by Luther. All it took was one event of Ethan coming home smelling of smoke and sex and sin for his father to fire Luther immediately. Ethan still remembered his tutor’s parting words.
“There are men who live and there are men who simply think about it. Promise me you won’t think too much.” Luther had picked up his satchel and moved toward the front door, only to turn again. “And wear the damn sheaths, lad. They’ll keep you from catching bastards and the pox!”
Ethan had taken that advice to heart. With the aid of very little thinking, a great deal of living, and a rather impressive hoard of sheepskin sheaths, young Ethan Damont had set out to conquer the world—or at least the female portion of the population.
And yet, somehow he had forgotten about the sheaths in the side table drawer when he’d established Jane in his chamber.
“Ah . . . that is a . . .”
She looked up at him, blinking expectantly. “A what?” She looked back down at the flimsy thing in her hands. “It reminds me of sausage casing,” she said, shaking her head. “But it is closed at one end and it is very short.”
Short? “It is not!”
She nodded with great assurance. “Yes it is. Sausage casing is just yards long. Haven’t you ever made sausage?”
“Ah . . . no,” Ethan said faintly. “I cannot say that I have.”
Jane laid the pale thing across her fingers, then—oh, God, he was going to die—rubbed it sensually against her cheek. “It is so soft. And flexible.” She wiggled it at him. “Is it to keep things in? Things that you don’t want to get wet?”
“I need to sit down,” Ethan blurted. He bolted for the chair and sat, lifting one ankle over his knee to hide his bulge.
“Are you unwell?” Concern lit her eyes. She scooped the kitten to the pillow and began to clamber off the bed toward him.
It wasn’t until then that Ethan noticed what she was wearing—a very fine sprigged day gown that he would swear he had seen somewhere quite recently.
“Where did you find that dress?”
She looked down at herself. “Mrs. Cook brought it to me. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“And where did Mrs. Cook find it?”
Jane sat back on her heels and tilted her head. “I don’t know, Ethan. Why don’t you ask Mrs. Cook if you’re so interested?”
Ethan exhaled, smiling slightly. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m only concerned that someone might question why I need a fine gown in a very slender size for my cook.”
Jane shook her head quickly. “Sarah would never endanger us, Ethan.” Then she planted her fists on her hips. “And I thought you were past calling me ‘my lady’?”
Ethan looked down at his hands. “I simply think it is wise that while you’re here—well, that we keep our distance from each other.”
“Why?”
“Well, because—” Ethan sputtered. “Because you could be compromised, that’s why!”
Jane’s jaw dropped and she gaped at him. Then she blinked. “Um, Ethan . . . I do hate to break the bad news, darling . . . but you’ve seen more of me than I have. I have spent the night in your house, in your bed. I think I passed ‘compromised’ several days ago.”
Ethan shook his head, vehemently. “No. As long as you remain a maiden, a man would be mad not to overlook those small objections.”
She gazed at him, her smile disappearing. “Because I am an heiress, you mean.”
“Of course.”
She looked away. “Hmm.” Seeming rather deflated, she climbed down off the bed and walked to the door. “Uri has made up the guest room for me. I believe I shall rest in there.”
She was unhappy about something, but Ethan knew he was right to insist on retaining the formalities. Living with her was going to be hard enough without exchanging tender pet names.
There was one thing—
“My lady?”
She stopped at the doorway and turned eagerly. “Yes?”
Ethan held out his hand. “I believe you have something of mine,” he said.
“Really?” She blinked at him innocently. “What would that be?”
Oh, she was evil. Ethan pursed his lips so that he would not laugh. “My sausage casing.”
“But I have no sausage casing. Sausage casing is just—”
“Yards long, yes, I know.” He wiggled his fingers. “Give me my soft, flexible, thing-to-keep-things-in-so-they-don’t-get-wet.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She turned to go out the door. “I wonder if Uri knows what it is . . .” she murmured as if to herself.
“Jane!” Ethan stopped himself and began again. “My lady, may I please have my . . . my . . .” He couldn’t do it. He could not stand here in his bedroom in the middle of the day and say “penis sheath” to Lady Jane Pennington. “Oh, what the hell—keep the damned thing!”
She dimpled at him. “I know what it is, Ethan.” She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. “I figured it out,” she whispered loudly. “About the time you had to sit down!”
With that, she was gone, dancing lightly down the hall, her laughter trailing after her like music.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The day wore on, with Ethan keeping to himself for fear of giving in to his constant impulse to kiss Jane. He had never done just that, he realized. He had never simply kissed her breathless, with his arms around her but his hands kept to himself.
He wanted to, just once, just to prove that he could—except that he was very much afraid he couldn’t.
So he dawdled in his study while Jane charmed his butler, cook, and footman. Even Zeus deserted him, pattering after Jane’s bright smile like another willing slave, but with fur.
It occurred to him that he had never seen Jane so lighthearted. It almost seemed as though she felt set free from more than just Bedlam.
Finally, after hearing trilling laughter for just a bit too long from belowstairs, Etha
n could not help but make for the kitchen. For the first time since he’d hired Jeeves, no one had brought him his tea, or his news sheets, or emptied his ashes. Of course, he had scarcely been smoking—couldn’t bear to, after suffering Maywell’s choking cloud—but his servants didn’t know that, for none of them had checked!
They were playing a child’s game. Uri was blindfolded with what looked to be Ethan’s handkerchief, turning circles with his arms outstretched. Mrs. Cook and Jeeves sat in comfort at the kitchen worktable, while Jane danced around Uri, pulling corn husks from where they stuck out from his livery while avoiding Uri’s reaching hands.
Ethan scowled. Uri was a handsome bloke, if a lady liked her man oversized and washed out. Of course, Lady Jane Pennington would never trifle with a footman.
Except that she was smiling and laughing and touching Uri . . .
Ethan cleared his throat. Jane went still and Uri yanked off the blindfold. Jeeves and Mrs. Cook looked at him as if he had erupted from the floor like a master-shaped volcano. Rising, they began calling him “sir” and acting like servants again.
Which was precisely what he’d wanted, of course.
With an exasperated noise, he waved his hands. “Oh, just carry on!” He turned and left the kitchen, feeling ridiculous now.
Returning to his study, he decided to practice a few of the moves Feebles had taught him, just to keep his hands busy. There were hours to go yet before he was to report to Maywell, and Ethan was beginning to get nervous. He’d had the impression that his lordship was eager for an answer. Why then had he put Ethan off for an entire day?
Unless somehow Bess had been discovered.
Worry teased at him, making his fingers clumsy. He turned his focus on picking pockets, draping his own surcoat over the back of a chair and trying to pull out his own things without setting the fine wool in motion.
Finally, his focus sharpened and he was able to faultlessly pull several items in succession. He stepped back, much calmer and rather proud. Too bad Jane could not have seen—
Clapping came from behind him. He whirled to see Jane perched on the edge of his desk, applauding him.
“How did you get in here without my knowing?”
She smiled. “I can move very quietly when I wish.” She hopped down and stepped forward. “That was amazing!”
He couldn’t help puffing slightly under her praise. God, he was pathetic.
She peered at his coat-and-chair victim. “Can you teach me?”
“Well, it takes a light touch . . .”
With only a few demonstrations, she managed a very nice pull, gleefully swinging his watch before his eyes when he could have sworn that she missed entirely.
She kept practicing as he watched with amusement. It occurred to him that some folk might not see the humor in teaching a highborn lady to pick pockets, but Ethan thought it might be useful. He was a firm believer that there were no useless skills.
Evidently, Lady Jane Pennington felt the same, for she persisted until she could pull a watch and a clip full of pound notes at the same time.
Exultation filled her. “Look! Look, I did it!” Jane exclaimed gleefully. Ethan smiled and clapped, laughing along with her.
Then she stopped, looking down at the stolen loot in her hands. Picking pockets . . . picking locks. “I know what I want to learn,” she said, looking up at him. “Teach me to pick a lock. I never want to be put in a cage again.”
Ethan nodded. “Of course.”
She let out a breath, smiling. Within minutes, they were on their knees before the study door with the picks he had used on the Bedlam cage, doing it over and over until she got the knack of it.
“Of course,” Ethan had said, as if she’d asked him to carry a parcel or open a door for her. Most men would demur, would deflect, would disapprove of a lady knowing such a low and unworthy thing.
But Ethan said “Of course.” He understood, without needing the tiniest explanation. She could tell him anything.
So tell him.
He was about to show her another technique when Jane put her hand over his. “Ethan . . . I need to make a confession.”
Ethan wasn’t fond of confessions. Confessions inevitably changed things. “I don’t want to know,” he insisted.
“You need to know,” Jane said. “You could be in danger because of me. You need to be armed with all the facts of the case.”
Case? Ethan began to feel an uneasy motion in the pit of his stomach. What kind of woman used a word like “case” in that manner?
Jane had seated them both on the sofa there in the study. Close, but not touching. She sat very straight and gazed at him very directly.
Damn. He really hated it when she did that.
“Ethan, do you remember what I told you about my mother?”
He nodded. It had only been last night.
She took a breath. “My mother never recovered her wits. She died nearly a year ago, as deluded as ever.”
Ethan felt terrible for her. “I’m sorry,” he said gently, putting his hand over hers. “You—”
Letters to Mother. Long, detailed, informative letters to Mother.
“Oh, no!” He jumped up and moved away from her.
She followed him. “Ethan, ‘Mother’ is a code name—”
Ethan put his hands over his ears. Damn, he’d known she wasn’t what she seemed! He’d known, yet he’d ignored his suspicions, even when the truth spat in his face.
Jane came to him and gently pulled his hands down. “Ethan, please listen.”
He gave in weakly. He might as well hear it all. They were both going to be dead either way. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was better to be a well-informed corpse.
Jane gazed at him earnestly. “ ‘Mother’ is the code name of my spymaster. Do you know what a spymaster is, Ethan?”
He grimaced. “I believe I’ve heard the term.”
“I was planted in Lord Maywell’s house to report on his everyday activities. I didn’t know why at first, but we now know that he is working against the Crown.”
“That we do.”
She took both his hands in hers. “Ethan, I know you don’t truly want to be part of that.” She gripped his fingers, her manner urgent. “You can get out, right now, and I can help you.”
He began laughing at that, until he collapsed back on the cushions of the sofa. “She’s a spy. Oh, God, of course she is.” He rolled his head to look at her. “You have no idea how funny that is.”
She was sitting very straight, staring at him with a furrowed brow. “There is nothing funny about it. Mother says I’m an excellent operative.”
“Operative, she says.” Ethan chuckled helplessly. “Mother!”
It was funny, until he began to think back over all the lies, all the moments—like in the carriage. Dear God, she wasn’t one of those female spies was she, like the ones working in Maywell’s brothels?
Sobering, Ethan recounted every moment. “What were you doing in the tree?”
“Trying to get closer to some suspicious activity in a room that was supposed to be locked,” she said.
That was the night of the ball, and it had been Rose in that locked room.
“What were you doing on the terrace? And near my house?”
She looked down at her hands. “Investigating you.”
“And when you kissed me in the carriage?”
“Suborning you,” she said very quietly. Then she looked up. “But I really wanted to.”
He stared at her. “Are you even really Lady Jane Pennington?”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded earnestly. “I am Lord Maywell’s niece in truth.”
He eyed her distastefully. “You spied on your own family?”
She did not avoid his gaze. “It bothered me, especially after I became fond of Aunt Lottie and the girls. But I did not make Lord Maywell’s choices for him. I could only do my best to protect England from him.”
Ethan snorted. “With your own two little hands, eh?”
She shook her head. “You’re mocking me because you don’t understand. I have a mission. Nothing can precede that mission.”
He flinched. “A mission. No, you’re quite correct. I cannot understand a mission that willingly sacrifices people that you—” He looked away. “That you care for.
“What about being an heiress?”
She shook her head. “I never actually lied about that. It was simply assumed, because I am a noblewoman with expensive gowns—”
His lips quirked cynically. “Provided by Mother.”
“Yes.” She gazed at him. “You’re angry.”
He laughed harshly. “What powers of observation you possess! I see now why you were chosen to be a spy.”
“Why?”
He gaped at her. “Why? Because—because you’re a walking, talking, begowned lie! And . . . you’re a lady, and a virgin, and beautiful—”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “So my sole usefulness is to adorn the foot of some lord’s table?” She stood, pacing angrily before him. “You’re judging me by the same standards that you’ve been rebelling against all your life.” She tossed her head, raising her chin in defiance of his scorn. “I’m not ashamed of one single thing I’ve done in my life. Can you say the same?”
He rose as well, facing off with her angrily. “Can I say that you have no shame? Oh, decidedly.”
She crossed her arms before her. “If I have fallen off some pedestal that you chose to put me on, then I’m sorry. I never asked to be idolized that way.”
He opened his mouth to retort with some cutting jibe—and found he had nothing to say. She was quite correct. She had never put herself forward as a model of propriety. Her opinions had more to do with her own value of humanity than any alignment with Society’s strictures.
She smiled slightly at his hesitation. “You and I are more alike than you realize, Mr. Damont. You have created your own rules to live by, as I do.”
“I do as I please.”
“Yes, you do. It pleases you to gamble and cheat anyone you think deserves it. You womanize and scandalize and generally leave a trail of moral havoc wherever you tread.” Her smiled warmed. “Yet I also know that it pleases you to save young girls from embarrassment at the dinner table and carry kittens in your pocket and flirt with your cook to make her smile. You cannot even sacrifice a prostitute like Bess to Bedlam, but must make a plan for her own escape.” A frown crossed her brow. “That reminds me. What did Bess mean when she said ‘It were worth it’?”