“Yes, or, at least I think so. Fox had a few moments alone with him last night when you went for fresh linens.”
She crumpled the letters, images from the night before whirling—Shaldon bloodied and beaten, but not broken, never that. Last night, before they’d left Sir Richard’s, Shaldon had backed her alone into a corner. He’d unleashed more marvelous passion than she’d felt in years.
Why had his wife risked losing him?
She shook off a spark of anger. “And it fell into Sir Richard’s hands.”
“Yes, after he killed Mother, he took it.”
Perry’s matter-of-factness sent a shiver through her.
“It’s shocking, I know,” Perry said, plopping down again. “I’m relieved to know the truth of what happened. No one would tell me anything, other than that she died in a terrible carriage accident.”
Jane’s nerves clacked again, a great yawning hole in her heart opening. She also had once been spared the full details of a family tragedy. It had not been a kindness.
She eased in a breath. “Did the copy pass for the original? Your father was released, was he not?”
“No. The Duque had never planned to free him. When Fox delivered the painting—”
“Fox?”
“Yes. Fox was the courier, and he was imprisoned as well, and then the Duque turned them both over to the French. Father escaped and went back to rescue Fox.”
No wonder Shaldon was letting the American artist marry his only daughter.
“For years, I wondered if Fox was a thief. He left Cransdall a few days before my mother and the painting vanished. And then she left and never came home.” Perry took a deep breath. “Mother always told me she meant me to inherit the painting, but Father hasn’t mentioned that, and I don’t care a bit about it, even if it is priceless, as Fox says. I don’t wish for the Duque to have it, though.”
She squeezed Perry’s hand.
“Fox told me the Duque treated Father quite badly. Father is after revenge.”
Jane sighed. “Of course he is.” For Shaldon, the fighting had never ended. He’d continued on, he and his man, Kincaid, chasing after old enemies and pulling his children into the troubles. Behind that handsome facade, he was all twisted up in his need to settle old scores. And what an utter waste of time it was.
A scratching at the door brought the maid, Jenny.
“I’m to help you start packing, Lady Perry,” she said.
“Packing?” Perry said.
The girl nodded. “His lordship says you’re to leave tomorrow for London.”
Perry shot to her feet. “Tomorrow?” She plopped her hands on her hips.
Once they returned to Shaldon House and the watchful eyes of the staff, Perry might not have the freedom to sneak into Fox’s bed.
“I for one, will be glad to get back,” Jane said. “And I suppose, Fox will visit Doctor’s Commons so you can marry with a Special License.”
Perry chewed on her lip, nodding.
Jenny coughed. “Mr. Fox was to stay here, I heard his lordship say. Him and Mr. Kincaid, and you, Lady Jane, to look after Mr. Kincaid until he heals enough to travel.”
Her face grew warm, her fingers again curled around the letters.
Would he try to break up the engagement he’d just approved? Perry might even now be with child—one night of passion was enough for that. As for herself…the letters in her hand reminded her she needed to return to London immediately.
And somehow, secure a thousand pounds.
She smoothed out the paper and took in a breath. She had no one she could turn to for the funds. Her cousin Cheswick had stood by her in her very worst years, agreeing to her plans and supplementing her inheritance, allowing her the life she’d pleaded for. With estates and tenants, and his own children to raise, he was too cash-strapped to offer much more than hospitality, even if she dared to ask it, and as her solicitor had said, he’d never allow her to touch the principle of her accounts that were under his control. If he knew she’d withdrawn from Great Aunt Mildred’s bequest, he would think she’d been reckless.
There was Sirena, like herself, the daughter and cousin of an earl. Sirena had served as Jane’s companion in the humble rooms they’d taken upon their arrival in London last year, before they’d both moved into the large Shaldon townhouse in Mayfair.
But if Sirena learned her secret, Bakeley would also, and surely then Shaldon would find out.
Shaldon, the man who’d taken her into his home, the man who’d kissed her yesterday, expected her to stay here and nurse the blasted man she’d stitched up twice because the fool would not stay put. She couldn’t bear to have Shaldon discover this piece of her past. There was no telling how he’d use it against her.
She wouldn’t seek charity that would destroy friendships, nor would she sell herself into a loathsome marriage.
Enough dithering—she’d sell what she had of value, and for the rest, she’d do what she must.
“No,” Perry said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “That won’t do. The coronation is in days and Jane wants to attend the parties. I don’t give two shakes about them.”
God’s truth, the joy had gone out of the coronation celebration. The money she’d eked out for gowns would go to a different use now, and she’d have to find a great deal more, and soon, by whatever means necessary.
She’d seen a Limoges vase in this parlor and some quality books in the small library. All of this would be Lady Perry’s upon her marriage and perhaps she’d understand.
Jane would take them to London and seek Barton’s and Madame’s help selling them.
But…the items would be the devil to carry, and she would not like to travel alone.
“And what of you, Jenny? Are you to accompany Lady Perry?” The sensible little maid had been Perry’s companion in her flight to freedom.
The girl blinked. “His lordship didn’t say.”
Perry’s gaze met Jenny’s. “Lady Jane will need you more.”
“I would like that,” Jane said.
Jenny could stay here with her, and then what? She couldn’t involve the girl in her plotting…in her theft. If caught and prosecuted, she might get transportation at the worst, but Jenny would hang.
She stood and began to pace. She must think this through. She needed money, and she needed to make haste to London and…
The painting. It was a Spanish masterpiece. A thing of value, Perry had said, a painting that was to have been hers, and one she didn’t care about. Not hard to carry if one rolled it up. And if one rich man wanted it badly, others would also. Jane had heard whispers that Madame’s cousin dealt in such matters.
Dear God. Shaldon had not given the painting to his daughter yet. Steal it from Shaldon, not Perry? Perhaps he wouldn’t prosecute, but he’d chase her to the farthest corners of the world to get back what was his.
But if Lady Shaldon wanted her daughter to have it, then technically she’d be stealing from Perry, who didn’t want the painting and would surely understand, as long as Jane didn’t sell it to the Duque.
She shoved the letters into her pocket, found her Kashmiri shawl, and pulled it around her. It had been her brother’s last gift and wrapping herself in the vibrant reds and oranges of the rich print always brought him closer.
She’d considered selling the shawl if she must. But the painting was so much more valuable.
Would Shaldon leave it here at Gorse Point Cottage?
“What of the painting, Jenny?” she asked. “Did his lordship say whether he is taking it?”
“No, milady.”
Perry’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”
Her chest squeezed and she gulped for air. “I wondered. You said it was quite valuable.”
Perry shook her head. “Quite valuable to the right buyer. You must tell me what you’re thinking.”
What she was thinking?
She waved a hand. “Mere nonsense. I was…thinking about Sirena. About what she would say. She’d say the
painting was cursed. She’d say whoever transported it might…might bring bad luck with them.”
That nonsense tale was good enough to make Perry laugh.
And when had Lady Jane Montfort ever been so quick with a lie? She’d always been far more ponderous in her plotting.
“If you’re worried about Father’s safety traveling with it, you mustn’t be. But I’ll find out his plans for it. Fox will tell me. Where are you going?”
“I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk. Alone.”
* * *
A few minutes earlier
In the dining room, Edward Everly, Earl of Shaldon, poured another cup of coffee and studied the letter spread before him.
“Is Kingsley well?” Kincaid asked.
He smoothed the paper. “Bakeley doesn’t say. He’s aboard a British naval vessel and will be arriving in Portsmouth within the month.”
“Good that he’s returning,” Kincaid said. “What has the able privateer found, I wonder?”
“Nothing he would entrust to a letter.”
“We’d best set a stout guard when we take the painting down to London.”
“The best place for it is Cransdall.” His country estate was well protected, and the painting had hung on the wall of his wife’s bedchamber there for many years.
He glanced at the sideboard. Since its removal decades ago from New Spain, it hadn’t fared well. His late wife, Felicity, had held off restoring it, fearing it would lose value. Always one to consider the price of things, was Felicity.
It had arrived in England rolled up on a privateer’s ship, and ten years ago, Fox had rolled it again for transporting. The paint had cracked in places, and Fenwick’s care had not involved any more than reframing.
And the fool hadn’t known what he’d had in that frame.
“Did Felicity know the true value?” Kincaid asked.
He shook his head. He’d not known the painting’s secrets himself when he’d presented it to her as a gift early in their marriage. As he’d suspected, she was delighted with the subject matter of the painting—and its intrinsic value as a masterpiece. Had she known more she would have funded her own explorations. “No. Among us, only the two of us, Farnsworth, and Kingsley. And San Sebastian, of course.”
“And whoever wrote down the coordinates,” Kincaid said. “I wonder if Fox copied the markings accurately?” Kincaid rubbed at his bandaged chest. “Probably not, else San Sebastian would not still be looking for missing treasure. Is there aught else of import in Bakeley’s letter?”
“Plans for the coronation are proceeding accordingly.” And the King was demanding his return to London, in all haste, for the honor of scraping and bowing with his fellow peers who were escorting the latest George to his throne.
The maid peeked in and he waved her over. “I must hasten back to London, Kincaid. King’s orders. You’ll stay here. Ewen and Lady Jane can stay as well and see to you, and Fox can provide an extra hand should there be trouble from the squire’s smuggling associates. Girl, go and pack Lady Perpetua’s things and inform her that we’ll leave at first light tomorrow. And have someone look for Fox.”
The girl curtsied and left.
“Neither lady will like this,” Kincaid said.
He eyed his old friend. They’d both been through hell the previous two days, but Kincaid was the worse for wear.
“Get yourself back to bed, Kincaid, and heal up. I’ll need you when we move against San Sebastian.”
Kincaid got to his feet grunting. “Your lady took too much pleasure in poking me with a needle. I’ve a feeling she might bolt.”
His lady? Pleasure stirred fiercely in him and he eased in a breath, fighting for composure. The blasted laudanum was still in his system. “Placid, staid, dependable Jane?” She’d shown great courage the previous night and more than a little answering passion.
Kincaid smirked, shook his head, and left.
Shaldon let out a breath. The laudanum administered by Sir Richard to keep him under control in his captivity had never had the effect of making him a randy fool before, though perhaps he hadn’t had the right lady as inspiration.
He glanced at the letter again. The one Jane received had been much thicker. He’d recognized his daughter-in-law’s handwriting, and Bakeley had mentioned he was forwarding a letter from her solicitor, though not the details of its contents.
But the letter had alarmed Jane. He’d seen the sharp intake of breath that’d sent her breasts higher.
They were fine breasts, too, not weighed down by years of childbearing. She’d kept her youth and her figure, but the price had been living meekly, hand to mouth, and on the charity of others.
She was the daughter of an earl—why the devil had her cousin never found her a husband? A marriage of convenience was the usual refuge for an earl’s daughter, and most couples found a way to muddle through the match-up.
His stomach churned and his gaze went again to the rectangle of painted canvas that had been unmounted to check for the markings. It would be the devil to stretch and put back together.
He would leave that task to Fox while he himself answered the King’s summons.
In any case, London was where his last prey was: the Duque de San Sebastian. The Duque, who thought he’d received this painting. But all the while, it had been hanging in Sir Richard Fenwick’s bedchamber.
Because Shaldon’s late wife, Felicity, had betrayed him.
The ache in his shoulder from the previous day’s injuries spread to the back of his neck.
A flash of red and gold in the window caught his eye. He shoved out of his chair and moved to the curtain. Jane was swathed in the exotic shawl she often wore and heading down the path that snaked around to the back of the cottage. That way led to the cliff road.
She’d been up all night…even for someone well-rested and steady, the cliff road could be dangerous.
Chapter 3
The rocks crunched under her boots and the damp breeze crept under her wrap as she hurried down the stone stairs at the side of the house.
Gorse Point Cottage perched on the cliff, four levels stacked up the hillside, with the ground floor kitchen opening into a stable yard that stretched on a small, flat plateau before the hill broke off again into boulders.
A soldier stood a weary duty in front of the stables, and one of Shaldon’s men circled the rock-bound yard, keeping an eye out for trouble.
They didn’t so much as acknowledge her. Each year she’d become less and less visible. She’d soon be able to walk through the world of men completely unseen.
No wonder she’d almost succumbed to the Earl’s attempt on her dubious virtue.
The road curved around boulders and gorse-thickened outcrops. Lady Perry had explained the layout and roads two nights ago. This lane would lead on until it reached a highway that led west to the Earl of Shaldon’s home at Cransdall, the grand country estate that she’d never visited.
Her own route up from London had skirted north past Scarborough on a different road. She’d traveled at all speed in Shaldon’s sleek chaise, days and nights of poor or no sleep and no thoughts but the need to preserve Lady Perry’s reputation, and then, when she’d arrived, no thought but to save Shaldon’s life.
And now, she had no thought but to steal from the man.
Rounding a bend, she reached a straight stretch, and the sight of it sent her heart pounding. The edge of the road sheered off from a path so narrow, if a wagon approached it might not be able to squeak by her.
Leagues below her, the wild North Sea waters crashed against jagged rocks, beating, withdrawing, regrouping, and coming back for more. Patient and persistent, for eons, the sea had chipped away at this coast.
It was much like the coastline near her father’s estate in Kent. The rocks poking up from below sent her head spinning, pushing the air from her lungs.
“Careful.”
She jumped, and a hand gripped her arm, steadying her. Shaldon’s dark gaze pierce
d her, sending heat sparking in waves. In spite of his age, in spite of the trials of the past two days, he was still virile, still vital.
What did he want with a middle-aged spinster like herself? He could go back to the marriage mart, catch a young girl’s eye, and start on another crop of handsome boys.
Hadn’t he once caught her own eye when she was a young girl in Kent?
How old would he be? He’d fathered his first child, an illegitimate son, in Ireland before reaching the age of twenty. Past fifty then, and yet only a bit of gray streaked over his ears. And he was still stealthy as a cat when he wanted to be. Not so much as a pebble had shifted under his boots when he’d crept up behind her.
She tucked the shawl tighter around her, shaking off his hand in the process. “It’s a grand view, isn’t it?”
“It’s perilous,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You are right, of course,” she said. “Yet you did ask me to come.”
He sighed. “I meant, you shouldn’t be on this road.”
Her face heated. If she must hie off to Yorkshire at a moment’s notice, if she must stay and nurse his henchman, she’d walk where she wanted.
She strolled on, and he came up beside her.
“This is where my lady wife died.”
Pulse pounding, she stopped. It was naught but stone wall on one side and a rock ledge, and sheer cliff on the other.
“This very spot?”
“So I was told.”
“H-how? Did not Sir Richard murder her?”
“Yes.”
She let out a sharp breath. “She went over?”
“He picked her up and threw her over.”
He’d punched every word from a well of anger, though his face remained eerily calm. Frightening, this man could be, and indomitable. She could see why his children resisted him…and how he still steered them around to his way. And how he managed other members of his household, like herself.
He was like the waves below. He would crash and withdraw, and rise up to crash again. He would never stop.
If she stole from him, she’d pay a price.
“I’m sorry.” She mumbled the words by rote, unable to unscramble her emotions.
Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord Page 2
