Pain stabbed her chest and sent moisture to her eyes, and she took a step back into the stone wall. Her brother had died on a beach below rocks like this, and her brother’s friend, Reginald, also. Shaldon had been there that night, a part of the unsolved riddle of what happened to the two younger men. Shaldon had been there, and somehow, he and his indomitable will had been involved, though Father would never explain how.
She sucked in a breath. The time for mourning had long passed. She must live in the present, and to hell with the old pains that from time to time flared.
And to hell with worries about the future. She’d do what she must to fulfill her most sacred commitment.
“I’m sorry, “she repeated. “Such a trite phrase, but there it is.” Best to push him off his guard. “And the painting? Sir Richard had the real one, not the copy?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Perry told me the story.”
“She should not have.”
She shrugged and stepped out again. “If you want to lure the Duque de San Sebastian, you have the perfect instrument.” She held her breath and waited for a cutting reply, but he only grunted, keeping pace with her.
“Bakeley wrote to me that Lady Sirena was forwarding an urgent letter from your solicitor.”
Oh, that was so much worse than a cutting remark—he was turning the conversation back upon her and prying.
But she was not one of his children to be ruled and manipulated. “Yes, I have it,” she said.
“I hope all is well.”
“Hmm.” He could hope until the sea rose up and washed away this road but she wouldn’t discuss the matter with him. She’d kept her secrets for decades, as he had kept his.
“If you will stay and help Kincaid for a few days, I would greatly appreciate it. When Kincaid is able to travel, Bakeley will send someone to bring you to Shaldon House, if not in time for the coronation, then at least in good time for the festivities after.”
He’d not bother himself with the task of organizing her return, he’d have his son Bakeley do it.
The heat rising in her now was not shock or embarrassment or grief.
She caught her breath again. Why should it matter to her who he sent?
She quickened her pace, and almost tripped on a jutting rock.
“Careful.” He had her by the arm again.
“This road needs maintaining,” she said.
“It is seldom used.”
“Perhaps now, with Lady Perry marrying, she and Fox will see to it.”
He tucked her hand over his arm, drawing her closer. “Perhaps it’s time you see to your future, Jane.”
Excitement pulsed through her as she remembered the feel of his lips on hers the night before, his hand caressing her. What if…Her throat went dry.
“Mr. Morton has made a good offer,” he said.
Breath whooshed from her. She was a fool. And how could Shaldon possibly know about Oliver Morton’s offer of marriage?
A large series of waves thundered below them while she fought for her breath, fought for enough saliva to make her tongue work, finally lifting her gaze to his. “Was that offer your idea then, Lord Shaldon?”
Is it more of your matchmaking? Does Morton have a spy in his wardrobe who you’re after?
She held his gaze, watching him. Oh, he was good. Perfectly impassive.
“He spoke to me,” he said, finally.
“Which doesn’t answer the question posed.”
A long implacable silence followed. She waited him out again.
“What you must think of me, Jane.” He swiped a hand through his hair. “No. He merely asked my thoughts on the match.”
“I see.”
She did. She was living in Shaldon’s household. She had become one of his retainers. One of his responsibilities. One of his many properties.
She would not return to Shaldon House. It was just as well. Once she’d stolen the painting, she’d have the devil of a time concealing her theft if she was right under the man’s nose.
She pulled her arm free yet again. “I shall consider your advice, my lord. Good day.”
He would leave tomorrow morning, and she would ponder the best time for her own departure, how she would go about committing her crime, and who she might get to take her in after all of her quarterly funds were spent.
She headed back to the cottage, setting a fast pace, his steps no longer quiet but echoing hers the entire way.
* * *
Shaldon watched her tense back and her taut step and caught up with her in the stable yard, escorting her to the kitchen door. She wished him another good day before crossing the threshold, ever so calm, ever so polite.
And inside, seething, and wishing him to the devil. Lady Jane Montfort was the quintessential genteel lady. One with money problems, else why would the solicitor be writing in urgency? And for God’s sake, over what? She didn’t gamble. She didn’t run up her bills at the shops.
He oughtn’t to have mentioned Morton, but he couldn’t help wanting to see her reaction. The man had sought him out, speculating that Shaldon had an interest in Jane, making sure his proposal would offer no offense to an earl.
The implication, of course, was that he was keeping Jane in his home as his mistress. He ought to have tossed the man out on his ear for the insult to her. Besides which, Morton was seventy if he was a day, the toothless old bugger. He’d try to hold Jane on a short lease, and he’d undoubtedly scrimp on her pin money.
The match was distasteful. Jane would be shortchanged, no matter how Morton bragged about his member still working.
He shook off that thought and spotted the dragoon captain heading for the stables.
“How is our prisoner?” he asked.
“He’ll have a few days in him before the festering bullet takes him. Possibly longer.”
“Has he talked?”
“No, but the others have. That devil we transported last year wasn’t your smuggling king, John Black. The real John Black is lying up inside here. This will gut the free traders around here for a while.”
“A short while. Others will rise up.”
“Aye, as long as there’s taxes, there’s smuggling. There’s the pity, but it means my men and I will have work.”
The captain was a sanguine, intelligent fellow. He gave a sharp salute and left to check on his prisoner.
When the stable door opened, another one of his stalwart old comrades, Lord Farnsworth, slipped out and joined him. The kitchen door swung quietly as they entered, but the sharp little maid looked up from the pot she was stirring.
“Is your kettle hot?” Shaldon asked.
She scuttled around scooping tea while he and Farnsworth took seats at the scarred table.
“Are we settled then on the plan?” he asked Farnsworth.
The girl’s hand shook hefting the heavy pot. She wasn’t a kitchen drudge—the chit had risen in the servant ranks to serve each of his sons’ wives and then Lady Perpetua, and she was a loyal thing. Every word they spoke here would be reported back to his stubborn daughter and Jane. Jenny, this sly little one from the Seven Dials, had proved a formidable ally for the women.
“Yes,” Farnsworth said, “the plan is well in place.” He glanced at the girl as she set out the cups. “I see all the rolling pins are still festooning the kitchen. Have you had occasion to use them, girl?”
An entire wall was hung with glass cylinders of every tint, painted with every scene imaginable—florals and oriental themes, stripes and solids, messages of love. Purely decorative now.
A memory flooded him, of a week he’d spent here with Felicity, just the two of them, huddled in this kitchen, living on buttered bread and cold meats. He’d sneaked back to England to recuperate from some wound or other and meet with his government contact, and Felicity had shared the story of these ornaments.
“No, sir.” the girl said. “They’re too pretty to use. Lady Jane thought so too.”
“They belonged to my
late wife’s grandmother,” he said. “Those rolling pins came to England filled with salt.”
Farnsworth smiled. “Duty free.”
His wife’s wealth had come from banking, but the bank had been staked with the profits from smuggling.
They weren’t filled with salt now, but perhaps they would still have some value.
He turned to the maid. “Tell Lady Jane she may take whichever ones she wishes with her when she leaves, with my blessing.”
“Yes, milord.”
“And did I not tell you to start packing my daughter’s things for tomorrow?”
“It won’t take but a moment to pack for us, milord.”
“You’ll stay here. Lady Jane and Fox will need you to prepare meals.”
The girl colored. “To be honest, milord, Mr. Fox has done most of the cooking. I don’t know much more than boiling water for tea.”
Farnsworth took a sip. “But it’s a fine job you’ve done with it. We’ll get in some bread and things from the village so old Kincaid doesn’t starve. Do you suppose Lady Jane knows her way a bit around the kitchen?”
“She might,” Shaldon said. “And if she’s hungry enough, she’ll learn along with you, girl.”
He downed his cup and handed it to the maid. “Farnsworth, let’s go up and have a look at the statement from Fenwick.”
* * *
When the inner door that led to the stairs closed, Jane slipped out of the storeroom with the wheel of cheese she’d gone to collect.
“Oh, my lady,” Jenny whispered.
The girl’s pity made Jane’s eyes moisten.
Blinking hard, she plopped the cheese down on the board. “So, it’s to be you and me, Jenny, hungry enough to find our way around the kitchen.” She grabbed a great carving knife and slammed it into the wedge.
The blade stuck there like King Arthur’s sword. She had been hungry moments before. Now…
She blinked some more and eased in a breath. Patience. Shaldon was right, wasn’t he? A hungry woman would find her way in the kitchen, even if she was an earl’s daughter. She didn’t want to be one of Shaldon’s retainers. She didn’t want to be in his care and keeping.
“I don’t believe I’ve broken my fast this morning, Jenny. I’m glad we had this cheese put aside.”
A chunk of this cheese would go with her when she left. She had some money for the journey—she always made certain of that. And she could ask Perry to loan her more. Or perhaps Shaldon’s credit would carry her through the nearest villages. Or she could insist he leave extra money on the pretense of purchasing more food.
Jenny slid a steaming cup to her.
She forced a smile. “I’m glad for your company here, Jenny.” Her gaze caught the wall of painted glass cylinders. “I can take whichever of these I want, he said.”
“They’re pretty,” Jenny said. “How ever will you carry them without them breaking?”
Her breath calmed more, glad for the reminder to be practical. Perhaps the girl might be willing to run away with her.
“I’ll cushion them with garments. They are lovely. I feel an urge to be selfish and take more than one.”
“Would they fetch a good price, do you think? Not as I would ever think of taking them, milady. I’m not a thief.”
She glanced at the girl. There’d been no irony in her voice. Being accused of theft must be a real concern for a servant girl with her background. “No, of course not, Jenny.”
She studied the cylinders and took one off the wall. Gold paint snaked all around in an intricate pattern of leaves and vines. It was one of many, stuck away here in this remote Yorkshire cottage gathering dust. The lady who’d loved and valued them was long dead.
“His Lordship said I might take what I want, but he didn’t say I have to keep them. With the right buyer, this one, for example, might fetch enough money to carry me, or perhaps both of us, all the way back to London.”
They wouldn’t fetch as much as she ultimately needed, but she would keep them in mind if she couldn’t get her hands on something that would.
“I’m to stay, his lordship said.”
The girl was beholden to Lord Shaldon, far more than Jane was. She wouldn’t risk disobeying.
“But we might need to go into town ourselves for the foodstuffs.” Jenny said. “A man might not know to check over the bread and make sure it’s fresh. We’ve the cart Lady Perpetua and I arrived on, if you can drive it.” She paused and pressed her lips together. “But, the cliff road, milady; even Lady Perpetua got off and led the horse on that road.”
Jane yanked the blade out and sawed off a piece of cheese, her hopes rising. Jenny must know the cliff road didn’t lead to the village. “I used to handle a gig when I was a girl. It has been some time since but I’m sure it will come back to me.” She smiled and leaned in. “And we won’t take that cliff road when we leave.”
Chapter 4
When she carried a tray up that night for Kincaid, Shaldon was there at the bedside.
“If Kingsley has found that code’s hidden treasure, he’s kept mum,” Shaldon said.
“On the other hand,” Kincaid said, “his daughter’s great dowry had to have come from—”
Kincaid spotted her in the doorway and hastily closed his mouth and pulled the sheet over his bandaged chest.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She set the tray on the small bedside table and bent over him before he could push himself up and reopen his wound.
“Just leave that dish and I’ll get out of this bed—”
“Stop squirming, Mr. Kincaid. We’ll raise you up. Lord Shaldon, go around to the other side and help me please.”
“I’ll not—”
“If I’m to be your nurse for the next several days, you’ll do as I say. And you, my lord, your strong arm is needed.”
“One of the boys—”
“Can help with your privy needs, but I’m to be feeding you and checking your bandage.”
Shaldon, miraculously, had heeded her instructions and was slipping an arm under Kincaid’s broad back. She propped Kincaid’s other shoulder, making sure to keep her hand out of Shaldon’s reach.
Kincaid grimaced as she plumped his pillows.
“The stitches are pulling, are they?” she asked. “I see a spot of blood or two. Your bandage will need changing.”
“The surgeon can do it,” Kincaid said.
“The surgeon has gone along the coast. He won’t be back until tomorrow or after. But very well. We’ll have Ewan see to the bandage as well.” She settled the tray over his lap and lifted a cover. “Stew.”
“More like a plain beef tea.”
“Which, considering how much you bled, would be good for you. But we’ve added some turnips and beef.”
Shaldon had backed away from the bed and propped himself against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him.
Kincaid grumbled and picked up his spoon. Gray hair and freckles sprinkled his chest. It was the first male chest she’d seen in twenty years, and a fine muscular one it was. Seeing to Kincaid’s wounds had reminded her even more of what she’d missed in her long years of spinsterhood.
But the sight of his chest completely failed to stir her.
“The maid could have brought up the dinner,” Shaldon said.
His bored drawl rubbed on her patience. “You did ask her to see to packing Lady Perry’s things.”
He didn’t need to know that the girl wasn’t doing that. Perry had no intention to go on the morrow, not if she must leave without Fox.
Fox, for his part, was reluctant to anger his future father-in-law. He and Perry were discussing the matter in one of their first disputes. She suspected that by tomorrow at this time, it would just be Jane, Jenny, Kincaid, and whichever one of the men was left to care for Kincaid’s personal needs.
Well, and the prisoner, and his guards. She’d thought through all the possibilities and realized that their presence might complicate her plans.
She stepped b
ack and clasped her hands at her waist. “Are you going to move Sir Richard?” she asked.
“He’s gravely injured,” Shaldon said. “There may be no point if he dies before standing trial. And we’d have to keep him safe on the road.”
“Keep him safe?”
“From his accomplices who won’t want him to talk.”
“He might recover. And then what? You’ll be in London, and he’ll be here, trying to escape.”
Shaldon raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t mind subjecting him to the cruelty of a bumpy road, Lady Jane?”
Guilt gnawed at her. That bumpy road would be dreadful for a wounded man. Still, she needed Sir Richard’s pack of guards gone if she had any hope of leaving without interference.
She handed Kincaid his napkin. “You’re dribbling on the sheet.”
Kincaid grunted again and mopped at the stains.
“Sir Richard might recover,” she said again, “And the condition of Lady Perry’s neck persuades me that, bumpy roads or smooth, he should travel down to London for a trial. I’ll have nothing to do with nursing him.”
Kincaid’s spoon paused midair. “She makes a fair point.”
A frown spread across Shaldon’s face. “It’s a damnable revenge,” he muttered.
The Spy Lord had a conscience?
And so did she, but dammit, she also had a responsibility to be in London with one thousand pounds. She lifted her chin. “Not revenge, my lord. Justice.”
“Bring Fergus MacEwen back from that inn.” Kincaid’s spoon rattled in the empty crock. “I’ll make the arrangements for Sir Richard’s transport.”
Shaldon looked pointedly at Kincaid.
“Aye,” Kincaid said, “Mac’s doing good work, but if I know him, he’s got himself far too cozy with the innkeeper’s girl, all without ferreting out any more details about John Black’s operation.”
Hearing the ins and outs of these men’s seductions was too much. She picked up the tray. “I’ll send Ewan up to help you wash.”
* * *
When the door closed on her, Shaldon pushed away from the wall and loosened his neckcloth. “I’d best go and see to my own packing. Come up to town when you know that wound won’t open. You’ll be in good hands with Jane.”
Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord Page 3
