That had been awkward. Lady Flint refused to allow her to be missish, stating matter-of-factly that she had raised five daughters and had seen it all. But, of course, she hadn’t seen it all because her eyes had widened when she saw Jess’s back and then clouded with sympathy. ‘Oh, my dear! You really have been through the wars, haven’t you?’
Thankfully she didn’t probe as to where the marks had come from. Jess supposed it must be patently obvious they had come by way of a lash, although she hated what they now signified. Her own weakness and cowardice. Saint-Aubin had become relentless until she agreed to his demands. As much as Jess had tried to be steadfastly rebellious, he had broken her more than once and made her beg for mercy. Something she wasn’t proud of, less so now that she knew her weakness had led to the deaths of innocent men, and which she certainly had no intention of ever talking about. Not when Jess couldn’t bring herself to look at the scars in the mirror. Like Cain, they now marked her for her crimes and likely would for eternity. She hated them just as much as she hated herself for her weakness and Saint-Aubin for making her beg for her life.
Fortunately, Lady Flint simply shook her head, patted Jess’s hand affectionately and declared that hot tea was most definitely required this instant and that she should soak in the bath and relax.
For once, she was happy to do exactly as she was told, sinking into the water gratefully and covering those damning scars in bubbles. There hadn’t been a sign or sniff of Saint-Aubin since she had seen him in Plymouth yesterday and, thanks to her rescuer’s convoluted route across farmers’ fields and what she now knew was Bodmin Moor, they had managed to avoid all people save some distant peasants working the land and the ferryman who had taken them across the river between Devon and Cornwall. That small vessel had only just managed to disembark, crammed as it was with the flotsam and jetsam of life who spilled on to the jetty, all of them as ragged and dirty as the two of them, and the haggard ferryman hadn’t bothered raising his head when the coins had been pressed into his outstretched hand or as they had silently stepped off the boat on the other side. Thanks to their disguises, they had been hiding in plain sight and remained reassuringly anonymous. Even if Saint-Aubin did come hunting for Lord Flint from London—or even Plymouth—it stood to reason he was at least a good day away. Probably more.
Which gave Jess some time to think carefully about her next move.
Did she put all her eggs in Lord Peter Flint’s basket and tell him everything she knew, risking his censure and the subsequent and very real potential of a trial, or did she slip away again unseen and take her chances all alone?
Her head and her heart were torn.
Her heart was more than a little bit taken with her handsome captor. Being with him, sharing this ordeal with him by her side, had given her a sense of security and well-being she could not remember experiencing in the recent past. Two sets of eyes and ears, his resourceful mind and access to government resources made him a good ally. If one put aside his often inscrutable nature, arrogant stubbornness and aristocratic bearing, she rather liked the man. When he wasn’t being the conundrum. The real Peter and the agent of the Crown Flint were two sides of the same coin—she trusted one, but not entirely the other. Not fully. Her head still had significant doubts.
A man who, by his own account, spied for a living would be skilled in twisting situations to suit his purpose. If his purpose was unchanged from what it had been when she had first encountered him on that frigate, then there was every chance he was actively seeking to gain her trust now because it made his job easier. The eternal pragmatist, he wanted all the information she held in her head as much as Saint-Aubin did and would do everything in his power to get it. Once it was shared, she was of no further use to Saint-Aubin and her time in this mortal coil was limited.
On the other hand, sharing everything she knew could well result in the end of Saint-Aubin. If the King’s Elite could catch him on English soil—and Jess had a fairly good idea which English aristocrats would hide him—she might perhaps begin to atone for the sins she had been bullied into carrying out. That might also mean she could live without the constant fear of his retribution.
If she lived.
Which was the real crux of the matter.
Until all charges were dropped, she still had an appointment with the hangman.
Qu’est-ce que je vais faire?
* * *
Flint was just tying his cravat when his mother barged into his bedchamber without knocking. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Lord Fennimore tasked me with escorting Lady Jessamine to London when an unforeseen complication arose and I had to think on my feet.’
‘Such shoddy explanations never worked in all the years I lived with your father and they won’t wash now. Why were you escorting her to London? Who is she, Peter? And why has the poor girl got whip marks all over her back?’
His jaw dropped as the bile rose in his throat. ‘She’s been whipped?’ Good grief, how many other horrors had Saint-Aubin subjected her to?
‘Repeatedly and recently, if I’m any judge. Some of the scars are older. Then there are the abrasions on her wrists...’ Typically it was concern, not fear, that he saw in his mother’s face and Flint realised that it might not be such a bad thing she was here after all. Lord only knew Jess deserved some serious mothering after all she had been through, a job his mother excelled in. Whipped? His head was still reeling. When he got his hands on that bastard! ‘I can count every rib, too, so it doesn’t take a genius to work out she has been grossly abused. She’s in trouble, isn’t she?’
There was no point denying it. ‘Perhaps you’d better sit down.’ She lowered herself to perch on his mattress and he sat next to her and took her hand, wondering if he should soften the words or just say them straight out. Straight out won. Sugar-coating it wouldn’t wash with the canny woman who had birthed him.
‘Jess has been arrested and charged with treason, Mother, for her part in aiding and abetting an attempt to free Napoleon. To make matters worse, she has had a hand in raising the necessary funds to do this through an enormous smuggling operation. An operation so toxic and far reaching it has infiltrated the highest echelons of English society and now threatens the stability of the British economy—so the charges are serious. Very serious. She was seized on Lord Fennimore’s instructions by the Royal Navy during a night-time raid in Cherbourg. However, the leader of the French smugglers has crossed the Channel and wants her back. It would seem Lady Jessamine holds vital information the smugglers need. As it is the same information our government also needs to finally destroy them, and fearing an ambush on the road to London, I set up a decoy in Plymouth to fool them she was on route to the capital to await trial and brought her here instead.’
Her fingers went lax in his as she digested this. ‘I see.’ As the former wife of a spy as well as the mother of one, and well versed in the peculiarities and dangers of espionage, she absorbed this bombshell with admirable calm. ‘Were you followed?’
‘I’m fairly certain we weren’t. We crossed the moors on foot and didn’t pass within spitting distance of a soul. As they appear to have taken the bait, we have at least twenty-four hours’ grace. Possibly forty-eight. I’ll know for sure just how well hidden we are when Gray arrives in a day or so.’
‘When do we expect the reinforcements? And how many?’ Typically, her thoughts went to the practicalities. Penmor had hosted fugitives, soldiers and seekers of sanctuary before—not for many years and not since his father’s death, in fact—but she knew they would require extensive supplies before they battened down the hatches and isolated themselves from the world.
‘At least fifty Invisibles and probably the same again in militia should arrive in the coming days. The rest will patrol the shore in Excise boats. You won’t need to worry about those.’
‘A full-scale occupation, then—which suggests you expect trouble.’
/> ‘I hope not, but there is a distinct possibility in the coming days. This particular band of smugglers have an extensive and powerful network here in the south and no shortage of informers in town. If they get one sniff that Jess is not where we claim she is, they will backtrack and leave no stone unturned until they find her—which is why I’ve already summoned the girls. If somebody does come hunting, they and their families are vulnerable outside these walls until I can figure out a way of keeping them safe elsewhere. I’ve sent servants to watch their houses tonight as I don’t want them travelling en masse this late. People notice such things. Their visiting on the morrow will not seem out of the ordinary, because they are always here. Then we’ll pull up the drawbridge.’ A bridge Flint was suddenly exceedingly thankful he had.
Thinking out loud, he began to pace. ‘Once Gray is here, I will work out a way to evacuate you all. Perhaps a boat or...’
‘You cannot mean to include me in this plan!’
‘You need to go with the girls. I don’t want any of you embroiled in this.’
His mother’s arms folded across her chest and she stared at him as if he was mad. ‘That will not be happening. The girls, I agree with. There is no need to put them in harm’s way unnecessarily. But I am staying put.’
‘Now, Mother, I know this is your home, but...’ One pointed finger prodded him in the ribs in the same spot Jess had stabbed earlier. Clearly it was a day for rib jabbing.
‘I will not leave that girl at the mercy of a house full of men. She will need to be properly chaperoned, the poor dear. To avoid tomfoolery.’ His mother stood, self-righteous, and walked towards the door with her nose in the air as if her word was final.
‘Aside from the fact my men are disciplined and would never take advantage of a lone woman with tomfoolery as you so politely put it, I will be here, too. Close by at all times.’
‘Which is what worries me the most.’ Her fingers closed around the door knob before she turned to glare. ‘I have eyes, young man! I saw the way you looked at the girl and she you. The pair of you are quite besotted. Without proper supervision, tomfoolery is inevitable!’
Flint’s jaw dropped—he was affronted. No matter how accurate his mother’s assessment was of his lustful feelings, or how his blood fizzed at the idea that Jess might have similar feelings towards him, his mother’s irrational line of thinking needed to be nipped in the bud. Besotted! He most certainly was not. Besotted suggested there was more between them than mutual attraction and lust. The lust was natural. Like an itch that needed scratching. He was a respected and disciplined agent of the Crown, a man who was staunchly wedded to his bachelor status and allergic to the sort of manipulative emotional theatrics a woman like his prisoner was capable of. And fully in command of his urges, damn it. ‘She is a traitor!’
‘Of course she isn’t.’ It was his mother’s irritatingly patronising voice. The one that grated the most. ‘I know you too well, Peter. So like your dear father. Your actions speak much louder than your words.’
‘My actions? Have you conveniently forgotten that she is to stand trial or that she is likely complicit in the raising of a foreign army? We have a slew of evidence. Witnesses. A trail of letters that lead right back to her. Facts that cannot be glossed over, Mother, and a significant deterrent to any tomfoolery or romantic attachments between her and me, I can assure you.’
His mother smiled and shook her head. ‘Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. I know the truth, my dear. And it is simple. You would never dream of bringing a traitor home and, just like your father, I trust your instincts implicitly. You would never willingly bring a woman here either—unless she meant something to you. Her presence here is significant, my darling. Aside from the obvious lust I see burning in your eyes, I also know besotted when I see it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Bizarrely, they were all going to sit down to dinner: Jess, her handsome gaoler and his indomitable mother. In the formal dining room, apparently—but it was to be an informal meal because, she was reliably informed, dinners at Penmor were usually informal, family affairs. Lady Flint had cheerfully announced all this to her when she brought back the altered gown with a maid in tow. A maid who was currently doing her hair.
As if she were an honoured guest rather than a captive.
Jess still couldn’t quite believe it.
She had pushed back, stating that it wouldn’t be proper in view of the circumstances and probably wouldn’t be welcomed by her son, but Lady Flint would hear none of it and insisted regardless. Cook was making dinner for three and it would be served promptly at six. Then she had breezed out of the door with the same sense of purpose as she had arrived, leaving a bewildered Jess being laced into the gown and beautified by the equally as indomitable maid.
The young woman gazing back at her in the mirror looked like an English lady with her hair piled fashionably on her head. The pretty muslin long-sleeved dress covered an equally pretty chemise and half-corset. Her legs were encased in white-silk stockings and from somewhere Lady Flint had even procured dainty slippers which fitted her feet perfectly. More hand me downs from her daughters’ youth, but unexpected and welcome nevertheless. The style had also been thoughtful, almost as if the older woman realised her scars were a private matter and not for public display. The sleeves had been hemmed, then trimmed in lace which covered her ugly, damaged wrists completely.
The kindness she had been shown was overwhelming, when technically she was a prisoner charged with treason. Something his lordship’s mother made plain she knew when Jess had protested and then swatted away like a fly.
She might technically still be a prisoner, although thus far her bedchamber door was yet to be locked and nobody had forbidden her from wandering around. That he had granted her that small freedom warmed her. Neither had he interrupted her pleasant afternoon of relaxation. She hadn’t seen him since they had arrived, had spent a good hour in the bath pondering what to do, then a few more catching up on sleep on the decadent four-poster. To her great surprise, she had gone out like a light the moment her head had hit the pillow. Only stirring from deep slumber when awakened with more hot, fortifying tea and the arrival of Peter’s mother, the dress and the realisation that she had dreamt in English for the first time in a long while.
Perhaps because she had been speaking it exclusively for the first time in years? Her mother tongue had been banned in the chateau, her mother happily lapsing into her first language in all communications because her lover loathed all things English and the pair of them were French. Over time, Jess, too, became more French, only resurrecting the lamented English side when she had been strong-armed into assisting her ailing mother with the damning letters. Although even then she had not spoken it. She had never dared. Saint-Aubin flew into a rage at the merest English syllable, but it was all flooding back now. The nuances and musical patterns of the language of her youth. The language of home or, at least, of the home she had hoped, secretly schemed and longed for.
The maid stepped back and admired her work. ‘You look lovely, my lady.’
Jess smiled, oddly moved at the sight of her own reflection. She did look lovely and couldn’t help hoping he would think so, too, before dismissing the silly thought out of hand. What difference did it make what he thought of her frock? He was her gaoler and ultimately still determined to hand her over to the courts regardless of how pretty her attire. Deflated, she promptly considered finding any excuse to procrastinate. An impossible task when everything had been done for her. If Lady Flint’s blithe instruction to head down the staircase and turn right at the bottom was any indication, Jess was free to make her own way down to dinner, too, as soon as she was decent.
A casual family dinner. With him and his mother.
An imminent prospect which was making her uncharacteristically nervous.
Stupidly, she was attaching more significance to the occasion than it w
arranted.
She took her time descending the staircase, taking in the sheer beauty of the place as well as consigning it to memory in case she needed it. As one would expect in a household of such grandeur, there were servants dotted around, but all seemed to be engrossed in their work rather than guarding Jess. All of them looked up, curtsied or bowed their acknowledgement and called her ‘my lady’. Only the burly footman posted at the front door had the look of a sentry, yet he, too, inclined his head politely as she sailed past.
As promised, she found them both in the dining room where dinner had been laid out in chafing dishes on the sideboard. Lady Flint smiled in welcome. Her gaoler rose and for a second appeared to be lost for words.
‘Good evening, Jess.’
‘Good evening...’ Her voice trailed off and she covered her disquiet with a brittle smile. Despite his early assertion to the contrary, she didn’t feel right about calling him Peter. Not when he was all starched and formal, rather than rumpled and smudged with soot and his mother was present. Baron Flint of Penmor was still sinfully handsome, though. Jess would have to be blind not to notice that and looking every inch the wealthy peer she now knew him to be in his perfectly tailored coat, sedate yet expensive silk waistcoat and snowy-white austere cravat. He was not out of place in this castle. It suited him. She felt exactly like a fish out of water. Floundering. Pride made her hold her regal posture despite the strange jitters in her tummy.
After a prolonged hesitation when his eyes slowly raked the entire length of her body, he eventually inclined his head, then helped her into the chair solicitously, his fingers leaving a trail of tingles where they had briefly touched her forearm. Only once he was back in his own seat again did he talk. The tone, unlike the satisfying admiration in his eyes, distinctly businesslike. ‘I’ve instructed the servants to leave us to talk privately and uninterrupted. There is much to discuss.’
The Uncompromising Lord Flint Page 14
