The Uncompromising Lord Flint

by Virginia Heath

  She was a delicious distraction and one neither of them could afford. Her safety depended on his sanity. It was that simple and that dreadful.

  Flint sensed someone was watching him and quickly tore his gaze from the object of his torment, only to find his eldest sister Ophelia openly staring at him in amusement. ‘We despair of Peter ever settling down. Thus far, he hasn’t shown more than a passing interest in any young lady. Although I am hopeful that will change soon.’ She cast him an innocent smile, then went in for the kill. ‘Perhaps sooner rather than later in view of current events.’

  He shot her a withering look and choked down a fork full of salmon. Damn! He needed to keep his inappropriate urges in check, else throw more fuel to the fire. At this rate, they would all decide he was besotted, as his mother had already no doubt erroneously informed them, and then all hell would break loose.

  ‘We live in hope that one day Cupid’s arrow will spear him.’ This from his mother, who was thankfully unaware he had just been openly yearning for his prisoner.

  ‘Surely by now you realise I am arrow proof, Mother? Poor Cupid would be foolish to waste them on me.’

  His mother smiled and shook her head pityingly. ‘Your dear father was just the same. He was staunchly against it until he was shot and fiercely besotted afterwards. He adored me. It all happened very fast. One minute we were arguing in Berkeley Square because he accused me of daydreaming—which of course I was—and causing him to crash his landau and the next we were skipping up the aisle just a month later. It was all very scandalous at the time and very romantic.’ She smiled wistfully at the memory. ‘As a baron he was expected to marry well, not set his cap at a draper’s daughter, and he did try to fight the attraction, poor thing. But he confessed later that he wanted only me from that first moment in the street.’ A worrying detail she had never shared before, worrying because it resonated. He found his eyes surreptitiously wander to Jess. Felt his blood heat instantly.

  ‘And it’s true! Opposites do attract. We were devoted to one another.’ His mother sighed, her eyes a little glassy at the bitter sweetness. ‘The Flint men are famously devoted to the women they adore, Peter, and fall in love with lightning speed. It is not something you have a choice in, my darling. One day, love will creep up and catch you unawares. It is as inevitable as summer following spring. It has happened to all of us in exactly the same way.’ Five blonde heads nodded. ‘And we would all like nothing more than to see such a love enrich your life, my darling.’ Her eyes flicked to Jess innocently. ‘But alas, what brave and fearless woman would take on such a sour and pessimistic young man?’

  Then the topic properly turned to him, which was marginally better, although Jess was bombarded with the succession of embarrassing stories the harpies wheeled out when they wanted to properly torment him. How he had not been clever enough to walk before he was one, preferring to shuffle everywhere on his bottom instead. That time, during a long, hot summer when he was eighteen and had thought it appropriate to go swimming in the stream, but had been caught stark naked by the parson and his wife—neither of whom had ever been able to look him in the eye since. Or his personal favourite, an anecdote guaranteed to make his toes curl inside his boots, the regaling of his one and only love poem, written at the tender age of fifteen to one of Portia’s friends in which he declared his intention to marry her despite the substantial difference in their ages and the unfortunate existence of her devoted fiancé. A poem Portia had consigned to memory to be wheeled out on special occasions when it was guaranteed to cause the most cringing.

  Flint endured every sibling reminiscence stoically, letting his expression show he was heartily unimpressed with the lot of them and flatly refusing to dignify anything with a response. Besides, the horrendous stories were making Jess laugh and he couldn’t bring himself to deny her that. Not now he knew she had whip marks all over her back and her lips tasted of ripe summer strawberries.

  Things marginally improved over tea because he purposely directed the conversation back to his mission to remind them all Jess wasn’t visiting and of the grave set of circumstances they found themselves in. During the necessary lecture and subsequent recollection of the horrors of the last few days as they had escaped Saint-Aubin, his meddlesome womenfolk remained blessedly silent, only interrupting with questions about the exact series of events.

  They had been genuinely horrified by most of it and were hugely sympathetic towards Jess. Beneath their meddlesome exteriors, his sisters had hearts of pure gold. They asked her many questions, probing in that concerned, open way that females did and inadvertently giving Flint a deeper understanding of the awfulness of her plight and the lead up to her capture. Intrigued at the additional details, no matter how difficult it all was to hear, he simply sat back and allowed the ladies to draw her into their confidence. Too late, Flint realised he had walked into another trap and chaos ensued once more.

  Ooh! A whole night alone on the moors unchaperoned! How scandalous?

  There had been many smiles and knowing looks after that glorious set of questions from Ophelia, which had finished with a loaded and mortifying sentence. ‘If you weren’t his prisoner, Jess, I would insist my brother do the decent thing and marry you! The scoundrel.’

  Fearing everything was about to get out of hand yet again, Flint slapped his palm on the table decisively. ‘Right! You’ve all had quite enough fun at my expense, go reclaim your families and make the most of your short stay here at Penmor.’

  He had already outlined his plan to them in the drawing room before Jess had arrived, stipulating in no uncertain terms it was non-negotiable. His sisters, all twelve of their children and their long-suffering and frankly sainted husbands were going to sit out the duration of this mission under the protection for Lord Fennimore in London as soon as his men arrived. An evacuation he was keener than ever to see happen. When the time came, he intended to dispatch his mother, too—although that was still a work in progress. After her stubborn refusal to leave she had dug her heels in. He was simply waiting for the right moment to tell her she, too, was leaving soon.

  ‘Do you think sending us to Lord Fennimore is entirely necessary, Peter?’ Desdemona, the most reasonable of the gaggle, looked pained. ‘It seems like a lot of disruption and I would rather stay here.’

  ‘Eighteen men have been murdered in cold blood by the smugglers in less than six months.’ All the colour drained from Jess’s face and she stared at her hands again, making him feel dreadful for frightening her. ‘With Saint-Aubin here in the south searching for Jess, I do not want that number to rise. I would rather it was none of you and I can’t guarantee your safety here. Our resources will be stretched to capacity. Once all the reinforcements arrive, and with my official hat on, I would rather know you were miles away and safe. Penmor must temporarily become a fortress once again, not a home, and my men have an important job to do that is completely separate from my family. If they come—and we have to accept they might—I don’t want to be distracted by having to worry about you all, too.’ Not when he already knew he would be at his wits’ end worrying about Jess. ‘I doubt you will be inconvenienced for more than a week.’

  The ensuing silence was audible as they all digested his words. Flint wasn’t trying to scare them, merely alert them to the reality. In a perfect world, once Jess spilled all her secrets the King’s Elite could take decisive action and destroy the rotten, festering smuggling ring once and for all. They would swarm like locusts and leave nothing remaining. Swift, decisive and righteous justice for the men they had murdered and the woman they had beaten. Saint-Aubin and the Boss wouldn’t know what had hit them. But he knew the world wasn’t perfect and these were not your run-of-the-mill smugglers. These were an organised army of mercenaries with everything they held dear at stake. The siege would not be pretty.

  It was Ophelia who spoke first. ‘If you believe we need to go, we will go.’ Four blonde heads nodded in agree
ment.

  ‘I do. Try to think of it as a little holiday. You’ll all be staying in Berkeley Square.’ Where they could drive Lord Fennimore mad, but where he could also guarantee security would be tightest. His enormous house was necessarily under constant guard and had been for decades. He doubted even the King was as secure as Sixty-Three Berkeley Square. And as his father and Lord Fennimore had worked together for years, his curmudgeonly superior would feel duty bound to have them. Warts and all. He would protect them with the same fervour as Flint would himself. ‘Mother—I really think you should go, too.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  Flint glared and her mouth set in a flat, stubborn line as she glared back. ‘It will only be for a week, not for ever.’

  ‘This is my home and I refuse to leave it.’ Her eyes flicked to Jess, then back, the implication clear. Tomfoolery. He held her glare and sent a message back of his own. There would be no more tomfoolery. He was a professional. An agent of the Crown. A man who was fully capable of rising above his urges. A man who was most definitely not by any definition besotted.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, young man! I am staying put!’

  From the recesses of his mind he remembered a similar occasion over twenty years ago: his father evacuating the entire family from the castle during a particularly dangerous mission here on the Cornish coast and his mother’s stalwart refusal to leave. Then, his father had dealt with the situation calmly. He had been so commanding. Masterful. So masterful, his mother had bowed down and agreed immediately. Those words came to him now as if his father had gifted them.

  ‘Need I remind you that I am the head of this family and, if I decree it, you will go.’

  His mother blinked. His five sisters blinked. Then the lot of them burst out laughing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The bizarre luncheon was brought to a decisive end with the arrival of Monsieur Gray and another man Jess did not recognise. They disappeared with Peter into his study and didn’t re-emerge for over an hour. She was sat in the drawing room with his family when she was summoned. There was no sign of the smiling Lord Gray now. Only Peter and the unsmiling stranger.

  ‘Jess, this is Hadleigh...he’s a barrister.’

  As Peter appeared uncomfortable announcing this, she asked the obvious question. ‘Prosecution or defence?’

  The tall, blond stranger met her gaze unflinchingly. ‘I work with the Attorney General. Whether or not it is prosecution or defence in your case remains to be seen, my lady.’

  She wouldn’t flinch or display how petrified that cold statement or the lawyer’s presence made her. Nor would she dwell on the fact Peter had failed to warn her that with the promised reinforcements would come the enemy. Hadleigh wasn’t here to protect her, nor would he leave here without her.

  ‘Flint tells me you are prepared to co-operate.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Because her knees were now unsteady, she lowered herself into the chair Peter had pulled out for her with as much poise and grace as she could muster, while he deftly averted his lying eyes. No outright lies, perhaps, but certainly by omission. What else had he neglected to tell her while he had been skilfully chipping away at her defences and making her care about him?

  ‘One always has a choice, my lady—although your options are now quite limited. In case you are in any doubt, allow me to outline them for you. You can keep your secrets and guarantee a short walk to the gallows or you can divulge them fully and allow the cards to fall where they may.’

  ‘I believe I will need more clarity on “fall where they may”, monsieur.’ Words less reassuring than the feeble lenient which had been dangled previously. She shot Peter a disgusted look for his duplicity. One he returned blandly, but which still had the power to wound.

  ‘Flint has indicated that you might be a victim in all this.’ There was that word again—might. The dangling carrot at the end of a very hard stick. Giving her just enough hope to make her comply, but easily withdrawn whenever they wanted. ‘And if that proves to be correct, then the charges will be adjusted accordingly.’

  ‘Might? Prove? Such comforting words. Do all the King’s men avoid giving a straight answer?’ She had the satisfaction of watching the man who had kissed her, then cruelly dismissed her, glance awkwardly at the floor, leaving Hadleigh to answer.

  ‘Let us be clear—we have letters written in your hand, sent to English peers and smugglers alike, which state plain as day the exact dates, times and by which vessel they are to expect or deliver illegal shipments of smuggled goods. Those same letters instruct those traitors how much to pay for those cargoes and whether the price is to be paid in gold or guns. Payments which went back to your stepfather Saint-Aubin, to be used against England. Irrefutable facts which cannot be denied, Lady Jessamine.’

  ‘Then here are some more facts for you, monsieur. Saint-Aubin is not my father—step or otherwise. He was my foolish mother’s childhood sweetheart and later her lover. Her name was also Jessamine and until a few months ago it was her hand who wrote those letters. When she became ill, Saint-Aubin needed someone fluent in both languages he could use to quickly and seamlessly fill her shoes.’

  ‘So he trusted you?’

  ‘He trusted I would not be callous enough to decline when he held my mother’s medication to ransom and refused to allow physicians to urgently attend her.’ Her eyes drifted of their own accord back to Peter against her will, only to see he had wandered back to the window. His entire body turned away while she suffered. ‘Tell me, Monsieur Hadleigh—would you refuse, too, if you could hear your mother screaming in agony in the next room?’ Peter’s broad shoulders suddenly stiffened, but once again he remained mute.

  ‘Flint tells me you weren’t close to your mother.’ Clearly, he had happily shared everything she had confided in him. Perhaps even their kiss. Something she should have anticipated, but which still hurt immensely. For her it had been special. For him a means to an end. She tore her eyes away from him and tried to ignore he was there.

  ‘We were different people, but I never wished her ill. She was still my mother and the only relative I had.’

  ‘You had your father. He is still very much alive and resides where he always has in Suffolk.’

  Immediately, she felt the cruel slice of that cold betrayal again as if it were fresh and raw. ‘Perhaps if I had been born male, he might have cared. Unfortunately for me, my mother’s abandonment as war broke out between her country and his worked in my father’s favour. He was able to start afresh and forget I existed. I wrote to him. Multiple letters. Begging to come back home to Suffolk. He ignored all bar one, then he callously told me to desist.’

  Those damning words were engraved on her battered heart. ‘As far as the law and my conscience are concerned, I have no daughter. You cannot be dead to me because you never were alive.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt he would welcome me back there now.’ And even if he did relent, she would never forgive him for abandoning her, too. ‘It is hard to ask for help when one is all alone in the world.’

  Her eyes did flick back to Peter then, wondering why every person she dared to form an attachment with always let her down. He met her gaze head on, his green eyes stormy, his expression suddenly intense, both fists clenched tightly at his sides. For a moment, she thought he would stride towards her until he turned his back once again.

  ‘Let’s get back to the letters, shall we.’ The lawyer slowly paced to the desk and picked up a bundle which he held out to her. ‘Which of these are in your mother’s hand?’ She knew the answer already, because none would be. Her mother’s missives had been handed directly to Saint-Aubin’s trusted lieutenants. Not an illiterate guard who wanted to bed her, who had been so blinded by the promise of sating his lust he delivered them to whichever England-bound packet happened to be in the harbour.

  Jess rifled through them to count how many of the f
ive she had convinced the guard to send for her had made it to their intended destination. They had four. Three sent to the now imprisoned and soon-to-hang Viscount Penhurst and one to the newly exiled Earl of Cambourne. She would allow herself that one celebration. All that pitiful flirting and pleading had done its job no matter how much self-respect it had cost her. Not that she had had much left after Saint-Aubin had tortured her.

  ‘None. These are all in my hand.’

  ‘And isn’t that interesting? Some would say damning.’

  ‘Surely the more interesting question is why, after years of failing to get even one sniff of the hundreds of communications, the British suddenly began intercepting those letters in just the last few weeks and were easily able to decipher them?’ Jess tossed them back on to the desk, watching them fan out haphazardly across the surface, and folded her arms defiantly. ‘Or how you came to know the exact location they all came from in Cherbourg? Or the names and exact addresses of Saint-Aubin’s contacts they were addressed to here in England?’

  ‘The French are not the only nation skilled in code.’

  ‘Code? A monkey could have deciphered those letters. Was that you, Monsieur Hadleigh?’

  His eyebrows raised. Other than that, he was as unreadable as rock. She disliked him immensely.

  ‘Tell him about the Grubbenvorst, Jess.’

  She sensed Peter staring at her. Every hair on her head, every nerve under her skin felt his eyes. So she did. Because he had asked her to and because she had nothing else left but the truth and because she knew her heart would bleed if she dared look at him and not see he cared.