“It is too late to rectify the situation. You will have to use her.” Sir Charles picked up his greatcoat, decisive now. “We must prepare for an error that reveals the investigation. One word, and Wycomb will either run or attack.”
Attack, thought Jones. Wycomb never ran.
“I expect a report each day, Jones. Each day.” Sir Charles swung the greatcoat around his shoulders so the capes whirled out before enclosing his wide chest.
“Yes, sir.” Relief flooded him, fueling his body so that he stepped forward without intending to. He opened his mouth to say more, but Sir Charles had already turned his back and was through the doorway into the hall.
Jones was dismissed.
He was not reassigned, or worse, returning to the rookeries.
Chapter Twelve
“Good morning, uncle.”
“Hm.” The cup of coffee on a path toward Wycomb’s lips did not pause, nor did he raise his gaze from the newspaper open before him. The slight angling of his head, however, told her he knew exactly where in the room she stood.
Cat had not expected him to do anything out of the ordinary. The noise low in his throat that did acknowledge her arrival was all she usually expected in the way of a “good morning.”
She could not say she particularly cared if he greeted her. She didn’t on any other morning. Yet this morning she was conscious of the suddenly dangerous strength and breadth of his shoulders in the elegant coat, of the way his eyes flicked toward door and window—even the movements of the footman in the corner of the room warranted a second glance from Wycomb.
Had he always done so? Cat rolled her shoulders to ease the tension in them and turned toward the sideboard and its waiting eggs and sausages and scones. Perhaps her uncle had always been observant of his surroundings and she had simply never noticed because she had never looked.
She was looking now.
Stabbing a thick, round sausage with her fork and transferring it to her plate, Cat tried to ignore the roil of fear building inside her. She fought to keep her hands steady as she chose a scone from the sideboard. Perhaps Wycomb was watching her even now, noticing that her breath was shallow and her hands fumbled with the serving forks. Perhaps he was thinking how best to force her to marry, what incentive would drive her in that direction. But when she turned, his gaze was on the newspaper. He did not glance at her as she moved toward the table and took a seat a few chairs away. It was as though she did not exist.
Cat decided that was acceptable, though her fear had not lessened. He could stare at his newspaper while she ate. She had much to occupy her mind. Ball gowns, a trip to the milliner’s shop, the roofs of the tenants. Jones. Calming her racing heart. But her attention was still focused on the man to her right, sitting at the head of the breakfast table. Each shift in the lines of his face as he absorbed the articles, the rustle of paper as he turned the page.
Then his teacup rattled as he dropped it into the saucer, porcelain clinking against porcelain. His gaze focused on the newspaper as though nothing else existed, brows angled in concentration. He did not lean forward, did not betray by the slightest additional body movement that something in the newspaper meant a great deal to him.
But Cat knew.
Her fork paused in its ascent to her lips, breakfast forgotten, as she studied Wycomb. He never reacted quickly. Never.
When he dropped the newspaper beside his plate, Cat quickly shoveled cold eggs into her mouth so she would not be caught staring. He stood, but she did not look up or make eye contact lest he notice her.
“Brown,” he called to the butler, striding to the door and through it without a glance behind him. “Send for the unmarked carriage.”
Cat willed her bottom to remain in the chair and her feet to stay planted on the thick rug beneath the table. She most definitely did not want to be noticed. Cutting carefully into her blood sausage and setting the bite into her mouth, she ignored the surge of anticipation thrumming through her veins. She chewed slowly, listening to the silence in the breakfast room and the clatter in the front hall.
Wycomb had not left the house yet, as she could hear him speaking to Brown. She could not take the newspaper at least until then, and she could not allow the footman standing in the corner of the breakfast room to see her rush to the newspaper, either. Trying not to exhibit any of the impatience bubbling up in her, Cat slathered jam on her scone and ate that as well. It was dry as dust in her mouth, though she knew cook’s scones were the best in England.
She could practically hear the newspaper calling her name and fancied the footman could as well. But she ignored it until her plate was empty and the front door had closed behind Wycomb. Then she slowly and carefully stood, pretending today was like every other day. She started to stroll from the room, moving around the table to the door.
Pausing at Wycomb’s chair as though a headline from the open paper had caught her eye seemed natural, as did taking the newspaper as if absorbed in the article and wandering from the room. She might have done it any other day of her life, Cat thought, quite satisfied with her performance. Climbing the stairs to her room, she tried equally as hard not to run and give the paper more importance than she should.
Then she was alone in her room, the paper spread over the pale-blue coverlet of her bed. Smoothing her hand over the page Wycomb had been reading, she studied the various notices listed there. Births, deaths, travel news, markets, advertisements for goods and the prices of corn. She could not determine what part of it had caught it his eye.
But something had.
Carefully tearing the paper so that she kept only the page Wycomb had noticed, she set the rest in the fire burning low in the grate. She did not want anyone to know she had torn out that particular page, as she did not know if anyone in the household would report such items to Wycomb. After folding the remaining page, she fisted it and watched the fire lick at the paper on the hearth. Flames rimmed the edges, growing brighter as they worked their way to the center. Then there was nothing but ash floating in and around the flames.
She would have to decide what to do.
Chapter Thirteen
“Mary Elizabeth, do have a care for my feet, dear. I’m not able to walk as quickly as you.” Aunt Essie’s voice floated toward her and Cat turned, taking in the buildings and bustle of Piccadilly. Essie puffed along a few yards behind her, cheeks pink from exertion.
“My apologies, aunt.” Cat smiled at the woman and waited on the walkway while Essie drew up beside her. “My mind was wandering.”
“I gathered.” The older lady blew out a breath, fluttering the curls around her face. “What has distracted you enough you’ve passed Hatchards?”
“I passed Hatchards?” Cat looked down the street through strolling ladies, prancing bucks, and young street sweepers and realized she had, indeed, passed the bookshop. Frowning, she looked down at her aunt. “You should have called out.”
“I did, dear.” Essie raised her brows. “You ignored me.”
“Oh. Well, let us go back.” Cat set her fingers to her forehead, hoping to realign her mental maneuvering to avoid any thought of Jones and focus on the moment. After all, she could not wish Jones into appearing before her. She’d been trying since yesterday morning, the newspaper page foremost on her mind.
Then again perhaps she could.
There he was, across the street, strolling as though he had no cares at all. He moved easily, his gait unhurried but also not leisurely. The soft morning light seemed to focus on the planes of his face, on the well-made body cutting through the crowds unnoticed.
His gaze was on her. She felt it even from across the street. The awareness that his eyes were tracking her slipped over her skin so she was conscious of her every movement. Foot to pavement, foot to knee and hip. The chemise and gown touching her body were suddenly heavy, almost uncomfortably so. Her skirts swished around her ankles, the ruffle of the petticoat brushing the points of the bones there. The pelisse over her gown felt strangely stiff and restrict
ive, pressing unsettlingly against her breasts.
Even the April breeze, full of London’s smells, seemed to be warmer, stronger, even sweeter as it passed over her face than it had only a moment before. Was it always this way, when a woman knew she was being watched? Perhaps a woman’s body gained such strange knowledge after being pressed so closely to a man’s.
She met Jones’s gaze through the carriages and wagons on the street, trying to convey with her eyes that she needed to speak with him.
“We should be quick,” Essie huffed. “Your uncle will likely finish his business shortly and return for us.”
“Yes.” Cat did not turn to look at Essie as she spoke, but continued to hold Jones’s gaze as he moved down the street. He was nearly abreast of her now on his side of the street and she felt a slight panic. Would he cross over? Should she find a way to go to him?
Then he was past her, and though he no longer had his eyes on her, her skin still felt marked by his gaze.
She slipped into the bookshop to browse the aisles as a lady would, Essie at her side. But her gaze was on the large windows beside the door. Stacks of books were displayed there, the muted leather covers set beside quills and chocolates intended to entice customers.
She stayed near the window, looking over the nearest shelf.
“What do you think of these, Aunt Essie?” Cat flipped through the pages, fanning them to create a light breeze. Her gaze flicked toward the passersby crossing the square of daylight offered by the window.
A man with the correct color of hair strolled by, then another with the correct build, each of them sending her pulse leaping only to have it dip again when it was not Jones.
“They seem interesting,” Essie said, peering at the fluttering pages. “Is it for one of the properties?”
“What? Yes. Of course.” Cat had no idea what she was saying. No idea at all—because Jones had just appeared in the window. As he passed, he turned his head as if the books displayed in the window caught his eye. He paused, bending to look more closely.
Cat blinked and the handsome face was gone from the window, leaving a space quickly filled by a pair of ladies and a moment later, farther away, a crested carriage.
“I had better begin my hunt for a publication on embroidery patterns.” Essie looped a ribboned pale-green reticule over her forearm. “Do be quick yourself.” She drifted toward the area set aside for books on household management and various ladies’ pursuits.
The bell over the door tinkled and Cat instinctively looked toward the sound. Jones. His gaze touched hers for only a moment, enough that she knew he had seen her. Then he turned and stepped into a corridor flanked by bookshelves, disappearing between the pages of history and geography.
Jones was here, hidden between mountains and towers of books.
Heart thumping, Cat wandered the aisles, gloves running along the well-worn shelves as if considering the titles. The scent of leather and paper circled her, musty and fresh all at once. Sunlight from the front windows dimmed as she moved to the interior of the shop and into the stacks and rows of books. The patrons and bustle from the front of the shop quieted, each step taking her away from reality and closer to something. Mindful of the silence of books, she turned into another aisle.
And saw him.
He leaned against a shelf, his brown coat and pantaloons fading into the background of worn wood and leather-bound books. One of those books was in his hands, the pages opened so their secrets were reflected in his eyes. She tilted her head to read the title of the slim volume, taking in the tan cover and the dark lettering inlaid there. The Scientific Study of Blades as it Relates to Plows, Also Containing Observations on the Scythe.
Something in her heart smiled to see the title. She had read that herself only a year or so ago. He looked up, focus shifting from the book to her. He smiled faintly, full lips curving up just a little at the corners.
“My lady.”
“Jones.” She smiled in return, conscious of the dim solitude of the shelves, the hum of voices quieted by the twists and turns of the aisles.
“What has happened?” With a gentle shoosh he closed the volume, then slipped it onto the shelf. “You have something to tell me?”
“Yes.” She drew a deep breath, pulling the collar of her pelisse more closely around her. There would be no turning back now. “Wycomb read something in the newspaper that caught his attention.”
“Ah.” Brown eyes lit with interest. “Progress.”
…
He tried not to notice her gloved, elegant fingers brushing against her own skin as she fiddled with her pelisse. Or the way that pale skin rose above her bodice and peeked between the squared edges of the outer garment.
He had noticed, and now his fingers tingled. Shoving them into his pocket, he said, “What newspaper was it?”
“The Times.” She released the pelisse, fingers fluid and graceful as they moved to her sides. Whatever emotions might be running through her, she still moved and stood as a lady. “I took the page he was reading. I’ve read it over and over, but I don’t know what part of it meant something to him.”
“What day was it delivered on?”
“Yesterday, Tuesday. And I was cautious in taking the newspaper.” Her voice held a note of satisfaction that matched the tilt of her chin. “I burned what was left, so no one would know I ripped out the single page. I thought it might raise someone’s curiosity.”
“That was clever.” She was cautious and careful, as he’d hoped she would be. “Where is it now?”
“Hidden in my chambers.”
“Mary Elizabeth?” The voice was quiet, curious.
“My aunt,” the baroness gasped.
Jones angled away, turning body and face so that her aunt would not identify him. It was too late, he knew. She would have seen his face.
“Is this the one you wanted, my lady?” He spoke the words loudly enough that the elderly woman at the end of the aisle would hear. He reached up, retrieved a book at random on the topmost shelf.
“I believe so, yes.” The baroness accepted The History of Beekeeping, flipped open it’s binding. “Just a moment, Aunt Essie.”
“Hurry, dear. Wycomb has arrived and he is in a temper.” The woman stayed where she was, watching.
“We must meet again.” Jones kept his face turned, pretending to be reading the spines.
“Where, then?” the baroness said softly. “And when?”
“Where will Wycomb be tomorrow evening? At home?”
The baroness glanced behind her, as if the space between her and her companion would reveal her uncle’s plans, then back at Jones. “We are scheduled to attend a soiree. If I plead illness, he will likely go to his club until the early hours of the morning and I will be free. We can meet in the garden once the servants retire for the evening.”
“Be ready for a sign, my lady. It will be late.”
“Late, then. I will watch for you.” She raised her voice, closed the book. “Thank you for your assistance, kind sir. It is not what I am looking for, however.”
He set it back on the shelf, nestled between brown leather binding and blue.
“You are most welcome.” He nodded his head in farewell. “Good-bye.”
He turned his back on her, leaving the bright green gown and white pelisse alone among the books. As Jones went around the corner, a voice shot down the aisle and made his insides curdle.
“Mary Elizabeth.” Cool. Controlled. Wycomb. “I am disappointed in your tardiness.”
“I do not feel well.” Cat set her head against the upholstered back of the chaise longue in the drawing room of Worthington House and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, uncle. I know tonight is important, but it would be worse to attend the soiree and be ill than to simply not be there.” She set her hand to her stomach, and though she was feigning severity, there was no need to pretend her stomach was roiling and pitching.
She imagined even great actresses were nervous before a performance.<
br />
“You cannot afford to be absent from the social whirl, even a single night, if you intend to marry this Season.”
She opened her eyes to find Wycomb studying her carefully over the rim of his brandy glass. The look in his blue eyes was sharp, but the lines around his mouth had deepened and there were shadows smudged beneath his eyes.
It was difficult to face a man when there were secrets running just below the surface. His words, her words. Actions. Undercurrents and innuendos. The knowledge that her uncle was involved in something disreputable lurked beneath everything, but he did not know she knew of it.
“I am aware of the effect of too many absences, uncle, but it is still relatively early in the Season. A missed soiree shall not set back my prospects.” Offering a half smile, Cat laid aside the slim volume of poetry she had been reading and tightened the paisley shawl draped over shoulders. “I do bring the Ashdown fortune with me. This Season or next, or even three or four Seasons from now, I will be quite eligible. And I will attend an event tomorrow, of course.”
But not tonight. Tonight, she wanted to be at home when Jones came looking for her.
“You do not want to wait until next Season to marry, Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb swirled the brandy in the glass, a strange emotion flickering over his features. Her imagination marked it as ominous.
It disappeared so quickly she might have been mistaken.
“Perhaps not.” Cat sighed and turned her head, pretending it was all too difficult. He would see through her ruse, as he knew her well enough to know there was little she could not manage, including illness.
He did not toss back the last of the brandy, but swallowed it smoothly and slowly as though savoring every ounce. Then he held up the crystal snifter and stared into it, seemingly intent on ensuring every drop had been consumed.
“Do not forget the Marquess of Hedgewood.”
“He is—”
“Your future husband.” Wycomb set his glass onto the sideboard with a sharp snick. “He will offer for you before the Season is over if you prove your worth to him.”
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 7
