The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  “You lie,” she said, slowly coming to her feet. Essie squeaked and china tinkled. “You lie. It is not the marquess who has chosen the date. It is you, so that I will not yet have reached my majority by the date of the wedding.”

  Silence fell, broken only by Aunt Essie’s nervous intake of breath.

  “True.” Wycomb lifted a plate from the sideboard and leaned over biscuits to inspect them, not bothering to look at her as he spoke. “You are my ward, Mary Elizabeth, until August.” Now he turned his head and looked at her, as though she were no more interesting than the biscuits. “Before then, I legally control you.”

  “Only if I allow it,” she said softly. Her heart bumped inside her chest, an erratic beat she could not control.

  A cold light flared in his eyes as they narrowed on her. He straightened, chest expanding with the force of his fury. She braced herself for whatever assault he intended. Openly challenging him was a step he would not tolerate—they both knew it.

  The onslaught of his anger never came. Wycomb pivoted to face the hall as a shout echoed, followed by running footsteps.

  A man barreled through the doorway wearing a filthy homespun coat and breeches stained with black, sooty streaks. Wide eyes flicked frantically around the room—but whatever he intended to do was cut off by Wycomb as he leaped forward. Her uncle’s body twisted with ease and elegance, arms whipping through the air as though he regularly practiced slamming men into walls. Pictures rattled and one crashed to the floor as the man cried out.

  “Milady! Mr. Sparks—” He was cut off by Wycomb’s forearm pressing against his windpipe.

  “Wycomb!” Cat surged toward them, ignoring Aunt Essie’s short shriek and the clatter of her chair as it toppled to the floor. “He’s from Ashdown Abbey!”

  She didn’t think, only curled her hands around Wycomb’s shoulder and tried to tug him back. He let go, jerking his arms in release. Cat ducked to avoid being hit and stumbled.

  “Speak,” Wycomb commanded.

  The stranger slipped to the floor and opened his mouth, gaze shifting first to Cat, then Wycomb, then Cat again.

  “The granaries, milady. My lord.” The man slumped against the wall, rubbing his throat. “They’ve caught fire. When I left, they were nearly half gone.” He sucked in air. Wide eyes stared at Cat. “Mr. Sparks, he said he thought they would all go.”

  Her heart rose into her throat. She swallowed hard, hoping it would slip back where it belonged. Crouching down, she brought her face level with the man’s. “Was anyone hurt?” Cat set her hand on the man’s shoulder—a gesture that had Wycomb lurching forward, then back again.

  “No, milady.” The man shook his head and straightened, and she saw that it wasn’t dirt on his face, but streaks of soot. “When I left, only a few were hurt from burns an’ such, but no one badly.”

  “How long ago?” she whispered.

  “Early this morning. I rode hard, changed horses to be here quick.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, he smeared the dirt and soot over weary creases. “I ’as to get back, milady.”

  “Go to the stables. Use a fresh horse for the return and tell them to ready the carriage. I’m going, too,” Cat said firmly, already spinning toward the door.

  “You shall not.” Wycomb’s voice shot through the room, command a sharp edge on his words.

  Cat stopped, drew a deep breath in through her nose and let it out through her mouth. It steadied her, that breath. “No?”

  “Mr. Sparks will do what needs to be done. You are needed here, to secure your inheritance. Hedgewood will be announcing the engagement tomorrow.”

  Cat turned to look at her uncle. His coat was wrinkled and lopsided on his shoulders from his efforts, but his hair seemed as elegant and his face as controlled as ever. His will was nearly palpable, weighing heavy in the room.

  “Sir?” She looked at the sooty tenant, then her aunt. “Essie? Please excuse us, if you would.”

  “Of course, dear.” Essie swept out, herding the tenant before her and leaving silence in her wake.

  A clock ticked somewhere nearby, it’s rhythmic signal counting the seconds between Cat and—something. Wycomb ran a hand around the circumference of the plate he’d dropped onto the sideboard, finger tracing the outer rim in slow, thoughtful movements.

  Finally, his words soft and careful. “You cannot help them.”

  “Perhaps not, but I should be there.” It was her duty. They were her people, her tenants, and she would not fail when they needed hope. “My father taught me that in times of need, the tenants will look to the lord. Is he there? If not, they will despair and, perhaps, lose faith. Loss of faith breeds dissension and difficulties.”

  Wycomb’s lips lifted at the corners with mocking amusement. “These are not feudal times, Mary Elizabeth. Nor are you the lord.”

  She would not let his words rankle. “I may not be a lord, and no, these are not feudal times. The fact remains that my tenants look to me as the last Ashdown to lead them. Failing to do so fails them.” She squared her shoulders. “I will strike a bargain with you.”

  “I am listening.” His fingers paused in their movements around the edge of the breakfast plate.

  “I will say nothing more about the marriage to Hedgewood.” It was as if the jury at Old Bailey had ordered her death. Her skin became clammy, her ears buzzed, but she was bound by contract. She had little to lose. “I will not fight it.”

  “You will say the words and sign the register?” He took a step forward, cocking his head as he approached. She fought the urge to retreat. “Do your duty by Hedgewood?”

  “Yes.” The shudder tried to wrack her entire body, but she refused to give it rein. “Yes, I will do my duty.”

  Something flickered in Wycomb’s gaze.

  She’d won.

  “We will leave shortly,” he bit out. And oh, she could see the words were bitter. “Be ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The advantage to one’s family seat being a long day’s ride from London was one needed to pack very little.

  The carriage waited on the cobblestone street, rolling forward and back as the horses pranced restlessly. Beyond them, Hyde Park and London moved and thrived and lived, unaware that her freedom was gone and her tenants’ livelihoods at risk.

  But there was more. She knew it.

  “Aunt Essie, I need a moment.” She tucked the short note she’d written to Jones more firmly into her palm. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “Wycomb will be angry if you’re late.” Essie clutched the handles of her reticle, knuckles whitening as they became sharp little points. “He said—”

  “Yes, I know what he said.” Which was exactly why she wanted Jones to follow them. “It will only be a moment.”

  She left a frowning Essie in the front hall and slipped through the townhouse to the rear garden. It was difficult to leave a note behind the stone in daylight without being seen. She reached down as though there were something wrong with the leather half-boots dyed to match her pale pink gown and did her best to hide the stone behind her skirts. From there, it was little effort to push the stone out of place, tuck the scrap of paper into the hollow of dirt, and nestle the stone back in place.

  Still, she could not just walk into the garden, check her boot, and leave again. If anyone were watching she would appear suspicious. Perhaps Wycomb was watching from a window.

  Perhaps Jones was watching.

  She glanced around, her heart thumping a little—though from fear of Wycomb or the kisses of Jones, it was not clear. But there was no one at any window that she could see, nor anyone watching from the gate at the rear of the garden.

  She took a moment to snap the stems of a few bluebells carpeting the lawn. Holding them to her nose, she thought perhaps she could use it as an excuse if it was needed.

  It was needed.

  “What are you doing, Mary Elizabeth?” Wycomb stood in the rear doorway, his gloves fisted in one hand and his hat already perched on
his head. “The carriage is ready.”

  “Yes, thank you. I just needed a moment to calm myself. I’m quite worried, as you might imagine.” Her words sounded just like the lie they were, so she decided to stop speaking altogether. “We should go.” Clutching the bluebells in her fist, she strode toward Wycomb and the house.

  Though he watched her carefully, he turned aside and let her through the door to the rear kitchen. She hoped he did not look behind her.

  …

  Jones trotted along the walkway of Park Lane, then through Hyde Park, trying to keep the carriage in sight. But he could not keep pace with horses, even in the midst of slow-moving traffic on the street. When the vehicle disappeared, he simply changed course and returned to Park Lane.

  Whatever they were doing, it was not a quick foray on Bond Street or to Gunter’s. The urgency of body movements, the speed of the coachman’s start—something was wrong.

  It was an hour before an opportunity to check the stone arrived. Jones slipped through the gate leading from the mews and knew in an instant the stone had been moved—fresh earth and mortar littered on the ground beneath it.

  He itched to jerk the stone out of the wall and see what the baroness had left for him. But he couldn’t simply dash forward. Raising his face to the summer sun he checked windows in the surrounding townhouses. There was no way to entirely protect himself from view except at night, but the trees and vegetation at the rear of the garden still provided some cover.

  He couldn’t do anything about the sunlight.

  Drawing a deep breath and scanning the garden and mews again, Jones prepared himself for the jolt of her handwriting.

  He slipped forward through the gate, moved the stone and retrieved the note in less time than a dandy needed to pry off his boots. Then Jones was back in the protection of the open street and its pedestrians, walking away from Worthington House.

  Her home.

  The note clutched in his fist was hot. He should loosen his grip, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. If he did, the note could be plucked away by the wind. He tightened his fist and moved through the streets, searching for a place to stop and read it.

  It was in the shadow of the mews, tucked between two doorways, that Jones finally smoothed the note open. The paper was heavily weighted but soft between his fingers. He was compelled to sniff it, but thought the baroness might find it unseemly, so he simply rubbed the paper between his fingertips as he read.

  My Dearest –

  We are traveling home. The granaries caught fire and much of the remaining store is gone. The tenants are quite worried, as this year’s harvest is looking to be less than usual. I must be with them.

  We shall return in a few days’ time, I’m certain, and I would enjoy seeing your handsome countenance. I shall continue my duties, of course, but I wish that you were with me for your advice and company.

  I shall miss you.

  All my regard,

  C

  Her script was neat and precise. It didn’t march across the page, nor did it flow easily. It was careful. Jones smudged a thumb over the dark ink. Careful and deliberate, as her movements and words were until she forgot herself.

  He wondered what the C represented.

  Folding the note, he buried it deep in his coat pocket. He would burn it later, as he had done before. There would be no record she had ever written him a note.

  Any pang he might feel at that loss was pushed aside. He needed to pack his belongings.

  He was going to the country.

  His own townhouse arrived in his vision not long after, as did the carriage resting in front of it. Angel’s carriage. His mentor was in the hall, a set of books in one hand. He was reading the spines, head ducked down, gold queue at the base of his neck shifting over a dark coat.

  “Ah. Jones. I was looking for my copies of—” He stopped, cocking his head. “What is the matter?”

  “My investigation.” No details. No specifics. But he could make a request of this man—the one he trusted above all others—and know it would not be repeated. “It’s Wycomb. I don’t have authorization to tell you, so—”

  “Understood.” Angel’s lean face went hard, the softness marriage and impending fatherhood had wrought there fading as if it never existed. “What do you need from me?”

  “He’s going to the country with his niece for now, and I will be following him.” The request rankled, but only because he should keep the investigation to himself. “Anything you see or hear in my absence will be appreciated.”

  “Of course.” The books dropped onto the nearest table—a spindly one appearing to be barely tolerant of their weight. “Anywhere I should be specifically listening?”

  “Anything outside of the ton, particularly related to ships.”

  “I will let you know if I discover anything.” Amber eyes narrowed in thought, then widened again. “Why do I feel as if you in are over your head?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sparks.” Cat kept her voice low so the men clearing away the sooty rubble wouldn’t hear. “We’ll rebuild the granaries, stronger and larger, using new methods.”

  “It is not the loss of the structures that is worrisome, my lady.” Mr. Sparks scrubbed a hand over his soot-covered chin, dislodging black dust from untidy stubble. She’d never seen him unshaven before. “It is the loss of the grain. The tenants were depending on it for livestock until the harvest.”

  “We’ll rebuild the store of grain, as well. The trustees will purchase enough to feed the livestock.” They would. They must. “They’ll understand what is needed.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Sparks’s sigh was heavy, the strong chin at odds with the defeat in his eyes. “Yes, they will.”

  Dread fell into the base of her stomach. “You don’t think so,” Cat said flatly. She turned to look up at him. The wind had shifted while she traveled home and the breeze was cool and sharp on her cheeks.

  “Actually, I do. The trustees will do what is necessary, but nothing more.” He angled his head to return her gaze with hooded green eyes behind round spectacles. “The trustees will protect your inheritance, my lady. Make no mistake about that. But—” He went silent.

  Cat did not need the words.

  “The tenants will worry there isn’t enough to go around,” she said softly. Cat breathed in and trapped the air in her lungs just as she was trapped. Anger boiled beneath her skin, but she let the breath out slow and smooth. “I know many tenants will have a bit set by of their own grain, but not enough.”

  “Aye. Not enough for the livestock and their own bellies.” Mr. Sparks rubbed the back of his neck and surveyed the men working together. Diligent laborers and farmers beside blacksmiths and shopkeepers. “That sort of worry causes difficulties between neighbors and friends.”

  “Use my pin money, Mr. Sparks.”

  “You have little left until you receive next quarter’s installment.” He looked sideways at her. “You spent it on the roofs.”

  “I will ask for more.” She huffed out a breath. “I will tell the trustees I need new gowns.”

  “My lady.” Mr. Sparks’s smile was kind, but resigned. “If you raise the issue, the trustees may request to review the dressmaker’s bills. Or they may speak to your uncle.”

  He was right, and her stomach burned with that knowledge.

  “But didn’t you hear? I’m to be married.” Bitterness rode on her tongue, sharp and acrid. “The Marquess of Hedgewood. Surely that deserves new gowns.”

  “I had not heard.” She felt more than saw Mr. Sparks become motionless, think, then move again. “My felicitations.”

  “It was not my choice.” She lifted her face to the sky, breathed deep of the charred air. That, too, was bitter. “Wycomb signed the contract without my knowledge, and furnished Ashdown Abbey as payment in the event of a breach.”

  “Ah.” A world of knowledge lay in the single sound. “When is it to be?�
�

  “Before my majority.” She looked over the steaming desolation in front of her, the wooded area beyond and, in the distance, the walls of Ashdown Abbey. Cheerful spring sun bathed all of it, gilding even the ruins with gold light. “I agreed to proceed with the wedding so that I could keep the Abbey.”

  “I see.” A deep sigh. Another. “This is not what your father intended.”

  “I wouldn’t know. He never saw fit to tell me his intentions.” Her fingers curled into her palms and she turned away from the sunlight. Toward truth.

  “Your father—”

  “Had his reasons. I know. I have been told time and again. Bugger that.” The words slipped out before she could think. Mr. Spark’s eyes widened so they were nearly as big as the lenses of his spectacles. Cat was instantly contrite. Not about the sentiment, of course, but his shock. “My apologies, Mr. Sparks.”

  “Er. Yes.” He coughed, and she heard the amusement there. “I imagine you learned it from your father, my lady. It was his favorite, ah—turn of phrase.”

  “So it was.” Her lips twitched, remembering her father ranting in his office about unfair taxes or a bad crop. He always waited it out, because he believed if one worked hard, life would turn out all right it the end.

  Silence moved between them, punctuated by the grunts and calls of those clearing the mess of smoking wood and thatched roofing.

  “What do we do?” Cat raised her face to the sky again, to the blinding sun that refused to dim despite the wreck of the granaries it shined upon. Fear would be building among the tenants already.

  “Nothing, my lady. We let the trustees determine when to rebuild the granaries, and we let them determine how much wheat and corn to purchase or import from your other estates—the cost will be dear, no matter which choice they make, with the price of grain being high at present.” Mr. Sparks rubbed the back of his neck, conveying soot to one of the few clean places left. “The coffers will withstand the loss, my lady, as long as we can get the release from the trustees.”