She saw him. Jones. A glimpse in the rear of the room—well away from Wycomb—behind the crowds, behind jewels and gowns and starched cravats. He met her gaze, then slipped away into the crowd and disappeared.
He was here.
It was all she needed to know.
“I’m sure your uncle has explained that I will not tolerate disobedience.” Again with a smile both charming and knowing. Hedgewood spun her out, in, and leaned close in what would appear to anyone else as a lover’s whisper. “Unless it is in the bedchamber, of course.”
Spin out, mind whirring. Spin in, mind whirring yet more. There was nothing else she could do or say. She had Hedgewood’s measure—and he was little better than Wycomb.
“Of course,” she murmured demurely, as if she accepted such things. Her stomach rebelled, threatening to purge the punch and cakes she had consumed earlier. But they stayed down, and Hedgewood smiled with shameless satisfaction.
Her mother had told her the truth—the ballroom was little more than a lion’s den.
But somewhere out there was Jones. Waiting for her.
Closer was Wycomb, watching every move she made.
The notes lengthened, the movements became slowed. They bowed to their partners, again to those couples adjacent. The music died.
All the while Cat wanted to run.
Hedgewood refused to relinquish her fingers. His hand tightened on hers, hard and masculine, but without that innate gentleness Jones carried about him. Hedgewood led her off the floor into the crowd, just as he should.
Pastel gowns cleaved, smug faces made way. Skirts rustled as she passed. Everyone watched her. Nerves rose and roiled, told her she should run from the room. But she didn’t. She smiled as her mother had taught her, inclined her head in acknowledgment and greeting—she was an Ashdown. Whatever she might feel, she knew the duty centuries of history required.
Still, the chill of Wycomb’s gaze ran down her spine and the sham of Hedgewood’s good humor raked at her calm.
He led her to Essie, her arm held possessively in his with the strength of his grip. It would appear lover-like to anyone else—and she would never again trust what she saw.
“My lady, I hope you have another set you can spare me later this evening?” Grinning, green eyes laughing down at her, Hedgewood bowed over her hand as she stepped beside Essie.
“Of course.” Refusal would be idiotic just now. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”
“It was my pleasure, Mary Elizabeth.” Hedgewood bowed his farewell with a smile, but the use of her name sent arrows of unease and anger through her.
He was like Wycomb.
“That young man is positively smitten.” Aunt Essie said it into her glove once Hedgewood was well away, the pale silk curving over an amused smile. Still, strain had deepened the lines of her face. She looked older than she had just that morning.
“So it would seem,” Cat murmured, though she knew he wasn’t smitten with her as much as her inheritance. Irritation slipped in, then slipped away again as she caught sight of Wycomb. He was conversing with a short, balding man Cat knew to be their host.
Still, her uncle’s gaze drifted around the room until they settled on Cat, flicked once to Hedgewood, now amongst a group of gentlemen on the edge of the room. She shivered and deliberately turned away so she faced Aunt Essie and her back was to Wycomb.
She was hunted on all sides.
The walls of the ballroom suffocated her, the laughter of the ton sounding unusually loud and tinny. Her stays were laced too tightly and she could not seem to draw a proper breath. Blood rose in her cheeks, flushing beneath her skin.
“Excuse me, Aunt Essie.” Cat clutched her fan and reticule, fingers both numb and exquisitely painful. “I need the retiring room.”
Essie looked sharply at her. “Are you well?”
“Yes, I just need a moment.” She smiled in reassurance, the skin of her face brittle enough it might shatter.
With a brief nod from Essie, Cat hurried through the crowd, the distance to the door a mile if it was an inch. She nearly shoved her way through the floating gowns and laughter of the other guests until the door loomed above her.
Then she was through it, leaving the laughter and perfumed bodies behind. Turning to the left, she moved through the hallway, then down another until she found the steps.
She had no idea where she was going, but it was not the ladies’ retiring room. There would be nothing there for her but competing debutantes eying each other and their mamas exchanging thinly veiled insults. Or matrons gossiping about their latest peccadillos.
Cat needed air. Air and freedom and space.
Chapter Thirty-One
She burst through the rear door and into the garden of the Duke of Torland. Gulping in air as though drowning, Cat staggered past evenly trimmed bushes and ordered flower beds to drop onto an intricately wrought iron bench.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the seat as she leaned forward and stared at the pointed toes of her dancing slippers, peeping beneath muslin. She did her best to blend into the night, but it was difficult when one wore a gown the color of bright daffodils. Still, she tried to be unnoticeable, pressing her palms against the bench.
She would have to go back in soon. She could not sit out here, self-pity holding her to the seat. But she wanted a minute, one minute when she was not on display before the entire ton, when there was no one who would abduct her, or threaten to kill her, or pressure her into a marriage she was not ready for and did not want.
Just one moment of peace.
“Are you well, Cat?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin at the soft, calm words. Her head whipped up, gaze casting wildly around for Jones, but she did not have to look far.
He was there, a few feet away, where he had not been a moment ago.
She had not heard the crunch of gravel or the swish of grass as he approached. His brows were drawn down in the center, twin lines of concern and confusion. The evening jacket he wore was ill-fitting, the cravat at his neck simple and unfashionable. He looked awkward in the evening wear, though his black breeches ended in boots polished to such a gleam she could see the reflection of both the gold light from the house windows and the silver beams of the full moon above.
She thought she saw the gleam of moonlight on metal in the folds of his shirt as well, but then it disappeared and he was draped in nothing but darkness.
“Are you well?” he repeated, stepping closer. This time she heard the faint rasp of his boots on the path, but only because she was listening for it.
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes on his shadowed face, though her heart leaped at seeing him again. Her body seemed to have different thoughts. No leaps or bounds, but a pull deep inside her. “Do you never make noise?”
His lips twitched, the serious expression he usually carried flitting away. “It’s a useful skill in my line of work.”
“Still, it’s unsettling.” Her fingers reflexively twitched the seat of the bench before she let it go. With a deep breath of air that smelled of both night and man, she leaned against the back of the bench. The iron was cool, even through her gown, and the pattern dug into her shoulder blades. “Yes, I am well. It’s only that I felt alone. There was no one in there for me, but out here—” She stopped, drawing in a breath and turning her face away.
The darkness had a way of drawing out confidences, but she knew where she and Jones stood.
Nowhere.
“I needed fresh air, that is all.” She didn’t move. Somehow the buzz of insects and rush of wind in the trees anchored her to the seat. A part of her felt infinitely delicate, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Cat realized there was no answer or sound from the man standing before her. Popping open her eyes, she saw nothing but sky, moon, and tall pruned hedges.
“Jones?” she whispered, not certain she even wanted an answer.
“Cat?” He was beside her on the bench, though she’d not
heard or felt him sit beside her.
She turned to face him, frowning. “Do they teach you this when you become a spy?”
“No, I learned it as a boy. A boy in the rookeries has good reasons for being quiet.” His eyes flickered over her face, moving here and there, as if trying to determine what she had not said. Then he turned to face the night. Eventually he spoke, words low and easy. “Sometimes,” he said, crossing one leg over the other as though they discussed chess over a glass of Madeira. “Sometimes a person can stand in the middle of a crowd and be utterly alone.”
Cat didn’t speak, not certain if she could even trust her own voice. How did he understand? What had she said or what action conveyed what she’d been thinking? She held herself still lest this moment, this precious, open moment, be lost in the darkness.
“Sometimes,” he continued, looking up at the sky, perhaps contemplating the feeble twinkle of stars beyond the glow of London’s lighted streets and smoke. “A person wants to scream to everyone around them that there is something bad in their midst, that unseen dangers lurk in the shadows. They must act. Run, scream, hide, stockpile weapons, food, whatever must be done to weather the advancing storm.”
“Build an ark,” Cat said, some part of her soul responding to his words as though they’d been her own. “Build a vessel to save everything you hold dear.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Jones answered, and though she was not looking at him, she sensed that the corner of his lips turned up simply from the tone of his voice. “Build an ark.”
“How do you hold it all inside you?” she asked, looking up at the sky herself. Beyond London, beyond darkness, to those stars—where anything was possible.
“I often don’t have a choice.” He turned his hand palm up on his lap, and she wondered if he meant for her to take his hand. Cat turned her own hand palm up, so that they seemed to be two mirror images. His hidden beneath worn kid leather, hers just beside it on her own thigh, inches away and hidden by smooth, new kid leather. In a single moment, a shift of bone and glove, and they could join hands.
She did not move, could not. He did not move, either, not his hand or any other part of him. He was as still as one of the stone pillars guarding the entrance to the terrace.
She felt the connection, glove to glove—more, skin to skin—as if somehow they had touched. Her palm tingled, growing exquisitely sensitive to the silk covering it. Warm fingers slipped over her hand, slid between her fingers until their hands were joined together. One hand, but made of two, settled on the cold iron of the bench.
“You are not alone, Cat. I am here. When I am not, you will have strength enough to stand on your own. Everyone doubts their abilities until they are tested.”
“Yes.” But he would not be with her always, only for now, and she had yet to be truly tested. “I needed to speak with you about this afternoon.”
“What?” His voice hardened—not toward her, but in the way she knew meant espionage.
“It was after I met Lady Hedgewood today,” she answered, suddenly weary. “We all entered the carriage and started home, Essie, Wycomb, and I. A man jumped into the carriage and held a pistol to my side—”
The fingers twined with hers twitched.
“He didn’t hurt me. He was motivating Wycomb.” She spoke quickly to soothe. “He said Wycomb was late with something and customers were impatient. Also, that they knew his worth was tied with mine, and Essie and I would be hurt if Wycomb didn’t deliver—but we are fine.”
“Then why is your left eye swollen?”
“It is?” She set her fingers to the tender area, probed. “I thought it appeared normal.” It had been when she’d left the townhouse for the ball. Perhaps it had simply taken more time to swell than she’d expected.
“How were you hurt?” His words were so low, so guttural, she barely recognized them.
She thought about lying for less than a second. “Wycomb backhanded me, but only because I refused to let him lie to me about the man with the pistol.”
Jones was quiet, his fingers unmoving in hers. Then those fingers slid away and he stood to face her.
“I will kill him.” The words, low and vicious, barely floated on the night air.
“Jones, no.” She shook her head, rose to face him. “I am well. It is nothing more than bruise.”
“I let the knife go for the sake of the investigation. But not any longer. For that and for this—” Jones quickly tugged his glove from his hand and feathered bare fingers over the bruise. Callused skin, gentle touch. She had not wept yet because of the blow, but she nearly did now. “I will kill him.”
“You cannot.” Satin slipped against rough wool as she set her hand on his arm. “We don’t know what he is doing. I don’t know how to protect everything I hold dear.”
Jones dipped his head, touched his lips to hers. Warm, bold. Tasting of Jones. Her body wanted to unfold beneath him, but they were not alone. Anyone, at any moment, could find them.
“My engagement ball to Hedgewood is next week.” The words tumbled from her, as thick as the sorrow filling her chest.
He set his forehead against hers, held there. “I have wishes, Cat. I shouldn’t.”
There was nothing to say, nothing to do but hold her own wishes in her heart.
“I have to go. Someone will miss me soon.” If her lips were ripe from his kisses, it would not go unnoticed. Still, she kissed him once more. His body was hard around hers, arms solace and temptation. “Jones. I don’t know who Wycomb is working with, but he is late producing something and customers are not happy. His business partners aren’t happy—and they are not of the ton.”
Male laughter echoed, not far away. Female laughter followed. Cat ducked under Jones’s arm, dashed along the path so she was well away from him.
“I must go.” She wanted to stay. Still, she backed away, hands groping behind her for something solid. She found nothing but air.
“Cat.” His fist clenched, held, opened again. “Be careful.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Come play, Mr. Jones!” Maggie, Angel’s niece, dropped a tin soldier into Jones’s open palm. “Bonaparte will be defeated tonight!” She danced away, braids flying, to settle down on the floor of Angel’s drawing room to set up her soldiers. “I’ve been studying Wellington’s strategies.”
“An intelligent undertaking,” Jones answered. The words felt stilted inside his brain and sounded more so to his ears. How did a grown man talk to an eight-year-old girl? She was a little adult with an added enthusiasm and joy he couldn’t understand.
“Wellington is the bravest soldier, don’t you think? Except for Uncle Angel, of course.” Bright eyes turned toward the Marquess of Angelstone, who was currently whispering into his very pregnant wife’s ear. “He’s the bravest. Did you know he was at Waterloo? So was Aunt Lilias.”
“I believe I heard that.”
Her shining eyes turned back to Jones, ready to spill an exciting secret. “Aunt Lilias is a soldier, sir. A great one. Can you imagine a great woman soldier?”
Clearly, the girl thought this was amazing, and Jones was quite in agreement. “I think it is wonderful,” he responded. At which point, he didn’t know what to else to say to this sprite of a girl.
“Here, Mr. Jones, I have set up the soldiers as they were at the battle. Uncle Angel was there, and this soldier—” She held up a tin man so worn there was no longer paint on his face. “This one is my father. These were his soldiers, and my Grandmama says this one looks just like him.”
Jones peered at the blunted features. “He looks brave, certainly.”
“Yes.” She smiled at him as brightly as if she were the sun at midday. “Yes, he does.” She busied herself resetting the formations, changing up the left flank and rear guard.
He glanced around, met the gaze of the sharp-featured and soft-hearted Dowager Lady Angelstone. She smiled slightly, nodding her head in acknowledgment. Beside her sat her widowed daughters-in-law, one
of them Maggie’s mother. They looked happier than he remembered seeing them before, as if some of the grief had left them in the past year or so.
“I must go converse with the adults, now,” Jones said to Maggie.
“Must you?” Her lips turned down in disappointment, then smiled again in excitement. “When you are done, we can recreate the battle where Uncle Angel and Aunt Lilias met. It was very romantic and very bloody.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He tried not to laugh, choosing to cough into his hand instead. And realized he’d forgotten to wear gloves. No gentleman appeared in the drawing room without gloves.
He stood, setting his hands behind his back. A quick glance revealed Angel speaking to the third spy in the room. Julian Travers, Earl of Langford, had his arm wrapped around his wife’s waist and an eye on the two-year-old twin girls playing on the floor. They were enamored of a set of—what were they? Rattles? Sturdy legs pumped and moved as they chased each other with crazed enthusiasm.
Jones wondered briefly if purgatory was small children with fences to keep them contained.
After a light kiss, Angel left his wife’s side and strode over to Jones. “Thank you for indulging Lilias and coming to dinner.”
“I appreciate the invitation.” Jones’s lips twitched and he shrugged. “Also, I dared not refuse her.”
“Wise. It took me a little longer to learn that.” Angel grinned and gripped Jones’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s love.”
Cat’s image flashed in and out of his mind, bringing with it a light ache in his chest. Angel’s hand fell away, and Jones rubbed at that ache. It had lodged there, as if settling in for a long stay.
“Jones. I saw you with her.” Angel’s tone was low, all trace of amusement gone. “I followed when she fled the ballroom to make certain she was not in danger and saw you in the garden.”
Embarrassment dropped onto Jones’s shoulders, heavy as the weight of the world. “My apologies.” It was all he could think to say.
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 20
