The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  Sorrow pierced through him, into some secret place, followed by a layer of panic that slicked over his skin. She would be gone from his life.

  “Jones.”

  He did not want to meet those eyes. They would drive him into the ground. Into a hell he would be forced to live for the remainder of his days.

  “Jones,” she said again, her voice breathless and wary—and insistent.

  He did look up. And he was driven into the ground by eyes that were fierce and bright.

  “There is a way.” Her fingers curled around his, tight. “I can wait until my birthday—it is not long now—and we could marry.”

  Everything in him stilled. He could only stare at the face of this lovely woman who was beyond any dream he might have had.

  “I could breach the contract and forfeit Ashdown Abbey.” She swallowed hard and though the words held honesty, her eyes already held sorrow. “But the rest of the properties would be ours under the trust.”

  “No.” He found his breath after all. “I was born in the rookeries, Cat. Born there, abandoned there, and should have died there long ago.” Many of the boys he’d known had died, either on the gallows or in the alleys.

  “I know.” She sat up and set her other hand over his, so that his single one was engulfed in both of hers, protected by the soft skin. “You didn’t.”

  “I should have. I should have died the day my mother left me on the doorstep of the foundling hospital.”

  “Again, you didn’t,” she repeated. “Because you didn’t die, England is safer than it would have been, I am alive when I might not have been, and you’re—” She broke off, lips pressing together as though to keep words from spilling out into the air between them. Then, finally, as if the words would not be held. “You’re loved.”

  Despair crawled inside him, settling itself between his heart and his mind to poke fun at his dreams. “Cat,” he croaked, pushing up so they sat face-to-face, naked body to naked body.

  Perhaps, he thought, even bare soul to bare soul.

  Her hands moved over his, fluttering, then settling again, warm and soft. He wondered if she would be able to draw his essence into her, scoop it up and hold it against her heart.

  He wished she could.

  “Someday, when this is over, we can—”

  “There is no ‘we.’” The words bulleted from his mouth, anger and sorrow filling him. He drew his hands away and climbed from the bed. “There will never be a ‘we.’”

  Why couldn’t she see this?

  “There can be,” she said, rising to her knees as if she had forgotten she wore nothing but stockings. “There can be, if we want it enough.”

  “There is no way to turn me into a gentleman. I cannot be the man you need.” The words scored his throat, his heart.

  “The man I need?” She began to search the bed for her hair pins, piling them together in the center. She flicked her gaze toward his, eyes blazing and loose hair glowing in the firelight. “Need? I don’t need a man. I want one. I want a man who will stand by me. One who loves me. A man with shoulders strong enough to bear any responsibility and a nobility that would put any gentleman I know to shame. I would share what I have with him.”

  “What you have.” Even as the words spilled from his lips he wished he could take them back. They were unfair, but true, though it was not right to hold that against her—nor could they be unsaid.

  “Yes.” Cat’s anger rushed from her in a single breath. Working the auburn flames of her hair, she coiled it at the nape of her neck. “What I have. Even without the Abbey, there are thousands of acres and pounds. We would not be poor.”

  She could not see it, could she?

  “Cat.” He stood naked in front of her. Vulnerable. He would let her see what it meant. “If we married, I would be a joke in the ton. The little plaything you gave up your inheritance for.”

  “That is ridic—”

  “It’s accurate.” He shrugged, conscious of every inch of his bared skin. “I could not bear the whispers, the shame I would bring to you. We could try to hide in the country until the scandal died away, but it would resurface every time we came to town. If we had children, they, too, would be marked by my birth. The whispers would follow them.”

  “We could pretend you were from Northumberland. Or the Continent. A lord come to visit—”

  “No.” He said it firmly, ignoring the blue eyes that had become so huge in her face. “I cannot pretend to be someone I’m not. Particularly a lord. The ton would know—I can’t even remember to wear gloves to dinner.”

  “I don’t care. I cannot change my birth, nor can you.” She spoke just as firmly as she plucked up one of the hairpins. “We can only try to find a way to make a future together. We—oh, bugger it.”

  Shock pushed a laugh from him.

  “Jesus, Cat. Do you know what ‘bugger’ means?”

  “Of course.” She shoved the hairpin, then a second, into the coil of hair as if each one were a splinter of her frustration. “I’m a lady, not an idiot without ears. Nor am I stupid enough that I don’t understand you’re scared to be in love. Scared to take on a role you weren’t born to.”

  He reared back as if she’d struck him. “Scared?”

  Her arms fell away, helpless at her side. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “But true.” Heart pounding, he met her gaze, then traced the contours of her face with his eyes. “I would be terrified to marry you. What if I failed?”

  “What if you didn’t?”

  Silence. From her, naked on the bed. From him, naked and standing beside it.

  He turned away first, searching for their clothing on the floor. He found his breeches and tugged them on. The fire burned low in the hearth, washing the remaining fields of fabric on the floor with pale gold. He scooped up her gown, stays, petticoat, chemise—each one soft and sending up her scent. When he looked at Cat again, his arms full of her things, she had left the bed and stood before him in her stockings and garters. The red-gold curls above her thighs still called to him, as did the narrow but strong shoulders and the face full of resolve.

  “Here,” he choked out. “Your chemise.”

  If she didn’t put it on, he would not be able to keep his hands from her.

  She slipped it over her head, giving him enough space to breathe. “Why can nothing be simple?” she asked, emerging from the linen. Temper had dissipated from her words and features.

  He found temper had left him as well.

  “Life is not simple, Cat.” He breathed deep and offered her the stays.

  “You’re right.” She sighed, her shoulders curving inward as she inserted her arms into the stays. She reached behind her, trying to pull the laces tight.

  “Let me.” He dropped the remainder of her clothes onto the bed and reached toward her stays. “No one has a simple life. Not even the lowliest farmer on your lowliest property will find life to be easy.”

  He pulled the lacings tight for her, working them top to bottom.

  “You are not a novice at dressing a woman, Jones.”

  His fingers froze. Looking up, he met a pair of amused lips and dancing eyes. “Ah. Mm.”

  “I can only be grateful, as your experience made up for my inexperience.” Her expression sobered again as he finished the lacing and she picked up her petticoat. “What would you do, Jones, if you could have a simple life? If no one expected anything from you, if you had no obligations and no one depending on you, what would you do?”

  He did not have to think. He knew the answer, because he had known it since he was seventeen and had first read of it. “I would go to Colle di Val d’Els.”

  Cat paused, fingers caught in the ties of the petticoat. “Italian, isn’t it? I don’t speak it well.”

  “I believe it is the Hill of Elsa Valley. Elsa is the river running by the village.” He had never seen a painting, but he’d read the description in travel journals. “The village is in Tuscany.”

  S
he cocked her head, a soft, surprised smile curving her lips. “A village it Italy? That is where you would go?”

  Jones shrugged a shoulder. “The oldest part of it is high on a hill, and at least four or five hundred years old.”

  “Why do you want to go there?” Petticoat replaced, she reached for her gown. Jones picked it up first, shifted it so it would fall easily around her. He gave it to her, ensuring it was at the easiest angle for her to set it over her head, then worked the buttons as effortlessly as he had undone them.

  “I have read that the valley and fields surrounding Colle di Val d’Els are green and gold with olive groves. Vineyards on the slopes lead down to the river, and you can see the entire valley from the old stone village atop the hill. Life is slow and easy, with wine and olives and sunshine filling each day. Can you imagine?” He had, many times. “Wine and olives and sunshine.”

  Cat stood before him, dressed but not as polished as when she first arrived. Her expression was sweet, her mouth not fully smiling but still brimming with knowledge. “Will you go there, someday?”

  “If I can, yes.” Though he knew in his heart he would never reach the village.

  “Imagine us both there, then,” she whispered. “Where life is nothing more than wine and olives and sunshine.” Cat offered her hand, bare palm up. “What do we do now? Just continue as if we didn’t make love? As if there is nothing between us?”

  “Yes. There is nothing else for us.” His fingers accepted hers. When they met that soft, smooth skin, he thought—just for a moment—that his soul sighed.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The noise did not wake her.

  She had not slept the night before because she’d made love to Jones, and had not slept this night because she was too on edge. Awake, wishing she knew less so she could sleep, Cat had listened to the sounds of the street. The window was open just an inch—silly, as she heard every carriage and horse that traveled down Park Lane. Still, she slept with it open now.

  It wasn’t carriage wheels or horses’ hooves that alerted her, but voices. Harsh, guttural, and full of pain.

  As well as familiar.

  “Here, it’s open.” A voice she knew, but could not place. “Hell. Bleed less, will you?”

  “If they hadn’t…” The rest faded away as the speakers entered the house, but she knew Wycomb’s voice.

  Cat didn’t dress in slippers or a shawl. She simply left the bed in her nightshift and went to her door. Cracking it open, she tried to listen. Voices drifted up from the entry to echo in the stairwell, though they were muted now and she could not make out the words. On bare feet, she slipped through the hall toward the main steps. She knew this house—which floorboards squeaked, the rug with the curling edge that was easy to trip over. She avoided both, trying to move as quietly as Jones would have done.

  At the top of the steps, she looked over the railing into a faint glow. A single lit candle sat on the curved table beside the door. Perched on the first step was Wycomb, with another man bending over him. Cat squinted, trying to bring them into focus through the dim light.

  “It’s not deep,” Wycomb said, probing at something. He was bent over so all she could see was the nape of his neck and shoulders clad in the layers of his greatcoat.

  “You are lucky.” The second man straightened, stepped away, his back still toward her. “They are out for your blood.”

  “If your damned ships would come in, they wouldn’t be.” Wycomb hissed as he shifted to lean back against the steps.

  “I don’t have control of the tide and winds—or customs.” The second man strode toward the door, boots ringing loudly in the quiet townhouse. “Next time, don’t come to me. I didn’t start your little endeavor. I only fund it.”

  “I make you a lot of money.” Wycomb bit out the words and half rose from the step, then sat back down.

  “When you make money.” The other man gripped the handle, wrenched open the door. Cat couldn’t see or hear anything beyond the opening, but she sensed a shift in the air from the night wind. “If you can’t control the dogs in their den, cut them loose.” He turned to face Wycomb, anger etched into every line on his face.

  Cat gasped, breath hitching in. It came out again in a squeak.

  Hedgewood.

  Even as she scrambled back from the railing, she saw both male heads jerk upward. Lungs frozen, she scooted back on hands and feet, each movement part of an awkward half crawl. Spinning into a crouch, Cat stood and walked swiftly but silently down the hall. The rug, the noisy floorboard—she avoided both again. Her mind spun and heart pounded as she quietly shut her bedroom door. Cat set her forehead against the cool wood panels and swallowed back her fear.

  Hedgewood was part of it. Whatever Wycomb was involved in, whatever the Anna Louisa and other ships were supposed to provide, Hedgewood funded it.

  Whatever it might be, she could not wait long. Swiftly, feet flying over plush carpets as her own shadow chased her, she made for the escritoire. She didn’t dare light a candle, so she used the weak light from the moon and street lamps to guide her. Familiarity led her to the paper and ink. She did not sit, afraid to take even those few minutes.

  Quill scratched against paper. She knew her penmanship was poor and didn’t care as long as the ink reached the paper and the note reached Jones. She didn’t blot it or sand it, didn’t bother to seal it. Urgency fueled her, though there was no dawn light rising on the horizon. Either Jones or a Gent would be checking the stone soon, before the servants rose, before sunlight.

  Her note must be there.

  Still, she waited until she heard Wycomb’s footsteps pass her room. He slept just a few rooms down the hall, with Essie between them. When he did finally pass, the steps were almost noiseless—but she was listening.

  She waited longer, impatient and irritated that she could not properly see the clock on the mantelpiece in the dark. Finally, hoping Wycomb was well asleep, Cat opened the door to the hall and peered out. Dark and empty. The note clutched in her fist, she flew over the floor once more.

  The golden glow was gone from below and peeking over the banister, she saw the candle had been extinguished. She waited, listening. When she continued to hear nothing but the shifting of the house around her, she moved light-footed down the steps and to the rear of the house. The kitchen was as dark and empty as the halls. She tore through it and into the garden. Cool morning air dove deep into her lungs, but she didn’t stop. The wall loomed closer, the loose stone a fixed point she could focus on. She scrabbled at the stone, drew it out and shoved the note into the hollow behind. Cat repositioned it in the rough bed of mortar and ran through the garden to return to her bedchamber.

  She made it no farther than the rear door. Wycomb was there, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other.

  “Good morning, Mary Elizabeth.”

  “Now that we are comfortable, why don’t you tell me who he is? Remember, if you scream, I shall kill both of you. If you stay quiet, one of you might yet live.”

  Cat gritted her teeth against the wet dew seeping through her nightshift. She didn’t speak. The hard ground beneath the garden bench was not enough to break her, nor was the split lip where he had hit her. Even the rope rasping against her ankles and wrists was not enough.

  “Let me see, what did the note say?” Above her on the seat, Wycomb re-crossed his legs and set the pistol down on the iron bench. Inches above her head and yet miles from being useful. “Ah yes. Hedgewood is involved. A very interesting note.”

  Cat curled into herself for warmth, her mind reaching into the center of her for courage to fight the fear bubbling beneath her skin. He had stowed her beneath the bench, knowing someone would come for the note.

  Like a spider, he waited for his prey.

  Oh God. Jones would not know.

  “A lover, perhaps? It would explain your disinterest in Hedgewood.” Reasonable, even tones from her uncle. “I think we shall just wait here and see who retrieves your note.”<
br />
  “He is a better man than you,” she bit out, unable to stop herself.

  Wycomb moved before she understood what he was doing. Suddenly the knife was at her throat, pricking the skin in the hollow between her collarbones just as it had done once before. Terror coalesced to that single point, where metal met flesh.

  She would not give in. Cat ignored the bindings, the rough rope, even the cold ground pressing against her shoulder. The trees above cast moonshadows over his face, twisting over an expression already threatening. A chill terror burgeoned in her, but she shoved it away and breathed deep.

  “Who is out for your blood?” She didn’t want to say the words, but she refused to let the panic best her.

  “Questions from the captive?” The knife slid over her skin to the scoop of the nightshift’s bodice. It held there, between her breasts and just below the neckline. “I think not.”

  “You cannot think I will ever fall in line again,” she said.

  “Mary Elizabeth,” he snarled. The point of the knife pressed against her skin, but did not pierce it. Not yet. “You never did. If you had, I would not have needed Hedgewood.”

  “I am glad I ruined your plans.” She lifted her chin as best she could, lying on her side on the ground beneath the iron bench.

  “Perhaps you will not be so glad when you are dead.”

  “You cannot kill me, or you will lose Hedgewood.” Cat bared her teeth, knowing that truth would win out. “He wants my properties and money.”

  “He—” Wycomb stilled, then straightened and spun in a single movement, knife arcing out toward some unseen threat. It did not hit its target and Wycomb stepped back once, bumping into the bench and it’s curling designs.

  “Do not touch her.” The sound of Jones’s voice sent her heart soaring. He was here. She could not see him beyond Wycomb and the dark, but she knew his voice as if it were her own.