“Ah, Jones. I see. I am being watched by the spy that hunts his fellow spies.” Wycomb’s voice lowered, the chill in it much, much worse than the night air or the dew-ridden turf. “I have often wondered, does that betrayal of your comrades turn your stomach?”
“Let her go, Wycomb.” Cat heard the sharp click of a cocked hammer in the darkness. “This matter is between you and I, now.”
“I think not. If Sir Charles has set his watchdog upon me, he is aware of the shipping arrangement as well.” Wycomb stepped back again until he was nearly standing on her. Crouching down, he set the knife to her throat. It pressed against her neck, not in the center now, but along the side. Her pulse concentrated there, hot against the cold metal. “How long has my niece been spying for you?”
“Long enough.”
“She is my ward, Jones. Mine to control.”
She tried not to let the fear implode inside her, but a whimper caught in her throat as she listened.
“There are also lines of decency and morality, even in espionage.” Jones paused, and suddenly his voice was as low and cold as Wycomb’s. “What you are doing now to my Cat would be the end.”
“You call her Cat.” Wycomb scoffed, the knife bouncing along the surface of her skin. “A stupid name my sentimental sister gave her.”
“It is what she calls herself. Now, you can come in, I can take you in, or I can kill you.” Death seemed to slide along Jones’s words. “The choice is yours.”
With a feral growl, Wycomb leaped at him. There was no light to flash over his knife, but Cat saw the spark as Jones’s pistol roared. They fell to the ground in a heap, one that scuffled and rolled. Grunts of pain and effort filled the early morning air. She rotated onto her stomach, digging her knees into the ground to push herself up. Off balance, arms tied behind her back, she could only press her face against the dirt.
Flesh met flesh, someone cried out. Cat rocked forward, gathered her muscles and dug her toes into the earth to lift her torso off the ground. Upright, she could see at least, but her feet were tied, her hands bound behind her back. She could not stand. She could not help.
One man rose and the dim light above caught enough of his features she knew it was Jones. Grim. Harsh—still her Jones. He was knocked from his feet as Wycomb charged, hitting him around the middle. They went down again, hard, a gasp of pain winging through the air.
Another hit, more grunts and wheezes, a sharp yelp—and silence.
Someone crawled toward her on hands and knees, as if he dragged his limbs. Close, then closer, until his face was finally visible in the dark.
Wycomb.
She tried to move, to flee or run or something. She could do nothing but flail, so the ground rose up and she landed face first in the dirt once again. Wycomb set his mouth to her ear, growled.
“You are nothing but a liability, Mary Elizabeth.” He rose over her and grabbed the rope between her hands. He dragged her across the grass, then lifted her so she stood awkwardly on bound ankles. She would have fallen if he had held her upright. “This time, you will obey. There is nothing left for either of us to lose but your life.”
…
“He’s gone to ground.” Jones could not breathe. The beast sitting on his chest was hideous in its never-ending pressure, its never-ending pain. “I don’t know if I can find him. Find her.”
“You may not be able to find them.” Angel gripped Jones’s uninjured shoulder, fingers digging hard into muscle. He never shied away from the truth, but said the words that must be said. Those words pinched and pierced Jones’s heart. Yet the truth could not be changed. “Wycomb knows if he is caught, it is the end for him.”
“I wish I knew more about—Ow!” Jones yelped as the feminine fingers that had been probing at his torso pressed against a cut.
“Hold still.” Lilias, Angel’s wife, set a hand against Jones’s bared chest and pressed him back against the chair. Her hair was loosely braided for sleep, her wrapper billowing around her kneeling form, but she was no less formidable in her night attire in the hours before dawn than she was wielding her sabre. “I’ve seen better patients on the battlefield. This wound is nothing.”
“It’s in the—” Jones began, jerking forward in protest. A sharp pain pierced his side, forcing him to stop. He hissed a breath out between his teeth.
“It is not deep, but I imagine it’s painful when it pulls.” Lilias kneeled before him, face grim and hard. “It’s a little deeper than the other cuts, but I don’t believe you require stitches. A knife, I presume?”
“Aye.” Jones looked down toward the thin red line crossing his ribs. “The rest of my wounds are just marks of a fight.”
“‘Marks of a fight.’” Lilias snorted, though her hands were gentle as she wound a strip of linen around his torso. “Scratches, a black eye, split lip—not to mention the lump where he coshed you. In fact, I would feel better if Grace looked at that injury, as most of the head wounds I managed were fatal. Are you certain you do not see two of me?”
“I don’t have time to wait for Lady Langford to arrive.” Jones shrugged, pulling at the bandage as Lilias tucked the end into itself to hold. He’d arrived at Angel’s for assistance from the spy only to end up being administered to by his wife. “I must start looking for Cat.”
“Lilias.” Angel stepped forward, set his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Most of the time, I would not ask you to leave during our conversations—”
“Yes, you would, but I shall not argue today.” With lumbering movements and the help of Angel, Lilias stood. She set her hands on the belly that had become huge in the last few days and watched Jones with bright blue eyes. “Good luck, Jones. Be careful.”
A few minutes later the door closed behind her.
“I should not have come here.” Jones lifted the shirt draped on the edge of the settee. He pulled it over his head, carefully shrugging into it. “I put your family at risk.”
“We would be at risk from Wycomb regardless, Jones.” Angel stood in front of him, boots rooted in the carpet as if to ensure Jones could not push past him. “Who was your commander? Your mentor? Who would you confide in beyond Sir Charles?”
“You.” Despair, fear, guilt—all of it weighed on Jones, though Angel was right. Wycomb could easily come after Angel and his family. With a deep breath and ignoring the throbbing pain at the base of his skull, Jones tucked his shirt into his breeches. “I still need your advice, Angel.”
“You shall have it. Always circle back to what you know. Not what you think or guess, but what you know.” Gold eyes looked straight into Jones’s. “Tell me what you know.”
“I know I love Cat.” The words scored his throat, hot and razor sharp. “Beyond that, I can barely think.”
“What else do you know? Beyond what you feel, what do you know?” Angel scooped up a pile of black cloth and handed it to Jones. He wore nothing but breeches and the result of being Jones’s sparring partner for far too long showed in the muscles of his back. “Here, your shirt and jacket.”
“I know Cat is only useful to Wycomb for a short time. If I don’t find her, she will probably die.” The pain of it hammered at every inch of Jones’s skin, mixing with the throbbing of his injuries. “I will have to live with that.”
“What else do you know, Jones. Think. Wycomb is desperate—he knows you and Sir Charles are investigating him. He knows taking the baroness means you will hunt him. So why did he take her, and where did he go?”
“I know he has money difficulties.” Jones slid one arm into his jacket, pulled it up onto his shoulder. Slowly. “I know he has connections at the docks.”
“It is a place to start.”
“The docks led nowhere.” Except to nearly being shot and putting Cat in danger. “The Anna Louisa was emptied and has set sail again. ‘Tis only a short voyage this time, but she is gone.”
“What else, then? You haven’t spent weeks investigating him for nothing.” Angel stepped forward, face and voice har
d. “Or have you been so enamored of the baroness you’ve forgotten your task?”
“Angel.” Jones reared back as if he’d been hit again. “I haven’t—”
“Good.” The lines of Angel’s face were still grim, but he had relaxed. “I have to ask, because even if you don’t answer to me any longer, I still answer to Sir Charles.”
“No. I haven’t been too distracted. I’ve searched bank records—in my usual way, so there is no trace—and I’ve watched the docks. The Gents are on Wycomb as well. I have learned of chance encounters with rough men, of Wycomb going into pubs and coming out again in disguise. He’s been seen in the rookeries, allegedly as a nine-foot demon.”
“Really?” Angel’s amber eyes narrowed. “That’s interesting.”
“Only in so far as drunkards hoisting too many bottles of gin.” The coat was now on both shoulders and Jones pulled it closed over his belly and its wounds. He paused, mind suddenly churning and spinning. “A nine-foot demon in the rookeries. That is more to go on than an empty berth at the docks.”
“So it is.”
“The Gents saw Wycomb go into a tavern in St. Giles carrying a bag, but he never came out again—at least not dressed as he had been.” Jones reached for his pistol and shoved it in his waistband. “Only a day or so before that, he visited the Anna Louisa.”
“Don’t forget your knife.” Angel nodded toward the slim blade sitting on the polished side table beside the settee.
“I have others.” Still, Jones swiped it and slid it into the narrow pocket he’d sown into his breeches. “I’m going into the rookeries, Angel. Don’t come in after me yet—but if you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, come looking.”
“Of course.” Angel grinned wickedly. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a good fight.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
She could not see where they were going. The hood of her cloak was pulled too far over her face. Only her feet were visible in that small patch beyond the ring of expensive wool, and they moved so quickly in and out of her narrow line of sight she wondered if they were real.
She wondered if any of it was real.
The stench of sewage. The slop of mud and filth against her boots. The empty gin bottle she nearly tripped over. Somewhere to her right was raucous laughter and the sweetly bitter scent of spilled beer.
The shudder ran from Cat’s shoulders, down her spine and through the arms still bound behind her back—hidden now beneath the cloak—and into the pistol pressed against her back.
“Afraid, Mary Elizabeth?” Wycomb leaned close, the pistol shoving into her ribs.
She gasped at the sudden pain, but did not make another sound. Cat refused to give him that satisfaction.
“Not far now, just a few more steps.” He pushed her ahead of him, one hand gripping her shoulder. She stumbled, off balance without the use of her arms.
Through the dim dawn light and beyond the hood pulled close about her face, she saw an open space where street after street converged, then crossed the circle to the other side as if they were seven spokes of a wagon wheel. Cat and Wycomb did not cross the circle to the other side, as the narrow streets did.
Instead, Wycomb shoved her toward a door set into the stone building. A pub shared the wall on one side, an empty building on the other. Above were floors of dark, broken windows interspersed by the occasional window with candlelight flickering. Ropes were slung between buildings on either side of the street, the drying clothes draped there silent and unmoving in the gray dawn.
The door swung open, a sickly sweet scent rushing out to swirl around her. Wycomb shoved her through the opening into a dim hallway. She coughed as the scent filled her nose and lungs, stumbled again over rough floor. The door slammed closed, shutting out the dawn and the filth of the rookeries. There was nothing in front of her but a narrow hall and planked floors fading into darkness.
She realized the windows were covered so no light penetrated the room or the stench that hung in the air. What little entered revealed a pale, writhing smoke in its thin beams.
“Oy!” Feet pounded through the narrow hall until a tall, gaunt man stood before them. “The room is— Oh! ‘Tis you!” A pistol appeared in his hand before Cat could blink. “One thrashin’ weren’t enough?”
“I’m here on a different matter.” Wycomb walked forward, the pistol that had been at her back now pointed at the man.
Cat shrank back against the wall, pressed her hands and shoulders as tight as possible to the worn panels. A whimper of fear rose in her throat. She swallowed hard before it could escape.
“I have a business proposition for you.” Wycomb reached for her, gripped her upper arm.
“Yer last offer cost me money. I had ta repair me shop when yer shipment didn’t come in, the men were that glimflashy. Tore the place to bits.”
“Well, this offer will make you money—will make both of us a lot of money.”
“Eh?” The man cocked his head. The pistol wavered. “What is it?”
“Her.” Wycomb yanked back Cat’s hood, revealing her face. She blinked, but lifted her chin. “I know of more than one party who will pay handsomely for her return—assuming she remains unsullied.”
…
He’d had no luck at the pubs—again—and had not seen the man he’d spoken to during his last visit. Prostitutes on the street were of no help. Wycomb’s picture looked familiar to a few, but the locations he frequented were lost on the girls. Despair was a heavy weight. It had been a full day, dawn to dusk, that Cat had been missing.
Jones stayed in the shadows of the narrow street, against the wall to avoid the worst of the mud and filth. The eerie, blue-black light between sunset and night hovered over St. Giles. Still, candlelight beamed between the rags stuffed into broken windows as makeshift patches. That broken gold light fell on a pack of boys running past, barefoot, heedless of the dung and piss and vomit they were stepping in.
He’d stepped in his share—and he’d be burning his boots when he returned to Angel’s townhouse. Still, he had a job to do, not memories to relive.
Jones collared one of the boys, jerking him around to face him before he boy bolted. He bucked and reared, twisting to escape. Unluckily for the boy, Jones knew all the tricks.
“Do not be afraid, boy,” he barked. “Just want a word.” That small body was quick as a whip and nearly had his knees buckling with a good kick. “Son of a—”
“Lemme go!” Small hands scrabbled at Jones’s fingers.
He jerked the boy’s collar, watched his body twist and writhe to free itself. “I only have a few questions.”
“Aye?” The boy peered up at him from beneath the brim of his cap. “Questions ain’t good in St. Giles.”
“I know. I was born here.”
That seemed to give the boy pause. He stopped wriggling and hung from Jones’s hand, peering up at him with blue eyes much too large for his face. “Where?”
“A whorehouse in the Dials.” Bitter words. Bitter taste. Sometimes the truth couldn’t be made sweet.
“Aye?” The boy looked up, wide eyes searching Jones’s face—for what, Jones did not know. “You don’ look it.”
“I got out. Became something.” He jerked the boy’s collar again to bring him back to the present. “That something wants to know if you’ve seen a man who looks like this.” Jones held up the drawing of Wycomb.
“If I have, what’ll you give me?” The boy’s cheeky grin was irresistible, reminding him forcefully of Young John.
“Two things.” Jones let him go, and though the boy was freed, he stayed in the shadows of the building beside Jones. Eyes and ears were ready, keen interest moving over his face. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
It was a test, so he fell in line. “Jones.”
“Stupid name. Mine’s Michael, only everyone calls me Tim.” He straightened, as if a simple name gave him purpose. He wore no coat, just a shirt and breeches, but he smoothe
d them down as if they were as fine as any lord’s attire.
“Why Tim?”
“Dunno.” Michael-called-Tim shrugged. “But I has a name, and it was given to me by me Ma. There’s others what can’t say thet.”
“True. My name was given to me at the foundling hospital.” Jones bent over, looked Michael in the eyes. “How trustworthy are you?”
“Very, sir.” Michael straightened, puffing out his chest under the worn shirt. “Me Ma weren’t no whore—beggin’ yer pardon sir—and she taught me right. You can trust me, sir.”
The gut feeling grew, just as it had with Rupert and Young John and Angus. He had unintentionally collared another Gent.
“Well, Michael, I might have work for you. Honest work. I need to know you’re ready for it.” Jones set a hand on Michael’s shoulder, gripped. He held up the drawing of Wycomb. “What do you know of this man? They say he becomes a demon with red eyes.”
“Oh him.” Michael didn’t laugh, but he did snicker behind his hand. “He ain’t no demon. That’s the opium, see?”
“What?” Shock reverberated through Jones. Some things he could expect from spies—murder, treason, lies. Opium was a word he had not expected.
“The opium. The men what comes out of the opium den—they think the sun is a fireball and the moon is ice. They think they can touch them.” With eyes much older and wiser they should be, Michael leaned forward. “Those men think I’m a demon. It’s the smoke. Once they have it, they don’t know nine feet from one foot. They only know the den.”
“Where is it?”
There was a long pause, a considering one. The boy looked him up and down, once, twice, with serious eyes.
“Seven Dials. Next to a whorehouse.”
Chapter Forty
He waited. Watched.
The den was not far from the Seven Dials. It was a narrow “townhouse” tucked between two larger ones, all sharing walls with more ragged buildings on the block. The windows were covered from the inside and showed no light. Men staggered in, desperation etched into their features. They staggered out later in a crazed stupor.
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 25
