He slipped out that door and waited for the sound of the deadbolt on the other side. Jones closed his eyes for one second to imprint the memory of her in his mind—still wearing her nightshift and cloak, holding a knife in one hand and watching him with those butterfly-blue eyes.
The image would carry him through.
Then he set Cat aside and focused on the mission. The Flower and Shadow had positioned themselves at the rear of the den, watching the windows Cat and Jones had escaped from earlier.
Angel, who had been watching the front as well, gained the stoop just as Jones stepped close. Training became instinctual, Angel’s intent forming in Jones’s mind from both memory and observation. It was a pattern they had performed before.
Angel held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, experience turning both weapons into extensions of his body. He nodded once to Jones as a sign to proceed and flattened his back to the wall beside the door. Jones reached for the handle, pressed the latch, and pushed it open.
The hall was empty. Dim light filtered in from the first room Jones already knew the patrons frequented, but the hall itself held no candles, no Wycomb and no Hedgewood. Pistol leading the way, Jones slowly stepped into the narrow space. He peered into the first room and saw patrons sprawled on pillows, others imbibing. Smoke hung thick in the air and wove between agitated voices, its scent sweet enough that he wrinkled his nose.
The guard was at the door, a different one this time. Jones jabbed the stock of his pistol on the spot at the temple that would keep the man sleeping for a while. Minutes, hours. It was unclear, but either way the patrons were too far gone to notice and it would gain them a window of time.
Still, Jones knew where Wycomb would go. Not here on the first floor, but below where Cat would have been held.
He gestured to Angel, pointing down to the floor below. Angel nodded in understanding, then pointed to the street behind them. He held up two fingers. Jones knew the intent of the gesture—Shadow and the Flower were already alerted by Angel that Wycomb had entered.
It was a pleasure working with his own.
Though Angel had been Jones’s commander, he did not take the lead. Jones already knew the way and led Angel down the hall, past empty rooms and to the steps leading below. He pointed down, then flashed his fingers. Five. Another five.
Expect ten men.
Angel nodded his understanding and they began to descend the steps. Silently, letting muscle and joints absorb sound rather than the wood beneath their feet, they moved below. Jones heard voices, raised well beyond conversation level.
“I will not pay until I see her.” Not Wycomb—it must be Hedgewood. Jones had never heard his voice, so it was only a guess.
The labyrinth of rooms and halls in the lower level spanned before him. He listened, careful to follow the sound of the voices. Doorways opened on each side, each dark though sconces were perched on the walls at intervals so they could pick their way forward.
“Just pay them.” Wycomb’s voice was smooth and easily recognizable, disdain dripping from the words. “Mary Elizabeth is worth more than the both of us combined.”
Jones moved down the hall, pistol poised and ready, the knife in his waistband burning through his shirt as if demanding to be used. A glance behind showed Angel, face set in resolute lines. Somewhere beyond were others, but Jones could only count on Angel now. One on three. Two agents against another well-experienced agent—not including the others that would likely be in the surrounding chambers.
It was a risk.
Angel met his gaze steadily—he was ready.
“Your niece is not my concern.” The words were clearly said between clenched teeth, anger infusing every syllable. “I want her estates, not her. I can find a dozen women who can give me what she can.”
“We are in agreement then.” Wycomb again, in cool tones. Jones moved closer to the door of the room he believed them to be in, hoping Wycomb’s words would mask his footsteps. Candlelight shown through the doorway. “None of us care about her person beyond her ability to bear children. I’d think you would be concerned enough about that to pay their demands—and I cannot pay, as we both know.”
Everything in Jones bristled. He stepped forward, fury coursing through him.
A hand landed on his shoulder, strong and heavy. It was as if he were in the training room, the hand on his shoulder one he’d felt a hundred times before. Jones turned to look behind him.
Wait, Angel mouthed. Removing his hand, Angel tapped his finger against his ear. Listen.
Jones knew there were times to rush in and moments when it was best to listen. Patience was always an advantage. He’d forgotten when they’d spoken of Cat. Breathing deep, letting all his fear center in his chest so it gave him strength, he waited. Listened. As he’d been trained.
“Your niece’s ability to bear children is unimportant. There are ways around that.” A pause, then, “I want her visibly intact. No scars. I want to present a wife free from marks to the ton.”
“Of course—and if I could provide her, I would.” Wycomb’s sly words forced Jones to press his back against the wall. “She has been removed from my hands, however. Her fate is in yours. If you pay what they ask, she can be what you require.”
“I want proof she is unsullied.” Hedgewood’s voice was harsh, as if he could no longer control the tone and pitch of the words.
“Well I ain’t got proof,” came the voice of a third man. “She’s well gone, and my men are the worse for the wear. She weren’t alone.” A pause, a grunt. “You told me it would be easy, milord. We’d make back what we lost on the shipment if we sell her to the gent.”
“Ah.” Hedgewood’s voice was suddenly smooth. It sent a chill through Jones. “Is that how it is, Wycomb? You give your niece to these men and sell her back to me?”
“If it works, yes.” Smooth, unworried words from Wycomb. “If you had simply persuaded her to marry you—”
Jones could not listen any longer.
Chapter Forty-Four
Jones stepped into the room, training be damned, and aimed his pistol at the center of Wycomb’s chest.
“Ah, Jones.” Wycomb shifted his body, ready for the assault, though he did not reach for his own weapon. “You fell in love with her, I see. A more unsuitable match for the Baroness Worthington I cannot think of—and I’ve already signed the contracts, so Hedgewood already owns her.”
Hedgewood spun, staring at Jones with an expression ripe with disgust. “No. I will not tolerate—”
“I don’t care what you will tolerate.” Jones moved his pistol so it pointed at Hedgewood now. “Your claim on her is nothing but words on paper. A bullet in your heart will void any contract you entered into.”
Hedgwood blanched, and despite the physique he must have honed at Gentlemen Jackson’s, he shrank back—a coward when faced with a true battle. That still left the owner of the den, Wycomb, and anyone else lurking in the warrens in the lower floors.
“Don’t fight us, Wycomb. If you come in without resisting, it will be easier.” Jones already knew Wycomb’s answer and that blood would be on his hands that night.
“No.” Wycomb dove forward, the expression on his face bereft of anything beyond survival. His body hit Jones as if it had been coiled for hours, waiting to spring.
Wycomb went for the spot just beneath the rib cage that would knock all breath from the lungs. Jones knew the same spot, but it was too late. His breath was gone and he lay on his back on the floor.
Yet he wasn’t done.
Jones kicked out both legs as Wycomb rushed past. The man went down, his cry swallowed just after it was given voice. Dimly, Jones recognized Angel dealing with Hedgewood and the other man. He had little chance to think as Wycomb rose above him, fists clenched together to maximize pressure when they came down again.
But Jones knew what he planned.
He jerked to the side as Wycomb tried to thump those joined fists against Jones’s chest. The blow gla
nced off his side and drove the air from him, but not the need to protect.
Gasping, heart pounding to remind him hadn’t died, Jones rolled over. Every breath was a trial, every heartbeat beyond what his body could comprehend. Still, the figure that rose in the doorway became everything Jones hated. The man had cut Cat’s skin. He’d sold her to an opium den. Wycomb had bruised her face so that a line of shadows chased her cheekbones.
Jones reached for the pistol that had dropped from his hand. Raised it.
Shot.
Wycomb went down. Screaming, still struggling, but he was down. Blood blossomed on buff-colored breeches, the stain growing each second.
Jones rolled to his knees, caught his breath in the midst of a cloud of black powder. Wycomb gripped the door frame, scrabbling through it with one leg while the other dragged behind.
Jones sure as hell wasn’t letting him disappear now.
He rose to his feet, still gasping for air, and followed Wycomb into the hallways built into the den’s lower floors. Other sounds met his ears—dozens of footsteps pounding. Shouts as Angel was overwhelmed, more shouts and a shrill battle cry as the Flower and the Shadow joined him.
Still, Wycomb knew the maze of rooms and Jones did not. Jones guessed at the direction Wycomb would have turned, running through the warren of hallways and rooms. He guessed wrong, it seemed, and was forced to retrace his steps until he reached the stairs to the ground floor.
More footsteps sounded behind him, but he did not stop to determine who was fleeing the scene. Only Wycomb mattered—and Wycomb was bleeding at the top of the stairs just in front of him.
Jones leaped, aiming for Wycomb’s back. They went down hard on the floor of the main hall, limbs struggling for purchase and leverage. It was Jones who found it first and drove a fist into the man’s face. He tried not to find satisfaction in it, but he did. So he drove the other fist into his face and watched Wycomb’s eyes roll back.
He leaned closed. “You will not touch Cat again. Is that understood?”
Jones rolled Wycomb onto his stomach, pulling a thin, strong coil of rope from the pocket sewn into the back of his coat. He wrapped a circlet around one wrist, then the other, pulled tight and formed a knot. Rolling Wycomb onto his back once more, Jones stood, breathing heavy, and looked down at the man who had hurt Cat. The man who had sold her to the opium den.
“You don’t deserve to live.”
“Then kill me,” Wycomb rasped. Despite the words, his teeth were bared. He no longer resembled an elegant, well-dressed spy, but a desperate man who belonged in the rookeries. “We both know if I make trial I will hang.”
“So you will.” As much as Jones wanted to do the deed himself, he did not. Justice was not dealt in the shadows. “But you will not die by my hand.”
“You’ve always been weak, Jones.” Wycomb spat the words, thin lips pursed.
Jones did not rise to the bait—he’d learned to work with an opponent’s mind years ago. “You will stand trial for what you’ve done to Cat.” Jones could barely say the words beyond the fury writhing in him. He yanked Wycomb to his feet and pushed him forward, uncaring that the man’s injured leg buckled beneath him.
The shot caught them both unawares.
The sound reverberated in the air. Wycomb jerked and Jones did the same—but only one of them had blood welling on his chest.
As Wycomb slipped to the floor, Jones looked up to find Hedgewood standing with his back to the front door and still sighting down a pistol.
“He lied to me,” Hedgewood said conversationally. He looked down the pistol sight and met Jones’s gaze with clear green eyes. “Whatever contract he signed, whatever he told me, he lied. The baroness is nowhere near this place—if she were, you would be rescuing her, wouldn’t you? Not bothering with Wycomb.”
“True enough. She’s safe and under my care.” Jones ignored the writhing and gasping at his feet. If Wycomb passed, it meant nothing to him but one less threat to Cat. The pistol aimed at him was more important. It was a single barrel, and though he hadn’t seen Hedgewood reload that did not mean he hadn’t—nor that it was the same pistol he’d already fired. “Wycomb made a mistake thinking the baroness had no spine. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Hedgewood paused, met Jones’s gaze, then turned and ran through the front door before Jones could protest. At his feet, Wycomb clutched at Jones’s boots, fingers curling around them—whether in supplication or aggression, Jones could not tell.
…
Cat could only watch and wait, the agony of the unknown coursing through her.
The street was quiet and dark, mist writhing in the shadows. Occasionally the shadows moved as someone passed the window, but in these alleys the people were fast and full of fear, trying to locate a haven.
She paced, window to fireplace and back again. Picked up the knife, set it down. She would be as likely to injure herself with it as any intruder. She strode back to the fireplace, contemplated the low flames there. Reaching for the iron bar Bill used as a poker, she moved the logs and stirred the embers.
She heard the first pistol shot from far away. It might have been someone dropping a dish in the rooms on either side. Moving to the window, she curled the curtain aside and peered into the gloom. Still nothing.
The second shot was loud and unmistakable.
A moment later, Hedgewood spilled from the door of the den as if the hounds of hell were after him. He joined the shadows, pressed against the wall beside the door as if lying in wait for those hellhounds. The door swung on its hinges, back and forth from the force of Hedgewood’s push. The opening emitted dim light from inside, revealing an empty hall.
She realized just as Hedgewood did that no one was following him.
He began to creep down the street, still watching that doorway. Panic erupted in her as she waited for someone to stop him. Jones, another spy—any of them should burst through that door and stop Hedgewood.
They didn’t.
“Oh, bugger that.” Cat seized the iron bar and was through the front door before her mind understood what her body was doing. Somewhere in Bill’s room was her cloak and safety. Somewhere in the buildings beyond was Jones and his spies.
Here, now, was Hedgewood—and Cat.
He whirled, feet scuffing on filthy cobblestones and pistol pointed straight at her before he recognized her. “Ah. My lovely bride.”
“Hedgewood,” she said evenly, keeping the bar behind her billowing nightshift. The metal was warm in her hand, fitting easily against her palm.
“Come, my dear. You are safe now.” The pistol dropped away, aiming for the ground as he stepped slowly toward her. As if gathering his charm, he straightened and smiled at her. Light moved over a face that no longer seemed handsome to her. “I have killed Wycomb. You have nothing more to fear from him.”
The words brought her no comfort.
“Am I to think you are my savior?” She gestured to the opium den behind him. “You are as involved as he.”
“Not quite.” Hedgewood shrugged, as if to minimize his part, all charm fading into the mist and stench whirling around them. “This was your uncle’s project. I was simply his investor. When my investment failed, Wycomb paid me with your hand in marriage in exchange for additional funds to satisfy his, ah, creditors.”
“I see. You recoup your investment through my lands.”
“Don’t forget your body, my dear.” He moved close, closer, predator stalking prey in the wilds of the rookeries. “A man in my position must have an heir.”
Fury lit her from within, burning in her veins. She slammed the iron bar into his chest, the resounding thud turning her stomach. He started to crumple, but she raised the bar once more and struck his side as he went down.
Jones surged from the opium den and into the street, nearly wrenching the door from its hinges. “Cat!” he shouted, then skid to a halt on the cobblestones. He looked once to Hedgewood’s inert form, then again to Cat.
“Goo
d thing Bill keeps this around.” Breath heaving, Cat held up the iron bar.
A smile spread across Jones’s face, lighter than any she had seen from him before. He strode toward her, his pace steady and sure. “I think you’ve discovered a lady’s newest accessory.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Jones set the snifter in Cat’s hands. She curled her fingers around the glass and brought the amber liquid to her mouth. Clearly no stranger to brandy, she did not gasp, nor did her eyes water—she simply drank deep. His mouth fought a war with his mind and curved up in a grin.
That was his Cat.
“The men we could bring in from the opium den are tucked away in cells at Old Bailey. Hedgewood is below with Angel—I do not think it long before he shares his secrets.” The Flower stood in front of Sir Charles in Jones’s study. The shoulder of her black coat was torn, breeches dirty at the knee, but she appeared no worse for wear in any other way.
“Good.” Sir Charles’s brown eyes showed no sign that he had been awakened by his agents just before dawn. “What of Wycomb?”
“Langford is seeing to his body in the usual way.” The Flower shifted, though her boots were silent on the thick rug. “Forgive me if I do not mourn him.”
“I do not blame you.” Sir Charles turned his head, pinned Jones and Cat with his cool brown gaze. “Jones, I wouldn’t mind a finger or two of brandy myself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jones went to the sideboard and flipped up a second snifter. Crystal clinked as he removed the stopper from the brandy decanter, the sound competing with Sir Charles’s words.
“I must thank you for your assistance in this matter, my lady.” The spymaster softened his tone, which was something Jones rarely heard him do. “My condolences regarding your uncle’s death.”
“I do not mourn him, either,” was Cat’s dry reply.
The Flower snorted, then turned the sound into a polite cough. Jones hid his grin as he poured the brandy for Sir Charles and replaced the decanter.
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 29
