by The Rogue
Ethan looked away, then back. “You’re changing the subject.”
She folded her arms. “That I am. And you are trying to change it back. Why?”
He blew out a breath and shrugged casually. “Bess was paid for her time.”
“Hmm. Paid well, I imagine.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your butler mentioned to me that you’ve recently come into some considerable wealth. I know for a fact that you cheated Lord Maywell out of a quarter’s income. Yet today you could not pay the bill from the fishmonger.”
Damn. One day in his house and she was into everything. Ethan tried for another careless shrug. “My fortunes do tend to vary. It is the nature of my occupation.”
“Oh, really? So you had a loss at cards? You?”
Damn. It had sounded reasonable until she said it like that. “So I paid Bess off. She can retire, you’re free, and I—” I don’t hate myself for putting you in that awful place.
“How much?”
Cornered, Ethan threw out his hands. “All of it! Every farthing right down to the change in my weskit pocket! What does that prove?”
She looked away, blinking quickly, then looked back at him. “That you are not as bad as you think,” she said softly. “And neither am I.”
Bloody hell. Her eyes glowed when she looked at him like that. As if he were the tallest, strongest man she had ever seen. He didn’t know whether to kiss her or run from her.
She solved his dilemma by stepping closer and placing a tender hand on his cheek. She may as well have clapped him in irons, for he could not move away.
“You could join my spymaster, Ethan. You could be so much more than you let yourself be, if you would only see with your own eyes, not your father’s.”
That went deep, like a spear to his gut. He gave no sign of it. “I am what I am.”
She shook her head sadly. “Life is not a game you have to cheat at to win.”
He pulled away from her touch. It took all his strength. “It is when the cards are stacked against you.”
She raised a hand to his cheek. He flinched and she lowered it, just as he’d meant her to.
“Ethan, my lost friend . . . don’t you see? There are no cards. There is only the coin within you that is of any value. How you choose to spend that, or waste it, is the only challenge that exists.”
“Then how do I win?”
“There is no win or lose. There is only the question—what do you want to gain with that coin? What sort of man do you want to be?” She turned then and left the room, leaving the sweet burn of her touch on his skin and a riot of confusion in his chest.
Something tore deep in his chest as he watched her go. “You’re wrong there, Janet,” he whispered to the wisp of her scent that still clung to the air. “There is definitely a high chance of loss.”
The hall clock chimed in the silence. It was time to go back to Maywell’s.
As Ethan approached Maywell House for the second time that day, he was definitely feeling like some sort of puppet on a string. It was a sensation he loathed from deep in his past.
This time, however, there was an entire handful of puppet masters twanging his ties.
After he was admitted into the house by a very distracted Simms, the first member of the family he encountered was Serena. She was perched halfway up the stairs, dressed in her night rail and wrapper, sitting on the step with her knees drawn high like the child she still sometimes was.
Her eyes were red and her face was so long that Ethan went to the railing and folded his arms on it casually. “What is the matter, pet?” he asked gently.
Serena shot him an angry glare. “It’s all your fault.”
“What is, little one?”
She rubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand. The gesture reminded him of Jane.
“You took Jane away,” Serena accused.
Ah. Ethan nodded carefully. “Yes, I did. Your father felt she needed treatment.” He felt low for feeding Serena such a load of codswallop, but he could hardly tell her the truth, that her father was a—
“I think Papa is doing something wrong,” Serena whispered, her round face a mask of pain. “I think maybe Jane was right.”
Damn you, Maywell, for doing this to your family! Jane was right about that as well. This mess was his lordship’s doing, of his own free will.
“Are you bad too?” Serena’s heartbroken question cut through Ethan like a knife blade.
“I—I try not to be.” It was the best he could give her.
“Can you find Jane? I think she’s lost.”
Ethan went still. “Lost how? I took her to the hospital myself.”
Serena shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I just heard Papa shouting, ‘How could they lose her?’, and then the little man came out and asked us all questions.” She sniffled. “He wasn’t nice at all.”
The tears were falling again. Ethan could hardly bear her crumpled little face. “Serena, don’t worry. I—I don’t know what happened at the hospital, but Jane is very smart. She can take good care of herself.”
Serena blinked, as if she had not thought of that. “Jane is clever,” she said slowly. “So you think she got herself out and ran away?”
“Ah—” That was a bit too close to the truth for Ethan’s comfort. “If she did, do you think she would want you to tell?”
Serena sat up a bit straighter. “No.” She sent Ethan a watery smile. “I don’t think you’re bad,” she said shyly. “I think you’re very kind.”
He ought not to have tried to comfort her. Damn, the tears did it to him every time. “Go on to bed, pet,” Ethan said. If she was asleep, she couldn’t talk too much.
She nodded and ran up the stairs, her braids flying.
Ethan made his way to Maywell’s study unannounced. When he entered, he saw his lordship at his desk with his head in his hands.
“My lord?”
Maywell looked up. “Ah, Damont,” he said in weary greeting. “Our problem has bred a litter of brand-new problems.”
“Do you mean your niece, my lord?”
Maywell nodded. “I thought she was far too curious from the start, but her coming here was so good for my own daughters. I thought there was no possible way she could have been reached by the opposition. She’s been locked away in the north for ten years, for pity’s sake!”
Maywell toyed with some papers on his desk. Ethan recognized Jane’s concise and complete letter to “Mother.”
“I ought to have been reading all her mail,” Maywell muttered. “But the first dozen or so were all so bloody boring . . .”
Clever Jane. “What is the problem now, my lord?”
Maywell pursed his lips. “Let me see . . . first, Jane is not in Bedlam any longer. Oh, yes, I know, you delivered her just as I asked. I confirmed that personally. Somehow or other, she escaped. The bloody hospital tried to pawn some poxy ladybird off on me! As if I don’t know my own niece!”
His lordship took a breath, visibly calming himself. “And now that I have made inquiries, I find that Jane’s mother is deceased and has been for many months.” He picked up the letter. “I underestimated her because she was just a girl. That mistake may cost us everything, Damont.”
With relief, Ethan realized that Maywell did not suspect him in the least. And why would he? If Ethan had wanted Jane, all he would have had to do was ask.
“My lord, I came this morning to give you my answer. I accept your offer.”
Maywell gave a grunt of dry amusement. “I’m sorry, son. It seems that your reward has been returned to her previous owner.”
Ethan blinked. “So you believe that she was rescued by this person she was writing to?” It was an excellent idea. One that Ethan should implement immediately himself. Give Jane back to—
“Mother.” Maywell peered up at him. “I would very much like to know who that is, Damont.”
“So would I, my lord. So would I.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jane sat
curled up before the fire in Ethan’s room. She had her own room now, of course, but Ethan’s room was comfortable and lived in. His books were on the shelves, his razor was on the stand, his cream silk sheets smelled like him . . .
Not that she had been sniffing. She had simply happened to notice it when she’d woken this morning.
Mrs. Cook came bustling in with a tea tray. “There you are, my lady. Why are you sittin’ in the dark?”
Jane looked at the motherly woman, missing her mother—both the gently mad one and the one from before. “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake, Sarah.”
Mrs. Cook smiled with sympathy. “There’s only two times in a woman’s life when she says that, my lady. When she’s married the wrong man or when she’s let the right one go.”
Jane rubbed her face with her hands. “What about when she’s driven the right one away?”
Sarah patted her on the shoulder. “That counts too, love.” Jane leaned into that sympathy for a moment. Then Mrs. Cook straightened briskly. “So—what are we goin’ to do to drive him back?”
Jane wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know. He insists on treating me like a lady.”
“Oh, my. That is bad.” Mrs. Cook hissed thoughtfully between her teeth. “Have you tried touching his face? That works a treat.”
Jane nodded.
“Hmm. Have you tried kissing him?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Cook pursed her lips. “Well, then. I’d say it’s high time to bring out the cannon, my lady.”
Ethan left Maywell’s without much useful information for the Liars but feeling reassured that his lordship had no idea that Jane was ensconced in Diamond House.
He had time, it seemed. Time to get Jane to tell him who her contact was. She’d avoided that before, he’d noticed. If he could get her back into the safety of her own fold, then he would not have to worry about Maywell or the Liars taking her away.
He wondered if he ought to tell Etheridge that there was a rival spy network in London? What would Dalton make of that? He might already know.
Yet, somehow Ethan didn’t think so. Jane acted as though there were no one else in the world who could stop Maywell but her. Etheridge had virtually said the same about Ethan. If the two spymasters were on speaking terms, then surely they would be sharing information?
Bloody black-and-white thinking—it was forever biting those blokes in the arse.
When the hack reached Diamond House, Ethan hopped briskly out, only to see his doorway dark and unwelcoming. No Jeeves?
His gut went to ice. Then he reminded himself of that afternoon’s singular lack of tea and news sheet. Likely it was only Jane, distracting his servants with a game of hide-and-seek.
Except that when he entered, the house was dark and far too silent. Servants were always making noise—steps on the back stairs, footfalls in the halls, Mrs. Cook’s cheerful humming, Uri’s tuneless version . . .
Swiftly, warily, Ethan checked every room on the ground floor. No one. Belowstairs was just as empty.
He’d been wrong, oh, God, he’d been so stupid and wrong. Maywell had come, or the “little man”—whoever that was—had come and cut his servants’ throats and taken his Jane away.
Ethan grabbed a great carving implement from the knife block in the kitchen. He climbed the stairs with soft, silent steps. The upper hall was quiet and dark—
But for the slight glow shining from beneath his bedchamber door.
Jane? Full of fear, he burst through his own door with an outraged roar.
Only to find the scene set for romance, with a fire glowing on the hearth, flower petals on the counterpane, and one very lovely Lady Jane Pennington asleep in his bed.
Oh, thank God! He ran to the bed and swept her into his arms. “Oh, Janet, I thought—”
She blinked sleepily at him and draped one soft arm about his neck. “Ethan? I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”
Thinking of his amateurish roaring entrance, Ethan shook his head, laughing. “Janet, you sleep like the dead.”
She smiled sweetly and twined the other bare arm about his neck. “How do you know?”
Her skin was warm against his neck . . . and his hands? He looked down.
Abruptly all the blood left his brain to head to other more useful parts.
Jane was completely naked in his arms.
Ethan forgot to breathe for one long sensuous moment. He spread his hands open on her bare back, pressing her close while he took in her warm, womanly scent. She responded like a sleepy cat, curling into the shape of him, melting into him. God, she felt good—
No. I vowed never to harm her.
He pulled back from her, but her soft sleepy embrace suddenly turned to iron. In his urgency, Ethan lost his balance and fell back onto the carpet. Since Jane didn’t let go, this had the added complication of pulling her nude body free of the covers in order to plaster it all over his on the floor.
“Jane, no,” he gasped. “This is—we cannot—”
She writhed on top of him, fulfilling half a dozen fantasies on the spot.
“No.” It took all his will and most of his strength to unwrap himself, yet somehow he managed it. Leaving her tumbled on the carpet, he scrambled to his feet and backed away.
She squeaked and grabbed the counterpane to pull over her body, but not before his memory was branded forever with the sight of her bare, slender beauty lit by the fire’s glow. He shut his eyes tight. I will not harm her. I will not harm her.
“Well, I’m bloody well going to harm you,” he heard her say with vast exasperation.
He covered his face with his hands. He could not let her disarm him now. She was going back to her spymaster in the same condition in which she’d left: alive, untouched—well, mostly—and unharmed.
“What have you done with my staff?” he asked Jane.
He heard her snort derisively. “Well, I haven’t sliced their throats and dumped them in the Thames, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Her voice was close now. She was standing next to him, probably still wearing nothing but green velvet counterpane.
He kept his eyes clenched shut. “I might, since you’re implying they left willingly.”
“They took a holiday, that’s all. They’ll be back tomorrow.”
“They had best not return. They’re sacked.”
She laughed at him. “They are not.”
No, they weren’t. One didn’t sack a cook of Sarah’s quality without proof of poisoning first. Even then, Ethan would probably give her three or four opportunities to reform.
He could smell her scent. She was very close. “My lady, please go back to your room.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re too good for me,” he said desperately. “I’ll only bring you down, you must know that.”
She was very quiet for a moment. He almost thought she had already left when he heard her whisper.
“I’m beginning to think that you’re too good for me.”
The stark loneliness in her voice was too much for him. He lowered his hands, but she was gone.
It was very late when Jane crept back into Ethan’s room. From the looks of things, Ethan had been wrestling with temptation.
That or a bear.
The room was nearly dark but for the glow from the coals. There was enough light to see the shattered glass, the empty brandy decanter, and Ethan’s naked form sprawled on the mussed coverlet.
He lay face up, with one arm stretched up over his head and the other lying lax across his flat stomach. It looked as though his last conscious act had been to pull a corner of the silk bedcover across his midsection before he’d fallen into a brandy-laced sleep.
There was no doubt he was naked beneath, however, for the coverlet revealed a slit of naked hip that glowed golden against the cream silk. Jane wrapped both hands around the bedpost and leaned her head against the cool wood, filling her eyes with unguarded, peaceful Ethan.
Where was his charming façade no
w? Where was his defense of wicked humor? His face was handsomer without the knowing twist of lips and the jaded gleam in his eyes. He looked younger and more hopeful The Rogue 249 somehow, as if he had yet to see his dreams defeated.
Jane’s heart ached to see the defenseless arch of his exposed neck and the way his lax fingers curled hopefully around nothing but air. Ethan asleep was tragic and superb—an unblooded warrior still dreaming, still eager to fight the honorable battles of life.
She stepped closer, letting one hand slide from the bedpost to trail along the cream silk. Her fingers came across the fold of coverlet that hid the rest of him from her view. She toyed with it, desperately curious but unwilling to unveil him without his consent. It would not be fair, would it, to view him naked and defenseless while she was still covered?
Almost without thought, her other hand went to the knot of her own belted wrapper. The cord seemed to undo itself under her fingers. The silk slid from her shoulders to the floor with a mere whisper of sound. She wore nothing beneath.
Fair was fair. She gave the coverlet a tiny tug. It slid partway to reveal more rippled stomach muscle and the top of a powerful thigh. She gave it another pull to show her the trail of dark hair that arrowed down his body to parts most intriguing, but there the cover stopped, held down by the hand that rested across it.
Jane studied that hand for a long moment. Would he wake if she touched him to move that hand? Furthermore, would that be truly fair, when he was not touching her in equal amount?
Feeling very much that she was stepping across a line that could never be uncrossed, Jane placed one bare knee upon the featherbed, then the other. She sat back on her heels and considered the fact that she was in bed with Ethan—naked Ethan at that.
