Chapter Fourteen
The words “Take me to White’s” floated between Wycomb, the coachman, and Jones on a warm night breeze.
Slipping farther into the shadows of Hyde Park, Jones watched Wycomb ascend the carriage steps on the other side of Park Lane. He was leaving for his club, which meant the baroness and her aunt were alone in the townhouse with only the servants for company.
It made Jones’s work easy. It was a simple matter to steal into the walled garden through the mews. A simpler matter to pick his way through benches and shrubs and urns to the windows. The baroness sat alone in the first room he looked into, and he wondered if she had kept to the ground floor because she knew he was coming.
The space was informal and more comfortable than he’d expected, a small drawing room with warm tones, plush pillows, and a slight untidiness. Books were scattered over surfaces, a pale, rose-colored shawl draped over a chair. Even the miniatures placed about the room lacked organization.
Perhaps this was her space, or at least family space, and thus more often used. He hadn’t expected to find untidiness in a lady’s house with servants—a spy’s residence, yes. But not the household commanding the largest wealth in the nation.
Somehow this room suited the baroness, which was stranger still. Seated on a chaise longue, feet curled beneath her, she was as elegant and informal as the room around her. Only a single row of lace edged the yellow gown spilling over the seat. Instead of piled atop her head, the warm, rich red of her hair was restrained with a narrow ribbon at the base of her neck. The remainder curled and spiraled down her back, taking on a life of its own as she tipped her head toward her book.
She was beyond lovely. A painting—still life given breath.
When she turned the page, her ungloved fingers slid over the paper. Softly. Skimming the surface as if it were precious.
Something inside him tore.
As precious as that book might be, a few dozen more lined the shelf behind her. Yet more would be in other rooms of the house.
He owned fewer books than he could count on one hand.
Jones set aside the ache in his chest and tapped on the window, disturbing her peace. Combined regret and pleasure twined in him when she lifted her head and stared out, gaze fogged with introspection.
He was close enough to the glass she should be easily able to see him, so he simply pointed to the rear of the townhouse. She nodded once and uncurled her legs, dropping the book onto the chaise. Purpose, grace—each filled her movements so it seemed she danced beyond the window.
Whatever her dance, it was not his.
He stepped back from the glass as she left the room, flattening his back against the brick wall. Silvering moonlight filtered between trees, marking the rear door of the house. He watched. Waited. Minutes passed, time slipping through the dark. When she finally emerged from the house, she moved slowly and carefully—almost as silent as a spy.
“My lady,” he whispered into the dark as the door closed behind her.
She turned toward him, light from the window beside the door slanting over her face. Furrowed brow, pursed lips—both softened when she saw him.
“Jones.” She stepped forward twice, quickly, boots crunching over the stone path.
“Not on the path,” he said, then jerked his head toward the rear of the garden. “Away from the house.”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped onto the damp, silent grass and followed him. She’d added a shawl before coming outdoors. The swirling pattern rippled over her shoulders, coming alive in the half light, then turning to shadows on shadows as they retreated toward the garden wall at the rear of the yard.
Lanterns swayed in the work-roughened mews beyond and light from the windows of Worthington House crisscrossed the ground—but between the two was a place where light from neither location could reach. The darkness deepened, pulling them into that cocooned space.
It was there he went, faced her. On the edge of two realities. Jones knew this place well, between the elegance of one locale and the harshness of another.
Darkness could be safe.
“My lady,” he whispered, looking down into a face he could just barely see. It was soft in the dim light of the narrowed crescent moon, but resolution firmed her lips.
“I wasn’t sure how long I should wait.” She tipped her face up to meet his gaze. “I have the newspaper page.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
She turned away, head bowing as she fiddled with her bodice. A moment later she drew a long breath and offered a square of paper as she spun to face him again. “Here.”
Folded small and pressed flat, it was little more than the size of a large coin.
It had been tucked into her bodice.
He did not want to take the paper from her. He had done such things before, with other ladies. Other women. Women of his class or fellow spies, even ladies passing their husband’s political secrets. Often, the paper held the woman’s scent, the heat of her body.
But this was her. It would be the heat from her skin that would warm the paper, and it might carry the subtle scent that rose when she was near. Yet there was nothing else he could do.
Reaching out, he took the small square of paper, careful to avoid brushing her fingers. They were both ungloved—she, because she had been at home, he, in order to work. He tried not to think of the skin that had warmed the paper. Of the pale, white breasts beneath her gown and chemise. Of pretty pink nipples pressed against her stays.
Jones swallowed hard. The paper was warm. Hot, even. He did not need to bring the newspaper to his face for her scent to reach him—it rose from her skin. Breath shaking in his lungs, he willed his body under control. Lusting after a lady was beyond acceptable. Beyond anything a man of his kind could justify.
“I am not certain what to say.” She ran the tasseled ends of the shawl through her hand, fingers tangling in the fringe.
He did not answer. There was too much to say. Too many lies and too little truth. Silence hummed between them as much as the trees and flowers whispered in the night.
“Jones?” The tassels fell away, free to dance in the night air unencumbered by long, slim fingers.
“Has your uncle ever asked you for funds?” He blurted the words, as he could think of nothing else to do or say. She was so close, her scent stronger now and full of some mysterious mixture that made him itch to touch her. “Or the trustees?”
“No.” Frowning, she looked back at the house, then to Jones again. “I don’t know if the trustees would grant such a request if he did. Is he in debt?”
“Not now, but I believe he was previously.” His mind cast around for more. “His debts were considerable and were recently settled.”
“I did not know.” Her gaze narrowed, the shape barely discernible in the dark. “How did you find out?”
“I have—” He broke off, considered his words. “Methods.”
She paused, looked up into the blanket of night and stars, as if searching for the veracity of his statement. “I shall accept that, I suppose, though it seems to me there must be an explanation there.”
He did not answer. Could not. So he simply leaned against the rear garden wall and waited, letting the rough stone pressing against his back ground him. He fingered the newspaper in his pocket, wondering what information it might convey. It felt promising, this small scrap of paper and ink. As if something were starting, as if progress had been made, even if it was only a small step.
It was a step forward.
“How shall I contact you if I discover something such as the newspaper again?” Her fingers came near to touching his arm, searching for an answer, then fell away again before contact occurred. That almost-touch burned as much as a brand. “I cannot sit at Worthington House in the evenings, waiting, without raising my uncle’s suspicions. As it was, he was skeptical about my excuse for staying home this evening.”
He had thought of this, evaluating possibilities. He could not—would not—tell her of Angel’s townhouse. She might be observed entering it, which would ruin her reputation. More, she might see or hear more there than he wanted her to know.
“My apologies, my lady. There is no quick method of contacting me.” He stepped closer to her, wishing to offer some reassurance. “But I will not be far.”
“There must be a way.” Turning, she began to pace the path before she remembered to step back into the grass.
Jones stared at the place where she had stood. Perhaps the simplest solution was right there in front of them. He crouched before the stone wall, ran his fingers across the rough surface.
“What are you doing?” Her voice floated toward him from somewhere above and behind.
“Looking for weakness.” His index finger traced the mortar between the rocks, moving along the irregular surface, until he found what he’d hoped for.
“Do you know, Mr. Jones, your conversation is not as revealing as I’d hoped. You are looking for a weakness, but I do not know what you mean. You work within the confines of the law for gentlemen you do not name.” The words he’d spoken to her when she discovered him beneath the desk echoed in his memory. “Again, I do not know what you mean.”
He smiled into the darkness. “Not Mr. Jones, my lady. Just Jones.”
“I had forgotten. Just Jones.” Then she was crouching beside him, bringing with her the violet and vanilla scent of danger. “I maintain, however, that your conversation is not revealing. So many vague answers you have given me.”
“My apologies.” He did not intend to become more revealing. Reaching down, Jones slipped a thin-bladed dagger from his boot.
The baroness sucked in a breath through her teeth, held it. “You carry a knife in your boot?”
“Yes.” The boot didn’t fit well when the knife was removed.
Jones studied the foundation of the wall. The shadowed shape of the rock contrasted against the lighter outline of the mortar, defining his path even in the faint moonlight. Turning his knife, he gripped the base of the hilt and used the horn handle to scrape at the loose mortar. Chunks fell away to disappear into the grass below.
He turned his head to speak to her, to explain what he was doing, and discovered her gaze fixated on his working hands. Faltering, he looked down at the stilled dagger. The blade was shaped like a diamond at the hilt and tapered to a point as he preferred. There was little light here, beneath the trees and in the shadow of the wall, but still the iron caught the moonlight. Flashed.
When he looked up again, her gaze had risen to his face, but her fingers reached slowly out to settle on his forearm. Not a plea, not a staying hand. He could think of no reason she would touch him. But she had. Her hand was warm through his shirt and coat, but pale in the moonlight. Soft touch, without pressure.
A butterfly’s touch.
His breathing went ragged, blood humming, hunger pounding through him. Then her hand tightened on his arm, and her intention became clear. It was a warning.
“Within the confines of the law,” she said softly. “I shall hold you to that, Jones.”
He did not answer because her lips were so close, her scent so compelling in this secluded cocoon—and he did not want to make a promise he may not keep. Not when his mind was bent upon espionage but his body focused only on her.
Her grip loosened, then her hand fell away. He held her gaze, wishing those iridescent blue eyes were visible in the dark. They were not, and whatever churned inside him, she would not feel the same.
He called upon all he had to beat back the desire. To remember his purpose. What flooded through him had no place there.
He won the battle, forcing his mind and body to focus on cautiously scraping at the mortar. Chunks fell away, a few at a time, then a few more, until Jones could grip the stone. Slipping the dagger back into his boot, he curled his fingers around the cool, rough surface and began to jiggle it. When it came free, he brushed as much of the mortar as possible from the oblong stone, then set it in the grass.
“If it had not already been loose, this would be impossible.” He said it not as an explanation, but rather a way to fill the silence. A way to calm his racing heart.
“We can be grateful the mason has not repaired the wall.” Her words were light and meant to be amusing. He heard that clearly enough. But the warning still edged her tone. “What are we doing with the stone?”
“If you need to get a message to me, you can leave it here.” Jones put his hand into the cavity and brushed away yet more bits of loose mortar. “The stone is not large, so you’ll be able to easily remove and replace it.”
She shifted forward to look into the dark space left by the absent stone. The movement caused her skirts to rustle, a sound both foreign and stirring.
“You will check it regularly?” she asked.
“Yes. In the early morning or late at night. In darkness, certainly.”
“Good.” She nodded, shifting back again. “Good.”
“Put nothing meaningful in writing,” he added, lifting the rock and returning it to the cradle of the wall. “All I need to know is that I must find you, and I will contrive to do so.”
“What should I write, then?” She stood, taking away the heat of her body he had been too distracted to notice until it was gone.
“A note between lady friends.” It was all he could think of that would be innocuous. “Perhaps where you plan to be of an evening, the color of your gown. It would assist me in finding you.”
“A letter of that nature would be messengered or franked. There would be no need to hide it.” She shook her head, the hair spilling down her back shifting and twisting to form new and lovely coils. “Wait.”
She looked up into a sky both studded with stars and clouded by London’s fog. After a long, deep breath, she looked back at him. “Love notes.”
“I beg your pardon?” The earth had shifted beneath his feet, surely.
“A lady would have no need to hide a letter unless the receiver were unsuitable in some way. Love notes.” Through the distance and dark that separated them, Jones felt her eyes on him. “They would not be true.”
“No.”
“If I leave a note—any note—you will know that I have information. If the note were to be discovered, the only consequence is that I would be forbidden to see the man again.”
“If Wycomb forces you to give a name?”
“I shall say a handsome man I met on the street. I do not know his family or his direction, but only leave messages for him.”
“It would be true.”
“Yes, which would make Wycomb believe me.”
She had the makings of a very effective spy. She had grasped the concept of surviving an interview—tell a lie that is also the truth. It wouldn’t hold through torture, but it would through most interrogations.
“My lady.” Jones looked down into her pale face. Her eyes were wide, but not frightened enough to ensure her safety. “Be careful. So very careful. Say and do nothing that would cause suspicion or put your life in danger.”
“No. I shall simply write love notes.” Irony rang in her tone, matched by the knowing purse of her lips. Glancing behind her at the brick and glass of Worthington House, she pulled her shawl close. “I should return before I am missed.”
“Yes.” He should offer some word of advice, or perhaps gratitude for what she was about to engage in. Yet nothing he could think of seemed useful, so he whispered, “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She disappeared into the dark, leaving behind nothing more than the promise of a love note.