Chapter Sixteen
“Well, then,” Cat murmured to herself, having made her excuses to her aunt. “We shall see what news Mr. Sparks has sent.”
She ducked into the nearest door and realized it was her uncle’s estate room—once her father’s estate room.
Also a place to hide with a man, as she had so recently discovered.
Shutting the door, she quickly tore open the envelope from Mr. Sparks and read the note.
Baroness Worthington,
The roofs are being replaced at a rapid pace. They will easily be repaired by winter, if not fall. A few roofs would last another year or so, but as your pin money would pay for the repairs, I chose to repair them in advance to keep ahead of the trustees. I hope this meets your approval.
The tenants are grateful, my lady, and know full well where the funds were derived from. Their goodwill and loyalty are the highest I’ve seen since your father’s death.
I will soon leave for an accounting and observation of the other properties. I shall send word of their state to you as well as the trustees, as usual.
The trustees visited Ashdown Abbey, and will be visiting your other large estates as well. Be well, my lady, and stay strong.
Yr. Humblest Servant,
Matthew Sparks
Cat crumpled the letter in her fist. The trustees knew what she had done, which meant Wycomb would soon know as well.
“Bloody buggering hell.” She leaned her head against the polished panels of the door and tucked the ball of paper into the pocket of her gown. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Another.
The roofs were being built. Whatever happened after, whatever the trustees did or didn’t do, the roofs will be built as she promised.
There was pride in that. Honor in that.
Her eyes flicked open to examine the estate room, the partially drawn drapes. The musty books her father collected. Art was here, too, on the walls and surfaces. Every vase and painting a testament to love of life rather than value. The massive desk allegedly belonging to the first Mary Elizabeth Frances Ashdown anchored the space.
Wycomb had emptied a secret drawer in that desk.
Jones had hidden beneath that desk.
She looked down at the letter in her hand. Mr. Sparks had given her the warning—the trustees and Wycomb would be approaching her soon. But there was more here than an unruly ward and her guardian.
She crossed the room, heeled slippers moving over wooden floor, rug, and floor again, just as Wycomb had the night she had discovered Jones.
Quickly pulling open the drawers, Cat gave a cursory glance to their contents. She attempted to open the secret compartment Jones had discovered, but could not locate the spring or lever. With hurried movements, she completed her brief search, then circled the room for anything out of the ordinary.
She found nothing.
But there must be something. Anything.
There was.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted over the desk, wavering as clouds shifted over London. Over the stack of fresh paper lined up precisely with one corner. Thin shadows crisscrossed the surface of the top sheet, tiny black dots dancing between them.
Narrowing her eyes, Cat scooted to the desk and stared down at the paper. The shadows and dots—lines and inkblots left from a quill used on the now-missing sheet above. Picking it up, she held it in front of the window, then shifted it so the light struck it differently. Over and over, shift and tilt and study.
7p. A____ Louisa.
The markings weren’t perfect, but it was enough. She had pored over the newspaper page her uncle had found so important and she distinctly remembered a ship called the Anna Louisa.
Was it seven tonight? Tomorrow night? Another day? Thoughts swirled, unfolded, reformed.
Wycomb would not be seeing her and Essie again until very late in the evening. He planned to be out until they met at a ball, despite his insistence the evening before that she make her ton appearances. If she knew her uncle, there would be little that would keep him from personally seeing she met her obligations.
It must be tonight.
She whirled, seeking the round, yellowed face of the clock on the mantle. Five o’clock. She had two hours to hide a note for Jones without Wycomb seeing her—anyone else would accept an excuse, but not he.
Cat picked up the quill lying silent but ready, slid an unmarked sheet toward her. She looked down at the instrument resting between her fingers, at the tiny feathers lining the hollow shaft, the sharpened nib.
The paper beside it seemed very white. Very empty. The feathers of the quill trembled, each white, downy barb fluttering.
It would be her only weapon against Wycomb.
She firmed her wrist and breathed deep, dipping the quill into the inkstand.
Dear Sir –
I miss your countenance, my darling. The handsome lines of it have haunted my dreams these past nights. I would be most honored if you allow me to gaze upon you once more. I should like to meet before half past six this evening, when I must leave. If you cannot come to me, then I shall leave the time and manner of our meeting to you.
I will have much to share.
Yrs. With Affection,
C
There. It was written—poorly written, but it was complete.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, Cat blotted the note, folded it, sealed it. She did not use the seal with the Ashdown crest, instead, she melted and pressed a simple red wafer against the paper—a wafer like thousands in and around London.
She might not engage in such clandestine behavior regularly, but she was not stupid.
The blotting paper she tucked into the pocket of her gown. She would burn it—not here, as the embers in the fireplace had nearly cooled during the day. In her chambers, where the fire would be ready for curling tongs.
The love note she would leave for Jones.
If the note was still behind the stone by half past six, she would go to the docks herself.
…
The stench of the docks was sharp in his nostrils, as biting as the spring rain on his face. But the rain was a boon, despite the water already soaking through his coat and into his skin. People in the rain looked to their feet so their faces stayed dry—no one looked up into a raining sky, or at a spy.
Jones huddled against the wall of a bricked warehouse, biding his time as he studied ships through the watery half light of dusk. The Anna Louisa was only one of many vessels moored on the Thames, queued up like so many doxies lining the wall at the nearby taverns.
Dock workers and sailors darted through the rain, climbing up rigging and loading and unloading everything from kegs of ale for the crew and crates of wool and silk to be sold, despite the late hour.
The Anna Louisa was quiet, however, her goods already unloaded and the crew on leave—probably making the acquaintance of the doxies. No doubt the ship would sail out again soon, but for now, there were only a few sentries posted.
A wagon trundled by, the work horses straining to pull the mountain of barrels piled in the rear. Jones pressed himself against the building, a habit of training rather than a need to hide.
The Gents were certain it was the Anna Louisa Wycomb had visited, and the newspaper the baroness provided confirmed. What had Wycomb wanted with the vessel? Shipment records, bills of lading for goods on board—Jones could access those through official channels. It was more likely an undeclared person or goods that were of interest to Wycomb. Such things happened with regularity.
Jones rubbed a hand over his jaw. Perhaps he would work the local taverns, determine what he could about the ship. Sailors were an exuberant lot after months on the ocean. Pulling his collar up against the weather, Jones started down the cobbled street.
Light footsteps pounded against the street, then drew level with him. Rupert, freckles almost invisible under the flush of his cheeks, nearly barreled into Jones. The boy bent over and set his hands on his knees, panting.
“Sir—” he huffed out. “Sir—”
Jones touched his shoulder, concern washing through him. “Take your time, Rupert. Catch your breath.”
“Aye, sir. But—the baroness—”
Concern spiked to fear, and he could not stop his hand from tightening on Rupert’s shoulder. “What happened?” The words whipped from him, fast and dark.
“She left the town’ouse an’ ’ired a ’ackney, sir.” Rupert straightened, chest still heaving. “She’s—”
But Jones didn’t need to listen.
He could see her, not fifty yards in front of him. She wore a dark hooded cloak and leaned against a brick building just as Jones had done minutes before. Despite her attire, he recognized warmly red curls peeking from beneath the hood. Her face was pale and blurred by rain, but he knew her even from this distance.
“Bloody hell. She’s here.”
“Aye, sir.” Rupert jerked his head in agreement. Not one of the sodden orange hairs plastered to his skull moved. “She went ta the garden wall first, though, an’ checked the stone. There were a note there—we ’adn’t seen it yet, sir. T’weren’t there this morning.”
Jones heard Rupert’s words, absorbed them, but his gaze never left the baroness.
She wasn’t looking at him, had yet to hear his boots beating a tattoo on the cobblestones as he crossed to her. Rupert trotted along beside him, shoving at the hair streaming water into his eyes.
Jones knew the precise moment the baroness recognized him. Her face turned his way and her eyes widened. For a moment, even though he was moving, stepping carefully along the street and through the gloom of evening rain, it seemed the world slowed. The dockworkers ceased their shouts, the casks rolling down the gangway stilled in mid roll, the wagons carting goods stopped.
The earth ceased to spin.
Then it all started again as he reached her.
“Jones?” Her breath puffed out in shock.
“Baroness.” No doubt he should not growl at a lady, but it was too late. “This is no place for you.”
“I would not be here, but it is an urgent matter.” She bristled, shoulders tightening beneath the expensive cloak, chin tilting up. Her eyes narrowed, the iridescent blue taking on a sheen of anger. “I found something on Wycomb’s desk this afternoon. It was only indentations on paper, as if someone wrote on the page above it. I believe it said ‘7pm, Anna Louisa.’ Someone needed to be here, and you had not found the note yet—so I came.”
“In a cloak anyone from the docks would steal off your back.” Panic clawed in his chest. He reached out, gripped her narrow, graceful shoulder. “When they see what is beneath the cloak, you will be lucky to have your body intact when you leave this place. If you leave.”
“I don’t intend to risk everything I hold dear because I am afraid.” Her words were quiet but forceful. Her chin tipped up, though he had not believed it possible to lift it higher. “Wycomb should be here at seven o’clock, and I intend to find out what he is doing.”
She shrugged her shoulder to dislodge his hand. He gripped harder, trying not to hurt her with the force of his fingers, but wanting to keep her safely in place.
“Let me determine why Wycomb will be here,” he said. “Hire another hackney and return to Park Lane.”
He looked down at her face, the lines of it shadowed by the hood. She was magnificent—a red-haired siren risen from the sea to lure men on the docks. He leaned forward, closer, to block her from view of anyone that might be passing by. Water sluiced from the roof, falling into the gap between his collar and neck to chill his skin, but he maintained his position.
“No, I—”
“My lady. Baroness.” He gentled his tone. Perhaps he had been too harsh. “It’s not safe here for a lady, and Wycomb might recognize you. Please.”
She breathed deep, a slow inhale that held as much consideration as her gaze. Droplets of water clung to her lashes like so many diamonds, and a light flush moved over the delicate line of her cheekbone. She pursed her lips, and he knew a man would have to be dead not to find her beautiful.
Beautiful and unattainable and a thousand times removed from his life.
Frantic fingers scrabbled at his waist, tugging at the edge of his coat.
“Sir.” Rupert’s insistent whisper layered with the patter of rain. Jones looked down, saw freckles stark against skin that had lost all color. “’E’s ’ere, sir. The carriage.” Rupert jerked his head to the right.
Jones whipped his head to the side, the baroness doing the same. They stared at the carriage not fifteen feet away and the man exiting it. He moved carefully down the steps of the hackney, hat pulled low to avoid the rain and greatcoat swirling around him. There was no mistaking him for anyone but Wycomb, not with the dark hair edged with the silver, elegant clothing and handsome features.
He was so close Jones heard the click of his boots as they touched the stone street and the swish of his greatcoat as he spun around to pay the jarvey.
The baroness sucked in a breath, her hand vising around Jones’s upper arm, fingers digging sharply into muscles. “It’s him,” she said, words almost unintelligible.
“Turn away!” Jones whispered, angling his body so his back was to Wycomb. He had no greatcoat to cover her with, no method of blocking her entirely from Wycomb, so his body would have to do.
She did as he asked, spinning away so her back was pressed against his chest. He put his arms around her, set his hands on her forearms. He could not feel the heat of her body, nor even the shape of it through the fabric of his coat.
But he wanted to, as much as he wanted to breathe.
“Rupert, go,” he whispered to the boy, who scampered off almost before Jones finished speaking, footsteps scuffing on the stones. He would be safe enough, being accustomed to navigating worse than the docks.
Jones kept his body angled, shielding the baroness from Wycomb’s view as best he could. She had bent her head and pulled the cloak around her, so there was little Wycomb would see beyond the hem of her skirts.
But they did not look as if they belonged. As if they had a reason to be there.
He set his hands on the baroness’s shoulders, turning her so she was pressed against the side of the building. Then he shifted so he was in front of her.
“What are you doing?”
“Attempting to make us look ordinary.” He leaned in, trying to make his body appear amorous.
He did not have to try hard. With her face turned up to his, those butterfly-blue eyes wide and her lips rosy and parted, he did not have to try at all.
“Jones.” Her hands gripped his forearms tightly. “What is ordinary? Who are we trying to be?”
A crystalline droplet fell from the edge of her hood onto her cheek, tracking down the pale skin to the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue darted out to claim it, and his belly clutched in reaction.
“Lovers.” He could barely say the word. It did not pass easily through a throat tight with need. “A sailor and his lover. I don’t know how else to make you indiscernible from other ladies here, and indiscernible is all that is required.”
“Yes, of course. Ordinary lovers on the docks.” Her gaze flicked over his shoulder briefly before focusing again on his face. “I can’t see him well. The carriage is beginning to move away, but my uncle is looking around—for someone, I would expect.”
“Good.” Jones resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, knowing better than to even hint they were focused on their quarry. He would have to rely on the baroness’s limited view for information. “Good,” he said again, searching the lines of her face for some knowledge she might not have put into words.
Her hands clutched at him, a quick, involuntary spasm. “He’s looking this way.” Her panicked whisper was accompanied by tensed shoulders and she began to move, prey scenting danger and bracing to run.
Jones did the only thing he could think of to hold her in place and shield her from Wycomb, though it was not a new thought. He had been thinking of it for minutes already, hours, days. At that moment, it seemed he’d been dreaming of it the whole of his life.
He kissed her.