Chapter Twenty
When she woke the sun was high in the sky. Dawn had come and gone, and it was near to midmorning.
She was alone.
Her arm was still outstretched over the cooled sheets, as if waiting for Jones to return. Foolish thinking, foolish thoughts. She was not thinking of her safety, but only of his presence. Of his gentle kiss. And of the words between them—words of childhood and loss and heartache.
Yet, those few words might hold the heart of him.
I was abandoned at a foundling hospital.
Cat pushed aside the thick blue coverlet, slipping from the bed and into the bright sunshine streaming through the window.
It was still open.
She smiled into the breeze now filled with light, baking bread, and the shouts of hawkers. Somewhere on the other side of the window and listening to the same sounds, would be Jones.
The soft tap of knuckles on wood filled the air and Cat whirled, all sense of protection dissipating. Her breath clutched in her throat as the door opened. Blond curls beneath a small cap appeared around the edge of the door, a pretty face following. Cat’s shoulders sagged as relief permeated the bone and sinew of her body.
“Eliza.” Her ladies’ maid. Not Wycomb. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, my lady.” The girl smiled and stepped into the room. “You were sleeping so deeply when I came at the usual time, I thought it best to leave you.”
“Yes, thank you. I was not feeling well yesterday evening.” Cat moved toward the night jacket thrown over the chaise across the room and shrugged into it. “What time is it?”
“Half past—”
“It is time to discuss this evening’s soirée.” The interrupting voice raised the hair on Cat’s arms and sent an icy ball into the pit of her belly.
Wycomb stood in the doorway, handsome face set in lines that allowed no latitude for argument—but she did not see death in his eyes. She hoped if death had chosen this lovely morning to take her she would at least see it coming.
“Uncle.” She inclined her head, holding it at an angle that meant you’re not welcome. Her mother had taught her that one to ward off unwelcome attentions in the ballroom.
Her father had told her to use her fist or her knee, but that didn’t apply in this circumstance.
Gripping the front edges of her night jacket, Cat stared at the man she no longer knew. Any trace of the docks was hidden beneath an elegant coat and waistcoat, anger lost in the nothingness behind his eyes.
“The Marquess of Hedgewood has asked for your hand in marriage. I have accepted his offer.”
“Accepted?” He could not have done so. Numb fingers fell away from the cotton night jacket. Cat stepped forward, feet uncertain as to their course but body unable to stay still. “I have not agreed to wed him,” she said sharply.
“I do not require your agreement.” Her uncle held her gaze steadily. “I signed the contract last night.”
The little maid fluttered somewhere near the armoire, gown and petticoats frothing over her arms. The excitement gathering in that portion of the room did not ease the dread gathering within Cat.
Wycomb had committed her to marriage—a lifetime—without her consent.
“I will not marry him.”
“You do not have a choice.” He spoke as if her words had no meaning. He shrugged his shoulders, shifting his coat so he could properly situate his shirt cuffs.
“What will you do? Lock me in my room and starve me until I obey?” She had heard of such things, but had never believed them. Nor would she allow it. A door made of wood could be broken, as could a glass window if a person were desperate.
She would be desperate.
“No, Mary Elizabeth. I do not need to lock you in.”
The maid ceased her fluttering, the rustle of clothing stilled until silence hung between the shadows and sunlight.
“Eliza, please allow me a moment to speak privately with my uncle.” Dimly, Cat heard the girl slip into the hall and shut the door behind her. Just as dimly, Cat thought of the docks, of pistols, of balls thudding into brick. Palms slicked with sweat, Cat straightened her shoulders. “I do not wish to marry Hedgewood.”
“I am your guardian, Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb lowered his voice, stepped forward. He was close, so close she could smell his soap. He was taller, stronger, and loomed over her frame.
“You will not always be my guardian. Only until August.”
“True,” he said. “For now, the law shall be on my side.”
Curse the law. “I cannot be made to say the words. The church requires consent.”
“Also true.” Wycomb began to walk, footsteps soft but creating a circle around her—one that tightened and squeezed her breath without touch or words. She did not speak as he stepped behind her and set her lips near her ear. The scent of bay rum was strong, as was the light brush of his breath against the curls laying over her neck and shoulders. “Yet I signed the contract, which includes a clause that in the event of a breach of promise—in short, should you break the engagement—a good portion of your fortune will be forfeit as well.”
“A good portion.” Hate slipped and slid beneath her skin. “What? How much?”
“Complete the ceremony and sign your name to the parish register, and Ashdown Abbey will be your separate estate.” He stepped beside her and looked down at her. “It will be in trust under the Chancery Court until his death—untouchable by Hedgewood or his creditors—then revert to you or your heirs. He will have no part of it.”
Her hand fisted, rose, then fell again. “If I don’t marry him?”
“Ashdown Abbey will become Hedgewood’s by law.” Triumph twisted his lips as he met her gaze. “Forever.”
…
A soft breeze filtered through the air. Barely a ruffle of time and space.
From the desk chair, Jones could see the door of the study, which remained firmly closed.
The Flower, then.
“The door is not nearly as difficult as the window.” Jones pulled his pistol from the waist of his breeches and set it on the desktop, just beside the newspaper he was reading. “If you insist on entering by that method, I suppose I cannot stop you.”
He did not look up, but kept his fingers moving along the printed lines of the page. The Flower would not expect more, at any rate.
“Your window locks—they are nearly as ridiculous as Maximilian’s once were.” Her voice was both laughing and efficient as she shut the study window with no more noise than a sigh.
“They are the best, as you well know.” He grinned at the page he’d been scouring—unsuccessfully—for information on the Anna Louisa and her next voyage, though the lines blurred now that he had lost his focus. “I know of no one else who can pick them.”
“You can, no?”
“Of course.” He looked up, abandoning his reading. “But not as quickly as you.”
A lean, taut female body prowled the study. The hair tucked beneath her man’s cap was dark and curling, though Jones could see little more than a few stray locks. But he knew the woman and that wild hair well enough: Vivienne La Fleur, child of the streets, opera dancer—and spy.
“It is always a pleasure, Flower, but what brings you here? Why are you not settled at your home, cozied up to your new husband, and playing matron?” The teasing words were for form, as it was Jones himself who’d paved the way for Vivienne to find love, but he did enjoy seeing the Flower’s embarrassed flush. She had not yet become used to being married.
The flush faded, as did the slight smile on her pretty lips. “Henri.”
There would be no more teasing between them.
“Wycomb.” Jones stood, setting aside the paper with no more thought to its contents. The pistol stayed where it was, gleaming on top of the study desk. “What did he do?”
“He came to Maximilian’s last night demanding that I assist him. Maximilian nearly retrieved his dueling pistols from their case.” The Flower huffed, her shoulders moving beneath the man’s coat in a Gallic gesture both dismissive and irritated. Still, fear lay beneath the words. “I will not go back to him. Sir Charles has said I do not report to Henri. Alors, I do not. I could not.”
“No.” Jones knew the reasons were many and started when the Flower was a girl, though the most recent was she had fought her commander and bested him. Wycomb would never forgive such insubordination, no matter that Sir Charles had championed her.
“Henri was different than I remember, Jones, though it has been a half year since I have seen him.” The Flower cupped her fingers around her elbows. It was not a gesture of protection, but it tugged at Jones just the same. “Confidence, he has always had. Command, as well. He was even a little charming, a part he has always been able to play as necessary, though he knows I can see through the charade. But there was something beneath that I have never seen.”
“What?” Jones itched to pick up his weapon so the worn, comfortable stock would press into the palm of his hand.
“I do not know.” Her dark, nearly black eyes snapped beneath the cap she wore. “Desperation and agitation, perhaps. It was not right, Jones. I have never seen this in him, not in all the years he trained me.”
“Do you know his niece? The baroness?”
“Niece?” The Flower frowned, dark brows curving over her face. “She is young, no? He speaks of her on occasion, but as if she were young and of little use to him.”
She was old enough to marry, too young to own property. “She is not so young.”
“I know little of her, as he rarely spoke of anything to me beyond assignments.” The Flower plopped into the chair opposite him and stretched booted feet toward the fire. “Life is never what you think, is it? He we are, sitting in the West End of London with the ton all around. The rookeries are far from here.”
“Farther in substance than distance.” He cleared his throat. “What time did Wycomb arrive last night?”
“Not long after ten o’clock.” One corner of her lips tipped up. “I remember, as I was arguing with Maximilian. I wanted to go to bed, to make a baby, you understand? He wanted to work on a document from the Prussian ambassador.”
“Idiot.” Jones laughed, though the idea of the Flower—a fellow spy his own age—creating a family made some small part his heart ache.
“So I told Maximilian.” She cocked her head to one side. The cap covering her hair shifted and she swiped at the long lock that tumbled free. “It would be impolite of me to say I won the argument, seeing as you and I made love once, all those years ago.”
He snorted. “That doesn’t seem to have stopped you.”
“Non.” She shrugged. “We both understand there was nothing there but friendship. As a friend, Jones, I would have you know that family and spying can exist together, if you want it enough.”
“Ah.” There was nothing more for him to say. He didn’t believe her.
“You advised me once when I was at odds with Maximilian to take love, even if it was fleeting, because it could not last for a spy.” She rose from the chair, raised her small, quick hands as if to say take it. “It can, if you want it to.”
“I don’t know that I do.” He did. He knew it in every fiber of his being. He breathed deep, closed his eyes, then opened them again to meet the Flower’s dark gaze. “If I did, now is not the time for me to fall in love. Lord Wycomb has arrived on your doorstep, asking for your assistance. Why come to me?”
“I know there are things you cannot tell me.” The Flower paused, casting her eyes around the room. Her gaze landed on shelves, field glasses, a compass, then finally met his. “I thought to go to Sir Charles, but if there is an investigation—or if one should be started—then it is you I must come to.”
She did not know of the investigation already started, then. There was more he could not tell her. Jones stood and paced toward the Flower, then away. Wycomb had arrived at the Flower’s home after Jones and Baroness Worthington had been at the docks, but before Wycomb returned to Worthington House. That left two questions. Why did Wycomb need the Flower, and where else had he gone?
“Why did he come to you, specifically?”
“I do not know.” She leaned her forearms on the back of one of the arm chairs Angel had set in front of the desk long before Jones came to live there. He’d not moved them, as they were a reminder of the many times he’d been praised and chastised there. “I wish I did.”
He would have to tread lightly. Wycomb was a spy under investigation. The Flower could not know until Sir Charles indicated she could. Yet, what connection might she have with the Anna Louisa?
Wycomb had been the Flower’s commander, taking her from the streets and turning her into a spy. He’d broken her spirit and terrified her, then rebuilt her and taught her what she needed to know to survive. The Flower was fashioned of strength and tenacity, a testament to the heartache and training she endured.
The Flower knew Wycomb better than anyone.
“There has been a change in him,” she said again, still leaning on the chair. She eyed her hands, turning them over to look at her palms. Her eyes were grave, brows lifted high to form two pointed arcs of emphasis.
“Did he tell you what he is working on?”
“Non. He did not say exactly. But, Jones…” She narrowed those focused, nearly black eyes. Pushing away from the seat, she crossed the small space between chair and desk. “He said if I agreed to assist him, I would not need to leave London to perform the tasks.”
That was something. London was large and complicated, but it was still a manageable geographic area. More manageable than the whole of Britain or the Continent, at any rate.
“Do you understand the significance?” The Flower asked sharply, setting her hip on the edge of the desk and planted her booted feet firmly in the patterned rug beneath.
“The problem is here in London,” Jones answered.
“Yes, but more than that. He requested my assistance.” She leaned forward, arms folded in front of her. “Henri does not request. He demands. Commands. Subtly bribes or threatens, depending on his quarry. He does not request.”
“Ah.” He saw it, as clearly now as if he had stood beside Vivienne when Wycomb arrived. “He was all charm and persuasion.”
“Oui, but he always is. Only this time, there was no threat of reprisal under his words. No demand. He was nearly begging.” She shook her head, grasping the cap with one hand to keep her rioting curls contained beneath. “I do not like this Henri. Perhaps it is only that I am not in his command that caused him to act so, but whatever his reason, it made me uneasy. If he wants something so badly to ask me for help, instead of demanding it, then he is in trouble.”
“I understand.” Jones turned away from her to stare into the fireplace. He watched as flame devoured wood, then coal fed flame. A give and take that fueled the light and heat in this room.
The Flower’s words were only one piece of a puzzle he needed to build. One piece would fit into the next if he gathered enough pieces.
“I appreciate you telling me.”
Black eyes became fierce, snapping and darkening further as she stepped toward him. “The line is important. What we do so often wavers between right and wrong, but there is still a line that cannot be crossed.”
“Yes, but—”
“There is justice in you, Jones. You understand both sides of the line. It is why Sir Charles has chosen you to spy on other spies. It is not easy.” She gripped his shoulder, her strong, clever fingers a comfort and a loss at one time. “Justice is never easy, but it is right. There must be someone willing to hold others to the line. And I—Maximilian and I—appreciate that you do. We would not be together, or even alive, if you had not investigated my actions last year. I nearly crossed the line.”
It was true. They both knew it, though she had not said the words before. The value in them, the value in what he did each day, seemed to coalesce even as her words faded on air.
“Thank you, Vivienne.”
“Oui.” The small, competent hand released his shoulder. She turned away, moving toward the window. After shoving open the casement, she swung a leg over the sill, then paused. “If I hear more of what Henri is doing, I shall pay you a visit.”
“Do use the door next time, won’t you?”
With a laugh, she slipped out the window and into the night.