Chapter Thirty
Her handwriting was beautiful. It flowed and dipped and soared across the page. Jones rubbed a thumb across the smooth stationery. However much he wanted to linger over the peaks and valleys of her words, there was more here than ink over paper.
“Thank you, Rupert, for bringing the note.” Jones set the note on the edge of his desk. “Have you seen the baroness today?”
“Yessir.” Rupert tugged at his bright hair, shades more orange than the baroness’s deep red. “I saw her this afternoon, coming from a fancy townhouse. Looked a mite off.”
“Off?” A common word, but it sent unease spiraling through Jones.
“Aye.” Rupert shuffled worn shoes on the patterned Aubusson rug. “’Er face was all red, and she didn’t walk. She near ran inta the ’ouse. The ol’ lady did the same. The gov’nor, though, ‘e strolled along easy as you please, though he weren’t lookin’ right neither.”
“Mm.” Jones flicked at the note on his desk, let his thoughts shift through time and air as much as the paper shifted against wood and polish. Wycomb could hide any emotion—Jones had seen him do so. Cat could hide much, trained as she was to endure the ton.
If she showed strain, then something was amiss—which coincided with her love note.
He turned, studied Rupert. The boy was just on the edge of growing into a young man, all angular legs and arms. His pants were an inch too short, and one bare toe was visible between sole and cap of the shoe.
“Wait here.” Jones slipped from the room, knowing the boy would do as asked. And he was about to send the boy out for more reconnaissance, along with the others.
“Here.” He slipped back in, the items in his hand held out. “They should fit.”
“Sir. Mr. Jones.” Rupert’s mouth opened and closed, a fish in the air gasping for water. “Boots?”
“Aye.” The affirmative word was one he rarely said now, but it seemed fitting somehow.
“For me?”
“I thought you might need some soon and bought them a while ago when—” He stopped. Rupert’s face was bright with equal amounts of joy and disbelief. Jones swallowed hard, remembering the first time Angel had gifted him with a simple cap, because he didn’t have one of his own.
Terror had filled him, because Angel had cared.
Elation and pride had also filled that space in his chest, because Angel had cared.
“You need proper gear to be a spy.” Jones shrugged, as if the boots were nothing more than a tool. It didn’t matter that Jones had agonized over the choice before purchasing them. “You can’t join our ranks if you can’t learn, and you can’t learn if you’re dealing with wet feet. Soon enough, you’ll be issued a weapon as well. If you decide to stay on.”
The boy accepted the boots as reverently as any priest accepting the sacrament.
“They are very fine, sir.” Rupert stroked the mediocre leather, chapped fingers running along seams as softly as the clouds touched the sky. “Are you certain they are for me?”
A freckled face turned up, nerves and hope mingling on blunt features. Jones understood that look, probably more than the boy himself.
“Yes. They are for you. I need my men to be ready.” He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, gripped hard. “Now, tell me more about the baroness.”
…
Cat could hardly bear the awareness that prickled her skin and kept her mind whirring. It was as though she were a lantern, burning day and night, with no reprieve from this state of watchfulness. It didn’t seem possible to be alert at every moment, but she was living it.
The rhythm of the music continued its cheerful beat and her body performed the steps of the country dance, years of training keeping her movements flawless. But her mind was elsewhere.
No one in this ballroom knew what lived in their midst. None of them knew the man commanding the edge of the dance floor was a spy and a monster. And she must dance and smile and make conversation so that they would not know of it.
“My lady, is something amiss?” Hedgewood’s brows drew together as the two of them met and separated and turned on the floor. “You appear strained. I’d prefer the ton believe this matched isn’t forced.”
The words it IS forced rolled onto her tongue, but she bit them back.
She sent Hedgewood an apologetic smile and shook her head. “It is nothing. Just weary of travel and worried about the Abbey and the tenants, of course.”
Where was Wycomb while she danced? He had been circulating the ballroom most of the evening, though the card room had held his attention for a time. She’d noted everyone he’d spoken to, approximately how long, whether he was cold and formal or if he had turned jovial—though perhaps jovial was too strong a word. She would have termed his demeanor jovial for anyone else, but for Wycomb he simply became approachable.
She met Hedgewood, followed the dance movements, and set her hand in his.
“When you are my wife,” he murmured between the musical notes. “You needn’t worry about the Abbey. I shall see to it.”
A few steps, a spin, and they were separated again. A chill spread over her skin, oppressive enough she could feel its weight. Cat circled the lady next to her, changed her position, and met Hedgewood again. His head was cocked to one side, the handsome face alive with enjoyment despite the speculation and discontent hovering around his eyes.
“The Abbey shall always be my concern.” She smiled easily, as if they shared an understanding of the necessities of being the lord and lady. “It is my duty to be involved.”
Hands gripped together, they circled once, twice, in time with the music.
“No, your duty is to attend to my wishes.” The words slipped between lips tipped up in a contagious grin. He bent and pressed his lips to the knuckles gripped hard in his as they moved back into the line. Around them titters and sighs of admiration flowed beneath the violins. “My wishes are that you accept my directives.”
“No.” She gave him the same smile, angled her head as they fell back, separating from the other dancers. Side by side, hands held, they faced the opposite line of dancers.
She saw him. Jones. A glimpse in the rear of the room—well away from Wycomb—behind the crowds, behind jewels and gowns and starched cravats. He met her gaze, then slipped away into the crowd and disappeared.
He was here.
It was all she needed to know.
“I’m sure your uncle has explained that I will not tolerate disobedience.” Again with a smile both charming and knowing. Hedgewood spun her out, in, and leaned close in what would appear to anyone else as a lover’s whisper. “Unless it is in the bedchamber, of course.”
Spin out, mind whirring. Spin in, mind whirring yet more. There was nothing else she could do or say. She had Hedgewood’s measure—and he was little better than Wycomb.
“Of course,” she murmured demurely, as if she accepted such things. Her stomach rebelled, threatening to purge the punch and cakes she had consumed earlier. But they stayed down, and Hedgewood smiled with shameless satisfaction.
Her mother had told her the truth—the ballroom was little more than a lion’s den.
But somewhere out there was Jones. Waiting for her.
Closer was Wycomb, watching every move she made.
The notes lengthened, the movements became slowed. They bowed to their partners, again to those couples adjacent. The music died.
All the while Cat wanted to run.
Hedgewood refused to relinquish her fingers. His hand tightened on hers, hard and masculine, but without that innate gentleness Jones carried about him. Hedgewood led her off the floor into the crowd, just as he should.
Pastel gowns cleaved, smug faces made way. Skirts rustled as she passed. Everyone watched her. Nerves rose and roiled, told her she should run from the room. But she didn’t. She smiled as her mother had taught her, inclined her head in acknowledgment and greeting—she was an Ashdown. Whatever she might feel, she knew the duty centuries of history required.
Still, the chill of Wycomb’s gaze ran down her spine and the sham of Hedgewood’s good humor raked at her calm.
He led her to Essie, her arm held possessively in his with the strength of his grip. It would appear lover-like to anyone else—and she would never again trust what she saw.
“My lady, I hope you have another set you can spare me later this evening?” Grinning, green eyes laughing down at her, Hedgewood bowed over her hand as she stepped beside Essie.
“Of course.” Refusal would be idiotic just now. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”
“It was my pleasure, Mary Elizabeth.” Hedgewood bowed his farewell with a smile, but the use of her name sent arrows of unease and anger through her.
He was like Wycomb.
“That young man is positively smitten.” Aunt Essie said it into her glove once Hedgewood was well away, the pale silk curving over an amused smile. Still, strain had deepened the lines of her face. She looked older than she had just that morning.
“So it would seem,” Cat murmured, though she knew he wasn’t smitten with her as much as her inheritance. Irritation slipped in, then slipped away again as she caught sight of Wycomb. He was conversing with a short, balding man Cat knew to be their host.
Still, her uncle’s gaze drifted around the room until they settled on Cat, flicked once to Hedgewood, now amongst a group of gentlemen on the edge of the room. She shivered and deliberately turned away so she faced Aunt Essie and her back was to Wycomb.
She was hunted on all sides.
The walls of the ballroom suffocated her, the laughter of the ton sounding unusually loud and tinny. Her stays were laced too tightly and she could not seem to draw a proper breath. Blood rose in her cheeks, flushing beneath her skin.
“Excuse me, Aunt Essie.” Cat clutched her fan and reticule, fingers both numb and exquisitely painful. “I need the retiring room.”
Essie looked sharply at her. “Are you well?”
“Yes, I just need a moment.” She smiled in reassurance, the skin of her face brittle enough it might shatter.
With a brief nod from Essie, Cat hurried through the crowd, the distance to the door a mile if it was an inch. She nearly shoved her way through the floating gowns and laughter of the other guests until the door loomed above her.
Then she was through it, leaving the laughter and perfumed bodies behind. Turning to the left, she moved through the hallway, then down another until she found the steps.
She had no idea where she was going, but it was not the ladies’ retiring room. There would be nothing there for her but competing debutantes eying each other and their mamas exchanging thinly veiled insults. Or matrons gossiping about their latest peccadillos.
Cat needed air. Air and freedom and space.