Chapter Thirty-One
She burst through the rear door and into the garden of the Duke of Torland. Gulping in air as though drowning, Cat staggered past evenly trimmed bushes and ordered flower beds to drop onto an intricately wrought iron bench.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the seat as she leaned forward and stared at the pointed toes of her dancing slippers, peeping beneath muslin. She did her best to blend into the night, but it was difficult when one wore a gown the color of bright daffodils. Still, she tried to be unnoticeable, pressing her palms against the bench.
She would have to go back in soon. She could not sit out here, self-pity holding her to the seat. But she wanted a minute, one minute when she was not on display before the entire ton, when there was no one who would abduct her, or threaten to kill her, or pressure her into a marriage she was not ready for and did not want.
Just one moment of peace.
“Are you well, Cat?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin at the soft, calm words. Her head whipped up, gaze casting wildly around for Jones, but she did not have to look far.
He was there, a few feet away, where he had not been a moment ago.
She had not heard the crunch of gravel or the swish of grass as he approached. His brows were drawn down in the center, twin lines of concern and confusion. The evening jacket he wore was ill-fitting, the cravat at his neck simple and unfashionable. He looked awkward in the evening wear, though his black breeches ended in boots polished to such a gleam she could see the reflection of both the gold light from the house windows and the silver beams of the full moon above.
She thought she saw the gleam of moonlight on metal in the folds of his shirt as well, but then it disappeared and he was draped in nothing but darkness.
“Are you well?” he repeated, stepping closer. This time she heard the faint rasp of his boots on the path, but only because she was listening for it.
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes on his shadowed face, though her heart leaped at seeing him again. Her body seemed to have different thoughts. No leaps or bounds, but a pull deep inside her. “Do you never make noise?”
His lips twitched, the serious expression he usually carried flitting away. “It’s a useful skill in my line of work.”
“Still, it’s unsettling.” Her fingers reflexively twitched the seat of the bench before she let it go. With a deep breath of air that smelled of both night and man, she leaned against the back of the bench. The iron was cool, even through her gown, and the pattern dug into her shoulder blades. “Yes, I am well. It’s only that I felt alone. There was no one in there for me, but out here—” She stopped, drawing in a breath and turning her face away.
The darkness had a way of drawing out confidences, but she knew where she and Jones stood.
Nowhere.
“I needed fresh air, that is all.” She didn’t move. Somehow the buzz of insects and rush of wind in the trees anchored her to the seat. A part of her felt infinitely delicate, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Cat realized there was no answer or sound from the man standing before her. Popping open her eyes, she saw nothing but sky, moon, and tall pruned hedges.
“Jones?” she whispered, not certain she even wanted an answer.
“Cat?” He was beside her on the bench, though she’d not heard or felt him sit beside her.
She turned to face him, frowning. “Do they teach you this when you become a spy?”
“No, I learned it as a boy. A boy in the rookeries has good reasons for being quiet.” His eyes flickered over her face, moving here and there, as if trying to determine what she had not said. Then he turned to face the night. Eventually he spoke, words low and easy. “Sometimes,” he said, crossing one leg over the other as though they discussed chess over a glass of Madeira. “Sometimes a person can stand in the middle of a crowd and be utterly alone.”
Cat didn’t speak, not certain if she could even trust her own voice. How did he understand? What had she said or what action conveyed what she’d been thinking? She held herself still lest this moment, this precious, open moment, be lost in the darkness.
“Sometimes,” he continued, looking up at the sky, perhaps contemplating the feeble twinkle of stars beyond the glow of London’s lighted streets and smoke. “A person wants to scream to everyone around them that there is something bad in their midst, that unseen dangers lurk in the shadows. They must act. Run, scream, hide, stockpile weapons, food, whatever must be done to weather the advancing storm.”
“Build an ark,” Cat said, some part of her soul responding to his words as though they’d been her own. “Build a vessel to save everything you hold dear.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Jones answered, and though she was not looking at him, she sensed that the corner of his lips turned up simply from the tone of his voice. “Build an ark.”
“How do you hold it all inside you?” she asked, looking up at the sky herself. Beyond London, beyond darkness, to those stars—where anything was possible.
“I often don’t have a choice.” He turned his hand palm up on his lap, and she wondered if he meant for her to take his hand. Cat turned her own hand palm up, so that they seemed to be two mirror images. His hidden beneath worn kid leather, hers just beside it on her own thigh, inches away and hidden by smooth, new kid leather. In a single moment, a shift of bone and glove, and they could join hands.
She did not move, could not. He did not move, either, not his hand or any other part of him. He was as still as one of the stone pillars guarding the entrance to the terrace.
She felt the connection, glove to glove—more, skin to skin—as if somehow they had touched. Her palm tingled, growing exquisitely sensitive to the silk covering it. Warm fingers slipped over her hand, slid between her fingers until their hands were joined together. One hand, but made of two, settled on the cold iron of the bench.
“You are not alone, Cat. I am here. When I am not, you will have strength enough to stand on your own. Everyone doubts their abilities until they are tested.”
“Yes.” But he would not be with her always, only for now, and she had yet to be truly tested. “I needed to speak with you about this afternoon.”
“What?” His voice hardened—not toward her, but in the way she knew meant espionage.
“It was after I met Lady Hedgewood today,” she answered, suddenly weary. “We all entered the carriage and started home, Essie, Wycomb, and I. A man jumped into the carriage and held a pistol to my side—”
The fingers twined with hers twitched.
“He didn’t hurt me. He was motivating Wycomb.” She spoke quickly to soothe. “He said Wycomb was late with something and customers were impatient. Also, that they knew his worth was tied with mine, and Essie and I would be hurt if Wycomb didn’t deliver—but we are fine.”
“Then why is your left eye swollen?”
“It is?” She set her fingers to the tender area, probed. “I thought it appeared normal.” It had been when she’d left the townhouse for the ball. Perhaps it had simply taken more time to swell than she’d expected.
“How were you hurt?” His words were so low, so guttural, she barely recognized them.
She thought about lying for less than a second. “Wycomb backhanded me, but only because I refused to let him lie to me about the man with the pistol.”
Jones was quiet, his fingers unmoving in hers. Then those fingers slid away and he stood to face her.
“I will kill him.” The words, low and vicious, barely floated on the night air.
“Jones, no.” She shook her head, rose to face him. “I am well. It is nothing more than bruise.”
“I let the knife go for the sake of the investigation. But not any longer. For that and for this—” Jones quickly tugged his glove from his hand and feathered bare fingers over the bruise. Callused skin, gentle touch. She had not wept yet because of the blow, but she nearly did now. “I will kill him.”
“You cannot.” Satin slipped against rough wool as she set her hand on his arm. “We don’t know what he is doing. I don’t know how to protect everything I hold dear.”
Jones dipped his head, touched his lips to hers. Warm, bold. Tasting of Jones. Her body wanted to unfold beneath him, but they were not alone. Anyone, at any moment, could find them.
“My engagement ball to Hedgewood is next week.” The words tumbled from her, as thick as the sorrow filling her chest.
He set his forehead against hers, held there. “I have wishes, Cat. I shouldn’t.”
There was nothing to say, nothing to do but hold her own wishes in her heart.
“I have to go. Someone will miss me soon.” If her lips were ripe from his kisses, it would not go unnoticed. Still, she kissed him once more. His body was hard around hers, arms solace and temptation. “Jones. I don’t know who Wycomb is working with, but he is late producing something and customers are not happy. His business partners aren’t happy—and they are not of the ton.”
Male laughter echoed, not far away. Female laughter followed. Cat ducked under Jones’s arm, dashed along the path so she was well away from him.
“I must go.” She wanted to stay. Still, she backed away, hands groping behind her for something solid. She found nothing but air.
“Cat.” His fist clenched, held, opened again. “Be careful.”