Chapter Thirty-Five
Cat stood at the rear kitchen door, staring at the handle.
Wycomb had watched her all night, in every ballroom, every hallway. He might be watching her now—somehow, in the deep dark of three in the morning. A servant might be awake and report her actions. If so, she would lead him right to Jones by walking through that kitchen door and into the night beyond. But if she did not go, she could not warn Jones that Wycomb had seen them in the garden.
More, she wanted to be with Jones. Needed to be with him.
The handle was cold against her palm as she turned it. A flick of the latch with her other hand, and she was through the door and into the garden. She closed it as quietly as she could and spun to face the dark. Cool night air pulled at Cat’s hair, strands of it flicking in and out of the hood. Against her back, rough brick pressed against her shoulder blades. He would come. He must. She couldn’t have missed him.
Please.
She might never have seen the rear gate slide open—but she did, because she was ready. He was there. Jones. Tall and strong in the pale light of the moon. She ran, tripping through manicured shrubs and flowers already wet with dew to reach him. Jones caught her, arms waiting, and tugged her hood closer around her face.
“Come,” he whispered, holding out his hand.
She accepted it without hesitation. “Quickly, please!”
Urgency propelled her words, then Jones. He swept her through the well-oiled iron gate into the mews. They were quiet, with no signs of life beyond the soft neighs of horses and a few rays of lantern light. Beside her, Jones walked as if he commanded the shadows and their secrets. She felt each of his movements, almost as though they echoed deliciously inside her. The long stride, the shift of his shoulders. Broad shoulders. It seemed she always noted these attributes—perhaps because they personified him, somehow.
Strength. The ability to accept whatever responsibility he needed to.
“Jones.” The need for his touch overwhelmed her. She turned, forced him to stop walking. “I want to be with you.”
His arms came around her, bringing exactly the strength she craved. The sweet kiss on her forehead made her heart turn over in her chest. The kiss on her lips—hungry—made everything inside her become gold and brilliant.
Wrapping her arms about his neck, Cat met his lips. Longing had built in her, greed for Jones seemed to well up. Standing on tiptoe she pulled herself closer and felt his answering desire as he gripped her hips. His mouth slanted over hers, driving, compelling, reveling. All of it resonated in her body as it yearned for his touch. His body.
“Jones.” She didn’t whimper it, but it was a near thing.
“The hack.” He didn’t growl the words as it wasn’t his way, but she felt the base need in him just the same. The strict control of his body as he guided her toward the hired carriage at the entrance of the mews, the low tenor of his voice.
The door closed, the horses leaped forward so that the carriage jerked—and suddenly she was in his arms, on his lap. She could feel his erection pressing against her bottom, heard the ragged breath he let out. Then his hands dove into the hood and cupped her cheeks. His mouth devoured hers, his hunger a living thing.
It was what she wanted. What she needed.
“Wait.” She said the words against his mouth, turned her body. “Wait.”
Scooping up her skirts, she straddled him. Knees on the carriage seat, center pressed against center. She wore no drawers and the heat of his erection through his breeches drew her close to him. Lace and silk rustled between them.
“My Jones.” Her hands fluttered over his cheekbones, his jaw, even as her most private place pressed against his body.
“Cat.” The word came out on a groan as hands dived under her skirt. Fingers skimmed up her thighs, but no higher. He held her lightly, as if to prevent his hands from roving higher. But between her legs, his erection twitched against his breeches. Against her.
Control coiled his muscles and he drew back from her. Hands still hot beneath her skirts, he met her gaze between the shadows. “Not here and now. I would not treat you as a common woman when I kiss you.”
She smiled at him and pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I would have you treat me as a woman.”
His entire body shuddered, the tremor running through him to tighten his fingers on her thighs. His face dipped toward hers again, but the hack began to slow, the driver above shouting out commands.
“We are here.” Jones lifted her, guiding her back onto the seat with careful movements. He moved to the door and opened it, then sent her a final glance. “Pull your hood close to hide your face again.”
She did, but her body was thrumming in places she wasn’t accustomed to. Thrumming and beating and—lust. Love. All of it swirled in her. She gathered her skirts and stepped onto the street, then stood looking up at the townhouse in front of her. Respectable neighborhood, well-kept townhouse—nothing out of the ordinary to look at.
Still, it was a spy’s residence.
He stepped beside her, gesturing to the door. “It’s not mine. I only live here.” Embarrassment tinged both tone and expression.
She set her hand in his. “I’m looking forward to seeing where you live, Jones.”
…
“My mentor—my commander as a spy—owns this townhouse.” Jones drew her into the front hall, part of him shocked she was here, another part soaring with approval. “I am staying on, for now.”
“Are you alone here?” She peered around the dark hall. “No servants?”
“No, I do the work myself. Much of the house is closed now, at any rate. Years ago, during the war, there was a housekeeper.” He reached for the tinderbox on the table beside the door and worked to light the candles there. He grinned, remembering those days, as the wick caught fire. Gold light blossomed and he turned to see Cat.
The expression on her face was enigmatic, caught somewhere between surprise, delight, and confusion.
“What?”
“You looked happy, just now. No, not happy. Lighthearted. I have never seen you lighthearted, Jones.” She pushed the hood of her cloak away. Candlelight glowed on her hair, bringing life to its banked fire.
“I don’t know that there is much to be lighthearted about.” He took her hand and led her to the first place he could think of—the study. It had become his haven of late as he’d filled it with his things instead of Angel’s. “Please come.”
He set about lighting the candelabra around the room, then knelt before the fire. The room was chilled, as he’d not been home for hours. He worked the embers, set the wood out so it would light. When the flames caught, he turned back to Cat.
She’d removed her cloak and stood before him in a gown that shimmered in the firelight. She’d not changed after her evening engagements and her body was still clad in silk and lace, with gold shot through the skirt. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than Cat in her finery, red hair piled high and creamy skin rising above a low square bodice.
“You are lovely.” He could barely say the words.
“Thank you.” She flushed, smiled. “Jones, I—”
Quick footsteps pounded in the halls beyond. Cat whirled, terror moving over her features. She shrank back, hands searching for purchase on nothing but air.
“Do not worry.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in. He felt the terror in her rigid muscles and hoped he could ease it. “They are harmless.”
The Gents tumbled into the room amid laughter and flailing limbs. Three boys skid to a halt quick enough when they saw Cat.
“Sir!” Rupert, new boots prominently on display, stepped forward. “It’s her!”
“Aye.” He looked down at Cat’s face, at the easing of her features, when she saw that it wasn’t Wycomb. “The baroness can be trusted. She is working with me.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Young John popped up onto his toes, face screwed up in disbelief. “She’s a lady.”
“I don’t trust fancy ladies, sir.” Angus, more hurt in the past than the others, squinted at her. He folded his arms and Jones noted the threadbare elbows. He’d be shopping for a new coat soon enough.
“She’s a lady, but a kind one.” Jones leaned down toward Young John, then sent a quick glance to Angus. “I trust her.”
“That’s good enough, then.” Young John waved his arms at Rupert, dismissing Cat and seemingly fully at ease now. “You tell, Rupert. You was there.”
“Right.” Rupert drew himself in, readying for the report by mastering his breath and tugging at his coat. “I watched the docks, sir, as you told me to. Yesterday, a man came down—not the one we’re supposed to watch, but another lord. Nicer. He came down to the docks and had a talk with the cap’n of the Anna Louisa.”
“Interesting. Any idea as to who he was or what he was there about?” Jones let go of Cat and crouched down in front of Rupert. “Here, your lace is untied.”
“They keep doing that. I’ve never had laces so fine on me boots.” Rupert frowned, but let Jones retie the thin laces. “No, sir, I don’t know what the lord was about, but I thought it was odd the Anna Louisa was gone this morning. Left before the tide, even.”
His hands jerked on the laces, but Jones made no comment beyond, “Well done, Rupert.”
Jones stood again and fished in his pocket for the necessary coins.
“Jones?” Cat’s voice made him turn. Her smile was warm, amused, and full of laughter. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Baroness, may I present the Gents.” He pointed to each as he went. “Rupert, who was the first Gent, then Angus and Young John.”
“Hello.” She smiled at each of them in turn. They straightened to their full heights, shoulders back—as if her glance was enough to give them pride. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Milady, you sure do go to a lot of dances.” Young John cocked his head to the side, earnest face full of curiosity. “You look pretty when you dance.”
“Well, thank you.” Cat laughed, the sound sweet and happy. Her lips remained curved, as she met Jones’s gaze above the heads of the boys. A bolt of lust shot through him, tangling with a fierce emotion that was more than simple love. He cleared his throat, trying not to simply pluck her up and carry her upstairs to his bedroom. He wanted her there, under him. Around him. With him.
“Here.” He flipped the coins to the boys, one by one. They caught them, even Young John. “Now, make a proper good-bye, and get some rest. Your nights have turned into your days on this assignment.”
“Aye, sir. It’s all them dances the lady visits.” Rupert bowed, the lanky limbs he’d yet to grow into moving awkwardly. “Good-bye, milady.”
Angus and Young John followed suit, and soon the three of them were running out of the room just as they’d run in.
“Is that your team of spies?” Cat continued to smile at Jones, the firelight gilding every line of her face.
“They’re not much in the way of protection, but they are observant fellows. They have been checking the stone for your notes.” He was not the least bit embarrassed at hiring the Gents. He grinned, thinking of those boys and their continuous joy. “They will make excellent spies someday.”
“I don’t doubt it, with you as their mentor.” Her smile was soft, one side quirking up.
He could barely breathe. Every part of him—mind and soul and body—wanted her. Yet she could not be his. To control the lust spiraling in him, he reached for the poker and adjusted the wood and embers. When he was certain he would not do anything rash, Jones stood again and discovered her at the desk, looking down onto the pages of the book he’d left open.
His heart soared. Those gorgeous eyes would be fixed on the butterfly blue—like to like.
“What a lovely drawing.” Long, elegant fingers moved over the page. Softly. Sweetly. “I like the patterns on this brown butterfly. What is it called?” She leaned forward to read the scientific name. “Pararge aegeria tircis.”
“It is a speckled wood butterfly and can be found anywhere in Britain.” Jones strode over to the desk and looked down at the page. “Do you not see this blue butterfly?”
“Of course.” She looked up at him, a line forming between her brows. “The brown butterfly is just as lovely in its own way.”
He could not speak. She did not know—could not possibly understand what it was to be that brown butterfly standing next to a woman who shone and glistened with life as vivid as any tropical butterfly.
“You said you had never seen me lighthearted.” He set his hand over hers, moved it so her fingers touched the iridescent blue painting that haunted his dreams. “This is you, Cat. Brilliant and bright.” He moved her fingers again, down to that dull, brown butterfly beneath. “This is me. I do nothing brilliant and bright. I live in shadow and was born in the cesspools of London. There is no comparison.”
She did not speak for a long moment. Lustrous eyes held him firm, pinned him so that he could not move. The lashes fringing that brilliant blue burned pale gold in the firelight. “Why are you a spy, Jones?”
No one had ever asked him that question before. He wasn’t even certain he could answer her. Angel simply knew, because he had been there at the beginning. Some of the other spies likely guessed, but it was a question a spy never asked of another spy. None of their paths were easy. If they had been, they would all be drapers or farmers or gentleman about town.
They weren’t. They were spies.
He could not look at Cat, not while he chose his words, so he watched the crackling fire instead. Dancing red and orange flames flickered on the hearth, shedding their glow into the room. He found he could not look away, even as he spoke to the woman by his side.
“I’m a spy because it saved me. I was headed for the gallows when Angel found me. Not literally, but I would have been swinging in just a few years.” He flicked his gaze toward Cat, and when he saw her rapt expression, he turned away again. He could not look at her when he told her. He couldn’t bear to see pity in her eyes.
“There are many boys on the street like myself, Cat. Abandoned. Lost.” His palms were beginning to dampen, so he wiped them on the coarse fabric of his breeches. “The boys band together, finding shelter in the rookeries and stealing when they need to.”
He could not—or would not—tell her everything. But he must to tell her some of it, as the need had suddenly become a very real, very live thing howling in his chest. He stooped to retrieve the poker again and prodded the logs, doing nothing but moving firewood that had no need to move.
“What happened to change you from boy to spy?” she asked softly. Her skirts rustled as she spoke and he hoped she wasn’t standing and coming near him. He wasn’t sure he would be able to speak if she were close. He heard nothing beyond the rustle of clothing, and no figure hovered in his vision to send his heart pounding. Poking again into the fire, Jones fought to describe the moment—that life-altering moment.
“It was Angel. He was older than I, already seasoned by war and espionage.” That log there, surely it needed to be rearranged. He would focus on it. “He was following another spy into the rookeries—a double agent, I learned later. My friends and I, we saw where the agent had hidden himself. It was only a tavern, one of a hundred in that area. Angel paid us for the information and set off in pursuit. My friends parceled out the money and went to buy something—gin or tobacco, no doubt—but I stayed behind.”
He couldn’t explain what about Angel had fascinated him, nor the overwhelming desire to follow that had sent him careening through allies in pursuit of the spy. The hurried run through the streets was still as vivid now as the day it happened. Buildings flashing by, the sound of his footsteps on the cobblestones, Angel’s broad shoulders covered in homespun cloth as he wove through the drunkards and criminals of St. Giles.
“I followed him, Cat.” Now he did look at her, as the revelations of that day swamped him. “I followed Angel and I saw him take down that double agent with fists and knives. I followed him when he reported to his commander, and I discovered what it meant to make a difference. To do something that would impact not only lives, but countries. History.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.” She did not come forward. They were separated by the rookeries and the ton. She reached out, then dropped her hands again. “To make a difference. Be something and do something more than what you are.”
“It’s not only that.” He shook his head, not sure if he could find the words. “It was a place and people I could belong to. I could do what was right and be something more than a whelp from the rookeries. But, Cat, that’s not me. All of that, the espionage, the agents I’ve discovered betraying their country, the spies trading secrets—none of that is me.”
He could hear the despair in his voice and hated himself for it. Shame roiled in his belly, but he planted his heels hard into the carpet and looked straight at that beautiful, soft-skinned, aristocratic face.
“I’m still that whelp from the rookeries, my lady.” And oh, those words were like a knife in his belly.
“That’s not true.” Cat stepped toward him, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “You might have been born in the rookeries, but you had a choice to walk away from it, and you had a choice to begin that life as a spy. To make a difference.”
“Do I make a difference?” He could barely say the words, afraid of what he would hear coming from her lips.
“Yes. To England.” Her other hand came up, so that his face was surrounded by soft, scented skin and he could see nothing but the depth of her eyes. “And to me.”