Chapter Four
There was nothing unusual about Worthington House, aside from the fact that it was on Park Lane in London. The very end of Park Lane and the poshest area, it seemed to Jones. He would have never dared to approach this place in his youth. Now here he was, strolling past Worthington House.
Life was a study in the unexpected.
As he examined the street, with its row of townhouses and neatly kept cobblestones, Jones mentally reviewed what he knew of his target.
Henry Taylor, Lord Wycomb. Senior spy, with others at his command. No legitimate issue, no bastards, one living sister, one deceased sister, one niece and ward, Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown, Baroness Worthington. His financial situation was as yet unknown, but Jones would be determining some of that information shortly and had sent ambassadors to ferret out the rest.
Jones knew it was the baroness who owned Worthington House. She was wealthy. Beyond wealthy. Even after the earldom had gone to a distant cousin, she still held the vast, multi-property barony and its more than 100,000 acres.
It was baffling to him that one person could own so much land. His space as a babe had been a blanket in a foundling hospital. As a boy, a corner in an alley. As a youth, a small bunk with other spies on the cusp of manhood. Now his space was one room in a townhouse owned by another spy.
Nothing like the vast Worthington House. The building was made of brick, as the other townhouses were. There were small balconies in some windows, which only made them easier to break into, and curtains at every one. It lacked the iron-fenced area and stairs down to the kitchen of the neighboring townhouses, but as it sat on a corner and took up twice the street as the townhouse on its left, he imagined the kitchen was on the intersecting street.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, Jones resisted the urge to whistle idly as he approached the space where he would cross the front door. Whistling was never as unnoticeable as it seemed.
He glanced behind, quickly, to determine the length between streets and how many townhouses were between Worthington House and the next street, then back again to the building. His mind cataloged the building’s facade. Eight windows across, four floors and the attics. Double front doors. A short walk to the street. Standard casement windows with curtains—
“Oof.” Whoever it was that hit him was soft and womanly, with hips that were nicely rounded. He knew, because he gripped the curves to steady them both.
“Oh my goodness, sir!” The woman stepped back, smiling that friendly, polite smile strangers gave one another.
His hands fell away from her body as though they’d been scorched. Even as an accident, he had no right to touch a lady, and every feature told him she was one. The faint scent of violets and vanilla and lily reinforced it, as no woman of the street would wear such perfume. Jones lowered his head and touched one still-burning hand to the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, assuming it would shade his face and she would move on.
She didn’t.
“I do apologize, sir. I wasn’t watching where I was walking, I was in such a hurry.” She tipped her face up so that he seemed to be looking at her through the tunnel of her bonnet.
It occurred to him just how private a bonnet could be. In that moment, no one could see her eyes beneath the brim but him.
Blue.
Color was all he could understand. Blue eyes in a shade he’d never seen before. Brilliant and iridescent and bright and—no, he had seen a color like this.
Only once before.
Now he had to say something. She stood on the walkway emerging from the courtyard of Wycomb’s house and was most likely his niece, the Baroness Worthington, a person who should not notice him, lest she compromise his mission. Yet saying nothing would only pique her interest. Turning the moment into something memorable would serve him no good.
“It is my fault, my lady. Good day.” Tugging at the brim of his hat, Jones continued to stroll down the walkway as though he had not just passed his target’s home—and his niece.
Later. He would conduct reconnaissance later. There was always time to observe, but only a few moments to escape.
Damn if he wasn’t curious as to her purpose. Maybe it was the red hair that made her brave the dull gray skies, though the locks were just shy of flaming and more the warm, glowing shade of a banked fire.
All the more dangerous in his mind.
There was no telling what was happening beneath the surface of a banked fire.
“Interesting,” Cat murmured, watching the man’s broad back disappear around the corner of Park Lane onto Oxford Street. She couldn’t say why he was intriguing, exactly, but the man had been both ordinary and extraordinary all at once, with eyes that saw only her and a jaw both rigid in bone and soft with light stubble. “I wonder who he was.”
“Beg your pardon, my lady?” Eliza moved to Cat’s side, gaze skimming over Cat and likely cataloging imagined bruises and scrapes. “Are you hurt?”
“Oh no. Not at all.” A man with shoulders that appeared ready to bear any burden—but clad in the most ill-fitting greatcoat—was nothing of importance. There was no need to notice him, other than he had been polite.
And very hard and strong beneath his coat.
Cat set her hand on Eliza’s shoulder and squeezed lightly in reassurance. “It was nothing. Let’s be off, shall we?”
It wasn’t far to the haberdashery, but somehow the walk seemed long. Cat looked down at the sealed letter in her hand, loosened her grip, and forced her shoulders to relax. She had a letter to deliver—an important one that would change the lives of her tenants.
The interior of the haberdashery was brighter than the sky outside, which had become a bit more ominous than before. Perhaps she had been premature in assuming there was a break in the weather. “I’ll just be a moment, Eliza,” Cat called to the maid waiting on the street before letting the door fall shut.
Cat paused to let her eyes adjust. Candlelight turned buttons and thimbles into twinkling stars and glowed on ribbons and lace and pretty, embroidered stockings. She smiled at the large clerk standing amidst the cacophony of women’s frills. The man leaned on the countertop and focused happy brown eyes on her face.
“Hello, Mr. Roundman. I’ve a letter to post, please.” She set the wrinkled letter, then the fee, onto the smooth wood counter separating them.
“The Bellman would’ve been by later or tomorrow, m’dear. Or your uncle would frank it, I’m sure.” He scooped up the paper and coins, then turned away to complete the business.
“Yes, I’m certain he would, but I enjoy the exercise.” She also didn’t want her uncle to know what she was about. Still, she couldn’t leave without buying something from one of her favorite shopkeepers, so she pointed to yards of lace draped over a cord stretched between two shelves. “May I have a length of that gorgeous lace as well?”
“Of course, milady!” Mr. Roundman measured and cut, his large hands surprisingly delicate on the intricate lace. “Do y’know, this is straight from the Beer lace ladies in Devon, and is the very best you can buy.”
“Is it now? I wouldn’t expect less from you, Mr. Roundman.” Cat searched her mind for details of his life, then leaned against the counter just as he had done a moment before. “And how is Mrs. Roundman?”
“She’s well enough.” He turned away to wind the lace and called over his shoulder, “And the little ones, too.” After he’d handed her the bundle, she smiled at him.
“Do say hello to Mrs. Roundman and the children.”
“So I will, milady.” He grinned, showing a blank space somewhere on the left. He’d had a tooth pulled since she’d last seen him.
“Thank you, Mr. Roundman. Now, I must return home. Good day.” She nodded, waved, and pushed open the outer door. Only to find rain pelting the street and her maid nowhere to be seen.
Cat pressed her back against the stone building. Angling her head to keep the cold rain from her face, she searched the street. It seemed the deluge had caught everyone unawares, as those on foot were scurrying for shelter. Lightning flashed and thunder roared a moment after.
“Brilliant.” Even if she had brought an umbrella, it would do no good in this storm.
Water began to seep through her pelisse and she shivered, then put her hand uselessly over her head to hold off the rain. She would have to go back into the haberdashery. Already her skirts were wet and her bonnet would be completely ruined. The street had emptied of foot traffic, so she spun on her heel to return to the shop to wait out the storm.
“Come wit‘ me, milady.” The patter of hard rain nearly washed away the hoarse whisper and she almost missed the words.
But a knife streaked through the drops, shining dully inches from her face. It was quite noticeable, as was the patched clothing and worn cap of the ruffian.
She was being robbed in the middle of Oxford Street.