Chapter Forty-Two
Jones hunkered down in a doorway, tossing a hot cross bun from hand to hand just as he had as a boy. He let the bun cool and watched the streets. He’d spent the night searching for Cat but had found not a trace of her. He sat, waiting and watching. The bit of bun he ate was dry in his throat—with no fault to the baker. Still, he waited. The sun climbed in the east, dark blue turning to gray and then to yellow sunlight.
The rookeries appeared much more habitable in the dark.
The bun in his hands cooled with only a single bite out of it. He found he couldn’t eat. Yet there was nowhere to set the bun without fouling it, so he continued to hold it—and waited. Seven streets converged here, all of them part of the rookeries. There were hundreds of places to hide, but she would not go home. The rookeries were his best hope.
Hours passed. Dawn. Midday. The evening light began to fall when he finally saw her. She walked beside a mountain of a man wearing patched but clean clothes. Jones fought the urge to rush into the street and snatch Cat away. Training stayed him, so he paused to observe her body language. Alert but not frightened. She watched the streets with avid interest, but with the cloak pulled around her so only a glimpse of her nightshift could be seen as she walked.
Jones chose his moment as they stepped out of the circle of streets and into an alley. They were less likely to be seen there, and with the windows and doors as they were, observation from above would be difficult.
“Cat.”
She spun, shock and joy warring on her face. Her butterfly-blue eyes were wide, pupils dilated. She ran, jumped, and wrapped herself around him as if he were the only safe haven in London. Arms about his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, he felt every touch of her body to his, each point of contact causing a fire in his body and cool relief in his mind. Her lips met his, hungry and scared and loving all at once.
“Jones.” She buried her face in his neck, though her body slid down his until her feet reached the ground again. “I was so afraid.”
“As was I.” More, now that he knew she was safe. All the worry he’d pushed away during the long watchful hours seemed to coalesce to a single location in his chest. “I couldn’t find you. God, Cat, those were long hours.”
“Are you well, then?” The giant towered over them, arms crossed and a frown creasing his face.
“Yes.” Cat beamed up into the man’s face. “Bill, this is my Jones.”
“Jones.” Bill squinted at Jones, looked him up and down as if assessing his worthiness. “Milady shouldn’t be in St. Giles or the Dials.”
“No, she shouldn’t.” Jones nodded, both in respect for the statement as well as the man’s care for Cat. “Thank you. I know exactly the dangers she might have faced without you.”
“Aye. See she’s safe.” The man looked at Jones, then Cat, then Jones again. “If you’ve need for help, milady, you can call on me.”
“Thank you.” Cat reached out, set her small, white hand on a forearm marked with tattoos and scars. “For everything.”
“Aye.” The big man set a hand to his forehead, as if he were tugging on a cap out of respect. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Cat watched him stride back through the circle of the Dials and into an alley. A light smile curved her lips.
Everything inside him soared, just watching her expression soften. That she could appreciate a bald man in the rookeries was exactly why he loved her. He wished he could simply scoop her up and bring her inside him—not to protect her, but so that her grace would calm and soothe the dark places in him.
She spun suddenly, eyes serious again. “Hedgewood is part of it.”
“What?” All thoughts of love flew from him. He pulled her into the shadows of the nearest building. Long, slim fingers clutched at his arm.
“I don’t understand exactly what is happening, but I saw Hedgewood and my uncle the night he took me away.” She breathed deep, swallowed hard. Still, Cat straightened her shoulders. “He is working with my uncle.”
“How?”
“Money. The ships bringing in the opium. Also—” She paused, as if the next words were difficult. “Wycomb took me to the den so Hedgewood would pay to get me back. He wants more money.”
“He’s planning to run, then.” Jones drew her close, pulled the cloak tighter so her nightshift would remain hidden. She nestled against his shoulder and he set his chin on her head. Silky hair tangled in the two-day’s growth of his beard. Neither of them seemed to care.
“Cat, you are worth more than anything Wycomb could demand.”
“There is nowhere safe for you.” Jones set his elbows on his knees, leaning forward so that his torso folded over his thighs and his hands fell into the empty space between them. “Nowhere.”
“I know I can’t go home.” She could not go to Ashdown Abbey, nor Worthington House. Not to any of her other estates, even those in the wilds of Yorkshire. Wycomb knew them all.
“No. And you can’t stay at the townhouse, either. Neither can I.” Jones lifted his head, gaze roaming the streets and townhouses in front of him as if memorizing each brick.
They sat on a bench in Hyde Park, staring at trees well away from the townhouses and hawkers beginning their day. The night had been a round of running, hiding and running again. The sun had eventually raised her face above the city, bathing it in pale gold light that would strengthen throughout the day.
Cat hoped her will would increase as well. She slipped her fingers between Jones’s gripped hands, twining her fingers through his. “Is there another house we could go to? You must have dozens of places to hide in the city, in the country.”
“He knows them all, Cat. Even if we move around from safe house to safe house, there is nowhere Wycomb won’t be able to find you eventually. It will simply be a matter of checking the right safe house at the right time.” Regret overlaid resignation in his tone. He breathed deep, fingers clenching and releasing. “Worse, I can’t be certain there are any places he doesn’t know about.”
Fear spiked through her so that the rhythm of her heart rose, the blood pumping through her veins becoming a thundering, crashing pace.
“Then we don’t go to a safe house.” She strengthened the grip of her fingers. “A person can disappear in London if they want to.”
“Yes.” His head came up, eyes latching onto hers. “But you are known in many places, simply by virtue of your status. You’ll be recognized in the West End because you are the Baroness Worthington. You’ll be recognized for a lady in the rookeries because you don’t belong. Even in those semi-respectable parts of the city, you may be noticed for either reason.”
He was right. He was right.
“What do we do?” The words were choked and strangled as they left her throat, leaving it barren.
Well beyond them on the public road near the Life Guards Barracks, a crested carriage rolled past. The horses moved in a steady, even gait. Once it passed, Cat could see a woman carrying a basket of bread. She shouted, trying to sell her goods. That was life in London, Cat supposed. The wealthy passed by the poor without a glance.
“I don’t know what to do.” The words were full of despair and uncertainty. Jones pushed to his feet to pace away from the bench, steps beating an uneven tattoo on the path before them.
Cat stared at the now empty bench beside her. That space seemed to hold all the uselessness of her life. She was Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown, Thirteenth Baroness Worthington. She owned thousands upon thousands of rolling green fields. She employed hundreds of tenants, men and women and children who depended on her—and her guardian would likely kill her on sight, and if he did not, he would force her to marry. She gripped the edge of the bench, fingers curling around forged iron, as the dread in her raged higher.
The seat was not enough to anchor her. Booted feet digging into the grass were not enough to anchor her. So she focused on Jones.
Just on Jones.
His back was to her, broad and strong, with weapons no doubt hidden between his body and his coat. His shoulders shifted as he pulled a small paper from his coat pocket. He unfolded it, slowly, as if the fold were momentous.
“I love you, Cat.” The words wandered into the air, as though of little import. Four words that were quiet and simple, and could have meant “I would like tea.”
They didn’t. They meant everything.
“I—” She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t have the words to explain the sheer joy surging through her, tumbling around with the fear still tearing at her.
“I love you, Cat. And I know what we have to do.”
…
It was simple, really.
He would kill Wycomb so that she would be safe.
He would set her free of Hedgewood, even if that meant killing him, too.
Jones set this thumb on the paper, marred now from repeated folding. He rubbed the drawing. Morpho helenor achillaena. As a young man, he’d wanted to see it fly, though he’d known the butterfly was not native to England. It was only found in the tropics, so he would never would see it.
He’d imagined the wings opening and closing, hiding the blue, then revealing it. Imagined the freedom of fluttering flight over meadows and wildflowers, through the air with nothing but a backdrop of sky and cloud.
Now, instead of finding the butterfly, he’d found Cat. Her eyes would haunt his days and nights, and all he would have left of her was the butterfly drawing.
“You tore the page from the book.” Her words were unreadable. He could not tell if she was disappointed or angry.
Either way, the pain of tearing the page was less than the pain of losing Cat.
“I wanted it with me when you were missing.” The ache in his heart needed time to find a place to call home, so he took a moment to refold the page and put it back in his pocket.
When he looked at Cat her eyes were wide and lips parted, as though the shock of his words had immobilized her.
“Wycomb doesn’t yet know you are free—or likely does not. And, if he does, he knows you won’t return to the townhouse, Ashdown Abbey, or any of your other estates. You can’t go anywhere you are recognized, because it would be too simple for him to find you. But I need to find him. I need to stop him. And you’ll have to come with me.”
“How will you find him? What will we do?”
“We’re going back to the opium den. Eventually, he will return there.” Jones set his jaw, preparing for the entreaties to come. “We’re not going alone, Cat.”
“Thank you for coming here. I couldn’t risk your families or returning to Angel’s townhouse.” Jones searched the faces of those he trusted most. Angel, his mentor and Marquess of Angelstone. The Shadow, Earl of Langford. The Flower, small and lean, and wearing her customary men’s clothing. Also deadly. All three were spies he would put his back to in battle and know he was safe.
Beside them in the back room of the Goose and Gander pub sat Cat, cloak wrapped tightly about her, eyes wide as she watched and listened. A tankard of ale sat in front of her just as it did the rest of them—the proprietor didn’t serve anything else—as well as cheese and bread.
“Lord Langford.” Her tone was flat. “Lord Angelstone.”
“My lady,” the Shadow replied, nodding his head as if they were meeting in a ballroom.
Angel said nothing, choosing to watch the exchange with mild amusement.
“You are both spies.” Her words were accompanied by narrowed eyes.
“Indeed.” The Shadow’s lips twitched. “It is a pleasure to see you again, baroness. I believe you and I shared a country dance not long ago?”
“I will never believe what I see again. Ever.” Cat lifted the tankard to her lips and gulped the bitter, second-rate ale. She sputtered once, then gulped again as if she had been deprived of water for weeks. “Spies are everywhere, aren’t they?”
“If you know where to look.” Jones set his knife to the cheese, sliding it through to carve a slice. “I’ve sent the Gents with a message to Sir Charles so he is aware of what is happening, but there is little time, I think.”
“It must be Henri. Wycomb.” The Flower leaned forward, elbows on the filthy table as if it were as clean as the table in the ton townhouse she now shared with her husband. She sent a fast glance toward Cat. “No one else would bring us all here.”
“True.” Jones set his hand in Cat’s, certain she would be uncomfortable in this hovel of a pub and still wearing her nightshift and cloak. She squeezed once, then slipped her fingers out and set them on the tankard.
“He is—” Cat struggled to find the word, though her carriage did not change. She turned the tankard, a quarter turn, then a half. “Wrong,” she finally said. “Everything about him is wrong. It is almost too much to tell.”
“Yes. Oui.” The Flower crossed her arms over her coat and shirt. Satisfaction pursed her lips. “He is wrong. There are parts of him that are good, do you understand? He works hard for this country, but there is something wrong in his soul.”
“That is exactly it.” Cat looked to the Flower, exchanged a glance. “You know him well?”
A long silence reverberated through the room. The Shadow and Angel both looked to the Flower, then to Cat. Jones opened his mouth to respond, but decided to follow the lead of the other men and stayed quiet. They understood women better than he.
It was the Flower’s turn to struggle now. Though she was adept at hiding her thoughts, Jones recognized pain rippling over her pretty features. She lifted her tankard, drank deep, and set it down with a thunk.
“Yes.” Dark eyes glittered fiercely when she met Cat’s gaze. “As well as you, I think. He was my commander for ten years.”
“I see.” Cat slid her hand across the table scarred with knife marks and stained by ale. She curled her fingers over the Flower’s clenched fist. She spoke no more, only looked to Jones.
The Flower turned her fist up and opened it so that she gripped Cat’s fingers. Jones looked at those joined hands. One small, skilled, and from the rookeries. The other was small, elegant, and from the ton.
If he hadn’t loved Cat before, his heart would have fallen from his chest.
“What has he done?” The Shadow tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “He is well respected as an agent. If we are taking him down, you had better be right.”
“He is dealing in opium,” Jones said shortly. “Worse, he gave the baroness to the opium dealers to obtain ransom from her fiancé.”
“Who is providing money to fund the opium den,” Cat added.
“Also, Wycomb is my assignment from Sir Charles.” There was no longer any need for secrecy. Flicking his gaze between the Shadow and Angel, Jones recognized understanding in their faces.
“Does he know that?” the Shadow asked.
“As Wycomb and I fought over Cat—and I lost—” Jones added bitterly, failure settling into the base of his belly. “Yes. That was when he abducted her.”
“Good enough.”
“What is your plan?” Angel leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms, long fingers tapping over one bicep. “If Wycomb knows you are ready to bring him in, he will not return to Worthington House.”
“The Gents said Worthington House is in an uproar. They know the baroness is missing, and though Wycomb did return briefly, it was only to gather a few items and leave again.” Jones shifted, simply to ensure his pistol was still beneath his coat. It felt as if Wycomb’s gaze were on his back.
“Henri will run.” The Flower narrowed her eyes and lifted one shoulder in casual confidence. “We will not let him.”
“I agree.” Jones nodded once, sharply. He had failed Cat, failed his commander. He would not do so a second time. “I believe he may return to the opium den—particularly as I don’t know if he is aware Baroness Worthington has escaped.”
“Oh, just say Cat.” She waived his formality away with a laugh, shaking back her hood. “I’ve been walking around London wearing only a nightshift under my cloak.”
“Jones.” The Flower frowned at him, then looked to Cat’s cloak. There were no windows in the back room, but the lamp light clearly revealed fabric smeared with grime. “You should know better.”
“With all due respect, Flower,” Jones responded dryly, raising a brow in impatience. “I was concerned about her life, not her attire.”
“Accepted.” Though the Flower’s tone did not echo the word. “Still, she needs clothing. I will see she has it.”
“Merci.” Cat spoke it with a perfect accent, as so many well-educated ladies of the ton did. Blue eyes warmed so that he once more thought of the tropical butterfly—one he could never catch.
The Flower laughed, bright and sweet, and pushed at the cap restraining her unruly hair. “No, my dear. I am as English as you. Only—well. I have a disguise, do you see? A French opera dancer.”
“I see. The whispered rumors I’ve heard about Wycomb in the last few years now make sense.” Cat’s expression shifted, as if some fact had been settled between them. “Aside from my nightshift, we should discuss Wycomb.”
“There we go. Back on topic, though no less important than nightclothes.” Angel winked at Cat, then sent his gold gaze toward Langford. “Shadow, what are your thoughts?”
“As I understand it,” Langford said slowly, rubbing a thumb along the rim of the tankard set before him. “We do not know if Wycomb is aware that Baroness Worthington escaped.”
“We do not,” Jones confirmed, blocking out the amusement he’d felt at the exchange between Cat and Flower.
“Then we must keep watch on the den. Beginning now, before he learns the truth.” Langford’s bright eyes moved around the table, as if seeking agreement from each of them. He pushed his ale away as if he were finished with it, though Jones knew it was nearly full.
“What if the opium dealers have already sent a message?” Cat leaned forward, setting the arms of her now filthy cloak on the tabletop. Her hair was bound in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, and there was a faint streak of dirt along her cheekbone. She’d never looked so beautiful—and he had never been so proud. “If he does not return to the den, we will be wasting our time.”
“How long has it been since he left you there?” Angel asked, reaching for a hunk of the simple brown bread sitting beside the pale-yellow cheese in the center of the table.
“It was just after dawn yesterday.”
“Not much more than a day and a half, then.” Angel looked at Jones, nodded once before biting into the soft slice layered thickly with butter. “Your choice as to the next movement, Jones.”
“The opium den.” Jones was certain Wycomb would reappear there. “He will not return again to Worthington House, and even if he knows Cat is gone, he will still try to obtain his part of the ransom. Wycomb will want his money and then will disappear.”
“What is your plan?” the Flower asked.
He didn’t know. “I can’t take Cat back into the rookeries. I can’t expose her to Wycomb again.”
“No. She’ll be his leverage if he finds her,” the Shadow agreed. “It is also not safe for her there.”
“There is somewhere I can stay.” Cat set her hand on Jones’s forearm. Long fingers were white against the sleeve his brown coat, though dirt clung beneath the short nails. “Somewhere to hide if need be.”