Chapter Forty-Five
Jones set the snifter in Cat’s hands. She curled her fingers around the glass and brought the amber liquid to her mouth. Clearly no stranger to brandy, she did not gasp, nor did her eyes water—she simply drank deep. His mouth fought a war with his mind and curved up in a grin.
That was his Cat.
“The men we could bring in from the opium den are tucked away in cells at Old Bailey. Hedgewood is below with Angel—I do not think it long before he shares his secrets.” The Flower stood in front of Sir Charles in Jones’s study. The shoulder of her black coat was torn, breeches dirty at the knee, but she appeared no worse for wear in any other way.
“Good.” Sir Charles’s brown eyes showed no sign that he had been awakened by his agents just before dawn. “What of Wycomb?”
“Langford is seeing to his body in the usual way.” The Flower shifted, though her boots were silent on the thick rug. “Forgive me if I do not mourn him.”
“I do not blame you.” Sir Charles turned his head, pinned Jones and Cat with his cool brown gaze. “Jones, I wouldn’t mind a finger or two of brandy myself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jones went to the sideboard and flipped up a second snifter. Crystal clinked as he removed the stopper from the brandy decanter, the sound competing with Sir Charles’s words.
“I must thank you for your assistance in this matter, my lady.” The spymaster softened his tone, which was something Jones rarely heard him do. “My condolences regarding your uncle’s death.”
“I do not mourn him, either,” was Cat’s dry reply.
The Flower snorted, then turned the sound into a polite cough. Jones hid his grin as he poured the brandy for Sir Charles and replaced the decanter.
“I see.” Sir Charles’s reply was stilted, though Jones sensed some amusement beneath the words.
Jones turned back toward the room, smooth glass cupped in his hand. “Sir.”
Sir Charles accepted the snifter, swirled and sniffed. “Jones, I expect a full report from you later today, including any information Hedgewood provides.”
“Yes, sir.” Jones looked to Cat, still wearing her cloak and nightshift. Her hair had lost its usual luster, though the fire of it couldn’t be entirely dimmed by dirt. The stained cloak was wrapped firmly around her, but the nightshift beneath had grayed. “I will start as soon as I see her ladyship home. I’m certain she needs rest.”
“I need a bath, first, I think.” She sipped the brandy again. Her gaze did not leave Jones, staying level with his over the rim. “Sir Charles,” she said slowly, turning the full force of that iridescent blue on him. “What of Hedgewood?”
“That remains to be seen. It may be that he is brought before a jury, or he may be released. It is not yet clear.” Sir Charles frowned into his glass. “I see what you are concerned about. Your marriage.”
“Specifically, the contract my uncle signed.” She breathed deep, knuckles whitening as she gripped crystal. “I am unclear if it stands.”
“Do you want it to?” Sir Charles asked slowly, the lines on either side of his mouth deepening.
“No,” she said, words sharp. “I do not.”
“I’m certain that with a little influence, shall we say,” Sir Charles said slowly, a considering expression moving over his face. “A judge could be persuaded that Wycomb was not in his right mind when he signed it. A peer of the realm involved with opium, attempting to ransom his ward—a case could be made that the contract is void.”
It would not entirely settle her future, Jones knew. She was still just shy of gaining her majority and a new guardian would need to be appointed, though perhaps by the time the contract was declared null she might have reached twenty-one. Even then, her inheritance would still be held in trust until she married—it seemed to Jones she would be at the beginning again.
And still unattainable.
Cat’s features firmed, candlelight gilding the delicate planes. “If that can be achieved, I would be grateful.”
“I am certain it can—I am quite on good terms with His Majesty.” Sir Charles stood then and sketched an elegant bow for so stocky a man. “Good day, my lady. Jones.”
“Good day, sir.”
“Flower, a word before I go.” Sir Charles set his empty snifter on the sideboard, gathered his sword cane, and strode from the room.
“Au revoir, my lady,” the Flower murmured as she followed the spymaster, perfectly silent in her men’s boots.
Cat’s face relaxed when they were alone, and she let out a long, drawn out breath. “There is hope, then.”
“You won’t have to marry Hedgewood.” Jones slipped the now empty snifter from her fingers and replaced it with his own hand. Twining his fingers with hers, he brought them to his lips, kissed the hands she had finally been able to wash in his chamber above.
“I could marry you,” she said.
He paused, his mouth still pressed against her sweet skin, then drew away, but did not release her hand. He was not ready to, though he knew what his answer would be. “You cannot marry me, for all the reasons we already spoke of.”
“Then in Italy, in Colle di Val d’Elsa.” A plea edged her words. It tore at him, rending a long, thin cut through his soul.
“I cannot go to Italy with you,” he said softly, sorrow layered over the words. “I am needed here.”
“I don’t understand.” She shook her head, unbound hair moving and shifting over the hood lying on her shoulders. “I don’t understand,” she said again, voice rising.
He only had one purpose. One skill that gave him worth. “I am a spy, Cat. I will always be a spy.” Freeing his hand, he gripped her shoulders. “Even if we went to Colle di Val d’Elsa, you would not leave your life behind. You will always be the Baroness Worthington. Part of me will always live in the rookeries. We’ll never be free from our pasts.” A long, slow breath shuddered out. “Neither of us.”
A log snapped in the grate. Jones’s hands twitched on her shoulders before they both looked over at the lick of flame and burning coals. The logs burned a dull red, the color ebbing and fading only to grow again, stronger, then flaring into life.
“I do not want freedom, Jones.” Cat looked away from the coals and at him. Into him, as if she could see the scars he bore on his soul. “I only want to go to a place where our differences are not as great.”
There was no breath. Not from him. Not from her.
“Where our differences are not as great.” He sighed, hands falling away from her shoulders. “Colle di Val d’Elsa.”
“I’m going.” She spoke firmly, not asking him, but telling him. Her gaze held his, pinning him with the tropical blue. “I have a few trustworthy footmen, perhaps a maidservant, who would travel with me as chaperone. I can hire a guard.”
“It is not safe. You would be in danger—”
“As if I have been safe in my own home these last weeks and months? No.” She shook her head and lifted her chin, wrapping the filthy cloak around her as if it were a velvet mantle covering a gown of silk. “I wish to see it, and I will do so.”
“Do you expect me to come with you to protect you? Is that what you think—that you can manipulate me into changing my mind?” He ground out the words, though he knew they were untrue and unfair, and paced away from her. He set his palms to the surface of Angel’s desk—his desk—and pressed them flat against the cold, polished wood. He knew a chair sat beyond the wood, but he could not see it.
Only the woman speaking behind him seemed solid.
“I will see Colle di Val d’Elsa,” she repeated. “And I will wait there for you.”
“Don’t, Cat.” He couldn’t bear the building pressure inside him and pushed hard against the desk surface.
“I will be there in two months. In four. Even six. I will be there, waiting for you. All I ask is that you send word if you do not intend to come.”
“You cannot wait for me. I’m nothing.” He spun to face her and found she had stepped just behind him.
“You’re everything to me.” Dirt smudged her cheek and one lock of long, curling hair had fallen over her face. A fierce light came into her eyes.
“Jones.” The male voice was soft, but there was an edge. A sharp edge that allowed no argument. “Hedgewood is ready.”
Angel stood in the doorway, gold hair unbound and amber eyes shuttered from his thoughts. Jones knew he had heard some of their words, though whatever he thought he did not reveal.
Time stretched thin, winding around them. Jones fastened his gaze on hers and he found himself memorizing the faint pattern of her iris. Point, valley, small point, starburst. It was a pattern he might not see again.
“Go,” she commanded, expression clear. “Do what you must. I will wait.”
“I can’t—”
“I will promise you six months, Jones. That is all I will give you.”