Chapter Twenty-Two
The advantage to one’s family seat being a long day’s ride from London was one needed to pack very little.
The carriage waited on the cobblestone street, rolling forward and back as the horses pranced restlessly. Beyond them, Hyde Park and London moved and thrived and lived, unaware that her freedom was gone and her tenants’ livelihoods at risk.
But there was more. She knew it.
“Aunt Essie, I need a moment.” She tucked the short note she’d written to Jones more firmly into her palm. “I’ll return shortly.”
“Wycomb will be angry if you’re late.” Essie clutched the handles of her reticle, knuckles whitening as they became sharp little points. “He said—”
“Yes, I know what he said.” Which was exactly why she wanted Jones to follow them. “It will only be a moment.”
She left a frowning Essie in the front hall and slipped through the townhouse to the rear garden. It was difficult to leave a note behind the stone in daylight without being seen. She reached down as though there were something wrong with the leather half-boots dyed to match her pale pink gown and did her best to hide the stone behind her skirts. From there, it was little effort to push the stone out of place, tuck the scrap of paper into the hollow of dirt, and nestle the stone back in place.
Still, she could not just walk into the garden, check her boot, and leave again. If anyone were watching she would appear suspicious. Perhaps Wycomb was watching from a window.
Perhaps Jones was watching.
She glanced around, her heart thumping a little—though from fear of Wycomb or the kisses of Jones, it was not clear. But there was no one at any window that she could see, nor anyone watching from the gate at the rear of the garden.
She took a moment to snap the stems of a few bluebells carpeting the lawn. Holding them to her nose, she thought perhaps she could use it as an excuse if it was needed.
It was needed.
“What are you doing, Mary Elizabeth?” Wycomb stood in the rear doorway, his gloves fisted in one hand and his hat already perched on his head. “The carriage is ready.”
“Yes, thank you. I just needed a moment to calm myself. I’m quite worried, as you might imagine.” Her words sounded just like the lie they were, so she decided to stop speaking altogether. “We should go.” Clutching the bluebells in her fist, she strode toward Wycomb and the house.
Though he watched her carefully, he turned aside and let her through the door to the rear kitchen. She hoped he did not look behind her.
…
Jones trotted along the walkway of Park Lane, then through Hyde Park, trying to keep the carriage in sight. But he could not keep pace with horses, even in the midst of slow-moving traffic on the street. When the vehicle disappeared, he simply changed course and returned to Park Lane.
Whatever they were doing, it was not a quick foray on Bond Street or to Gunter’s. The urgency of body movements, the speed of the coachman’s start—something was wrong.
It was an hour before an opportunity to check the stone arrived. Jones slipped through the gate leading from the mews and knew in an instant the stone had been moved—fresh earth and mortar littered on the ground beneath it.
He itched to jerk the stone out of the wall and see what the baroness had left for him. But he couldn’t simply dash forward. Raising his face to the summer sun he checked windows in the surrounding townhouses. There was no way to entirely protect himself from view except at night, but the trees and vegetation at the rear of the garden still provided some cover.
He couldn’t do anything about the sunlight.
Drawing a deep breath and scanning the garden and mews again, Jones prepared himself for the jolt of her handwriting.
He slipped forward through the gate, moved the stone and retrieved the note in less time than a dandy needed to pry off his boots. Then Jones was back in the protection of the open street and its pedestrians, walking away from Worthington House.
Her home.
The note clutched in his fist was hot. He should loosen his grip, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. If he did, the note could be plucked away by the wind. He tightened his fist and moved through the streets, searching for a place to stop and read it.
It was in the shadow of the mews, tucked between two doorways, that Jones finally smoothed the note open. The paper was heavily weighted but soft between his fingers. He was compelled to sniff it, but thought the baroness might find it unseemly, so he simply rubbed the paper between his fingertips as he read.
My Dearest –
We are traveling home. The granaries caught fire and much of the remaining store is gone. The tenants are quite worried, as this year’s harvest is looking to be less than usual. I must be with them.
We shall return in a few days’ time, I’m certain, and I would enjoy seeing your handsome countenance. I shall continue my duties, of course, but I wish that you were with me for your advice and company.
I shall miss you.
All my regard,
C
Her script was neat and precise. It didn’t march across the page, nor did it flow easily. It was careful. Jones smudged a thumb over the dark ink. Careful and deliberate, as her movements and words were until she forgot herself.
He wondered what the C represented.
Folding the note, he buried it deep in his coat pocket. He would burn it later, as he had done before. There would be no record she had ever written him a note.
Any pang he might feel at that loss was pushed aside. He needed to pack his belongings.
He was going to the country.
His own townhouse arrived in his vision not long after, as did the carriage resting in front of it. Angel’s carriage. His mentor was in the hall, a set of books in one hand. He was reading the spines, head ducked down, gold queue at the base of his neck shifting over a dark coat.
“Ah. Jones. I was looking for my copies of—” He stopped, cocking his head. “What is the matter?”
“My investigation.” No details. No specifics. But he could make a request of this man—the one he trusted above all others—and know it would not be repeated. “It’s Wycomb. I don’t have authorization to tell you, so—”
“Understood.” Angel’s lean face went hard, the softness marriage and impending fatherhood had wrought there fading as if it never existed. “What do you need from me?”
“He’s going to the country with his niece for now, and I will be following him.” The request rankled, but only because he should keep the investigation to himself. “Anything you see or hear in my absence will be appreciated.”
“Of course.” The books dropped onto the nearest table—a spindly one appearing to be barely tolerant of their weight. “Anywhere I should be specifically listening?”
“Anything outside of the ton, particularly related to ships.”
“I will let you know if I discover anything.” Amber eyes narrowed in thought, then widened again. “Why do I feel as if you in are over your head?”
“I have no idea.”