Chapter Thirty-Two
“Come play, Mr. Jones!” Maggie, Angel’s niece, dropped a tin soldier into Jones’s open palm. “Bonaparte will be defeated tonight!” She danced away, braids flying, to settle down on the floor of Angel’s drawing room to set up her soldiers. “I’ve been studying Wellington’s strategies.”
“An intelligent undertaking,” Jones answered. The words felt stilted inside his brain and sounded more so to his ears. How did a grown man talk to an eight-year-old girl? She was a little adult with an added enthusiasm and joy he couldn’t understand.
“Wellington is the bravest soldier, don’t you think? Except for Uncle Angel, of course.” Bright eyes turned toward the Marquess of Angelstone, who was currently whispering into his very pregnant wife’s ear. “He’s the bravest. Did you know he was at Waterloo? So was Aunt Lilias.”
“I believe I heard that.”
Her shining eyes turned back to Jones, ready to spill an exciting secret. “Aunt Lilias is a soldier, sir. A great one. Can you imagine a great woman soldier?”
Clearly, the girl thought this was amazing, and Jones was quite in agreement. “I think it is wonderful,” he responded. At which point, he didn’t know what to else to say to this sprite of a girl.
“Here, Mr. Jones, I have set up the soldiers as they were at the battle. Uncle Angel was there, and this soldier—” She held up a tin man so worn there was no longer paint on his face. “This one is my father. These were his soldiers, and my Grandmama says this one looks just like him.”
Jones peered at the blunted features. “He looks brave, certainly.”
“Yes.” She smiled at him as brightly as if she were the sun at midday. “Yes, he does.” She busied herself resetting the formations, changing up the left flank and rear guard.
He glanced around, met the gaze of the sharp-featured and soft-hearted Dowager Lady Angelstone. She smiled slightly, nodding her head in acknowledgment. Beside her sat her widowed daughters-in-law, one of them Maggie’s mother. They looked happier than he remembered seeing them before, as if some of the grief had left them in the past year or so.
“I must go converse with the adults, now,” Jones said to Maggie.
“Must you?” Her lips turned down in disappointment, then smiled again in excitement. “When you are done, we can recreate the battle where Uncle Angel and Aunt Lilias met. It was very romantic and very bloody.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He tried not to laugh, choosing to cough into his hand instead. And realized he’d forgotten to wear gloves. No gentleman appeared in the drawing room without gloves.
He stood, setting his hands behind his back. A quick glance revealed Angel speaking to the third spy in the room. Julian Travers, Earl of Langford, had his arm wrapped around his wife’s waist and an eye on the two-year-old twin girls playing on the floor. They were enamored of a set of—what were they? Rattles? Sturdy legs pumped and moved as they chased each other with crazed enthusiasm.
Jones wondered briefly if purgatory was small children with fences to keep them contained.
After a light kiss, Angel left his wife’s side and strode over to Jones. “Thank you for indulging Lilias and coming to dinner.”
“I appreciate the invitation.” Jones’s lips twitched and he shrugged. “Also, I dared not refuse her.”
“Wise. It took me a little longer to learn that.” Angel grinned and gripped Jones’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s love.”
Cat’s image flashed in and out of his mind, bringing with it a light ache in his chest. Angel’s hand fell away, and Jones rubbed at that ache. It had lodged there, as if settling in for a long stay.
“Jones. I saw you with her.” Angel’s tone was low, all trace of amusement gone. “I followed when she fled the ballroom to make certain she was not in danger and saw you in the garden.”
Embarrassment dropped onto Jones’s shoulders, heavy as the weight of the world. “My apologies.” It was all he could think to say.
“Why?” Angel frowned, cocked his head to the side. The gold queue of hair at the base of his neck shifted over his coat.
“She’s not of my class. I have no right to her.”
Silence could be huge and heavy, and as solid as any stone wall.
“Do you love her?” Angel asked.
“It doesn’t matter if I do or not. She isn’t for me.” Jones flexed his bare fingers.
“I admit, there are a considerable number of difficulties lying in that direction,” Angel spoke slowly. Jones knew from the pacing of the words he was choosing them carefully. “She bears one of the oldest titles and estates in England. Jones, she’s—” He stopped, drew breath. “Hell. When it comes to bloodlines and lineage, she’s close to royalty. She’s connected to nearly every monarchy across Europe, with more blunt than most of them.”
He knew that. He knew it all. A dull ache settled deep in his gut. “As I said, she isn’t for me. She’s promised to Hedgewood.”
Angel didn’t answer, presumably because there was nothing he could say. Angel knew Jones was right. Somehow that confirmation allowed Jones to acknowledge the truth to himself.
He wasn’t in love with Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown, the 13th Baroness Worthington.
He was in love with Cat.
His belly clutched and his heart did a long, slow roll in chest.
“Damnation,” Angel said softly. “I can tell by your face. I’m sorry, Jones.”
“No reason to be sorry. The truth is the truth.” He just wished the truth weren’t as sharp as any assassin’s knife—and though his childhood stood him in good stead as a spy, he could curse it now. Nothing would ever change the circumstances of his birth, and nothing would ever make him good enough for her.
One of the little girls toddled toward him. She held out her rattle, beads first. Jones forced a smile and nodded, which usually worked with these small beings. It didn’t. She stood there, flyaway hair floating about her face, and said something utterly unintelligible.
“She wants you to take her toy,” the Earl of Langford translated from across the room. There was no mistaking the laugher lurking beneath his voice.
“Very well. Thank you.” Jones took the wooden rattle, folding it into his palm. The girl beamed at him as if she had just bestowed the crown jewels. What was the girl’s name? He couldn’t remember at first. Then, “Hello, Anna.”
“This one is Sarah, Jones.” Their mother came forward, her smile blooming quiet and steady as she picked the girl up and swung the child onto her hip. “They are identical. I can barely distinguish one from the other half the time. They’re such a blur of feet and voices I can’t tell which girl I’m chasing.” Grace Travers, Countess of Langford, nuzzled her daughter’s cheek before giving her an affectionate kiss.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jones couldn’t think of anything else to say. He didn’t belong here, with these pretty families and their happy children. He knew nothing of family and children and love. Or of parents, for that matter. One of his was a mystery and the other had abandoned him.
“What is the matter, Jones?” Lady Langford spoke softly, her silver eyes going soft. “You’re always quiet, but not like this.” The child snuggled into the curve between Lady Langford’s neck and shoulder, then stared at Jones with wide eyes the color of a summer sky.
“Nothing is the matter.” What else could he say? He couldn’t tell this woman of Cat, or the feelings growing inside him that he had no right to feel. Still, the small child before him became a sudden want. He could see a child with Cat’s auburn hair and brilliant eyes. Or perhaps it would have his own brown eyes. There was no way of knowing.
The ache in his chest became painful. He set a hand there, rubbed, just to make sure there was nothing wrong.
“Who is she?” Lady Langford asked. “It’s unpardonable of me to question you, and quite intrusive. But, Jones, all of us know how difficult it is to find love when you are a spy.”
“I believe it is time for me to become scarce.” Angel sidestepped away from them.
“Coward,” Jones muttered darkly.
“Absolutely.”
Jones was vaguely aware of Angel’s wife Lilias pushing up from the settee and coming toward them, hand brushing her husband’s arm as she passed him. Her belly led the way, and her smile was softer than he’d seen in her before. In fact, all of her was softer. Her smile, her skin, her eyes. She seemed happier than even the day she was married, and Jones had thought he’d seen true happiness that day.
“Don’t bother him, Gracie. I can see Jones is not ready to share, more’s the pity.” She set her hand on his shoulder and leaned up to kiss his cheek, bringing with her a clean, bright scent. “But we all understand.”
She stayed close, her face lifted toward his. Jones glanced up at Angel, then at Langford. They were talking, each of them grinning as they watched their wives with amusement. Is that what love was? They seemed to understand their partners, let her speak for herself. The child growing inside of Lilias was out of Angel’s control, yet he didn’t hover over her. Langford’s other child—it must be Anna—ran across the room and tumbled to the floor, yet he didn’t rush over and pick her up. He simply watched her pick herself back up, then grinned in satisfaction.
It was too much. All of it. The love, the family. The ties that bound them all together—husband to wife, friend to friend, parent to child—was simply too much to witness. Jones’s stomach clutched and he couldn’t quite draw breath.
He had to go. Now.
“Excuse me.” He bowed once to Lady Langford, again to Lilias. “I have an assignment—you understand?” His mind was reeling so that he could barely understand their murmured responses.
He set a hand on the head of the child in Lady Langford’s arms. Blond curls slipped beneath his palms. Her hair felt clean. It shouldn’t matter that the girl’s hair felt clean, but that quick brush across his palm was magical.
“I’m not meant for this life, my ladies.” He sounded like a stuffed-shirt prig. “But I thank you for the invitation to dinner.”
“Jones.” Lilias held him in place with nothing but light pressure to his shoulder. “None of us know what to do with this life of spying and family. Just because it isn’t natural does not mean it is wrong or impossible.”
“Thank you, my lady, but it isn’t for me. Even for visiting.”
“It isn’t difficult to enjoy it, Jones,” Lady Langford said in her quiet way. “The difficult part is allowing yourself.”
He could think of nothing to say, so he simply bowed to his hostess, then to Lady Langford, then the ladies chatting in the corner. A quick nod was all that was needed for the Shadow and Angel and he would be free.