Chapter Eight

The problem with inevitabilities was that no matter how much effort one put into avoiding them, they still happened.

Jess nibbled at the chunk of bread from the dinner tray she’d requested be brought to her room. After this morning’s encounter in the front hall, she hadn’t wanted to sit across the table from Mr. Thornbury, and she rather thought he didn’t want to look at her either.

If only she could avoid other unpleasant encounters with such ease.

From the moment she’d recognized the familiar code in the letter, she’d known that a visit with the author would eventually be necessary.

That didn’t mean she wanted to do it. She’d perfected the art of avoiding the past and the truths that came along with it, but none of her skills could save her now.

She had hoped to know more before visiting her old friend, hoped to have a specific need that would allow her to be professional and succinct. Something that would necessitate she keep the visit as short as possible.

Something that would let her pretend she hadn’t missed him. Them.

If she’d understood three years ago what family really meant, would she still have run? There was no way to know, no way to turn back time and play it differently. Even if she could, she wasn’t sure she would. The people of Haven Manor had taught her what it meant to care for someone no matter the cost. What would have happened to them without her?

Spending precious time contemplating the possibilities was fruitless, as was entertaining the thought that she could possibly repair boats she’d burned. What was done was done and couldn’t be changed. That lesson had been fixed firmly in her at the age of sixteen, and she’d held it like a mantra ever since.

Now the path to her future lay in trudging through her past. There were no other options.

Night fell and the house stilled around her. Had Mr. Thornbury told Chemsford what she’d done? Not that she cared. What would the marquis do? He’d hardly toss her from the premises. His wife would call him out for such an act. No, Chemsford was neither help nor deterrent.

Thornbury, on the other hand, needed to be controlled.

Before she could herd him, though, she needed to know which direction to head.

A glance outside revealed she had a few hours before morning. She could take a short nap and still leave the house before anyone else was awake. When she returned, she would, hopefully, know enough to formulate some sort of plan—one that required minimal reliance on the art historian.

The moon was curving down the other side of the sky when she woke. She dressed with the stealth and speed of one who had departed in the middle of the night more than once before stepping quietly toward the door. Fifteen minutes had been invested earlier in learning the precise angle and pressure to put on the latch in order to leave her room without a sound.

In the quiet of the early hours, those fifteen minutes proved well spent.

As the latch cleared its mooring, she prepared to ease the door back only to have it swing abruptly inward.

She didn’t yelp, but her breath did surge out of her in a rush as the door was followed by the body of a man rolling backward, head plopping onto her feet.

Dim moonlight played over Mr. Thornbury’s face, accenting the sharp angles of his nose, chin, and cheekbones until he looked almost lethal.

His wince and yawn accompanied by a shrug of his dark wool-covered shoulder stilled any idea of him being a threat.

“We’re off now, then?” he asked in a rough voice that clung to sleep.

Jess narrowed her eyes as he yawned again. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a low whisper.

He grinned up at her, looking half asleep and entirely too proud of himself. “I didn’t trust you to tell me what your next moves were.”

She waited for more but grudgingly gave him a bit of credit when he didn’t point out that his lack of trust had obviously been justified.

“What disguise are you wearing today?” Still prone on the floor, he craned his head back to look at her shoes before lifting his gaze to take in the rest of her clothing. “I’m certain keeping up with you will be easier when I know whom to look for.”

Jess rolled her eyes and offered him a hand up. The observations this man made . . . the War Office should have been hiring artists instead of jaded, hardened spies. “No disguise today.”

“Good,” he said as he straightened his horribly wrinkled clothing. “Then I don’t have to worry about matching. Or calling you the wrong thing when you transform from a grandmother into a street urchin.”

“You don’t have to worry about calling me anything,” Jess bit out. “You aren’t coming with me. My, er, the people I’m visiting won’t take kindly to my bringing a guest.”

“I don’t particularly care.” His mouth flattened, and he stepped out into the corridor to collect his shoes, pulling the black spectacles from one boot. “As your partner in this endeavor, albeit a fairly clueless one, I refuse to remain in the dark any longer.”

“You aren’t my partner,” Jess said, pushing down the bud of panic the idea created. She’d worked with people in the past—other spies, occasional informants—but she’d always been very careful to establish that any such connection was momentary. She didn’t want to become attached to anyone. Not when it was so very easy for the job to take them away.

“One,” he said, holding out his hand and pointing to his finger, “you need my expertise. Two”—he pointed to a second finger—“you brought me into this havoc. And three”—he stabbed at a third finger—“I am putting my professional reputation and possibly more on the line to find whatever this thing is.” He gave up counting his reasons and let his hands fall to his side as he gave another shrug. “And if you refuse to take me with you, I’ll make such a fuss trying to follow you that whoever is looking for you won’t have to try very hard.” He grinned, but it didn’t soften the determination on his face. “See? Partner.”

His threat was an empty one, Jess was certain. Well, mostly certain. Actually, not certain at all. The man had spent the night in the corridor just to make a point.

“Very well,” she said quietly, stepping out of the room and closing the door silently behind her. “Let’s go. I doubt anyone knows I’m in London, but we’ll have plenty of time to wander the streets and see if anyone is following us before we pay a call.” Perhaps she could scare him into staying here and making use of the comfortable guest bed for the remainder of the night.

He said nothing, simply followed her down the corridor, footsteps thudding enough to make her wince. London was noisy, even this early in the morning, so his heavy, well, normal footfalls wouldn’t be a problem. It was simply the principle of it.

As she passed through the kitchens, where a scullery maid was just starting to stoke the fires, Jess grabbed a small loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese. She didn’t look back to see if Mr. Thornbury followed suit as she slipped out the door and into the back alley.

The air was thick with pollution and morning dew. Clouds hung low, skittering across the moon as it slid down the sky and the first rays of sun took its place. Her lungs protested the return to the city after three years of country air, but the rest of her breathed a little easier as she munched on the bread and cheese and disappeared into the anonymity of an awakening London. At this hour, it was all delivery people and workmen. None of them cared who she was unless she got in their way.

“This is probably a different side of London than you’re accustomed to seeing, Mr. Thornbury.”

“Indeed it is, Miss Smith. Doesn’t make it bad.”

Jess stumbled to a halt and stared at him. “What did you call me?”

“Miss Smith. If we’re going to keep conversing with each other, the proper address issue needed to be resolved. Since you won’t provide me with your surname”—he shrugged—“I gave you one. The other option, aside from correcting me, of course, is that you call me Derek.”

Why, the conniving . . . she had half a mind to let him continue calling her Miss Smith, but it had been the one part of disguises she’d never managed well. No matter where she was or how she was dressed, she couldn’t remember to answer to the wrong name. “Derek it is, then.”

“You’re a funny duck.” He chuckled softly and shook his head before taking a bite of the bread in his hand.

Jess said nothing as she continued meandering about the area, keeping to the lesser-traveled roads as she watched for any suspicious activity. As they walked, Derek chattered, pointing out interesting architecture and where old buildings had once stood. Jess made appropriate noises and, as their safety became apparent, relaxed enough to find the conversation surprisingly enjoyable, or at least tolerable enough that she didn’t feel the need to stuff his cravat into his mouth.

Perhaps because it was a far more pleasant conversation than the one she was going to have when she stopped stalling and took them to see the man who had sent the letter that started this adventure.

Did he care if she showed up, or had he simply tracked her down out of a sense of honorable duty?

Fretting about it changed nothing. It was time to act.

As if Derek could sense the change of purpose in her shift of direction, he asked, “Are we returning to the Institution?”

“No.” Jess almost wished they were. She’d rather break into a building than face the inquisition that awaited her. “But we are going to Pall Mall.”

They moved into the nicest part of Mayfair along with the early coating of sunlight. The gas lanterns were being doused as they passed the gates to Carlton House, the quiet inside indicating the prince regent likely wasn’t in residence.

Jess stumbled a bit. She didn’t much care about the regent, but what if the man she needed to see wasn’t home? What if the family had retreated to Kent or one of the other estates? As much as she wanted to delay this reunion, she really needed to know what he knew.

Finally, she came to a halt in front of a large house. Rows of windows marched across the front, still and silent. There would be servants up, but probably not anyone else. Not that it mattered. Seeing the servants was going to be almost as bad.

Now all she had to do was decide what to tell Derek.

The woman was insane. Derek swallowed hard as he looked up at the house. “This is the Duke of Marshington’s residence.”

“Yes.”

He swallowed again, took a deep breath, and counted to five, but she didn’t expound upon her answer. Obviously they were here because Mr. Cathers had mentioned the duke owned one of the paintings, but Derek’s deductive skills stopped after that. “Do you have a plan?”

“For what?” She didn’t glance his way, just stared up at the house.

A wave of dizziness rolled over him and landed in his gut. She didn’t have a plan? Every move she’d made over the past few days had pointed to her being a person who always thought five steps ahead, and yet here she stood in front of the house of a man with an exceedingly dangerous reputation that went far beyond the mere political power of an old dukedom, and she didn’t have a plan?

He took her hand in his and began walking, hauling her farther down the pavement, away from the house. The warmth of her hand jolted him from his shocked stupor, and he stared stupidly down his arm as if he couldn’t quite fathom the idea that they’d both run out without gloves.

He’d never taken a woman’s hand without at least one of them wearing gloves.

He dropped her hand as he stumbled to a halt, and she tripped to a stop next to him, looking amused. “What are you doing?”

His thumb rubbed across his palm, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to retain the sensation of her skin against his or remove it. Not that it mattered. What mattered was getting away from the duke’s house until they had a plan. He dropped his grip on his own hand and resumed his path. “I’m walking. We can’t stand and stare at the duke’s house while you formulate a plan.”

Jess fell into step beside him. “He has one of the paintings. We need to see it.”

The chill of dread that had balled in his stomach traced down his arms and removed any lingering warmth from his palm. “So you were going to do what? Break in? Dress up as a servant?”

“I thought I’d use the ridiculously large and ornate brass knocker and see what happened.”

He looked up to find she’d somehow steered him on a path that had brought them right back to the front of Montgomery House, only this time they were at the door instead of across the street.

Before he could stop her, she’d stepped up, wrapped narrow fingers around the metal ring, and slammed it against the brass plate twice. As expected in the home of upper aristocracy, the door opened almost immediately.

Rather less expected was the man on the other side of it.

Derek’s knees threatened to run off by themselves.

The duke had seemed more than formidable on the two occasions that Derek had seen him across the room at a large formal function, but standing two feet away in his own doorway, wearing breeches, riding boots, and a hard glare? The man was downright terrifying.

Jess’s brain had to be addled with desperation, the same kind that sent hopeless soldiers charging toward the enemy lines with nothing but a sword and a single shot pistol.

Derek stepped a bit in front of her, drawing the duke’s slicing grey eyes to him. “Good morning, Your Grace. Deepest apologies for disrupting you, as it appears you are on your way out for a morning ride.”

The duke’s mouth pressed into a firmer line. “I can delay it.”

“Yes. Good.” Derek cleared his throat. “Splendid.”

The duke’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. Derek pressed on, coming up with a story as he went, an action doomed to bring nothing but disaster raining down on their heads.

“I am Mr. Derek Thornbury, an art and antiquities scholar from Oxford. It”—he coughed to try to ease the constriction in his throat—“has come to the attention of my colleague and me that you are in possession of a painting of particular interest to our current, er, work. If it pleases Your Grace, we’d like to, ahem, study it.” He paused and attempted to swallow, but his mouth was so dry it simply caused an uncomfortable convulsion in his throat. “At your convenience, of course,” he scraped out before falling into terrified silence.

“You and your, ahem, colleague?” the duke asked.

“Yes.” Derek glanced over his shoulder to see Jess staring at him. Her face seemed expressionless, but there was some definite emotion lurking underneath that he couldn’t identify. He turned his attention back to the duke, who looked quite simply irritated. “Miss, er, Smith.”

One eyebrow shot up as the duke settled himself more comfortably against his doorframe. “Miss Smith?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Derek was accustomed to talking to members of the aristocracy who had solicited his services. Over the years, some—such as Chemsford—had become friends. He’d never approached one on his own before, though, particularly not one with a reputation such as Marshington’s.

The hard face and impression of power gave credence to every rumor he’d ever overheard about the man. No one knew where he’d been for almost ten years, and the speculation ranged from dead to privateering to War Office spy.

At the moment, Derek believed every single one of them.

Except dead, of course. That was more likely to be Derek if his heart didn’t stop trying to flee through his boots.

“And you thought eight in the morning would be convenient?”

No, he hadn’t, but then again he hadn’t thought he’d be knocking on a duke’s door this morning either, and if he had, he would never have dreamed the duke would answer it himself. Derek fought the urge to frown in case the duke misconstrued its meaning. Why was the duke answering his own door? “In all honesty, sir, I was expecting to converse with the butler.”

A soft snicker drifted over his shoulder, and Derek slid his foot back a bit until it connected with Jess’s toe. Now was not the time to show amusement.

Perhaps she was on the verge of hysterics? Had her bravado finally failed her? Should he toss her over his shoulder and make a run for it?

A hint of amusement made an appearance on the duke’s features as well as one side of his mouth curled and his arms dropped to his sides. “How fortunate for you that I happened to be the one nearby. We can dispense with the delay my butler’s sending you away would have caused.”

The duke looked Derek up and down with a brief glance and then aimed his gaze over Derek’s shoulder at what little could be seen of Jess before he continued to speak. “Let me make sure I understand this. I am supposedly in possession of a painting that has you and your, er, art colleague excited enough to be up and dressed and about London at an hour reserved for those who actually toil for a living or want a good run on their horses before the parks clog with displays of the latest finery.”

“That would be the sum of it, yes,” Derek said with a gulp.

“I had no idea my family had procured anything of any value beyond eliciting jealousy among their peers. Do come in.” He pushed the door open wider and stepped to the side.

As Derek stepped inside, a sort of calm slid over him. This situation was feeling more like what he was accustomed to. The introduction had been unorthodox, but he could now continue the conversation as he normally would. A deep breath filled his lungs for the first time since he’d rolled through Jess’s doorway this morning.

The door shut behind them with a click that echoed through the tall, marble-floored front hall. Derek turned to see the duke leaning against the portal, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “Now, Jess, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here and why you’re letting this man risk an aneurysm of the heart trying to protect you?” He tilted his head, all attention on the little blond woman staring mutinously back at him. “Or should I call you Miss Smith?”

Bright color appeared on Jess’s cheekbones, and her body lost a bit of its tension as her shoulders slumped. The fire Derek had grown accustomed to didn’t disappear, though. Her teeth were clenched together as she glanced from Derek to the duke.

“You know him?” Derek asked, sidling closer to her, ready to step between them if need be. Although there wasn’t much he could do. They were in the house of a powerful duke. He could do whatever he wanted and everyone would believe his tale.

“Oh yes,” the duke said, showing no sign of the threatening animosity from moments earlier. In fact, a wide smile slashed through the shadows. “Didn’t she tell you? She was once my wife.”