Chapter Nineteen

Morning light had a way of picking out the cracks caused by mistakes of the night before, and the next morning’s early dawn was no different. Jess rushed through her morning preparations, which didn’t take long, as she’d slept in her dress and had to do little more than slip on her shoes. She cast a glance to the huddle on the floor where Derek was curled onto his side, his shoulder rising and falling with his steady breathing.

How could she have allowed him to convince her to enter that conversation last night? Never had she talked that much. If he’d been working for the enemy, her side would have been as good as dead. The fact that she wasn’t sure who actually comprised her side and whether or not they were in the right was irrelevant.

Verbonne was a fairy tale to her. A distant memory and a bedtime story. England had taken Jess in, given her purpose. Somewhere in the middle of that was the family that had raised her, instilled an idea within her that could, quite possibly, have been built on a lie.

While she waited to find out for certain, she would maintain her current plan. One thing she couldn’t wait to do, though, was shore up the vulnerabilities created by her late-night confessions.

Refusing to face Derek within the walls of the inn, she fled to the carriage. Everything that had happened in that inn could remain there.

Jeffreys was just beginning to harness the horses when she arrived at the stables.

“You’re early. Grab that strap there, will you?”

She quickly took over the smaller buckles needed to hitch the rented horses to the carriage. He’d never admit it, but his missing finger had to make those more difficult. “Will we reach the next house today?”

Jeffreys nodded. “A nice drive north. It’s a lucky thing that owning one of these Six paintings is a coup worthy of putting on display in the public rooms.”

Jess gave a short laugh. “Unless you’re the Duke of Marshington.”

“I think we can safely assume that no one else is the Duke of Marshington.” Jeffreys shook his head while he tightened the final strap.

“Good morning,” Derek said as he approached the carriage.

The smile immediately fell from Jess’s lips as she turned halfway toward him in greeting. Enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to meet his gaze. When she turned back, Jeffreys gave her an odd look.

The valet turned coachman pressed his lips together. “Perhaps we should take a look at what we have so we can better know what we’re looking for today.”

Jess gave him a narrow glare. They’d reviewed what they knew before yesterday’s stop. It wasn’t as if suddenly they had more information than before.

“Of course.” Derek strapped his valise to the back of the carriage and then climbed inside.

Since not climbing in would only delay the inevitable, Jess joined Derek. Jeffreys leaned in the doorway to keep an ear out for the horses.

Derek pulled out his sketchbook and diary notes while Jess retrieved the map of England from beneath her carriage seat. They’d pinned three ribbons to the map, none of which told them anything.

“The last painting doesn’t add another ribbon, does it?” Jeffreys asked.

Jess shook her head. “Even if there was something significant about the way the hem of one angel’s robe fluttered to the right, we have no way of knowing where a bunch of clouds are supposed to be.”

Derek and Jeffreys both looked at her. Jeffreys with concern, Derek with accusing resignation.

She squirmed in her seat.

Jeffreys’s hand came out and pointed to the green ribbon they’d added at the first house. “Are we sure about that location?”

“Not in the least,” Derek murmured. “It was a manor house. It could be anywhere. That was our best guess based on what could be seen on the hills behind it. Even if we knew for certain that the house hadn’t been remodeled to remove that distinctive fountain from the front, we couldn’t hope to simply stumble across it.”

“Know anyone who frequents country house parties?” Jeffreys asked with a laugh.

Jess winced. She did know someone who went to a lot of house parties, but she was more than hesitant to say so. Endangering more people was out of the question. It was bad enough that she’d pulled Derek, with his slow, methodical ways, into this situation. She couldn’t watch over everyone, even if her friend Kit’s new husband had attended a house party at every grand estate south of Scotland.

Jess slapped the book of maps closed, shoved it beneath the cushion, and sat over it. With a lifted brow in Jeffreys’s direction, she dared him to challenge her.

Challenge her to what she hadn’t the faintest idea, but she’d welcome anything to ease the restlessness rushing through her veins.

Jeffreys looked from her to Derek. “Something I should know about?”

“We already established we know nothing new,” Jess said, arms folded across her chest in an attempt to look big and imposing. “Unless you can identify the house better than we did, we’re right where we were three days ago.”

He clicked his tongue. “Not exactly. Three days ago, you two were what one might call friendly strangers.” He gestured from Jess to Derek and back again. “This morning you won’t look at him and he won’t look anywhere but at you.”

Jess jerked her head around to find that Derek was, indeed, studying her from behind his wire spectacles. He blinked but didn’t drop his gaze. What was he seeing? What was he remembering?

Probably every word she’d said. She’d practically been a living history book.

“I would like to think we’re friends,” Derek said.

Jess shrugged one shoulder. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

He flinched as if she’d punched him.

She forced a smile to cover the churning in her gut that made her want to shove Jeffreys aside and run for the nearest retiring room. “I’m simply frustrated this is taking so long. We have no idea what’s happening in Verbonne.”

Finally, Derek looked away. Away from her, away from Jeffreys, and out the opposite window where there was nothing to be seen but the side of the stable. “Of course. We should be going.”

“Right,” Jeffreys said, his voice low, slow, and full of speculation.

As the horses left the innyard, Jess tried to put herself into one of her personas. She was someone cheerful and optimistic. Exuberant, even. They were making progress, even if it was slow, and despite her lapse in judgment last night, Derek wasn’t going to use his new knowledge to harm her.

After a while, Derek’s posture shifted, and he settled deeper into the seat, a small smile on his face. When she remarked on the trees bordering the lane they were traveling, he chuckled.

She told herself not to ask. Nothing would be gained by turning the conversation personal again, even at an innocent and superficial level. As he kept watching her and grinning, though, the urge to confront him overwhelmed her.

“Your spirits seem higher,” she said, keeping her tone to one of icy politeness that people used at parties when they had to talk to someone they’d rather avoid.

“Yes,” Derek said. “I find my disposition greatly improved.”

“Why?”

“Because”—he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, watching her intently as his smile broadened into a grin—“your hands are sad.”

Then he sat back, looked out the window, and remarked upon the trees.

There was something wrong at Greenwood Park. Derek sensed it the moment the housekeeper granted them entrance, but it took touring three full rooms for him to grasp why. It was so obvious that he had to blame the distraction that was Jess in order to keep from feeling like an idiot.

All the art was French.

All of it.

It wasn’t that it was bad art, but the distinction was an oddity in an English home, particularly after the lengthy war the country had just gone through. Charles Le Brun, Antoine Watteau, and Georges de La Tour adorned the walls, while sculptures by Antoine Coysevox, Claude Michel, and Jean-Baptiste Lemoyne stood in corners and on bookshelves and tables. This was not a random coincidence. It was a carefully curated collection.

A collection that, given the overall feel of neglect to the house itself, should have been parted with in order to enrich the family coffers a bit.

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered to Jess, who had slipped her hand from his arm after they’d passed through the first room.

She simply nodded and asked the housekeeper about the rug.

Derek tensed even more. She never asked about the rugs, never asked about anything, but from the moment they’d crossed the threshold, Jess’s touring persona had been different.

She simpered.

There wasn’t another word for it. If he’d encountered her this way at their first meeting, he’d have been thoroughly convinced that she hadn’t a single coherent thought in her head. She chose ridiculous things to admire and asked questions a child who had grown up in any sort of quality home could answer.

If someone were looking for a crafty, intelligent spy, the housekeeper would swear there hadn’t been one at her house. It wasn’t a bad disguise, but Jess was taking the idea to an extreme. She was a walking caricature.

In the portrait gallery, the art began to look more standard. Portraits by renowned sixteenth-century English artists began the line, followed by a succession of other recognizable styles.

As they approached the modern paintings, though, the detailed realism of the British Rococo gave way to the softer lines of the style’s French originators. Yet another sign that the home’s decor was certainly not an accident and that the owner had likely not been pleased with the recent defeat of Napoleon.

The last portrait in the line was of a man with a high forehead, a thin scar, and a thick, curly black beard.

Jess’s incessant prattle stumbled into silence for a moment, and he could feel the tension emanating from her across the small space she was maintaining between them. He reached out a hand to . . . to . . . what? Comfort her? Calm her? Assure her that he was with her?

When his hand landed on the back of her spencer jacket, he didn’t feel the warmth of her body through the fabric. He felt four hard ridges. What were those? He shifted his hand a bit. They were long and smooth, one end rounded more than the other. They almost felt like . . . knives?

She stepped away from him to cross to the window, and his hand dropped back to his side. Nearly pressing her face to the window, she gasped and said, “Is that a lake? Every grand room should have a view of a lake.”

Before the housekeeper could answer, Jess flipped the latch and pushed open the window in order to stick her head outside. The wind whipped at the ribbons of her bonnet, and she untied it and took it from her head before leaning a bit more out the window.

The housekeeper rushed over and pulled the window in, forcing Jess back into the house. She pouted for a moment, then gave a shrug and a smile and glided back to the family portraits. “Is this the current owner, then? Lord Bradford?”

“Yes, madam,” the housekeeper said stiffly. She was probably debating whether an afternoon spent with this nitwit was worth the coin they’d given her.

“Is he home? Will we see him?” Jess bounced on her toes like an excited child. What was going on? Jess had suddenly gone from empty-headed to downright annoying. What part was he to play? What would he do if he were her husband?

He hadn’t a clue. Not in his wildest imaginations would he marry someone with whom he couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation. He could pretend she was his sister, though. Derek’s youngest sister, Jacqueline, was nearly this excitable, silly, and exasperating.

Of course, she was also twelve.

“Dear,” he said, crossing the floor and trying to look like he loved her inanity. “We talked about this. We came to see the house, not the people.”

She gave another pout. “It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

The housekeeper stepped closer and inclined her head. “As it happens, his lordship is in the area, though not expected home until this evening.” She flattened her lips in what might have been an attempt at a smile but fell horribly short. “Perhaps it would be best if we cut this tour a bit short. Maybe the drawing room before you depart?”

Derek opened his mouth to protest. They needed to see as much of the house as possible. Before he could speak, though, Jess said, “Oh, that sounds lovely. Is the dining room near that? I’d love to see where he eats. And then we would have time to walk the grounds, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes, the dining room is at the bottom of those stairs,” the housekeeper said quickly. “And the grounds are absolutely where you want to spend your time. The distant views of the house from the parkland are splendid.”

Jess grinned and nodded before looping her arm into Derek’s and pinching him hard above his wrist, sending him from confused to worried.

What he’d seen was concerning, but whatever Jess had noticed clearly implied the problem was more pressing than Derek knew. She felt the need to get them out of this house sooner rather than later, even if it meant not seeing the painting.

They’d talked about the danger and he’d believed them, but this was the first time he’d felt it. Thus far it had been all silly disguises and sneaky subterfuge. Trickery, but not danger.

Blood crackled in his ears as the housekeeper led them down the stairs and into a large dining room that could more aptly be termed a sort of banquet hall. High ceilings and a large chandelier over a broad, long table gave the room a dominating presence.

On the wall at the head of the table was the painting.

The Feast of Future Fortune.

The assembly of people in the painting wore crowns, and jewelry dripped over their velvet robes and shiny slippers. A banquet table ran along one wall of their assembly room, but all the silver and gold dishes were empty. Each person held cups of gold aloft as they danced. Upon closer inspection, Derek saw their crowns and belts were without jewels, though the spaces for mounting gems remained.

Derek moved toward the painting, his eyes eating up every detail. There was nothing distinguishing about the room, but on the wall behind the party was a painting. Or perhaps it was a window? He stepped around the table to get a better look.

Jess didn’t follow him to the painting. Instead, she moved to the glass doors and looked out. “We really must look at this garden, my love.”

Derek blinked. My love? After her distance in the carriage, the words jarred against his ears and sent a choking stab from his middle to his throat.

“Mmm-hmmm,” he managed to get out. He didn’t trust his voice. Jess definitely wanted them out of this house.

“Would we be able to go out these doors?” She gave the housekeeper a bright, happy smile. “We could work our way through the gardens and back to our carriage.” She pouted. “Since we don’t get to see the bedchambers, we might as well look up at the windows of the private salons.”

“Whatever makes your tour more pleasant,” the housekeeper said as she rushed to open the door for them.

Jess stepped immediately through the door and lifted her head to the sunshine. Derek’s confusion grew as he followed. They were on the back side of the house now. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to continue to the drawing room and the front door to get to the carriage faster?

She took her sneaking about to extremes sometimes, but until now she’d always seemed rational.

The door closed behind him so swiftly it almost hit the heel of his boot. He jumped out of the way and followed Jess across the stone terrace and down the steps into the garden.

She took an immediate right, keeping them close to the foundations of the house instead of strolling farther into the garden. Her childish persona was gone as she folded the edges of her bonnet back and tucked her gloves inside the bodice of her gown.

“What are we doing?” he whispered.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Leaving.”

They crept along the back of the house, staying close to shadows and shrubbery. At the corner, she peered around the house and stiffened again. One hand pushed against his chest, flattening him to the wall, while the other slid up her back and underneath her short spencer jacket. A moment later, it emerged with a knife clutched between the slim, delicate fingers.

Had Derek seen it in a painting, he’d have admonished the artist for not making something more believable. There it was before his eyes, though. A woodland nymph with a knife, ready to defend him against their foe.

Whoever their foe was.

Then, suddenly, the knife was gone, slid up her sleeve with her hand curved slightly to keep it in place.

After a moment, she whispered, “Those trees over there. We’ll cut through them to the lane. Jeffreys will meet us there.”

“How will he know?”

Jess didn’t answer him, just continued with her instructions. “If something happens, go on without me. Tell Jeffreys. Whatever you do, don’t try to be a hero. I can’t rescue you and myself.”

They were going to need rescuing? Did they already need rescuing?

Derek’s heart started to pound as if he’d already taken off running. A chill permeated his skin, despite the sun shining down from the cloudless sky.

Part of him wanted to protest, to insist that he would step between Jess and the apparent imminent danger. The ease with which she’d pulled that knife—the fact that she even had that knife—was proof that her competence outweighed his gentlemanly honor in this particular instance.

He nodded his agreement, unable to get his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. She nodded in return and adjusted her bonnet once more, leaving two fingers curled around the knife while she retied the ribbons.

Obviously, she’d done this before.

She nudged his side with her elbow and gave him a wink. “Let’s go.”

Then she started to skip.

He walked after her, staying close but trying to look like the weak husband he’d portrayed inside the house—not through intent but by confusion. She didn’t look anywhere besides the wood, but he couldn’t manage to do the same. He snuck glances to his right, where she’d peered before leading them across the section of open lawn.

Part of the front drive was visible, as was an older carriage with a faded crest on the door. At one point, it would have been considered an extremely nice carriage. Like the house, it spoke of money long past but now gone.

Did it belong to Lord Bradford?

A groom stood at the head of the horses, staring their way and shaking his head before saying something to a nearby footman.

The footman started toward them.

Derek did a quick guess on whether they would reach the wood before the servant reached them. It was going to be close.

Jess simply skipped on. She lifted her head to the sun and spread her arms out, looking carefree and in love with life. What would it be like to see her truly that happy?

The immediate concern of the approaching footman kept him from contemplating that possibility for long.

“Ho there,” the footman called. “What’s your business here?”

Derek waited a beat to see if Jess would say anything. She stumbled to a halt but stayed silent. Derek took a deep breath and tried to match her apparent lack of concern. “We, er, petitioned the housekeeper to see the house and the grounds.”

The man gave a cold smile and glanced at the house. “And she let you?”

“Only a few rooms,” Derek said, not wanting to get the housekeeper in trouble, though he wasn’t sure why. If she’d let people in when she wasn’t supposed to, she should be let go.

Jess snugged up against him, her face carefully tilted so the brim of the bonnet obscured her face, the hand with the knife tucked up her sleeve hanging loose at her side. “I want to see the trees.” She held the last word for a long time and with a slight whine.

The footman winced. “How did you get here?”

Jess stuck out a foot and wiggled her boot. “We walked. Now we’re walking home.”

“You live near here?” His eyes narrowed.

“Oh no,” Jess said with a giggle.

“The, er, inn in the village,” Derek said, and Jess pinched his arm.

“I suppose you’ll have to carry on, then.” He looked like he wanted to tell them they couldn’t leave, but he also didn’t want them there.

The woods was five steps away. In another ten, they could be out of sight.

Derek would very much like to be out of this man’s sight.

“What’s going on here?” another voice called from the drive.

Jess began pushing at Derek as the groom turned. “Visitors, my lord. They were just leaving.”

Derek walked just fast enough that he barely felt the pressure from Jess’s hand, assuming she would know how quickly they could walk without someone chasing them. At the edge of the woods, she pushed harder and he stepped faster.

There were voices behind him, but he couldn’t make them out. All he could hear was his harsh breathing and his heart pounding.

Another few steps and Jess shoved him into a run. Soon she took the lead and led them to a turn in a country lane where their carriage waited, Jeffreys perched on top with a blunderbuss aimed at the woods.

“No one to shoot,” Jess said as she threw open the door and clambered in, Derek diving in after her. She reached out to close the door. “Get us out of here.”

The carriage lurched, throwing Derek onto the floor, since he hadn’t quite gotten himself situated on one of the benches.

The trapdoor in the roof of the carriage banged open.

“What happened?” Jeffreys called down.

“I know Lord Bradford, though not by name,” Jess said, her face pressed against the window to look back at the woods they had just emerged from. “He worked with Napoleon.”

Jess flopped back onto the seat and twisted to replace the knife in the holder beneath her jacket. “He took my father.”