Chapter Eleven

“Your report, Jones?” Sir Charles’s command was delivered from the center of Angel’s study—now Jones’s study—rather than an official building on Crown Street.

“Sir.” Jones glanced once at the chair behind the desk. It was his seat, his study, even his townhouse now that Angel had given it to him and the service was paying for it. Perhaps Sir Charles expected him to take the chair, as Angel would have done even with his commander present.

Jones stood in front of the desk.

“As we suspected, Wycomb must be driven in part by a need for funds.” He smoothed the grubby paper he’d jotted his notes on. It had already been used once on the opposite side so he could save a few pence. “I was able to obtain information on his finances from the bank housing his accounts—”

“Indeed?” Sir Charles said dryly. He swung his greatcoat off and laid it over the back of a winged armchair. The sword cane he favored already leaned against the upholstery. There was a time Jones would have manned the door and acted as butler for such outerwear, but now he lived alone—and Sir Charles chose to forgo ceremony.

“It is not difficult to enter a bank to review the ledgers, if one is of a mind to do so.” Jones held back the amused smile threatening to curve his lips. He’d had the skill as a boy and had honed it, along with the ability to know exactly how much missing gold would send up an alarm. Only now, as a grown man, he didn’t abscond with money, but information.

Not that the money didn’t call to him on occasion, but he had set that boy aside many years ago.

His hands twitched on the paper, as though their flesh recalled long ago thefts in forgotten rookeries, when he craved money nearly as much as he craved food. The only difference between the two was that one could buy the other.

“I truly don’t want to know how you do it,” Sir Charles murmured. He held out his hand and Jones set the paper into it. Sir Charles tipped it toward the window to read it. The document was little more than a mass of wrinkles in the streams of spring sunlight.

“No, sir.” He had methods that might not be considered conventional, but they suited him. He squinted at the simple script marching across the mangled paper, but recalled the information easily without reading his notes. “Wycomb was in debt. Significantly deep in debt, in fact, just a year ago.”

“And now?” Sir Charles ran his fingers down a column of numbers, paused, then let out a long sigh. “That is quite an increase in only a year.”

“Yes, sir, and without a clear direction of where the funds originated from. His few properties were heavily mortgaged and he’d lost significant income in the markets.” Jones shook his head and paced away from the desk, running his fingers absently along the bookshelves. He’d read everything in this room, marveled that one man could have so many books—and that Angel would share them with an ignorant boy. “I don’t know what other expenses Wycomb has, but his accounts have been bleeding pounds for the past few years. And as we know, spying provides little true income.”

Sir Charles slid a gaze toward Jones, speculative brows raised, as he set the paper on the desktop. “Are you asking for additional funds, Jones?”

“No, sir.” He fumbled with his coat, tugging it more securely into place as he straightened his shoulders. He knew exactly how fortunate he was to receive his salary. “Only noting that Wycomb was in debt, and espionage would not provide the income he needed to dig himself out of that deep a pit. He was close to losing his modest family estate. He was never wealthy, his family has been living on credit for generations, as they are simply a branch of a larger family and are connected to the Baroness Worthington and the Ashdowns by marriage.” Jones set his hand on the scrap of paper.

He scrubbed his thumb over the digits. They were only numbers, of course, yet numbers translated to acres and houses and farmland. To tenants and servants and others who depended on the lord. More, those numbers, acres, and tenants belonged to her. “I also found out—with a few discreet inquiries of his stable boys—that his tenants on his small estate have been leaving for years. As his financial condition worsened, they’ve begun departing in droves. They claim mistreatment.”

“Hm.” Sir Charles set his hands behind his back, rocked his barrel-shaped body back onto his heels. Jones guessed they were both remembering the Flower and Wycomb’s mistreatment of her. “The Baroness Worthington? His ward?”

The sharp snap of wood and flames ricocheted around the room as logs in the fireplace broke apart. Sparks flew, and Jones looked toward the fireplace, somehow expecting the baroness to be there.

“I believe she knows nothing of the details,” he said finally, looking at the dancing fire and thinking of the baroness’s hair. “Wycomb has not asked her for funds because she does not control them—or at least, that is how it appears. Her inheritance is in trust and what income she regularly receives quarterly would not have been enough to settle his debts, though she does receive a significant amount.”

“He would have had to approach the trustees, then.” Sir Charles walked toward the fireplace himself. Picking up a poker, he adjusted the logs so recently broken apart. The sides of his mouth turned down in a hard frown. “I wonder if that is where the income originated.”

“I don’t know. Yet.” But he could find out. “Someone paid his debts, sir. Once those were paid, Wycomb began to grow his wealth. He is flush.”

“Which means we risk his escape.”

There was no need to respond to the truth.

“I’ve set the Gents to keep watch on him.” Jones folded his notes into a small, neat square as he contemplated his answer. Slipping the paper into this pocket, he knew he would be retrieving it later. Wycomb wasn’t the only spy who enjoyed a good fire late at night.

“The Gents?” Sir Charles pursed his lips. “Good. He’s not aware of them, to my knowledge, though I can’t imagine he would notice those ragamuffins if they stood in front of him.”

“Likely not. Also, I don’t believe bringing in other agents, even on a limited basis, would be beneficial. I don’t know of any who might be working with him outside of their assigned capacities, but it is a risk I’m not ready to take.”

“Agreed.” Sir Charles prodded the wood again, the movement idly contemplative rather than managing the fire.

“Finally—” How to admit to his commander he’d been caught by the baroness? “Sir, there was an incident with Baroness Worthington. A series of incidents, in fact.”

Sir Charles carefully settled the poker into its resting place before turning to face Jones. “A series of incidents.” There was no question in the tone, only a demand for explanation.

“As I was engaging in reconnaissance, I followed Baroness Worthington to Bond Street. She was nearly abducted.”

“By whom?” he asked sharply.

“A hired lackey. He said it was to force the ‘gov’nor’ to fall in line and deliver what he’d promised.”

His commander was silent for a long, long moment. Then he softly asked, “How do you know this?”

Now for the difficult moment. “I had no choice but to act, sir. I could not allow a woman—a lady—to be abducted by a criminal.”

“No. You would not.” Sir Charles strode toward a wingback chair, picking up the greatcoat draped over the muted leather back. “But you have also revealed yourself to Baroness Worthington as well as Wycomb’s enemy.”

Jones did not speak. There was nothing to say.

“And Baroness Worthington?” his commander asked. “How did she respond?”

“Shock, as you might imagine, but she recovered well. She punched him.”

“What?”

“Punched him, right in the face.” Why that amused him, Jones couldn’t say. “The lackey never saw it coming.”

“Isn’t that interesting.” The corners of Sir Charles’s mouth quirked up. “The second incident?”

“I was discovered by Baroness Worthington while searching Wycomb’s office.” Failure tasted sour on his tongue and burned in his belly. Yet he could not have prevented it from occurring.

Nor was he certain he would have, if he could.

“Discovered.” The many capes of Sir Charles’s greatcoat slipped over the chair back as its owner deliberately, slowly, set it back down. “This is no small incident, Jones. She could compromise the entire investigation. This entire office,” he said softly.

Sir Charles was right—and worse, he did not yet know of the bargain Jones had struck with the baroness. Jones squared his shoulders, ready to accept both blame and responsibility.

“Sir, she was searching the office herself, looking for evidence of what Wycomb is doing. I had been doing the same. Wycomb entered the office and she discovered my hiding place. I—” He broke off when Sir Charles’s hands gripped the back of the chair, fingers turning white.

“I beg your pardon?” his commander bit out. “Wycomb nearly discovered you both?”

“I have provided her with as little information as possible, and she has agreed to assist in the investigation.” It was not an answer to Sir Charles’s question, but there was no answer that could explain the circumstances. Mentally flailing for purchase on the slippery slope leading to discipline, he squared his shoulders. “I believe she will be an asset.”

“Assuming she doesn’t reveal herself to Wycomb.” Cool brown eyes remained level as Sir Charles released his hold on the chair. With that same stare, he raised a brow and said, “Tell me how you intend for the baroness to assist you?”

A steady voice. A respectful gaze. His mind knew what was required, no matter the layer of panic spreading through him. A single misstep and his career would be ended—and he had nowhere to go but back into the rookeries.

“I don’t have access to the ton, sir.” The breath Jones drew in was deep and calmed the fear slicking a layer of sweat on his forehead. “The baroness does.”

“And Angel? Or another spy, such as the Shadow? They are both in that world, Jones, though the Shadow has primarily chosen inactive status.” One hand settled on the arm of the chair, large, blunt fingers tapping lightly against the leather.

“She has access to the household, in the open, without subterfuge or lockpicks. And since she had discovered me, I had little choice. Dismissing her might have led to the baroness revealing my presence to Wycomb.”

“‘Discovered’ you,” his commander repeated. “Are you losing your skills, Jones?”

It was a valid question, one Jones knew the spymaster had to ask. Jones drew a deep breath and fisted the hands he held behind his back. “No, sir. It was poor timing and coincidence, that is all.”

“Neither is an acceptable excuse.”

Jones nodded once in agreement. He held Sir Charles’s considering gaze, waiting for the moment when judgment would fall.

The silence stretched out, thin as the paper he’d folded into his pocket. He did not want this assignment removed, nor did he want a formal reprimand. But he had made a mistake—two, in fact—and agents had been reassigned for far less.

“It is too late to rectify the situation. You will have to use her.” Sir Charles picked up his greatcoat, decisive now. “We must prepare for an error that reveals the investigation. One word, and Wycomb will either run or attack.”

Attack, thought Jones. Wycomb never ran.

“I expect a report each day, Jones. Each day.” Sir Charles swung the greatcoat around his shoulders so the capes whirled out before enclosing his wide chest.

“Yes, sir.” Relief flooded him, fueling his body so that he stepped forward without intending to. He opened his mouth to say more, but Sir Charles had already turned his back and was through the doorway into the hall.

Jones was dismissed.

He was not reassigned, or worse, returning to the rookeries.