Chapter Forty-Three

“You’re not doing anything illegal, eh?” Bill’s left eyebrow tilted down beneath a bald skull gleaming in the setting sun. He looked to Cat, to Jones, back again, filling the doorway with his bulk.

“I only need a safe place to stay for a few hours.” Cat was conscious of the desperate bustle in the street at her back, of the reek of urine saturating the air. More, she was conscious of Jones standing beside her. “It is important.”

“I like you, milady, but I’ve work to do today.” The scowl on Bill’s face was ferocious. “I’m not inclined to share my rooms for reasons I don’t understand—particularly as I’m leaving.”

“I cannot provide details in full.” Cat glanced to Jones, whose face was impassive as he took in the street around them—no doubt watching for danger. For Wycomb. “It is complicated.”

“Aye?” Bill planted his legs inside the doorframe, as if he’d grown there. “Tell me.”

She weighed her words carefully. “A man sold me to the opium den for ransom. Jones hopes to apprehend him.”

“This Jones needs to stash you somewhere while he goes about his business, eh?”

“That, and I need to keep watch.” Jones jerked his head toward the door of the den.

A long silence followed. Cat held her breath, misgiving pinging through her. They were exposed on the street, on display to Wycomb should he arrive at the den just then. She rubbed damp palms on her cloak, and though instinct made her want to turn around and look for danger, her mind told her that doing so risked detection.

“Come in.” Bill stepped aside, the scowl on his face only a little less ferocious.

“Thank you.” Unutterably grateful, Cat smiled and crossed the threshold. As the door closed behind Jones, hiding them from the eyes of the street, she found her worry lessening.

The room was no less spartan by day than by night. Without the glow of the fire to soften it, she could see the shabbiness as well—though the smell of toasted bread warmed the space.

“Have you had supper, yet?” Bill asked grumpily. He gestured toward a bundle of cloth near the hearth and a roasting stick. “I’ve bread and sausages.”

“We have.” Jones was at the window already, pushing aside the ragged fabric to look out at the darkening street. He turned then to face Bill, brown eyes solemn. “I am indebted to you.”

“Aye.” Bill’s lips quirked up, amusement clear in the half light of the room. “Iffen we see each other again, I’ll be sure to call in that favor.”

Something passed between the two men Cat didn’t understand. She could almost see it in the air.

“Understood.” Jones nodded, as if in acceptance of an unspoken agreement.

“Now, I’ve work to do, as I said.” Bill crossed his thick arms, squinted at the two of them. “I’ll be back later. Milady, if Jones here leaves you for any reason, keep the door locked until I return, eh? Don’t go wandering about St. Giles alone.”

“I will.” She smiled warmly at the tall man in his threadbare clothes. They owed him a great deal, more than she could ever repay, but she promised herself she would do what she could as soon as this ordeal was over.

“Good.” He retrieved a cap from a peg near the door and settled it over his smooth head. “I’ll be back.”

The door snapped shut behind Bill, the finality of the sound renewing her unease. Jones snatched the stool with a single hand and immediately went to the window again. He positioned the seat, lowered himself and pushed aside the curtain so that a slim crack of blurred glass was revealed.

“Can you see the door of the den from here?” Cat asked softly, leaning close to see for herself through that long, thin triangular crack. She set her hand on his broad shoulder, let it linger there. Beneath his coat, muscle twitched and rolled against her palm.

“Well enough.” He turned his head slightly, as though to determine just how close she truly was. Too close, apparently, as he drew a long breath and leaned away.

“I would have you nowhere near Wycomb when I find him.” The words curled through the air, barely audible.

The dry laugh that slipped out scored her throat. “I don’t particularly want to be near my uncle, either.”

She did not want to face Wycomb. Nor did she want to be inside the opium den again. That door opened to nightmares, to the sickly sweet scent still lingering in her hair. To memories of Wycomb that refused to give up their corner in her mind.

Her fingers curled into Jones’s shoulder, searching for an anchor. She found one. Just there, when she needed it. A large, capable hand, callused and rough, pried her fingers loose and twined with them.

“I don’t know how long we will have to wait for Wycomb.” Jones’s eyes were solemn when they met hers. A corner of his mouth tipped up before he spoke again, easing the fear crawling under her skin. “I’d prefer my shoulder to be in working order when we do. I might have to defend your honor.”

He brought her hand to his lips, pressed them softly to her knuckles. The kiss dove straight to her heart.

“My gentleman hero.”

Cat meant it, with all her being.

Jones might not believe it, but she knew what was in his heart. She wanted it. Always.

“Will you go with me? To Colle di Val d’Elsa?” The words rushed from her. She had not known they were there to be spoken, but they had been in her mind for a long time.

“What?” The hand that had been so gentle on hers tightened. Not painfully, but with strength that imparted shock. “What?”

“Come with me. We can live there, just as you imagined. No one will know us, there will be no society to snub us. No tenants, no trustees. I can—”

“Cat. Stop. We can’t.” His fingers fell away from hers, leaving her hand curled around nothing but cool air. The tear that now lived permanently in her heart deepened.

“We can.” Desperation could be cruel. It could fill a soul so that the skin felt tight, so sound and sight sharpened to the single point of a lover’s eyes. “I don’t need Ashdown Abbey, or the trust. It’s you that matters, don’t you understand?”

“You can’t give up a five-hundred-year legacy for me, Cat. I won’t allow it.”

“But you’re willing to give up us? To give up love?” She angled her body, trying not to come between Jones and the window, yet wanting him to see her.

“It’s your life. It’s everything you are.” He tipped his head back, closed his eyes briefly. The stool creaked with the movement and light from the street shifted over his face. “I’m nothing, Cat. We’re nothing.”

Oh God. Words twisted and tore at the heart, didn’t they? But she set her feet into the worn planks of the floor. She knew what she wanted.

“All the tenants who rely on me can be managed by Mr. Sparks. Jones, I don’t need to be there.” With those words, something rolled from her shoulders that she had not even known was weighing on them. “I’m not my father, Jones. I’m not his father, or his grandfather. I’m not the first Mary Elizabeth Frances Ashdown, either. I’m Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown. I’m Cat, first. The land will always belong to me, and then my children—only I am not needed to run everything.”

“Cat.” Jones set warm hands against her waist and pulled her forward. She went, willingly, looking down at the square jaw, at the eyes filled with shock. At the cheekbones that sharpened in moments such as this. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She smiled, with all the brilliance that shone in her heart. “We can’t be together here. So, we will be together somewhere else.”

“It is impossible.” He sighed, leaning forward so that his forehead rested just beneath her heart. “It can’t be possible.”

“It can, if we want it to be.” Every fiber and sinew that knitted her body together told her this. “Our life can be what we make it. Here in England, we will never be able live freely. There, in Colle di Val d’Els we can. It’s that simple.”

“Hope can be a bitter thing, Cat.”

Tears formed a throbbing ache in her throat when he turned his face to the side so his cheek now pressed against her breast. Arms slid around her waist, drawing her near.

It was she who drew him in for comfort. She who circled him with love as her arms circled shoulders sagging beneath their burden. Standing here, with Jones seeking her comfort and hope a small, bright dream growing between them, the moment both tore at her and healed the chasm in her heart.

“I love you, Jones.”

A relieved and terrified shudder wracked him, so that the wide, broad shoulders became momentarily frail.

“Come with me,” she whispered, seeing little beyond the thick brown hair so neatly trimmed. Tears shadowed her vision and blocked that familiar sight from her. But she wasn’t ready to cry yet. Not yet.

He had not answered.

He was silent for what seemed like an age. Two. Civilizations might have risen and fallen in the time that he did not speak. Only the steady drip of rain and the rhythm of their breath filled the room. Then, finally, Jones moved.

He stood, unfolding his body from the safe hollow she’d created for him, looking down into her face, searching her eyes. Cupping her cheeks, he set his mouth to hers. He gave of himself, with gentleness and sweetness, with a soft fury that stole her breath.

This was home. Not Ashdown Abbey or the townhouse in London, nor any other estate. Home was not a physical location. It was with Jones.

She moved closer, gripping the rough linen of his shirt, opening her mouth beneath his so that she could give of herself as well. His mouth devoured hers, fiercer than anything he had shown her before.

“Cat.” The single word was rough with that turbulence as well as urgency. “Wycomb is on the street.”

Jones pressed his lips to hers once final time, then set her away from him with great regret. “Hedgewood is with him.”

Her body had stiffened with fear. He regretted that he had caused it, but better she was scared than so confident she put herself in danger. A second look through the gray-blue dusk showed Wycomb and Hedgewood both stepping into the opium den.

Now. It must be now.

“Here, take my knife.” He pulled it from his boot, offering it to her hilt first. The low firelight glinted on the blade he ruthlessly maintained.

“You might need it, Jones.” She shook her head, backing away from the weapon.

“I have others.” Two others, just as easily accessible to him and as familiar as old friends. “I also have my pistol.”

Carefully, as if she expected it to strike as quickly as a snake, she accepted the knife. It was large in her small, dirt-streaked hand. “Are you going into the den?”

“Yes, before it is too late. Lock the door as soon as I leave.”

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“You as well.” He gave her a fast, hard kiss, aware that time was passing quickly. “Lock the door,” he said again.

He slipped out that door and waited for the sound of the deadbolt on the other side. Jones closed his eyes for one second to imprint the memory of her in his mind—still wearing her nightshift and cloak, holding a knife in one hand and watching him with those butterfly-blue eyes.

The image would carry him through.

Then he set Cat aside and focused on the mission. The Flower and Shadow had positioned themselves at the rear of the den, watching the windows Cat and Jones had escaped from earlier.

Angel, who had been watching the front as well, gained the stoop just as Jones stepped close. Training became instinctual, Angel’s intent forming in Jones’s mind from both memory and observation. It was a pattern they had performed before.

Angel held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, experience turning both weapons into extensions of his body. He nodded once to Jones as a sign to proceed and flattened his back to the wall beside the door. Jones reached for the handle, pressed the latch, and pushed it open.

The hall was empty. Dim light filtered in from the first room Jones already knew the patrons frequented, but the hall itself held no candles, no Wycomb and no Hedgewood. Pistol leading the way, Jones slowly stepped into the narrow space. He peered into the first room and saw patrons sprawled on pillows, others imbibing. Smoke hung thick in the air and wove between agitated voices, its scent sweet enough that he wrinkled his nose.

The guard was at the door, a different one this time. Jones jabbed the stock of his pistol on the spot at the temple that would keep the man sleeping for a while. Minutes, hours. It was unclear, but either way the patrons were too far gone to notice and it would gain them a window of time.

Still, Jones knew where Wycomb would go. Not here on the first floor, but below where Cat would have been held.

He gestured to Angel, pointing down to the floor below. Angel nodded in understanding, then pointed to the street behind them. He held up two fingers. Jones knew the intent of the gesture—Shadow and the Flower were already alerted by Angel that Wycomb had entered.

It was a pleasure working with his own.

Though Angel had been Jones’s commander, he did not take the lead. Jones already knew the way and led Angel down the hall, past empty rooms and to the steps leading below. He pointed down, then flashed his fingers. Five. Another five.

Expect ten men.

Angel nodded his understanding and they began to descend the steps. Silently, letting muscle and joints absorb sound rather than the wood beneath their feet, they moved below. Jones heard voices, raised well beyond conversation level.

“I will not pay until I see her.” Not Wycomb—it must be Hedgewood. Jones had never heard his voice, so it was only a guess.

The labyrinth of rooms and halls in the lower level spanned before him. He listened, careful to follow the sound of the voices. Doorways opened on each side, each dark though sconces were perched on the walls at intervals so they could pick their way forward.

“Just pay them.” Wycomb’s voice was smooth and easily recognizable, disdain dripping from the words. “Mary Elizabeth is worth more than the both of us combined.”

Jones moved down the hall, pistol poised and ready, the knife in his waistband burning through his shirt as if demanding to be used. A glance behind showed Angel, face set in resolute lines. Somewhere beyond were others, but Jones could only count on Angel now. One on three. Two agents against another well-experienced agent—not including the others that would likely be in the surrounding chambers.

It was a risk.

Angel met his gaze steadily—he was ready.

“Your niece is not my concern.” The words were clearly said between clenched teeth, anger infusing every syllable. “I want her estates, not her. I can find a dozen women who can give me what she can.”

“We are in agreement then.” Wycomb again, in cool tones. Jones moved closer to the door of the room he believed them to be in, hoping Wycomb’s words would mask his footsteps. Candlelight shown through the doorway. “None of us care about her person beyond her ability to bear children. I’d think you would be concerned enough about that to pay their demands—and I cannot pay, as we both know.”

Everything in Jones bristled. He stepped forward, fury coursing through him.

A hand landed on his shoulder, strong and heavy. It was as if he were in the training room, the hand on his shoulder one he’d felt a hundred times before. Jones turned to look behind him.

Wait, Angel mouthed. Removing his hand, Angel tapped his finger against his ear. Listen.

Jones knew there were times to rush in and moments when it was best to listen. Patience was always an advantage. He’d forgotten when they’d spoken of Cat. Breathing deep, letting all his fear center in his chest so it gave him strength, he waited. Listened. As he’d been trained.

“Your niece’s ability to bear children is unimportant. There are ways around that.” A pause, then, “I want her visibly intact. No scars. I want to present a wife free from marks to the ton.”

“Of course—and if I could provide her, I would.” Wycomb’s sly words forced Jones to press his back against the wall. “She has been removed from my hands, however. Her fate is in yours. If you pay what they ask, she can be what you require.”

“I want proof she is unsullied.” Hedgewood’s voice was harsh, as if he could no longer control the tone and pitch of the words.

“Well I ain’t got proof,” came the voice of a third man. “She’s well gone, and my men are the worse for the wear. She weren’t alone.” A pause, a grunt. “You told me it would be easy, milord. We’d make back what we lost on the shipment if we sell her to the gent.”

“Ah.” Hedgewood’s voice was suddenly smooth. It sent a chill through Jones. “Is that how it is, Wycomb? You give your niece to these men and sell her back to me?”

“If it works, yes.” Smooth, unworried words from Wycomb. “If you had simply persuaded her to marry you—”

Jones could not listen any longer.