Bizarrely, they were all going to sit down to dinner: Jess, her handsome gaoler and his indomitable mother. In the formal dining room, apparently—but it was to be an informal meal because, she was reliably informed, dinners at Penmor were usually informal, family affairs. Lady Flint had cheerfully announced all this to her when she brought back the altered gown with a maid in tow. A maid who was currently doing her hair.
As if she were an honoured guest rather than a captive.
Jess still couldn’t quite believe it.
She had pushed back, stating that it wouldn’t be proper in view of the circumstances and probably wouldn’t be welcomed by her son, but Lady Flint would hear none of it and insisted regardless. Cook was making dinner for three and it would be served promptly at six. Then she had breezed out of the door with the same sense of purpose as she had arrived, leaving a bewildered Jess being laced into the gown and beautified by the equally as indomitable maid.
The young woman gazing back at her in the mirror looked like an English lady with her hair piled fashionably on her head. The pretty muslin long-sleeved dress covered an equally pretty chemise and half-corset. Her legs were encased in white-silk stockings and from somewhere Lady Flint had even procured dainty slippers which fitted her feet perfectly. More hand me downs from her daughters’ youth, but unexpected and welcome nevertheless. The style had also been thoughtful, almost as if the older woman realised her scars were a private matter and not for public display. The sleeves had been hemmed, then trimmed in lace which covered her ugly, damaged wrists completely.
The kindness she had been shown was overwhelming, when technically she was a prisoner charged with treason. Something his lordship’s mother made plain she knew when Jess had protested and then swatted away like a fly.
She might technically still be a prisoner, although thus far her bedchamber door was yet to be locked and nobody had forbidden her from wandering around. That he had granted her that small freedom warmed her. Neither had he interrupted her pleasant afternoon of relaxation. She hadn’t seen him since they had arrived, had spent a good hour in the bath pondering what to do, then a few more catching up on sleep on the decadent four-poster. To her great surprise, she had gone out like a light the moment her head had hit the pillow. Only stirring from deep slumber when awakened with more hot, fortifying tea and the arrival of Peter’s mother, the dress and the realisation that she had dreamt in English for the first time in a long while.
Perhaps because she had been speaking it exclusively for the first time in years? Her mother tongue had been banned in the chateau, her mother happily lapsing into her first language in all communications because her lover loathed all things English and the pair of them were French. Over time, Jess, too, became more French, only resurrecting the lamented English side when she had been strong-armed into assisting her ailing mother with the damning letters. Although even then she had not spoken it. She had never dared. Saint-Aubin flew into a rage at the merest English syllable, but it was all flooding back now. The nuances and musical patterns of the language of her youth. The language of home or, at least, of the home she had hoped, secretly schemed and longed for.
The maid stepped back and admired her work. ‘You look lovely, my lady.’
Jess smiled, oddly moved at the sight of her own reflection. She did look lovely and couldn’t help hoping he would think so, too, before dismissing the silly thought out of hand. What difference did it make what he thought of her frock? He was her gaoler and ultimately still determined to hand her over to the courts regardless of how pretty her attire. Deflated, she promptly considered finding any excuse to procrastinate. An impossible task when everything had been done for her. If Lady Flint’s blithe instruction to head down the staircase and turn right at the bottom was any indication, Jess was free to make her own way down to dinner, too, as soon as she was decent.
A casual family dinner. With him and his mother.
An imminent prospect which was making her uncharacteristically nervous.
Stupidly, she was attaching more significance to the occasion than it warranted.
She took her time descending the staircase, taking in the sheer beauty of the place as well as consigning it to memory in case she needed it. As one would expect in a household of such grandeur, there were servants dotted around, but all seemed to be engrossed in their work rather than guarding Jess. All of them looked up, curtsied or bowed their acknowledgement and called her ‘my lady’. Only the burly footman posted at the front door had the look of a sentry, yet he, too, inclined his head politely as she sailed past.
As promised, she found them both in the dining room where dinner had been laid out in chafing dishes on the sideboard. Lady Flint smiled in welcome. Her gaoler rose and for a second appeared to be lost for words.
‘Good evening, Jess.’
‘Good evening...’ Her voice trailed off and she covered her disquiet with a brittle smile. Despite his early assertion to the contrary, she didn’t feel right about calling him Peter. Not when he was all starched and formal, rather than rumpled and smudged with soot and his mother was present. Baron Flint of Penmor was still sinfully handsome, though. Jess would have to be blind not to notice that and looking every inch the wealthy peer she now knew him to be in his perfectly tailored coat, sedate yet expensive silk waistcoat and snowy-white austere cravat. He was not out of place in this castle. It suited him. She felt exactly like a fish out of water. Floundering. Pride made her hold her regal posture despite the strange jitters in her tummy.
After a prolonged hesitation when his eyes slowly raked the entire length of her body, he eventually inclined his head, then helped her into the chair solicitously, his fingers leaving a trail of tingles where they had briefly touched her forearm. Only once he was back in his own seat again did he talk. The tone, unlike the satisfying admiration in his eyes, distinctly businesslike. ‘I’ve instructed the servants to leave us to talk privately and uninterrupted. There is much to discuss.’
That sounded ominous. ‘I suppose there is.’ Especially as Jess was now resigned to her fate. In short, and after much soul-searching, she had come to the conclusion it was better to be here in this ancient castle with this unflappable and resourceful man than outside on her own. She would tell him everything and hope that in doing so she hadn’t just signed her death warrant. ‘Where would you like to start?’
She braced herself for a barrage of accusatory questions. As if he sensed her disquiet, his golden head tilted to one side and his expression softened. ‘Well, firstly, I should appraise you of the castle’s security to put your mind at ease.’ His hand closed around hers on the tablecloth, warm and comforting. ‘I don’t want you worrying about Saint-Aubin.’
As if he had only just noticed it, his eyes flicked to where his hand lay on top of hers and he briskly removed it, his voice becoming officious once again. ‘As you might have seen when we arrived, Penmor was built with siege in mind. The architect put this castle on a single rock stack that is separated from the main cliffs by a wide gully. Once the drawbridge is raised—which it is now—it is nigh on impossible to reach. To climb the stack would mean approaching from the sea. With the rocks below and the enormous crashing waves, only a fool would be mad enough to attempt it. Even if intruders did get past the sea, the rock they would need to climb is a sheer forty-foot wall of solid granite. The only obvious way in or out is via the drawbridge and up the steep path we climbed. A route which is perfectly visible from inside and is now being watched constantly. There are no other visible entrances.’
Lady Flint grinned. ‘There is a secret entrance. One that only the family and a few trusted servants have ever been privy to over the centuries. A passageway chiselled into the stone with narrow stairs leading downwards. It must have taken years to complete, but whoever made it took it out on to the moor beyond and disguised its entrance within an old bothy that sits out of sight from Penmor. Nobody would ever know it was there.’
‘Should it become necessary, one of us will lead you through it to safety.’ His brisk interruption suggested he was not impressed with his mother’s openness and did not trust Jess enough to share the location. ‘Once my men arrive, some will also be posted out on the moor for additional protection—however, until they arrive we are completely secure. By tomorrow, we will have enough supplies to survive a good month cut off from the rest of the world.’
‘The handy thing about having so many daughters with families of their own is the local merchants are used to fulfilling large orders from Penmor and we’ve always stockpiled food anyway and have done since my hus—’
‘Jess doesn’t need a history lesson, Mother.’ But Jess saw the cautionary glare in his eyes at the same time Lady Flint’s jaws clamped shut. More evidence he distrusted her. Justified, she supposed, but his lack of faith still stung. ‘I should warn you that there will be visitors aside from my men, so things might be a little cramped in here in the coming days.’
‘Visitors?’
‘Yes!’ Lady Flint clapped her hands in excitement. ‘All of the family will be here in the morning. My dear girls, their husbands and all my darling grandchildren. We shall have a houseful. Peter insisted.’
More people to feel self-conscious and gauche around, as if the guilt and her own selfish desire to survive weren’t unsettling enough.
‘It isn’t a party, Mother. I summoned them for their own safety.’
‘Of course you did—but once they are here and as long as nobody comes searching for Jess, I see no reason why we cannot enjoy one another’s company to the fullest. The children will need entertaining and we ladies can enjoy gossip and tea. I do so love a noisy house.’ She jumped up and bustled over to the sideboard. ‘You stay put, Jess. I shall make you up a plate while my son does his best to make everyone’s arrival sound like a dreadful chore, when it will be nothing of the sort. You’ll see. We’ll all have a lovely time. I know the girls will be curious to meet you.’
‘And so it begins.’ Jess watched him roll his eyes at his mother’s obvious exuberance before they settled on hers and locked, all the previous formality instantly gone. The message was clear. His mother was a law unto herself and nothing he said or did would change her. ‘Remember—gird your loins, Jess.’
‘Why would she need to gird her loins, Peter? My, you are such a curmudgeon sometimes. Do you want poor Jess to think badly of us? When I said the girls would be curious to meet you, Jess, I meant merely that. There is nothing to fear. They are all sociable and friendly young women. You will adore them all.’
‘I am sure I will.’
While his mother busied herself at the sideboard with her back to them, he raised his palms up and mouthed Gird your loins. Then he winked at her and it did odd things to her insides. His family exasperated him and amused him in equal measure. And an informal, flirty Lord Peter Flint was devastating. ‘Know that I am sorry for putting you through this ordeal and try to find it in your heart to forgive me for exposing you to my boisterous and annoying family.’
Those kind, hypnotic green eyes were dancing with mischief at her answering smile, the air in the room suddenly shifting so that there was just the two of them. Jess’s pulse quickened as she lost herself in the unexpected but powerful moment. His gaze held hers transfixed, unwavering while the ghost of a smile played on his lips. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth and she watched them darken while the intimate atmosphere about them seemed to crackle with something potent and unspoken. Was she imagining it or did he feel it, too?
Jess was so immersed in him she nearly jumped out of her skin when a loaded plate landed in front of her. ‘I shan’t rest until you’ve eaten it all, young lady. Lord only knows what awful things you’ve had to live through, but you are here now and I shall look after you. So will Peter, won’t you, Peter?’
He grunted some response from where he now stood helping himself to food at the sideboard and Jess realised she had probably imagined the peculiar, heated tension because he now seemed decidedly nonplussed and more focused on piling up his plate.
Lady Flint came closer and patted her hand. ‘Tell me how you came to be left to the mercy of a gang of cut-throat smugglers?’
He kept forgetting his higher purpose and dropping his guard. No wonder she accused him of blowing hot and cold. He flipped from hot to frozen in a heartbeat when his duty to King and country doused the frequent flames with a bucket of ice water, reminding him of his mission, the weight of the responsibility the government had placed on his shoulders and the dreadful consequences of the last time he had allowed carnal lust to cloud his judgement with a prisoner. With each passing day, it seemed he had to fight harder to avoid falling under this particular prisoner’s spell. The rapid about face wasn’t intentional, but entirely necessary. As much as his gut wanted to believe her—and, God help him, he was nearly fully convinced—Flint still needed tangible evidence of her claims before he as much as considered giving her some benefit of the doubt. That was his job, damn it. One he lived and breathed like his father before him.
It was all well and good Jess telling his mother over dinner her version of events, a story that had been difficult to hear despite sensing she was sanitising it, yet it still made him hate Saint-Aubin with every fibre of his being, but his sympathy had to be founded on fact. Facts more conclusive than her scars and his niggling belief she was as much of a victim as the loyal servants of the Crown who had been murdered by the Boss.
His head, gut and heart had to be aligned. Whatever his gut and heart said, Lord Fennimore would only listen to Flint’s level, pragmatic, thorough and reasoned head. And rightly so. Too many men had died searching for the Boss and he couldn’t allow the best suspect and lead they had slip away because she had a beautiful and convincing face and his body was more than a little tempted.
The inappropriate lust he constantly suffered around her could well be clouding his judgement. As much as he was coming to like and even respect her, he was damned if he would allow those complicated and unwelcome feelings to destroy his reputation and perhaps his future within the King’s Elite, an organisation his father had helped to set up and shape. One that stood for integrity and justice. One that always did what was intrinsically right no matter how hard that was to do.
It was Jess who needed to prove herself worthy. He couldn’t and wouldn’t stick his neck out for her otherwise. Not on the strength of a dose of unwelcome and inappropriate lust and the natural sympathy he felt at the wounds inflicted by Saint-Aubin. Emotional reactions would not help him find the truth.
He stood, quashing the peculiar sympathy and desperate desire to avenge her with a decisive toss of his napkin. ‘Now that dinner is over and you are safe, it is time to stop playing games. If you want to remain safe, you need to tell me everything you know.’ A tad officious, but necessary. Flint didn’t want to ache inside thinking about how she had been chained and beaten. How her mother’s medication had been held to ransom by Saint-Aubin to blackmail her into assisting with his villainy. Didn’t need to picture her alone in a rat-infested cell being whipped into submission to write unspeakable things. Knowing she had been in fear of her life or imagining how lost and alone she had been for half of her life—and probably still was. Frightened, vulnerable. Imprisoned. Didn’t want his impeccable judgement clouded with the human emotion which clogged his throat and made doing what he needed to so very hard.
‘I want names, Jess. Names, times, places. Every detail you have stored inside your head.’ The abrupt change in tone had her face turning sharply to his, her expression pained. ‘I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.’
‘Surely that can all wait until tomorrow? Poor Jess has had a terrible few days and a short nap and one dinner is hardly going to restore her fully.’
‘I don’t have time for that. I need to send something back to London to stop Saint-Aubin coming here. Something damning and unique. Something only Jess could have leaked. I need something that will convince him irrevocably that she is in the Tower where we say she is and that she is slowly but surely revealing all his secrets.’ And he didn’t need his mother watering down the gravity of his words with her well-meaning interruptions. It was hard enough to focus on his mission as it was. ‘We’ll talk in my study, Jess.’ He glared at his mother. ‘Alone.’