There was no point in beating around the bush. As awkward as the next few minutes were bound to be, Flint needed to lay down some boundaries for the sake of his own sanity as well as his career. ‘There is no denying there is an attraction between us.’ He found himself rocking on his heels like an admiral inspecting the fleet and couldn’t seem to stop. Her usually expressive face was suddenly unreadable and she stared back at him blankly, making him more nervous and feel ridiculously foolish. But one of them had to tackle the subject head on.
‘We are both adults and, under usual circumstances, pursuing that intense mutual attraction would be a perfectly normal thing to do.’ He was certainly inclined to pursue it, but he had to do what was right for the Crown, not the seemingly permanent bulge in his breeches. ‘Unfortunately, our circumstances are as far from normal as it is possible to be, therefore it would be prudent to have matters out in the open in case that unfortunate attraction rears its ugly head again and catches us unawares.’
Not the exact words he had been rehearsing since the middle of the night, clumsier and annoyingly more officious, but close enough. Whatever his body wanted, his inappropriate attraction to Jess shouldn’t be something he was prepared to risk either her life or his reputation on—no matter how much it hurt to say it all aloud.
‘The fact is, neither one of us is in a position to pursue the attraction. As an operative of the government, I have an important job still to do and I have to remain impartial, detached and wholly focused. Something I catastrophically failed in last night.’ If Saint-Aubin had stormed the castle while he had been kissing Jess, Flint would have missed it. The kiss had been that potent. That all-consuming. That dangerous. ‘Giving in to our passions then was foolhardy, as I am sure you will agree, and going forward, I believe it is best that we try to forget yesterday’s kiss ever happened.’ A kiss which he was still reeling from and would likely never forget until he took his dying breath.
‘Very wise. It was a mistake.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it was a wonderful kiss and all, spectacular even, and I’m not denying I might want to do it again—once this blasted trial is over we might even consider...’ At the last moment he was able to clamp his teeth together and not say picking up where we left off. What the hell was he thinking? ‘What I mean is...’
The rest of that potentially damning sentence died in his throat as her hasty agreement finally permeated his brain. He found himself blinking, stunned and more than a bit offended that she hadn’t made any attempt to contradict him. It had been an epic kiss. Earth-shattering and, God help him, meaningful. Very wise sounded uninspired. Wholly uninspired when women usually fell over themselves to gain his favour, Along with his title, fortune and what he had been assured by countless females was a reasonably handsome face. It was supposed to be him letting her down gently, not holding out the flimsy hand of hope by admitting things he had promised himself he didn’t truly feel—yet clearly did—or almost confessing he was seriously pondering some sort of future! He, who had never ever considered such a travesty, was wounded by her abundant lack of enthusiasm for one. Flint wanted to pause things; she wanted to halt them. Being on the receiving end of a let-down was unsettling.
‘Well...splendid. I’m glad we are aligned on that.’ Although they weren’t. The peculiar military rocking was getting out of hand thanks to her turning the tables on him and his heart’s erratic beating of a woeful tattoo against his ribs, so Flint began to pace. ‘As I said, I should like to renew my assertion that once this is over then perhaps we can indulge our passions and...’ Good grief! What was the matter with him? Why did he keep pushing for more when he should be rejoicing in her pragmatic and logical acceptance of his suggestion? He did not want a more. More with her would inevitably lead to other things. Things he resolutely refused to think about and certainly had never wanted.
‘I do not think that would be wise, Monsieur Flint.’ What had happened to Peter? And why was she looking at him as if she pitied him? Women never pitied him. Never! He found himself frowning at the outrage.
‘You don’t?’ He’d meant to nod and kill the cringing conversation stone dead. That he hadn’t mortified him. But then again, being the one being let down gently was an entirely new experience and not one he was comfortable with. The balance of power between them seemed to have shifted and he didn’t like her categoric no. It hurt. Why was that?
‘Of course it wouldn’t be wise.’ She smiled sympathetically like a mother to a child. ‘Surely you don’t think any of it was real?’
‘No. No. None of it.’ He had. Still did, truth be told, and by her concerned, almost bemused expression she probably knew it. That rankled. His cravat immediately felt tighter and there was the very distinct possibility of a blush escaping his constricting collar and creeping up his neck. He fought it by clenching his jaw and willing it away. A grown man of the world, a man considered quite the catch by most women in society, a man perfectly delighted with his bachelor status who was a cunning and resourceful spy of twenty-seven to boot shouldn’t blush. Not when he was getting the result common sense told him he wanted and the one he had come here intent on receiving. He forced himself to meet her amused eyes blandly, fearing that bland in fact looked annoyed. Or worse—wounded. ‘I simply wanted to clarify, in case you had interpreted things differently from me.’
‘Monsieur Flint—yesterday was a very trying day for me. As were the days before. I was upset, tired, overly emotional and vulnerable and you were being so kind. When you kissed me...well, at the time I was so pathetically grateful you offered some hope and that I was safe here in your beautiful fortress, I allowed it to cloud my judgement. I never should have let it happen. It was a mistake. Don’t get me wrong...’ she had an irritating talent for skewering him with his own words ‘...it was a perfectly pleasant kiss as kisses go—but it meant nothing. I like you. You are a very nice man when you are not being staid and terminally vexing, however, in regard to your suggestion that we can pursue the attraction when this is over is, frankly, preposterous.’
‘It is?’ His neck heated unhindered then and he wished the floor would open before it became visible above his collar. She was making a fool out of him and he was rapidly losing the upper hand. Perhaps he had already lost it if the word future was hovering menacingly in the recesses of his mind? He was now so confused and inexplicably hurt. ‘What I mean is... Of course, you are quite correct...’ Whatever he had wanted to say to regain some of his dignity fizzled out when she rose and undulated towards him. For a second, the emotionally bewitched new side to his usually level-headed character hoped her seductive smile and knowing dipped lashes signalled she was lying about her lack of reciprocal feelings towards him and, unacceptably, his silly heart soared against his will.
‘I am so glad we have cleared the air.’ She cupped his cheek, her thumb moving in gentle circles which ricocheted down all his nerve endings and set his body on fire all over again. His lips tingled and his eyes dropped to hers hungrily. ‘Tu es très gentil parfois...’ She benevolently gave him a moment to translate those words—You are a very sweet man sometimes. Words that he couldn’t deny made him hope. Then ruthlessly bludgeoned him with the next before he had the wherewithal to control his outrageous thoughts. ‘And despite my horrendous lapse in judgement yesterday, you are sweet. I meant that assertion most sincerely. Let us not muddy the waters with anything else.’
Flint stood immobile like a statue, until she sailed out of the room, then collapsed into the nearest chair.
Winded.
That was the best way to describe how he felt. Winded, offended and embarrassed. Winded because he had genuinely thought the magnificent passion they had shared last night was mutual and all consuming. How had he got that wrong? Yes—he had kissed her first. But she had kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, or so he had stupidly thought. Offended because she clearly hadn’t. While he was still reeling from the after-effects of their passion, Jess was remarkably nonplussed about it today. Which was evidential proof it had been a totally forgettable experience as far as she was concerned.
What had she disliked about it? It had been a damn fine kiss. One of his best. Hell, who was he fooling, it had been the best. He doubted he was capable of better—which was worrying food for thought when hers had blown him sideways but clearly left her indifferent. And he was beyond galled—bordering on the mortified—because she now knew irrefutably he was not just attracted to her, but willing to pursue that attraction as soon as he was able. Flint had never been so humiliated in his life, yet he had nobody to blame for that state but himself. In trying to regain the upper hand in their confusing relationship, he had handed it to Jess on a plate. ‘You are a very sweet man sometimes.’ What an insipid and insulting compliment that had been. A little pat on the head to soften the succession of body blows she had deftly dealt him.
Rejection hurt. Almost as much as his carnal yearning for her did. Unconsciously he rubbed the heel of his hand against the part of his chest that ached the most until he realised he was actually rubbing his heart and the pain in it was increasing rather than lessening.
That stopped him dead in his tracks.
Surely that couldn’t be right? It was well known that humiliation left a bitter taste in the mouth, fear churned the guts and embarrassment caused the toes to curl. Aches in hearts—painful, clawing, incessant painful aches in hearts—suggested he was either having an apoplexy or... Dizziness swamped him. Good grief! He was heartbroken?
No...it couldn’t be. His feelings were mired in the carnal. They were desire, lust. An itch that needed to be scratched. Transient. Not a lasting emotion involving his heart.
Or could it?
Flint had never allowed his feelings to become romantically engaged before so had little concept of how such things felt. Was this more than lust and sexual frustration? Had his mother been right and he was besotted? It couldn’t be.
His mind began to whir back through the last few days to clarify, replaying every interaction and his emotional reaction to them. The repeated and visceral need to protect her from harm. The panic he experienced if he considered, even momentarily, she might be taken from him. The need to chase away all her sadness and fear and save her from both Saint-Aubin and the hangman. The way he had held her in his arms as she slept, when behind all the lust lurked an overwhelming sense of rightness. The admiration he held her in that transcended the physical. Her bravery. Her tenacity. Her noble stoicism. The way his heart ached when he thought about all she had suffered and ached more simply by looking at her or being with her. The perfect sense of completeness when he had finally succumbed and touched his lips to hers. The pain now clawing his chest because she had dashed all his hopes.
Flint had brought her home.
That in itself was damning proof, because his mother was right. Not only would he never bring a traitor home, he would never bring a woman home either and willingly suffer all the meddlesome speculation of his family.
Unless she meant something.
There was no denying she now meant something. Something that jumbled up everything inside and left the ground unsteady. Something that made his heart hurt at her rejection and soar when she smiled. Something that had nothing to do with his head or his gut, yet everything to do with them at the same time. Something all-consuming and all-encompassing and wholly unpalatable. Yet oddly not unpalatable at the same time.
Maybe a little love had crept up on him while he least expected it? Inappropriate, not at all what he wanted, blatantly unrequited and it would seem, ultimately, doomed. How fittingly typical when he never should have looked in the first place and undoubtedly no less than he deserved for the weakness.
Jess didn’t see him for the rest of the day or most of the next. She couldn’t face a family dinner and he deftly avoided both breakfast, luncheon and the interminable and lengthy second interrogation with the Crown Prosecutor in between. She kept telling herself it was just as well, because she was still hurt and angry at the sanctimonious way he had retracted the kiss they had shared and all it had meant, reminding her he had a job to do—one he was more than happy to put before her. While a huge part of her had been expecting it—because she was still his prisoner and very much still headed to the gallows if today’s proceedings with the lawyer were anything to go by—hearing him denounce what was between them as nothing but a foolhardy, carnal attraction that should never have reared its ugly head stung.
Pride made her lash out rather when he had tabled the offer of possibly pursuing that attraction in the future—if she proved not to be the traitor he clearly still believed her to be. If he thought it that abhorrent now, and blatantly still did not believe her despite his wholly lukewarm assertion the night before that he might, then she would go to hell in a handbasket before she allowed him to see how much those offensive words had wounded. They merely justified her original plan. To escape and leave it all behind her. Why should she care about the plight of the British government, or one of their irritatingly handsome minions, when they didn’t care about her? She owed them—him—nothing. Nothing! If only she could convince her newly awakened conscience and bruised heart of that fact, she would sleep better.
After a concerted effort at searching for the secret passageway out of the castle failed, Jess had spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and second-guessing her decision to put her faith in him when he clearly had none in her. Three more hours in the company of Hadleigh made her question it further. She had only come here because of her misguided faith in Peter. Now she didn’t quite know what to think.
It was Lady Flint who rescued her for dinner after several more hours of circular questioning where he probed and she played her cards close to her chest. Despite the lawyer’s presence at dinner, the lack of Peter altered the dynamic, yet Jess was glad he wasn’t there. If she never saw him again it would be too soon.
The servants were on the cusp of clearing away the plates when the master of the house deigned to show his sanctimonious face. He strode in looking gorgeously windswept and purposeful with Gray in tow, although his handsome comrade paled into the background against Peter’s irritating golden perfection. Her silly pulse’s fluttering had her stiffening in defiance. She would not care about him, dratted man, nor continue to be offended by his hurtful words and obsession with his duty above all else. He meant nothing. If not right now, then he would mean nothing very soon. She would leave and forget him the second she was free. If it killed her, she would never remember that glorious, manipulative kiss again.
As if he knew she was thinking about him, his eyes flicked to hers briefly, then settled swiftly on his mother. Whatever intense emotion was swirling in those unfathomable green depths, she wouldn’t allow herself to attempt to decipher it, even if it did look a great deal like turmoil. She hoped it was. He deserved to suffer.
‘Excuse us for the interruption, but we need to speak to Hadleigh.’
The lawyer excused himself and the three men disappeared. Hadleigh returned five minutes later and summoned her back to the study.
Gray was sat. The man himself stood with his back to her, gazing out of the window at the waning evening sky, his hands clamped tightly behind his back. Nobody said a word until she was seated.
‘I believe you know Gray,’ Hadleigh said taking the chair behind the desk and clearly assuming command, ‘He brings interesting news from London.’
Please God let it be good. ‘Interesting for me or for you, Monsieur Hadleigh?’
‘The Excise Men found two hundred and forty-five guns on the Grubbenvorst in the secret hold you told us about. Both the Captain of that ship and the Marquis of Deal have been arrested. Captain Boucher is very tight-lipped. The Marquis of Deal is currently pondering his actions in a damp cell in Newgate, but has indicated he is very eager to talk.’
‘I dare say the threat of swinging from the Tyburn tree has loosened his lips.’ It had certainly loosened hers.
‘I confess, my lady, I am equally keen to hear his testimony. I wonder what light he will be able to shed on you and the true depth of your involvement in the Boss’s vast smuggling ring?’
She didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking. ‘Doubtless he will tell you exactly what he knows. That it is my name he sees on the bottom of the messages informing him of shipments and Saint-Aubin’s fee. Although Saint-Aubin was very specific about not having his name mentioned. If I hadn’t leaked it to you in a coded letter, you would still be none the wiser.’
‘Perhaps...’
‘Stop it, Hadleigh!’ Flint spoke for the first time since the accusatory conversation started and stalked towards her chair, ignoring the lawyer. ‘What he means to say is we are grateful for your information, Jess.’ He leaned both hands to rest on the arms, smelling sinfully of fresh air and all the things she couldn’t have, and stared directly into her eyes. His looked pained. ‘But the government requires much more before any consideration can be given to dropping the charges against you.’ His green gaze was imploring. Frustrated, although Jess got the distinct impression those frustrations were aimed at Hadleigh, not her. ‘Trust us with all you know. I beg of you. Help us to help you.’
He stepped back, his movements jerky, taking himself to lean on the fireplace impatiently, those beseeching eyes still locked on hers. Willing her to talk. For several long moments Jess went to war with herself, yet it was those stormy green eyes she wanted to hate but couldn’t which overruled all her doubts. Even if she didn’t trust Hadleigh one bit and despite her anger at his shoddy behaviour, she still wanted to believe Peter was sympathetic to her plight. It was all she had until she could escape. Holding his gaze for as long as she could, searching for the truth, some elusive glimmer of hope that he was the man her battered, needy heart told her he was and seeing nothing tangible which either confirmed or denied that, Jess finally addressed the lawyer. Let the cards fall where they may. She could do nothing else.
‘What do you want? People or ships.’
‘People,’ Hadleigh said without hesitation, ‘I want the name of the Boss and the names of every English man complicit in his endeavour.’
‘I don’t know his name. He could be one of eleven nobles I had to write to.’
‘Then let’s have the eleven.’
‘You already had Crispin Rowley and Viscount Penhurst.’ Saint-Aubin had had a massive temper tantrum on hearing of both the death of the former and arrest of the latter. ‘Rowley co-ordinated distribution in London and Penhurst controlled Sussex. The Marquis of Deal ran things out of Kent. Camborne ran Cornwall until the Crown got close and he escaped to France. Saint-Aubin put him up for a few days until he found somewhere else for him to hide.’
‘So that’s where he went.’ Peter gave her an encouraging half-smile. ‘His estate is close to Penmor. I spent the whole of May trying to link him to the Boss—then he disappeared. I assumed he fled after Penhurst’s arrest.’ That intense green gaze flickered with something that called to her foolish heart, so she staunchly looked away to avoid it, hating the way she yearned for it to be more than his professional excitement at edging ever closer to his prey.
‘Saint-Aubin tipped him off. He couldn’t risk another supply chain being destroyed. Those shipments now go to the Crooked Billet Inn just outside Penzance.’ Their eyes locked at that admission, both remembering the argument on the road. She saw his immediate understanding and the subsequent apology in his expression. ‘The inn is owned by a particularly rough smuggler by the name of Seaton. Few dare cross him as he is famously ruthless.’
‘He’ll be less ruthless in a cell in Newgate.’
True enough. And so would Saint-Aubin—which might set her free. Jess took a deep breath. If there was a chance he was telling the truth, she had to comply. It was not as if Saint-Aubin was ever likely to spare her. Especially not now that his precious Grubbenvorst was lost and both Deal and Penhurst were already in the hands of the authorities. He would know implicitly that information had come directly from her. Spilling all his secrets would at least guarantee that monster was done for if nothing else. ‘For obvious reasons, all of the men are in the south of the country with estates near the sea or rivers that run inland.’ She ran off another list of names. Every name she knew.
All three men stared at her, incredulous at the mention of so many high-ranking members of the House of Lords, all traitors to the Crown, until Hadleigh broke the stunned silence. ‘But which is the Boss?’
‘The truth is, any one of them—or none of them—could be the Boss. As I said, I was never privy to his name.’ But Jess had her suspicions. ‘If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that the Boss was close to my mother while she lived in England. That would make the most sense as she had to have helped Saint-Aubin get his claws into the first British peers. In the early years of their marriage she and my father mostly resided in London, where doubtless she would have met all of them. After I was born, they lived largely separate lives. My father remained in Mayfair while she felt abandoned and ignored in Suffolk, pining for the life she once had in France. But she did have two regular visitors whose estates were not a million miles away. The Earl of Winterton and Viscount Gislingham. I believe the Boss has to be one of them.’