It wouldn’t hurt to go about in society and see what sort would suit as the proper sort of marchioness. No need to offer for anyone right off. He could simply dance with a woman, talk with her, perhaps a walk in the park.
Suitable. Why did that feel so bloody boring? He’d had enough excitement in his life to last multiple lifetimes. Suitable was proper.
He frowned, the idea held little appeal to him, but life was full of responsibilities that one did not always cherish.
Jason unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of it. His gaze landed on the letter with strong bold handwriting.
Mrs. Emily Smith.
Emmaline
. Emily.
It hardly mattered. He’d just have to get the woman out of his mind. Wherever she was. The shirt balled within his fist. He needed a wife, not some entanglement with a mysterious widow. Little twit. How dare she just up and leave without a by-your-leave.
And why was she so very secretive? Emily had answered some of his questions, and others acted as if he’d never asked anything at all. For some odd reason, he wanted to know more about her. He still wondered who Mary was. Mrs. Smith wore mystery like other women wore diamonds. Diamonds he could purchase easily enough. With time, he’d find out all he needed to know about secrets.
Including exactly where his wayward patient resided in London.
And here he’d offered her a safe haven and would have offered her a job as Joy’s nanny. Little twit.
Sighing, he sat on his bed. He’d bathed earlier and had merely pulled on a pair of breeches and a shirt. Rubbing his face, he thought of what the morrow would entail.
He stood, about to undress completely when a faint rustle against his door stopped him.
He listened.
Yes, there it was again, a slight scratch. Jason strode to the door and jerked it open. A blur darted past his knees. Joy stood in his room, looking one way and then the other, her thumb firmly in her mouth.
Warmth spread through him, squeezing his chest tight. His daughter in his room. Looking into the darkened hallway, he wondered how she made it from the nursery to his room. No sign of the young maid sent to sleep in the nursery with Joy until a nanny would be found. There was a faint light from the windows, but it was dark.
He shut the door and looked back at her. She stood there in a small nightgown trimmed in pink roses. Her eyes, red rimmed from crying, stared up at him.
Jason sighed and squatted down in front of her. “What’s the matter, Poppet?” He brushed hair back from her forehead. “Did you have a bad dream? You know, you really shouldn’t be out of bed, walking around at night. You might hurt yourself.”
Joy pulled her thumb out of her mouth with a wet pop. “Mum?”
His heart squeezed. Leaning over, he gathered her close and stood. At the bed he sat and she scooted to lie on his pillow, her thumb firmly back in her mouth. It really shouldn’t have surprised him. On the trip home, he’d made her a pallet on the floor and woke up with her in bed beside him. Jason leaned back against the headboard. “Joy, honey, your Mum is very ill. She’s going to…” How in the hell did one explain such things to children? “A trip. Your Mum is going on a trip.”
Pop, out went the thumb. “I wand go.”
“I know you do, but you can’t.”
Joy stared at him. He wished he had dismissed
Isobelle’s
wishes and stayed through to the end. But she’d asked him, pleaded and begged that he just leave, take her daughter and go. She didn’t want him to see her die, didn’t want to know that her daughter might sneak in and see it. So, angry at fate, and not understanding her, he packed his daughter up, and carried her screaming from the house. It had torn his heart from his chest and he couldn’t even imagine what it must have done to
Isobelle
. Shaking off the depressing thoughts, he brushed a finger over his daughter’s smooth cheek. “But while your mum is away, you get to stay here with me. Would you like that?”
In answer, she shoved her other little hand out and held onto his.
She should undoubtedly go back to her own bed. He watched as her eyes became heavy and she finally fell into sleep. To hell with it. What would one more night hurt?
Breathing deeply, he found a more comfortable position and watched his daughter sleep.
Her hair was dark and curled. Her nose tilted up on the end, and her cheeks, plump as ripened apples, moved in time with her suckling her thumb. He watched her mouth relax, the thumb slip partially out, only to see her brows frown before she quickly sucked her thumb again. Her hands were chubby and dimpled.
It was amazing to him, everything so incredibly amazing. Her hand still firmly in his, he fell asleep.
* * * * *
“And have you heard from this child’s mother?” Sir Taber asked him, sitting across from Jason.
Jason thrummed his fingers on his desk, the polished top hidden beneath mounds of papers. Lemon oil and beeswax filled the air.
Clearing his throat, he looked down. “Yes. We received a message from her maid that she passed on.”
Regret shot through his heart as it did when he thought of
Isobelle
.
Sir Taber grunted.
Sir Vincent Taber worked under the Minister of War. Most did not know exactly what he did, or his exact title of position. In fact, come to think of it, Jason could never remember referring to him as anything other than Sir Taber. The man dressed as a gentleman, but the clothing was as much a façade as the charming smiles. Underneath the fine tailored wardrobe was one of the most ruthless men Jason had ever met. Black hair, graying at the temples, ice gray eyes, sharp angular features, a long lithe frame, neither tall or short, made up the man that was Jason’s boss. A man who ran a secret agency as tightly as a banker ran his accounts.
“And the other? The carriage incident? You believe the woman was no more than a bystander?”
Jason thought of Emily Smith and sighed. “You know my feeling on widows.”
Sir Tabor narrowed his gaze, his raptor features tightening. “What happened to Graham could have happened to any of the others. It was a mistake, one you learned from. Move on.”
It was hardly the first time Jason had received the lecture, and it sat no better now than it did then.
“You can’t go back and extract revenge again, Raven, leave well enough alone. And concentrate on the matter at hand. De Fleur wants your hide and I mean to see he doesn’t get it or any other agents for that matter. Now as to the wounded widow.”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “She’s as she appears and claims. At least from what I could learn of her. She’s family here in London, though I’ve yet to acquire a name, but I will.”
“You believe her?” Taber asked, propping his elbow on the arm of the chair and his jaw against his fist.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I’ve no notion of why she harried off by herself, but for the most part, yes, I believe she’s innocent of any of this business other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
For a moment, Taber said nothing. Then, tilting his head to the side, he said, “Well, your judgment is sound.” He stood and straightened his overcoat. “When you find her though, make damn certain you know what you’re about.” He sighed. “To be honest, we had a man working that night. He was to stop the De Fleur agent from killing the colonel, as that seems to be the French’s current targets, British officers returning. All the coaches and stages attacked have had a British officer on board. However, the trap went awry when Mrs. Smith got aboard.”
Anger shot through Jason.
“You had prior knowledge of the attack? An agent was there? What the bloody hell went wrong?”
Taber narrowed that pale gaze on him. “The agent saw movement in the carriage and realized there was a woman who would be shot. He was trying to figure out how the hell to get her out alive, when the Frenchman shot the colonel.” Sir Taber’s features hardened. “She’s damn lucky to be alive. And he almost blew his cover.”
Jason took a deep breath. Having been in similar situations, he knew it was hard to project and handle all variables, but damn it. “Bloody hell, the woman was shot in the back.”
“She would have been shot in the head if our agent hadn’t have intervened.”
Jason tapped his letter opener on the desktop. “Who? Was it Rayne? Nick?”
Taber shook his head. “Regardless of the legends surrounding you three, I do have other agents. No, this was someone new, someone who might even become as great as the Ternary.”
The Ternary—the three—was what he, Rayne Warring and
Nickolas
Hardin were referred to in circles that most didn’t even know existed. They were three noblemen who had flaunted convention, joined His Majesty’s Navy, and had been quickly recruited to work in the War Ministry. For any who asked, their names were still on the naval roster, but Taber had made certain they received a training of a different sort. They did whatever had been asked of them, gathering intelligence, secreting messages, playing double roles, infiltrating the enemies’ homes and circles to learn what they must. When Jason had been forced to return home three years ago, Sir Taber, not wanting to lose a valuable asset came up with the idea that the three should go into shipping. With Raven Night War Shipping, they still had access to moving things the government would need moved, still had contacts if the need arose for them to spy.
Jason had learned that there was no leaving the life he’d made for himself. But that was as it should be. He’d never really questioned it.
“Yes, well, things can go wrong. I’m the last man to ask questions.” He tapped the letter opener again. “You knew she was who she claimed to be.” He narrowed his own gaze back at Taber who didn’t say a word.
Bloody hell, he really hated to be tested.
“I’ll contact you again if I need you.”
“Do I get to meet this new man?”
Taber stood and looked at him. “No, unless the situation calls for it and at this time, it does not.”
Jason frowned and watched as his superior stalked from the room. What had he meant by that?
Heaving a relieved sigh, he turned his chair to look out the windows behind him. Now that the meeting with Sir Taber was over, he was a bit more relaxed. That man had a way of tensing all within a hundred feet of him. Though Jason knew it, the feeling was always present when Taber appeared.
Shaking it off, he forced his mind to matters at hand. He and Joy had been in London for over two weeks. He’d met with his man of affairs, Mr. Abbot, and started the paperwork for legitimizing his daughter. There were trips to the
modiste
as she needed a wardrobe and the decision on whether or not to purchase the pony he’d found for her. He also spent time interviewing potential nannies. He’d yet to find one he approved of. For now,
Franny
, the housekeeper’s granddaughter, was looking after his daughter.
The idea that his daughter could use a stable home and family was not lost on him. He’d been to three functions since back in Town, and managed to spend some time with perfect women—attractive young misses—knowing any of them should do. They were all beautiful, young, and brought up to run a household such as his.
He could do worse.
But a voice whispered he could also do better.
Or maybe it was his aunt asking if he were certain he now wanted a wife. Perhaps he shouldn’t rush things and perhaps he’d like to meet this one or that one. They were all the same to him. Yet when he said those very words to her, she’d given him that look and said he should take his time. One minute Aunt Elsie wanted to drag him down the aisle and now that he was considering walking of his own free will, she was halting him.
His family knew of Joy, though only Aunt Elsie had met his daughter. His mother was still with his sister, Caroline, who was close to the end of her pregnancy. However, they both sent their regards and gifts and his mother a long letter warning him of the course he was currently on. Her solution was to say he wanted to adopt his ward. As of now, he was still undecided. Perhaps she was right, but if the truth came out later, that Joy truly was his daughter… He still believed it was best to put it out in the open now. He had too much money, influence and power to care what anyone else thought. And if Joy took after her mother, then with her beauty and the dowry he’d put on her, any man would be lucky to have her.
Tonight he was to attend the
Athridge
ball. He’d rather not. But it was all in the perception. He’d treat it as a reconnaissance. Find a suitable woman. And do a light form of interrogation, he was after all good at those, to see if she might be the one to make his wife.
Jason took a deep breath, his cravat feeling all too tight.
Wife.
There was no need to worry yet. None of them really held any appeal.
No one knew of his daughter. He would keep it that way until a time he deemed otherwise. Perhaps he’d ask one of the ladies tonight for a walk in the park tomorrow and he could take Joy. That might work. Then he could introduce them.
He’d been to the shipping office several times. Once to show the large vessels in the harbor to his daughter. Joy found it all rather fascinating. He wanted to speak to one of his partners, but the men must be having troubles of their own, because as yet, he’d not heard from either. However, he was about to meet one of them here within the next quarter hour. They needed to go over some purchasing venues, cargo increases and possible passenger manifests.
No one in either of their high-class families understood why they had to go into trade. For the most part, that was all it was. However, calm waters often held deep currents.
And after The Attack so near his home, with French involvement, he couldn’t be too careful and it was obvious Sir Taber agreed.
The Attack.
Two weeks here and nothing had been found on one Mrs. Emily Smith. As of yet, he had no news from his own network of men. If she were in London, he didn’t know where she was located. Maybe he’d hire a Runner. But if his own men couldn’t find her, then someone was making certain her appearance remained quiet. And the reason behind that could be a possible scandal. If that were the case, then her family was probably of the nobility. It was not the first time he’d thought of it.