Authors: Arpan B
Except
that she was smiling and laughing and touching Uri…
Ethan
cleared his throat. Jane went still and Uri yanked off the blindfold.
Jeeves and Mrs. Cook looked at him as if he had erupted from the
floor like a master-shaped volcano. Rising, they began calling him
"sir" and acting like servants again.
Which
was precisely what he'd wanted, of course.
With
an exasperated noise, he waved his hands. "Oh, just carry on!"
He turned and left the kitchen, feeling ridiculous now.
Returning
to his study, he decided to practice a few of the moves Feebles had
taught him, just to keep his hands busy. There were hours to go yet
before be was to report to Maywell, and Ethan was beginning to get
nervous. He'd had the impression that his lordship was eager for an
answer. Why then had he put Ethan off for an entire day?
Unless
somehow Bess had been discovered.
Worry
teased at him, making his fingers clumsy. He turned his focus on
picking pockets, draping his own surcoat over the back of a chair and
trying to pull out his own things without setting the fine wool in
motion.
Finally,
his focus sharpened and he was able to faultlessly pull several items
in succession. He stepped back, much calmer and rather proud. Too bad
Jane could not have seen—
Clapping
came from behind him. He whirled to see Jane perched on the edge of
his desk, applauding him.
"How
did you get in here without my knowing?"
She
smiled. "I can move very quietly when I wish." She hopped
down and stepped forward. "That was amazing!"
He
couldn't help puffing slightly under her praise. God, he was
pathetic.
She
peered at his coat-and-chair victim. "Can you teach me?"
"Well,
it takes a light touch…"
With
only a few demonstrations, she managed a very nice pull, gleefully
swinging his watch before his eyes when he could have sworn that she
missed entirely.
She
kept practicing as he watched with amusement. It occurred to him that
some folk might not see the humor in teaching a highborn lady to pick
pockets, but Ethan thought it might be useful. He was a firm believer
that there were no useless skills.
Evidently,
Lady Jane Pennington felt the same, for she persisted until she could
pull a watch and a clip full of pound notes at the same time.
Exultation
filled her. "Look! Look, I did it!" Jane exclaimed
gleefully. Ethan smiled and clapped, laughing along with her.
Then
she stopped, looking down at the stolen loot in her hands. Picking
pockets… picking locks. "I know what I want to learn,"
she said, looking up at him. "Teach me to pick a lock. I never
want to be put in a cage again."
Ethan
nodded. "Of course."
She
let out a breath, smiling. Within minutes, they were on their knees
before the study door with the picks he had used on the Bedlam cage,
doing it over and over until she got the knack of it.
"Of
course," Ethan had said, as if she'd asked him to carry a parcel
or open a door for her. Most men would demur, would deflect, would
disapprove of a lady knowing such a low and unworthy thing.
But
Ethan said "Of course." He understood, without needing the
tiniest explanation. She could tell him anything.
So
tell him.
He
was about to show her another technique when Jane put her hand over
his. "Ethan… I need to make a confession."
Ethan
wasn't fond of confessions. Confessions inevitably changed things. "I
don't want to know," he insisted.
"You
need to know," Jane said. "You could be in danger because
of me. You need to be armed with all the facts of the case."
Case?
Ethan began to feel an uneasy motion in the pit of his stomach. What
kind of woman used a word like "case" in that manner?
Jane
had seated them both on the sofa there in the study. Close, but not
touching. She sat very straight and gazed at him very directly.
Damn.
He really hated it when she did that.
"Ethan,
do you remember what I told you about my mother?"
He
nodded. It had only been last night.
She
took a breath. "My mother never recovered her wits. She died
nearly a year ago, as deluded as ever."
Ethan
felt terrible for her. "I'm sorry," he said gently, putting
his hand over hers. "You—"
Letters
to Mother. Long, detailed, informative letters to Mother.
"Oh,
no!" He jumped up and moved away from her.
She
followed him. "Ethan, 'Mother' is a code name—"
Ethan
put his hands over his ears. Damn, he'd known she wasn't what she
seemed! He'd known, yet he'd ignored his suspicions, even when the
truth spat in his face.
Jane
came to him and gently pulled his hands down. "Ethan, please
listen."
He
gave in weakly. He might as well hear it all. They were both going to
be dead either way. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was better to be a
well-informed corpse.
Jane
gazed at him earnestly. " 'Mother' is the code name of my
spymaster. Do you know what a spymaster is, Ethan?"
He
grimaced. "I believe I've heard the term."
"I
was planted in Lord Maywell's house to report on his everyday
activities. I didn't know why at first, but we now know that he is
working against the Crown."
"That
we do."
She
took both his hands in hers. "Ethan, I know you don't truly want
to be part of that." She gripped his fingers, her manner urgent.
"You can get out, right now, and I can help you."
He
began laughing at that, until he collapsed back on the cushions of
the sofa. "She's a spy. Oh, God, of course she is." He
rolled his head to look at her. "You have no idea how funny that
is."
She
was sitting very straight, staring at him with a furrowed brow.
"There is nothing funny about it. Mother says I'm an excellent
operative."
"Operative,
she says." Ethan chuckled helplessly. "
Mother
!"
It
was funny, until he began to think back over all the lies, all the
moments—like in the carriage. Dear God, she wasn't one of
those
female spies was she, like the ones working in Maywell's brothels?
Sobering,
Ethan recounted every moment. "What were you doing in the tree?"
"Trying
to get closer to some suspicious activity in a room that was supposed
to be locked," she said.
That
was the night of the ball, and it had been Rose in that locked room.
"What
were you doing on the terrace? And near my house?"
She
looked down at her hands. "Investigating you."
"And
when you kissed me in the carriage?"
"Suborning
you," she said very quietly. Then she looked up. "But I
really wanted to."
He
stared at her. "Are you even really Lady Jane Pennington?"
"Oh,
yes." She nodded earnestly. "I am Lord Maywell's niece in
truth."
He
eyed her distastefully. "You spied on your own family?"
She
did not avoid his gaze. "It bothered me, especially after I
became fond of Aunt Lottie and the girls. But I did not make Lord
Maywell's choices for him. I could only do my best to protect England
from him."
Ethan
snorted. "With your own two little hands, eh?"
She
shook her head. "You're mocking me because you don't understand.
I have a mission. Nothing can precede that mission."
He
flinched. "A mission. No, you're quite correct. I cannot
understand a mission that willingly sacrifices people that you—"
He looked away. "That you care for.
"What
about being an heiress?"
She
shook her head. "I never actually lied about that. It was simply
assumed, because I am a noblewoman with expensive gowns—"
His
lips quirked cynically. "Provided by Mother."
"Yes."
She gazed at him. "You're angry."
He
laughed harshly. "What powers of observation you possess! I see
now why you were chosen to be a spy."
"Why?"
He
gaped at her. "Why? Because—because you're a walking,
talking, begowned lie! And… you're a lady, and a virgin, and
beautiful—"
She
narrowed her eyes at him. "So my sole usefulness is to adorn the
foot of some lord's table?" She stood, pacing angrily before
him. "You're judging me by the same standards that you've been
rebelling against all your life." She tossed her head, raising
her chin in defiance of his scorn. "I'm not ashamed of one
single thing I've done in my life. Can you say the same?"
He
rose as well, facing off with her angrily. "Can I say that you
have no shame? Oh, decidedly."
She
crossed her arms before her. "If I have fallen off some pedestal
that you chose to put me on, then I'm sorry. I never asked to be
idolized that way."
He
opened his mouth to retort with some cutting jibe—and found he
had nothing to say. She was quite correct. She had never put herself
forward as a model of propriety. Her opinions had more to do with her
own value of humanity than any alignment with Society's strictures.
She
smiled slightly at his hesitation. "You and I are more alike
than you realize, Mr. Damont. You have created your own rules to live
by, as I do."
"I
do as I please."
"Yes,
you do. It pleases you to gamble and cheat anyone you think deserves
it. You womanize and scandalize and generally leave a trail of moral
havoc wherever you tread." Her smiled warmed. "Yet I also
know that it pleases you to save young girls from embarrassment at
the dinner table and carry kittens in your pocket and flirt with your
cook to make her smile. You cannot even sacrifice a prostitute like
Bess to Bedlam, but must make a plan for her own escape." A
frown crossed her brow. "That reminds me. What did Bess mean
when she said 'It were worth it'?"
Ethan
looked away, then back. "You're changing the subject."
She
folded her arms. "That I am. And you are trying to change it
back. Why?"
He
blew out a breath and shrugged casually. "Bess was paid for her
time."
"Hmm.
Paid well, I imagine." Her eyes narrowed. "Your butler
mentioned to me that you've recently come into some considerable
wealth. I know for a fact that you cheated Lord Maywell out of a
quarter's income. Yet today you could not pay the bill from the
fishmonger."
Damn.
One day in his house and she was into everything. Ethan tried for
another careless shrug. "My fortunes do tend to vary. It is the
nature of my occupation."
"Oh,
really? So you had a loss at cards? You?"
Damn.
It had sounded reasonable until she said it like that. "So I
paid Bess off. She can retire, you're free, and I—"
I
don't hate myself for putting you in that awful place
.
"How
much?"
Cornered,
Ethan threw out his hands. "All of it! Every farthing right down
to the change in my weskit pocket! What does that prove?"
She
looked away, blinking quickly, then looked back at him. "That
you are not as bad as you think," she said softly. "And
neither am I."
Bloody
hell. Her eyes glowed when she looked at him like that. As if he were
the tallest, strongest man she had ever seen. He didn't know whether
to kiss her or run from her.
She
solved his dilemma by stepping closer and placing a tender hand on
his cheek. She may as well have clapped him in irons, for he could
not move away.
"You
could join my spymaster, Ethan. You could be so much more than you
let yourself be, if you would only see with your own eyes, not your
father's."