Between a Rake and a Hard Place (14 page)

“Not in the last few months.” Jonah had been trained not to question why a target was chosen, but after a couple years, some of the threats he'd been ordered to eliminate seemed to be of a domestic political nature rather than a physical threat to the king. He began declining assignments. His handler had warned him with a thinly veiled ultimatum not to turn down another, but Jonah was almost ready not to care whether his own name came up for elimination by one of the Triad's other operatives.

“Do you intend to continue?”

He rolled the question around in his mind and came back to the reasoning that prompted him to accept the Triad's offer in the first place. “If I perceive a true threat to the king's safety, yes. It is my duty.”

She nodded slowly. “I see that. I understand. Someone must protect the king, even if he has no notion they are doing it. I'm sorry it had to be you, Jonah. I can see this has cost you dearly.” Then she leaned toward him and, very gently, kissed him on the cheek.

It was a benediction. A cleansing. A minor miracle. Serena saw him for what he was and yet she didn't turn away.

For the first time since he was a boy he felt the hot press of tears against the backs of his eyes, but he wouldn't let them gather.

“I know it was hard for you to tell me,” she said softly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

When Alcock first tasked him with seducing her, he'd expected Serena Osbourne to be just another silly debutante. Then once he realized she was a risk-taker and a bit of a daredevil, he categorized her as a shallow pleasure-seeker who deserved to be plucked, though he'd make sure she enjoyed the process. Now, she'd taken the side of him he thought no one could bear, the darkest, ugliest part, and she accepted it. After that absolving kiss, he realized she was half-angel.

And she still hadn't flitted away from him.

He palmed her cheek and covered her lips with his.

Lady Breakwater is hosting a gala to benefit the Home for Children of Indigents and Gypsies in Surrey. In keeping with the exotic background of some of these suffering urchins, she has engaged a number of palm readers and crystal ball gazers to entertain her guests.

We predict that a number of fortunes prognosticated by the hired swamis will not prove true, unless they foretell that the attendees of this soiree will be lighter in the pockets by the end of the evening—and not necessarily because they have made a cheerful donation. Look to your wallets, gentlemen.

From
Le Dernier Mot,

The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know

Jonah wasn't the man she thought him. Even his kiss was different. Now instead of the self-assured kiss of a practiced rake, Jonah's lips were tinged with urgency, with unbelieving desperation. Their mouths molded to each other in a shared breath. Serena could almost feel their souls mingling and flowing back and forth between the two of them, unsure which body to inhabit.

She was still reeling a bit from the revelations of his more than scary past. But when she sneaked a glance at Jonah from under her lashes, she saw only his pain over his deeds. Her own chest ached in sympathy.

She grasped his lapel and tugged him closer, giving him permission to plunder her mouth. He went farther. He slipped a hand under her pelisse to cup a breast.

Warmth surged through her. Her nipples ached at the nearness of his hands but chafed at the layers of fabric that separated her skin from his direct touch.

“My lady,” someone called.

Jonah squeezed her nipple through the fabric and longing jolted her. That low ache began again
down
there
.

“I say, my lady! It's growing dark. Oughtn't we be returning to Wyndebourne?”

Serena pulled away from Jonah's kiss with reluctance. “I shouldn't let you kiss me so often.”

“Maybe I haven't kissed you often enough.” Jonah continued to caress her breast. “After all, you started it this time.”

“But only because you seemed to…need a kiss.”

His fingertips drew circles around her nipple. It was hard as a horn button and throbbed desperately. “And what about you, Serena? What do you need?”

“My lady!”

She shoved aside her body's responses, its clamoring aches and urges. “Mr. Halpenny's right. We must go.” She scrambled to her feet. “It's already so dark that we'll have to take the road at a walk, and even if we leave now, we'll be late for supper. Amelia will be worried sick.”

Jonah sighed, rose to his feet, and extended a hand to her. “I don't want to be the cause of more anxiety for Miss Braithwaite. But Serena, before we go…” It was growing too dark for her to read his expression, but his voice seemed choked and broken. “I just want to say…”

It was gratitude she heard in his tone, she realized suddenly. He was thankful she'd listened to him. Bless him, it was still so hard for him to speak what was in his heart. “Don't worry, I know. You don't have to tell me.”

“I want to.” His eyes had gone very dark in the dimness, but the hard glint was gone from them. “I never wanted to tell anyone. I never thought anyone would understand. And I especially never thought anyone would be you. Thank you.”

“I can't claim to understand. In fact, I understand very little really except that I can't bear to see you in pain. Please, Jonah. Tell me you'll stop these clandestine doings.”

“If I can. I have one more assignment to complete.”

It's that supposed friend of his in Portsmouth
.
The
man
must
be
a
target
.

Jonah took her hand and led her down the stone staircase to the grassy remains of the castle's Great Hall. Serena decided she would do everything she could to discover the man's name.

And, for Jonah's sake, she'd make sure the fellow took the next available berth on any ship leaving Portsmouth.

***

The next day a veritable army descended upon Wyndebourne—an army composed of modistes, seamstresses, decorators, caterers, and a squabbling troop of musicians. Mr. Brownsmith had handled the invitations from London in order to ensure that no person of importance was overlooked, but he'd sent all the other help Serena had requested to prepare for the house party and ball at Wyndebourne. The new arrivals threw themselves into their appointed tasks with as much fervor as if they were trying to rebuild the glory of Rome in a single day.

It was exhausting just to watch them work.

Serena had to approve every decision. Should they use velvet ribbons or satin to hold back the damask curtains in the ballroom? Which type of petite-fours and what flavor of punch should Cook prepare to be served on the sideboard? She was consulted on the order of dances and whether the constantly drunken pianist should be allowed to remain with the ensemble or if the glory of Wyndebourne would be better served by only a string quartet.

Fittings for her ball gown were about to drive her to tears. Her modiste was using a daring new design, one that required such a snug fit around the bodice that Serena despaired of drawing breath, much less dancing in the thing.

From the deepest dungeon that had been converted into a wine cellar more than one hundred years ago to the topmost garret chamber occupied by the lowliest scullery maid, all of Wyndebourne was being cleaned to within an inch of its life. The brasses and silver were polished, and the hearths of every fireplace scrubbed until the bricks gleamed. Every horizontal surface was dusted and then dusted again. The marble and hardwood floors shined so brightly, Serena could see her reflection in them.

And everywhere she went in her own home, she felt as if she were underfoot.

She managed to escape the dancing master who had insisted upon putting her through her paces the day before. The pompous windbag had tried to wrangle a repeat performance earlier that morning, but Serena slipped into the library when she heard his nasal twang echoing down the corridor toward her.

She needed time to think. She and Jonah hadn't spent a moment of time alone since they visited the castle ruins together and he told her about his unorthodox (and utterly unnerving) service to the Crown. Even though it had felt as natural as breathing to kiss him there beside the crumbling parapet, in the cold light of day she still had to weigh his words. It was hard to reconcile the courtly, if somewhat rakish, Sir Jonah Sharp with the cold-blooded assassin he admitted to being. It made Serena's head hurt to try.

Unfortunately, the library was not empty. Mr. Honeywood was there, supervising a pair of footmen who were grappling with the Doric columns that supported a pair of busts.

“Oh, Lady Serena, there you are. I wonder if I might have a word?” Mr. Honeywood took out a slightly rumpled white handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Mr. Brownsmith sent notice that we'd ought to switch Cicero and Voltaire so that Cicero was nearest the selections of classical literature. What's your opinion?”

“I think everything was fine the way it was.” And she didn't just mean the library. Before all this nonsense with the royal duke, her life was just fine. Before she met Jonah Sharp, her life was just fine. Life was ever so much easier when one's insides weren't twisted up in knots all the time.

But she had to admit, it was much less interesting.

“Very good, my lady,” Mr. Honeywood said. “I wonder if I might prevail upon you to help me with seating arrangements for the midnight supper after the ball.”

“I'm sure you can manage without my opinion. Your knowledge of precedence far exceeds my own. I trust your judgment implicitly.”

The butler preened a little under her praise.

“On to other matters then,” he said. “It's come to my attention that a troop of gypsies has made camp down by the apple orchard. I know it is the marquis's custom to allow them to stay on Wyndleton land as they pass through each season. But since we are expecting guests and possibly royal ones at that, I thought it might be advisable to send a few of the grooms and stable lads to encourage them to move on with all speed.”

“No, don't do that.” A frisson of excitement sparked through her. Finally, here was something she could do that didn't involve schedules and menus and tape measures. Her almost forgotten list of forbidden pleasures beckoned. “You are to leave the gypsies be, as it is my father's policy. As far as everything else is concerned, I can see you've matters well in hand. I'm going to ride before tea.”

Then Serena made good her escape before Mr. Honeywood could put another decision before her. By some judicious dodging into rooms at the last moment and skittering up staircases as soon as the danger was past, she managed to reach her chamber without encountering the dancing master. Serena secreted a handful of coins in her reticule. Then she rang for Eleanor to help her change into her riding habit and hurried back down to the stables as quickly as she could.

Jonah had been spending his afternoons in the stable, she knew. Each day, he took one of the marquis's brood mares out of her stall to check her conformation, her gait, and to ride the horse around the enclosed paddock. He had not made an offer to buy any of them as far as Serena knew.

And he hadn't gone back to Portsmouth to look for his “friend” either, for which Serena was pathetically grateful. It was one thing to know about his past deeds. It was quite another to know that he was going to be doing it again.

Jonah was riding a high-stepping bay when she reached the paddock. He sat the horse with grace and ease, moving with her as one as she made a few small jumps without hesitation. To Serena's certain knowledge, that particular mare had never been trained to jump.

“You didn't tell me you were part centaur.” Serena climbed up on the lowest rail and peered over the paddock fence.

Jonah chuckled. “I'm not. This little bay is a good sort though. Some Arabian blood, I'll be bound, but there's English stock in her too.”

“You're right. My father thinks the Arabians are too highly strung and not nearly stout enough for English winters. That mare is one-quarter Thoroughbred.” Serena gave the order for one of the grooms to saddle her mount.

“Why don't you take this one?” Jonah asked as he dismounted and led the mare over to the fence. “I'll saddle Turk and join you. Where are you bound?”

“It's a secret.”

“I believe I've proved I can keep your secrets, milady.”

And
I
can
keep
yours
. She'd never tell anyone about Jonah's activities on behalf of the Crown. Not even Amelia. “Suffice it to say, I'm about to cross another item off the list.”

“In that case, I'm definitely coming.”

Serena smiled. The only time they'd had speech with each other was over the supper table. Then Amelia was there too, so their conversation always had to revolve around the weather or other approved topics. She wanted to ask why he hadn't sought her out, why there'd been no chances for her to ask more questions about his work for the Triad. But she knew the answer to that in any case.

Jonah considered the matter closed.

“Of course, you'll have to ride astride.” Jonah walked the mare out of the paddock and handed the reins over to her.

“That should pose no difficulty. I know I only have to squeeze once to get her started now.”

“If you forget, I'm always available for a massage,” he whispered and then disappeared into the stable to saddle Turk.

Serena's cheeks warmed, but rather than be affronted she was relieved. It meant Jonah was behaving more like himself.

Jonah the Rake she knew and could deal with. Jonah the Shadowy Hand in the Dark, ready to snuff out the life of that poor man in Portsmouth just because he'd gotten crossways of some mysterious Triad…well, that Jonah was someone she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She adjusted the stirrup height, mounted the mare, and arranged her skirts so that her shins and ankles were modestly covered. Once Jonah and Turk cleared the stable door, she nudged the mare into a trot and set off across the meadow. As soon as they were out of earshot of any of the Wyndebourne help, Serena slowed her mount to a sedate walk.

“Have you begun work on your pamphlet yet?” Jonah asked with a grin.

“My pamphlet?”

“Yes. The one in which you were going to share my…how shall I put this?…massage techniques with the women of the world.”

“Oh, that. No, I haven't started work on it yet.” Serena refused to let him see he could ruffle her though she was at a loss to control the color of her cheeks. Only last night she'd tried again to reach that pinnacle of sensation on her own. After a frustrated quarter-hour, she decided it was rather like trying to tickle one's self. It wasn't at all the same as when someone else's hand was doing the tickling. “To be honest, my experiments with your…massage techniques have been…less than successful.”

If he'd have laughed, she would've reached across the space between their mounts and boxed his ears. But she couldn't really blame the man if he couldn't suppress a smile.

“It's nice to know that men are not as unnecessary as you thought,” Jonah said. “Are you going to tell me what item you intend to strike off the list today, or am I to guess?”

“You think you can guess? I should like to see you try.”

“Let's see. You have explored the dubious pleasures of tobacco and alcohol. You invaded an exclusively male club while wearing men's clothes. You've mastered riding astride.” He gave her a searching look. “I trust you are more comfortable in a conventional saddle now.”

“It's tolerable,” she said. “But I do still prefer the sidesaddle.”