Chapter Twenty-Four
“Bogart was transferred to Newgate this morning,” Roberts said.
Charles Bogart, alias, The Printer, was responsible for undermining British currency, and, since his arrest, linked to several local print shop deaths.
“Good,” Jackson said from where he stood by the fire in the library. “The bounder give us any names of his conspirators before the handoff?”
Roberts smiled. “Sheets and sheets.”
“You were in charge of the interrogation, I take it?”
The other man shrugged. “I may have had a chat with the man to help loosen his tongue.”
Jackson imagined the criminal’s tongue wasn’t the only loose or missing limb after leaving the Home Office cell. After the man nearly had had Anna shot, he was lucky to still be upright and breathing.
Roberts quirked his head as if he’d heard something. He grinned. “How’s the honeymoon going? Finally got the duchess to see to your serpent?”
Yes.
“You’re vile,” Jackson said. Then he sighed. “Not rushing was good advice.” A miracle given the man was crass enough to offend a sailor in his cups. “However did you come to such profound knowledge?”
“Simple,” Roberts said, his tone bored. “I’ve a hellcat of my own.”
“You have a woman?” Miracle upon miracles. “Actress or widow?”
“Worse,” Roberts said. “A wife.”
Jackson gaped as his friend slipped through the window, what was supposed to be a painted-shut window . . . mere seconds before the door to the library opened and Anna marched in.
Seeing him, she stopped and frowned. “You look as if you’ve lost your head.”
A loss of something. How many more security risks had his partner conveniently placed throughout the townhouse? Not to mention Roberts was married? “I’m having a break from reality,” he said.
“Well, stop,” Anna ordered. “I have news.”
“Your brother has finally recovered from the facer you gave him?”
“His nose barely bled,” Anna complained.
Jackson chuckled, remembering the look of shock on Lord Brixby’s face. “Your news?”
“I’ve invited the Widows to tea this afternoon.”
He startled, his gaze immediately flicking to every door, window, and crack in the plaster for a means of escape.
Anna laughed. “They don’t bite, you know.”
“You’ve not seen the metaphorical teeth marks to my self-confidence.” Jackson shuddered. “I know you’ve a fondness for the spiders, but is tea entirely necessary?”
Anna smirked. “I’ve found the Widows a great source of insight in many areas of my life. One in particular to do with my secretive husband. All it took was a simple note to confirm my own suspicions.”
Jackson stared. She couldn’t mean—“That’s why you were listening at the door the night Roberts showed up?” If it were true, the Home Office had a far bigger concern than a few counterfeiters.
Anna went on to explain her aunt had been one of the Widowed Widows, and everything fell into place. Widows. Like Lady Crews.
And Bessie Dove-Lyon.
A woman who apparently knew everyone, including Secretary Sidmouth.
That was how Mrs. Dove-Lyon had known about Anna’s cousin inheriting the barony.
The Widowed Widows had kept tabs on their friend’s niece and nephew.
And, if Jackson had truly thought about it, didn’t widows of the ton all know each other?
Roberts liked to call the group ‘The Society of Vengeful Demons.’ The man did liken marriage to hell, after all.
But still.
Anna had to have known Mrs. Dove-Lyon was involved the same time she’d figured out about the Widows. “When did you make the connection?” he asked.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Our wedding. I got the idea that Mrs. Dove-Lyon might herself be a member of a certain weekly whist game from time to time after I saw the four of them speaking in the church.”
“They could be friends.”
“If you believe those three aren’t capitalizing on their wealth of information on society affairs, I’ve overestimated your observational skills.”
Luckily, he was capable of reading between the lines. “You think the widows are part of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s spy network?” Heaven help them. “That is preposterous. Widows are among Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s main clients.”
Anna raised a brow. “And an unmarried woman cannot be well-informed?”
Jackson shook his head and pulled her into his arms. “There is no good answer to that.”
“Hmm,” she said, her arms wrapping around his waist. “My good opinion of you is returning.”
“And I’ve never been surer you, dear wife, will make a fine agent.”
She shifted in his arms. “I don’t know.” He knew that teasing look. “I’m beginning to think I’d make a great honorary Widow.”
Jackson groaned. “Thank you for not wishing me a premature death, at least.” He sent up a prayer. “Heaven help the poor gentlemen of England.”
“Why only the gentlemen?”
His next prayer was for strength.
She grinned. “Is that your cry for surrender, Duke?”
“That is my enlistment, General. Point me toward the enemy and we shall see them leg-shackled and blissfully happy.” He kissed the top of her head. “It’d be selfish not to share my joy.”
“Or the entertainment.”
“That too.”
“Well.” Her lips quirked on one side. “I’ve a rather soft spot for your brother.”
“Figaro?” Jackson frowned. “Why not William?”
“I’ve yet to decide his punishment for making me worry,” Anna said.
Jackson grinned. Anna had been overjoyed to see her brother alive and unharmed when he’d shown up for the evening meal two days ago. But the new Duchess of Grandfellow hadn’t lost her sense of justice since acquiring the title; she’d merely gained greater resources with which to exact her revenge.
And the look of surprise on Lord Brixby’s face when Anna had guessed his involvement with the Home Office correctly had been fitting comeuppance.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” Anna asked.
“For whom?”
“Your brother.”
Jackson laughed. “Isn’t Figaro a bit young to marry?”
She blinked up at him. “The younger the pup, the easier it is to train.”
“Of course.” Jackson ran a hand over his face. The poor mutt doesn’t stand a chance. “Make sure you find a woman with a sense of humor to match Fig’s vulgar disposition. Preferably with a love of idioms.” He still had plans to mend their relationship, after all.
“Now, where would the fun be in that?” Anna said, a wicked gleam in her eye. “A humorless woman would be a greater challenge.”
“For you, or for him?”
She shrugged. “Both. We did agree to be entertained.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her curling lips. “You. Are. Diabolical.”
A flash of teeth. “And?”
“What else? I love you dearly for it.”
She scrunched her nose. “Your mother may be right; you have a sick enjoyment for torture.”
He chuckled and turned her in his arms so her back was pressed against his chest. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “Do me a favor and not mention the dowager.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will ruin the delicious things I have planned.”
Desire darkened her eyes. But his wildcat liked to play hard to get.
“I doubt your ideas of delicious and my ideas are the same.”
“No?” His own desires ignited at her challenge.
“And if I said I had plans to lay you across this desk? To lift your skirts and kiss your exposed skin until I found where you ache? Inch by inch.” He traced a finger up her arm and across her collarbone, grinding his hips against her backside in the same lazy circles as his finger.
“If I said I wouldn’t relent until I had you panting and screaming my name? ”
She shivered, and her breathing sped up. “I admit, your flirting has gotten better of late.”
He smiled against her neck before nipping at her ear. “I’ve gotten much better in several areas of that nature. Would you like to witness my progress firsthand?” This time, he licked at the sensitive skin along her jaw.
She gasped and spun around, her eyes flashing with heat. “Less talking. More advancement, soldier.”
He laughed and gripped her about the hips to bring them flush against his straining erection. “Say the word, General.”
Her fingers twisted in his lapels and dragged him down so they were eye level. The look he saw there was pure fire and all Anna. Even when she smiled a second later and whispered against his lips, “Charge.”
“Hold tight, then, my darling wife.”