Page 45 of Stolen By the Rogue
“The same mawkish expression that Harry has on his stupid visage every time he sneaks a glance in the direction of his wife. Even our Spanish friend Lisandro wore it when he looked at Maria. All this love. It is such a sweet thing to observe,” said Gus.
George silently wished he had some witty retort which he could aim in the direction of his friend, but he had none. Gus had spoken the truth.
He was in love with Jane. Irrefutably, irrevocably, and to the deepest depths of his soul. The only problem being that he wasn’t entirely sure about her feelings toward him. If she didn’t reciprocate his affections, then unrequited love was going to be a beast he had to constantly battle.
Jane was a woman who not only enjoyed sex but who also didn’t appear to place an emotional attachment to it. And while this had been all well and good with the other women whose beds George had shared, it certainly wasn’t the same case with her. Why? Because he was in love.
Bloody hell, I want her to love me back. And I need her to trust me.
George rubbed his hands over his tired face. They had many hours of work still ahead of them beforethe Nightwindarrived on the late tide and anchored in the remote Kentish cove. For the first time in the many years since he had worked with his friend’s smuggling operations, he found himself struggling to summon any real interest in whatever valuables were onboard the yacht.
And that was a dangerous state of mind for any criminal to find himself in.
“This is my last job. Please don’t ask me to do this again, because the answer will be no. Harry managed to walk away from a life of crime, and I am determined to do the same.”
Gus shifted and came to sit beside him. “Alright. How about you take the rifle and keep guard at the top of the road leading down to the cove? That should be an easy enough task. And after tonight, I will consider you officially retired from the smuggling business.”
George gave a resigned nod. There was a job to do, a commitment to see Gus’s cargo ashore. Handling a rifle was about the limit of his attention span at the moment. His mind was mostly concerned with Jane and his regret over having left her.
I won’t ever do that again.
“Alright. Let’s get this piece of mischief managed and then I will officially call it a day on my wicked ways.” George reached for the rifle, which he had stowed under the seat. One more night of handling contraband and he was done.
Now he just had to make it safely back to London and get Jane to willingly accept that he was the man for her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jane finished the last of her fish breakfast from the seafood monger in Covent Garden. They unfortunately didn’t sell whitebait, but the piece of fried cod she got was particularly delicious and that countered any real sense of disappointment she might have felt. With a full stomach, she rested at the kitchen table, unwilling to move.
Eventually, she would have to get up and continue her search of the house, but for the moment she was content to sit and daydream.
Her gaze drifted to the note King Charles had written to Jane Whorwood. The old, yellowed paper had sat on the table for the past few days. She picked it up and read it yet again.
“Why would she hide this? People must have known that they were lovers. And he was already being held a prisoner at Carisbrooke Castle when she hid this letter. There was no way he was going to be released.”
The note itself was very short, leaving much of the paper on which it had been written blank.
She stared at it for a time. Her eyes focused on the large, unused section. Jane Whorwood had acted as King Charles’s secret agent. A spy for the crown.
What if there is something else on the page? Something the naked eye can’t see.
If there were secrets hidden within the paper, how was she to unlock them?
“Invisible ink. Could that be it?”
The Persians and Ottomans alike had used various chemicals to hide messages in fabric. It was nothing new. A reagent of some sort was always required to reveal the hidden writing. Where in London would she find such a thing?
It was a stab in the dark. Probably yet another dead end in a long series of them, but she had to try.
Half an hour later, with her hair brushed and wearing her best coat, Jane walked as casually as her thumping heart would allow into the famous Ackermann’s Repository of Arts at 101 the Strand. She had heard of the legendary shop which sold prints, books, and art materials, but had never before ventured through its front door.
She was still rehearsing what she should say when a well-dressed middle-aged man approached. He bowed. “Good morning. Welcome to Ackermann’s. How may I assist you?”
She bit back a grin. The formal way that the people who worked in London shops addressed her had always struck Jane as amusing.
In Byblos they would have spat on the ground and then shoved a goat at you, demanding that you haggle for it.
“I am not sure how to explain this—I wish to play a game with a friend. He wants to be able to send me a note, but it has to be in secret. There is nothing untoward about any of what we are doing; it’s just for a spot of amusement,” she explained.
