And that, right there, lodged under Jackson’s skin like splinters. God help the woman if she moved against Bella or Kit.
Kit folded her arms. “I think it best if we split up. Divide and conquer, so to speak. Other than Mr. Coleman, there’s no better decoy than me to tempt Carky.”
Jackson eyed her. What was the little sphinx up to? Whatever, he’d have none of it. “No. Our best chance is to stick together, deliver Coleman as a threesome.”
“If that’s the case…” Graybone scratched his jaw, fingernails rasping against his beard. “As for the second decoy, send it through the financial district, say Lombard Street to Cannon, then on to Queen Victoria Street. With all the traffic around there, she’ll have a hard enough time just keeping an eye on the thing.”
Jackson pictured the route in his mind’s eye. “Excellent,” he murmured, then louder, “And I propose Coleman’s carriage—ours, if you will—take a more direct route on quieter streets. I think Eaton Place to Cadogan then on to Wilton Crescent ought to do very nicely. Passes through areas of higher police presence as well.”
Kit smiled. “So, there we have it, gentlemen. You know, you both would’ve been fine members of my crew back in the day.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I’ll take the afternoon to surveil the area around Barrister Muddlethorpe’s home, see if there are any possible breaches of security and such.”
“I’ll go with you, Daughter.” Graybone pushed back his chair. “I am to meet with the man and let him know of our discussion here this morning.”
“And I’ll pull together the needed men and carriages. If all goes well, we can make our move tomorrow morning.” Jackson rose.
Kit’s grin grew. “Then I think we have a solid plan.”
“The plan may be solid, but Carky’s intentions and potential accomplices are an unknown. And…” Jackson scrubbed his face, desperately trying to identify the root of why his gut suddenly clenched. There was no reason. They were on the offense, taking Carky on their own terms, but still…
“And what?” Graybone prodded.
He dropped his hand. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling that even if we are successful—and I pray God we are—that somehow, this is only the beginning. And while I hope I am wrong, the stakes may be much higher than we realize.”
This was far more torture than he ever imagined. Charles punched his pillow and flipped over on the pallet, blankets smelling of the savoury stew from dinner that yet permeated the air—and it’d been several hours since that had been served. Still, he couldn’t escape the delicious scent any more than he could escape the maddening thought of Martha. Was she even now laying her head against her pillow? Or was she sipping some tea by lamplight, curled up in a chair, her hair loose and cascading over her shapely shoulders?
He threw off his bedcover and shot to his feet. Hastily, he shoved his legs into his trousers and tucked in his wrinkled shirt, then grabbed his waistcoat and shrugged it on. Two nights beneath the same roof as Martha and he could barely think straight! Yanking back the curtain, he stomped into the kitchen proper and paced in front of the range. At the most unexpected times, Jackson’s words whacked him over the head.
“Pursue love instead of dwelling in past failure.”
It’d been easy enough to shove that thought aside during the day when he’d been so concentrated on protecting Martha and the children, but now in the dark, in the quiet, there was no escape. And he couldn’t afford to suffer a lapse of attention. No, if he truly wished to protect Martha, he needed to speak with her and do it now while the children were a’bed and the doors were locked against invaders. He’d pushed away God’s good gift of this woman long enough. It was more than time to man up and take another chance on love.
He strode to the stairwell leading to her flat, took the steps two at a time, then stopped dead cold in front of the door. Life would never be the same once he bared his heart to this woman. Could he do this?Shouldhe do this? Yet he wouldn’t be able to focus until he did. For the safeguard of all—even if it resulted in his heart being trampled—he had to do this.
He raised his hand, knuckles hard as steel, then paused just before flesh met wood. What if she were already asleep and he woke her? No doubt she’d be cross and rightly so, especially if he woke the children as well. Perhaps he ought to give it a fresh try again in the morning instead.
“Pursue love.”
Blast that Jackson! Charles let out a long breath then rapped on the door.
Moments later, it swung open. Martha held an oil lamp in her hand, the warm glow bathing her face. She’d shed her work apron and gown for a simple, breezy white cotton blouse and grey skirt. Not the garb of a fine lady, but no finer woman walked the face of this earth. And that dark golden braid cascading loosely over her shoulder just begged to be undone.
He tugged at his collar, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
“Mr. Baggett?” The warmth of her smile and hint of confusion in her gaze was unutterably charming.
He ought to answer now. Speak his piece and be on his way. But every last word fled like criminals in a dark alley.
She tipped her head, studying him. “What can I do for ye? Another blanket? A bite to eat? Maybe a mug o’ small beer?”
How like her to think of serving him when she’d clearly already prepared to retire for the evening. Though he’d not thought it possible, his admiration for her grew.
He cleared his throat. “No thank you, Mrs. Jones. Rather I would have a few words with you, unless, of course, you’d rather we speak in the morning.”
“La! I’d not be able to sleep a wink with wonderin’ what ye’ve got on yer mind.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”
Woefully aware of his state of undress—why had he not grabbed his suit coat?—he made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat as he strode past her. His fingers stalled, however, when he met the glower of Martha’s oldest daughter, Harriet, eyeing him from the chair where she sat with needlework in hand.
“Off to bed with ye now, Harriet.” Martha waved her away. “And mind ye don’t sleep with sich a fouly-frackas on yer face or ye’ll wake with a permanent scowl.”
