She slapped his chest. “Not bad enough. Really, Jackson, I thought you possessed greater imagination than that.”
He tipped her chin up, tried his best not to kiss her. Failed. Just a short meeting of lips before he asked, “What would you do, little moon?”
“I’d look him right in the eye, arch a brow—just one, mind you. Superior-like, as you do—then I’d give him the cut direct. Turn on him without a word.”
“The cut direct? Now who has little imagination?”
“You fail to see the importance in the gesture.” She tapped his nose, kissed the tip of it. “A cut direct tells him, as no words could, that he is not worth my time, my emotions. I have given too much of that to him throughout the years. No more.”
“You’re right—the perfect message.”
He just hoped she did not have to make use of it.
He leaned in for another kiss.
And a cat jumped in Gwendolyn’s lap, bumping its head between them.
Gwendolyn jumped, laughed, gathered the unwelcome feline into her arms. “There you are, Electra. I’ve been wondering where you got to.”
Jackson draped one arm across Gwendolyn’s shoulder and, with the other hand, patted the cat’s head.
It purred, softening his ire at having been interrupted at the good part.
“You’ve named it Electra,” he said. “I would have thought Shadow more appropriate. Since she is yours.”
“Oh no. She’s nothing so meek as a shadow. She doesn’t blend in. She demands to be seen. A sun goddess. Also, I met her when I came here, and coming here has brought me light.”
“God, Gwendolyn, I’m going to kiss you now, so dump the cat off your lap or I will. Sun goddess or no.”
She laughed and dropped Electra to the floor. “Exactly what I’ve been hoping for.”
Him too. Hope had been an airy shadow for so long but now it had found solid shape—bright and bold—in a home and in her.
Twenty-Three
Gwendolyn’s palms sweated despite the bitter-cold promise of snow in the air and in the heavy hanging clouds above. She glared at them and hunched her shoulders against the wind, curled her gloved hands tighter into the fur-lined muff. Her breath fogged the air, and beside her, Jackson’s did too. Their arms were linked together, an unbreakable chain.
He squeezed her to his side. “Are you ready?”
She would never be entirely ready. The Marquess of Preston’s terrace home rose before her like a giant soldier, narrow and stiff and uniform. It looked like the others, but inside—a man she’d never met but had once believed herself related to. And possibly the man she’d once thought her husband.
Her feet screamed to run.
She rooted them to the ground. “Yes, I’m ready.” They’d been in London a week, planning. The day had come, and they hoped to utilize the element of surprise in their direct attack.
“You should not have brought the pistol, Jackson.”
He’d slipped it into his greatcoat, and he’d kept his hand in his pocket—on the weapon, ensuring it was safe and ready—on their journey here.
He grunted. “I’m no sharpshooter like Nora, but I can hit a man’s chest from a close enough distance if I need to.”
Hopefully he wouldn’t need to.
Her family waited back at the Cavendish townhome.Herfamily. The words brought a smile every time, but it died quickly when Jackson knocked on the door and a butler answered it as if he’d been waiting for them. Quick as a wink.
Jackson stepped forward. “Lady Mary and Mr. Cavendish to see Lord Preston. We do not care for his desires. If he is within those walls, we will see him.”
The butler slammed the door.
