While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) Read online

Skerrit’s whining grated on her nerves, and she whirled on him.

  “I have no desire to see the evidence of your handiwork, Mr. Skerrit. The offer is now twelve,” Winterbourne snapped behind her.

  Skerrit shook his head, and Francesca let out a pent-up breath. But Skerrit was no fool. He wouldn’t bargain much longer. She rounded on Winterbourne, feeling dizzy at all the sudden turns.

  “Lord Winterbourne, I really must insist you do not purchase this animal. It would be better if I took the colt home and cared for him temporarily.” There. That ought to settle the matter.

  Winterbourne glanced down at her briefly, and she nodded her head in encouragement.

  “I suggest you accept my offer,” he said to Skerrit over her head.

  She almost stamped her foot in aggravation. Instead, she tapped the marquess on the chest. “Lord Winterbourne, have you been listening? I said that I didn’t think—”

  “I’ll take it,” Skerrit agreed.

  “No!” she protested.

  Winterbourne extracted an ivory card from the silver case. “This is my brother’s solicitor here in Southampton. The earl’s name is on the back.” Reaching around her, he handed the card to Skerrit. “My man is in Yorkshire, but show Selbourne’s solicitor this card and you’ll be compensated for the animal.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Francesca moaned. All her hard work, and in three minutes the meddling marquess had ruined it, causing her who knew how many more problems. She wanted to scream but settled for waving her hands frantically in front of Winterbourne’s face in a last, desperate effort to gain his attention.

  He leveled his amber gaze on her, expression bemused. “What are you doing, Miss Dashing?”

  “What am I doing? What are you doing, my lord? I told you not to buy the horse!”

  “It’s too late for that now.” He waved Skerrit away.

  Francesca spun around in time to see the lanky farmer slink off, grinning his gap-toothed, yellow smile all the way.

  “Why are you complaining?” Winterbourne crossed his arms and stared down at her, now treating her like the ant. If she wasn’t so angry, she might have been intimidated.

  He jerked his hand impatiently. “You wanted the horse. Now you have the horse.”

  “You don’t understand. I never wanted to buy the horse. You’ve just given that man money to purchase another poor beast and—wait! You’re not even keeping Thunder?”

  “No. I bought him for you.”

  “B-but you don’t even know me! You can’t buy me a horse! What will people say?”

  “I couldn’t care less.” Obviously, the marquess considered their conversation over because he turned away from her, striding on long, lean legs to the far side of the stable. Francesca followed, though she had to run to keep up.

  “But I care. My family will care.”

  He glanced back at her, seeming surprised she hadn’t disappeared. “That’s not my concern.”

  They rounded the stable’s corner, and Francesca saw he’d tethered a beautiful sorrel gelding near a forgotten woodpile. The horse nickered when he saw his owner approaching. The marquess quickened his pace, outdistancing her.

  “Lord Winterbourne.” Francesca slowed to a walk as he reached the horse and began loosening the reins. Without a word, he mounted the gelding, gracefully turning him away from her and the stable.

  Oh, no. She wasn’t about to allow him to ignore her this time.

  “Lord Winterbourne!” she bellowed so loudly that not only all of Hampshire but half of Scotland probably heard.

  His horse certainly did. The copper-red animal jerked his head toward her. She saw the impatient flick of Winterbourne’s wrist on the reins, then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed muscled legs into the beast’s flank and guided the mount to face her. The softness was gone from his eyes, and she felt the stab of his piercing gaze.

  The last lavender and indigo rays of the autumn sun illuminated him from behind, melding horse and rider into one, transforming him into some mythical being—a satyr or centaur. The sky was darkening, but through the shadows of dusk, his eyes dismissed her.

  “Good-bye, Miss Dashing.” He spurred his horse and rode into the streaks of dying light.

  “Wait!” she called after him. “I thought you said your horse lost a shoe.”

  Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother to turn around. Hands on her hips, Francesca frowned after him.

  Two

  Ethan Caxton, the Marquess of Winterbourne, suppressed an uncharacteristic shudder and urged Destrehan forward. Grayson Park, pale and dreary, rose before him like a hoary mist out of the inky night. Destrehan shied as they crested the hill overlooking the estate, and Ethan knew exactly how the thoroughbred felt. He reined the horse in and stroked the gelding’s sleek copper mane.

  He’d been raised primarily in London and had never liked Grayson Park. The estate was tainted with too many bad memories—having been his mother’s last refuge when his stepfather flaunted his newest mistress.

  In the moonless darkness, his late stepfather’s country house appeared even more formidable and massive than usual. Baroque in style, the house was a long, severe rectangle of gray granite. Two-dozen windows overlooked the south lawns, most of them as black as the far reaches of Hell. Weak light shone from a handful of parted drapes on the upper floors, and the dim glow gave eerie illumination to the gargoyles leering down at him, their talons gripping the stone balustrade encircling the roof.

  Ethan wasn’t superstitious, but he’d felt uneasy on the ride back from Skerrit’s farm. The ghostly vision of Grayson Park only heightened the feeling. On top of everything, the image of the Dashing girl standing next to Skerrit’s woodpile, twilight tumbling about her like the curls of her chocolate hair, refused to leave him. He couldn’t put her out of his mind, and it was damned unnerving.

  He should have seen her home. He’d realized his lapse halfway to Grayson Park, but when he returned, both she and the horse were already gone. He cursed his error these last five miles or so, consoling himself with the certainty that she was native to the area—a country miss who most likely lived close to Skerrit’s farm. Nothing could account for his oversight. Nothing except a mixture of unyielding anger that his presence had been revealed and the unexpected distraction of a well-shaped ankle.

  He’d been inspecting Skerrit’s property, searching for evidence that the farmer was not what he seemed. Careful to keep out of sight, Ethan had rounded a corner of the stable and seen the girl climb on the rickety bucket to peek inside the barn. He should have retreated, but then she leaned forward and he caught the flash of her slender ankle. His gaze lingered, skimming her shapeless mantle and fastening on the thickness of her rich hair. He’d paused just long enough in his appreciation to see her wobble. He’d been in time to catch her, but his valiant efforts cost him his anonymity.

  Ethan hoped the lie he’d told about Destrehan losing a shoe didn’t arouse the farmer’s suspicions. The excuse was weak at best. If Skerrit doubted it, weeks of surveillance and careful preparation were destroyed. Skerrit would undoubtedly disappear, and with him, Ethan’s best chance at uncovering the French government’s most successful arms smuggling operation.

  Perhaps meddlesome women, not French spies, were the real threat to his mission. Spurring Destrehan forward, he tamped down his annoyance and covered the last few yards to the arched brick entry of Grayson Park.

  A footman carrying a flambeaux materialized from the gloom and took the horse’s reins, while another appeared almost immediately to light the marquess’s way. Ethan dismounted and paused to run his hands along Destrehan’s fore and back legs, checking for any injury or strain.

  He rested his hand on the horse’s warm chest. “Tell the grooms to cool him down before feeding and watering him.” Ethan gave Destrehan an affectionate pat. “Then he needs a good rub down. I want him ready at first light.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The grand foyer of Grayson Park was shadowed
and drafty, and the flickering candles added a touch of the ethereal, but Ethan could just make out the solid form of his stodgy valet, Pocklington, standing ready at the foot of the stairs.

  The elderly valet appeared as immobile as the marble statue on the table beside him. It was the end of a long day, but Pocklington—ever the “gentleman’s gentleman”—stood polished and poised. Not a wrinkle in his clothes nor a gray hair out of place on his head. Ethan caught the servant’s gaze, nodded to his man, and took the blood-red carpeted steps two at a time, Pocklington following. At the landing, Ethan turned right and strode down the long gallery.

  The estate now belonged to his half brother. Alex had only acquired the house and accompanying title a few years before, when Alex’s father, their mother’s second husband and the Earl of Selbourne, died. Ethan knew Alex had found precious little time to think of improvements and redecoration. Still, Ethan would have made removing the dour portraits from the dark, wood-paneled walls a priority.

  He knew their names and titles. And he’d passed them often enough that he was familiar with each ancestor’s variation on a reproving glower.

  Stopping at the bedchamber he always occupied when visiting the Park, Ethan grasped the handle of the mahogany door and stepped inside. His eyes flicked to the walnut bedside cupboard and the full decanter of brandy squatting on top.

  Pocklington shut the door behind him. “Would you care for a brandy, my lord?”

  Before Ethan had time to answer, the valet had crossed to the table, unstopped the decanter, and begun pouring the amber liquid into one of the crystal glasses beside it.

  “Thank you, Pocket.” It was a rare occasion when Ethan drank more than one glass of brandy or a few sips of wine. A man who lived on instinct and quick thinking, he’d been saved more than once by using his wits when other men were too inebriated to do so. But after the events of this evening, Ethan needed a drink—maybe two.

  He shrugged off his coat, savoring the warmth of the fire roaring in the hearth. Slipping the knot of his cravat loose and unfastening the buttons of his collar and waistcoat, he noted that not only had the fire been stoked, but the heavy gold drapes of the bed had been neatly tied back, the bedclothes remade without so much as a crease.

  Pocket handed him the brandy, tsking quietly as he bent to retrieve the discarded garments from the plush gold and burgundy Turkish carpet. Ethan settled into a Chippendale armchair while Pocket shook imaginary wrinkles from his tailcoat.

  On nights like this, Ethan appreciated the luxury of a valet. Seventy if a day, Pocket had more energy than most men in their prime. Ethan smiled when the valet pulled open the marquetry-decorated doors of the walnut wardrobe. The garments Ethan had left strewn about the floor this morning were now spotless and impeccably arranged inside, tucked neatly into Holland covers. “I trust your afternoon went well, my lord.”

  Ethan took another swallow of his brandy and was surprised to find it the last. “Not as well as I’d hoped, Pocket.” Irritation flashed through him as he thought of the girl again.

  “Oh?” Pocket immediately retrieved the empty glass and poured him another. The man had eyes in the back of his head.

  With a nod, Ethan accepted the glass, and Pocket returned to the open wardrobe. “I hope there was no trouble, my lord.”

  “Hmm.” Ethan took another sip of the liquor, gilded by the light of the fire. “It depends how you define trouble.”

  “And how do you define it, brother?”

  Ethan turned to see his half brother, Alex, the Earl of Selbourne, standing in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light from the corridor outside.

  Ethan arched an eyebrow. “The same way as any other man, I suppose.”

  Alex’s gray eyes narrowed.

  Pocket made a small sound of disapproval at the earl’s unexpected appearance, but Ethan merely raised his glass in greeting and motioned his brother inside. Alex closed the door and pulled a chair opposite Ethan. He dropped down, stretching his long legs toward the fire.

  “Care for a drink?” Ethan asked.

  “Will I need one?”

  Ethan shrugged and motioned Pocket to pour another glass of brandy. The valet’s expression turned pained at having to serve the earl, but he complied without verbal protest. Ethan studied his brother. He and Alex bore more than a passing resemblance to one another. Both had strong features and dark hair curling about the collar, but Alex’s gray eyes were colder than Ethan’s.

  Unlike Ethan, Alex hadn’t the advantage of being raised heir to the respected Winterbourne title. Consequently, his little brother had been unable to shrug off the scandals and rumors that plagued the Selbourne family as Ethan had. Alex had been young and impressionable when the late Earl of Selbourne began his descent into complete debauchery. Ethan had been angry, indignant at the man’s blatant and all-too-public humiliation of his mother, and he’d compensated by further disciplining his own life. Alex had reacted by turning cold and distant.

  Still, in general temperament, the similarities between the half brothers were remarkable. Serious and guarded by nature, both tended to shun the frivolous pastimes of Society for more worthy—and often dangerous—pursuits in the service of their country. But of the two, Ethan knew he was the more patient, the more disciplined. And those were skills he intended to teach his brother.

  Accepting a glass from Pocket, Alex said, “Your trouble can usually be traced to a woman.”

  “Is that so?” Ethan gave a half smile, amused at his brother’s statement. After all, Alex had had his own share of problems with the fairer sex.

  Alex responded with a dark look. “But I know that can’t be the case today.” His expression darkened further. “Don’t tell me you spent the whole day with some wench you met at The Golden Goose.”

  “Your faith in me is touching as usual, brother, but I went to Skerrit’s farm as planned.”

  Alex’s relieved expression annoyed Ethan, and he tightened his fingers on the brandy glass.

  “And?” Alex scooted to the edge of his chair.

  Ethan considered and took another drink of his brandy, swirling the liquid in the glass and watching the firelight glint off the crystal edges. He glanced at his younger brother. Alex had been watching Will Skerrit for almost three months and had compiled detailed information on the man—he probably even knew the color of his drawers. Ethan suspected that Alex had lived more in hiding places around Skerrit’s crumbling farm than he had within the walls of his newly acquired Grayson Park. And if not for the crackling of the logs on the fire, he imagined he’d be able to hear his little brother’s teeth grinding as he struggled to maintain his veneer of casual indifference.

  His eyes shifted to Alex’s fingers, tapping a staccato rhythm on the side table. Ethan had every intention of telling his brother all that he wanted to know—in his own good time. But right now he had other things on his mind, specifically one petite, nosy girl with chocolate-brown hair.

  “What do you know of the Dashing family?” Ethan asked.

  A blank look dropped like a sheet over Alex’s face. “Who?” He turned to Pocket, now engaged in cleaning a nonexistent spot on Ethan’s coat, but the valet’s expression was equally bewildered. Although not, Ethan noted, as annoyed as Alex’s was fast becoming.

  “Who?” Alex’s edgy tone mirrored his emotions. His brother really had to learn patience.

  “The Dashings.” Ethan hooked one leg over the arm of his chair.

  “Why the hell do you think I know who the Dashings are?” Alex almost exploded out of his chair. “If you want to know something about Skerrit, I can tell you what the man had for breakfast this morning, but I haven’t spent much time dallying with the locals.”

  Ethan tapped a finger to his lips. “Then I suppose you don’t know Miss Dashing.”

  “No.”

  Ethan wondered how Alex managed to grind the word from his locked jaw.

  “Now, can we return to the matter at hand? Skerrit?”

 
“This is the matter at hand.” Ethan emptied his glass then shook his head when Pocket gestured in silent offer to pour him another. “She was poking around Skerrit’s today.”

  Alex started, granite-gray eyes hard and sharp. “Do you suspect her of some involvement?”

  “Miss Dashing?” Ethan snorted. “Hardly. Her main concern seemed to be Skerrit’s horse. Apparently the man not only smuggles arms to the French, he also mistreats his animals.”

  “Oh, dear,” Pocket murmured from across the room.

  With a self-satisfied grin, Alex sat back. “So you concur with my assessment then? Skerrit is smuggling arms for the French.”

  “All the signs are there. And the man is no fool, either. He had the gall to pull a weapon on me, but he was smart enough to use a rusty blunderbuss, not anything suspect.”

  Alex stared at his brother, looking ready to smash him with the granite in his eyes. “Skerrit caught you!” He catapulted out of his chair. “I’ve been watching the man unnoticed for months, and the first time you, the much-lauded spy, attempt surveillance, you’re discovered. That’s just wonderful, Ethan. Tell me this gets better.”

  Ethan looked hard at his brother. “Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job, Alex.” He set his glass down with a clink. “I’ll decide when and if I’ve compromised my position or yours. Don’t forget I was smuggling aristos out of Paris when you were still in leading strings.”

  “Please.” Alex ran a hand through his hair. “You’re only six years older.”

  “And for your edification, little brother,” Ethan added, “I did us both a favor this afternoon by ridding the area of the interfering do-gooder. If I hadn’t done so, we might have had her surprising us in the future at a less opportune moment.”

  “And just how did you manage to rid us of the Dashing chit?” Alex sat and arched one skeptical brow.

  “It was a mistake. I know that now.”

  “Ethan.”

  “I bought her the horse.”

  Alex choked, then shut his eyes and reached for his brandy. “Have you completely lost your mind?”