While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) Page 4

  “I know, but—”

  “And this morning I find Shepherd in the back of my stables coaxing an ugly colt—”

  Francesca jerked her chin up. “Thunder is not ugly!”

  “—that looks suspiciously like Skerrit’s ugly colt into eating a handful of carrots.”

  “Did he eat them?”

  “No!”

  “Oh.” Francesca looked down and prodded the pebble again. “That’s not a good sign,” she murmured under her breath.

  “My feelings exactly! My house is being overrun by beasts!”

  “Now, Daddy—”

  Her father held up his hand. “I don’t want to know how you acquired the horse, where he came from, or where he goes. I am not feeding another of your charity cases.” His hand latched onto his cravat again, loosening it further. “I want the beast gone. Out of my stables.”

  “Daddy, I can’t do that!”

  “You can, and you will.” His tone had an ominous finality.

  “But if you’d seen the way Skerrit treated that poor animal, you’d feel exactly as I do. Once I spend some time with Thunder, he’ll—”

  “By God!” He slammed his fist into the door beside her.

  She jumped. He’d never done that before.

  “Do not test my patience. I am riding into Selborne village this morning on business. When I return for dinner, I want the beast gone. Is that understood?”

  Francesca looked into his face, and her spirits fell. Argument was futile. She’d never seen him so angry or resolved. Clearly even her most fervent pleas and protests on Thunder’s behalf would not dent the armor shielding his heart.

  “Yes.” Her boot made another jab at the stone, and she saw she’d amassed a small pile of round pebbles.

  “Good.”

  She scooted aside, and he marched past her, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “You’re a good girl, Franny.” His voice softened a little as he said her name. No lover of Italian, he always used the English version of her name. The door opened behind her then shut with a shuddering bang.

  The sky, which had seemed so vivid a blue from her bedroom window, now loomed a dismal steely gray. In the distance, clouds moved in, threatening to block the sun completely by afternoon. She trudged down the path to the stables, and with every step, her boots felt as though they were mired in muck.

  She waved halfheartedly as Davis gave his usual greeting, but she barely noticed the gardener today. She didn’t even hear Nat, the youngest of the grooms and a favorite of hers, as he called out, “Halloa, Miss Dashing!”

  Gaze fixed on the ground, she turned over every option she had to help Thunder. Her choices were severely limited. If only she could make her father understand.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d given her an ultimatum. He’d been giving them regularly since she brought home her first stray dog at age five. But today her father had worn the same determined expression she’d seen two years before when her mother had tried to convince him the family needed a new carriage. The viscountess had cajoled, pleaded, and raged for weeks to no avail. There had been no new carriage and, unless there was a miracle, there would be no reprieve for Thunder.

  She understood her father’s reasoning. A horse wasn’t a wet, skinny kitten or an abandoned baby squirrel. A horse was expensive to house, feed, and care for.

  Francesca entered the stable and went hurriedly to the back corner of the barn, where she’d hidden Thunder last night.

  The chestnut colt glanced at her warily. His flanks twitched, and he hid his nose against the wall of his stall. Poor baby! How could her father be so cruel?

  “Good morning, Thunder,” she cooed. “What a good horse you are.” She inched forward into the stall.

  It smelled sweet and clean. Alfred Shepherd, the head coachman, had spread fresh straw for bedding. Light filtered through a nearby window, and a pail of water and a bucket of feed sat in the corner. Francesca frowned, as both buckets looked untouched.

  Reaching out, she ran her hand lightly along Thunder’s bony body, fingers tangling in his matted mane. The horse shuddered and pushed his nose further into the wood wall of his refuge.

  “Careful there, Miss Dashing.” She heard Alfred’s whispered words behind her. “He’s skittish.”

  She nodded and freed a knot in Thunder’s scraggly brown mane. Thunder’s skin twitched. He cowered—hunching his shoulders, tucking his tail under, and shuffling his freshly trimmed hooves close together.

  “Here. Try this.”

  Francesca took the lump of sugar Alfred held out to her, smiling into his crinkled blue eyes.

  With a smoothness requiring infinite patience, she extended her hand, palm open and filled with sugar, near the horse’s jaw.

  “Here you go, baby.” The horse pricked up his ears, and Francesca saw his nose wrinkle with interest. “Come on, sweetie. Try some. It’s good.”

  Thunder’s eyes rolled toward her, followed by his head and nose. He sniffed at the sugar.

  Withdrew.

  Sniffed again.

  She held her breath when his large pink lips finally reached out and nibbled the sugar in her palm. One taste and he made quick work of the rest. He continued to lick her hand, swiping every last sugar granule, then gave her an expectant look.

  Francesca took a chance and rubbed the back of her hand along Thunder’s velvety chocolate nose. He tolerated the caress for a moment before shying away.

  “I think you’ve got a new friend there, miss,” Alfred murmured.

  Thunder’s ears pricked up.

  “I hope so,” Francesca said. “Do you think he’ll let me exercise him?”

  Alfred rubbed his grizzled gray beard. “Oh, I think he might. Especially if you tempt him with more sugar.”

  “I’m afraid Thunder and I share the same weakness.”

  Alfred leaned against an empty stall, the sunlight catching the silver in his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m inclined to agree, miss. I tried apples and carrots this morning and neither tempted him. This one’s got a sweet tooth.” He grinned, nodding at Thunder.

  Francesca moved out of Thunder’s stall and stood next to Alfred. Alfred Shepherd had been with the Dashing family since before her birth and had worked his way from stable boy to head coachman, one of the senior positions at Tanglewilde. His love of animals ensured he and Francesca were fast friends from the time she could walk. Everyone else called him Mr. Shepherd, but he would always be Alfred to Francesca.

  “My father told me about the carrots.” Her attention remained on Thunder.

  Alfred nodded. “I told his lordship earlier the horse’ll be a right fine animal when we put some food in his belly.”

  “Too bad Daddy’s grown a crab apple for a heart.”

  “Now miss, Lord Brigham is a good man.”

  Francesca raised her eyebrows. “Really? He just ordered me to have Thunder gone by the time he returns for dinner.”

  “I thought something was bothering you when you came in.”

  Francesca’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do.” She put a hand to her forehead to stave off the headache pricking behind her eyes.

  “Maybe if you tried telling him—”

  Francesca shook her head, miserable. “I tried. He wouldn’t let me say a word. He really means it this time.”

  The old coachman squared his shoulders. “Well then, we’ll simply have to figure out something until his lordship changes his mind.” He winked. “And if I know you, miss, he’ll change it in no time.”

  Francesca wished she could be so optimistic. They coaxed Thunder outside and walked him around the smaller of the paddocks. He was still skittish, but they had plenty of sugar to tempt him into obedience. It seemed the more sugar they chipped from the cone, the more they chipped away at Thunder’s distrust.

  “Well, it’s obvious I can’t give him back to Skerrit, and Daddy will never agree to pay the livery stable in Selborne.” Thunder pulled at his halter, and Francesca au
tomatically extended a palm with sugar.

  Alfred rubbed his beard, the wrinkles at his eyes creasing deeply. “I know it’s none of my business, miss, but how did you come to acquire the horse?”

  Francesca bit her lip, not wanting to mention Winterbourne. She had a feeling even the servants knew his bad reputation. “A—a friend purchased him for me.”

  “I see.” Alfred narrowed his eyes. “Then might I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why not appeal to the”—he gave her a sideways glance—“friend who gave you Thunder to house him? Temporarily, of course.”

  “That’s a horrible idea, even if Winter—the friend agrees. I wouldn’t be able to visit Thunder. How will I know if he’s being treated well?” She gestured to the colt, who was still nibbling at the grass of the paddock.

  “Surely you don’t think your friend would mistreat the horse?”

  Francesca bit back her next argument. She remembered the easy familiarity Winterbourne had shared with his animal. The horse and rider clearly trusted each other. But this wasn’t a matter of trust. Now that she had Thunder, she wanted to keep him, and if she brought him to Grayson Park, she might never see him again. What if the marquess decided to sell him?

  And if she was truly honest with herself, Francesca had to admit that none of these issues was her real concern. Her real concern was her own response to Ethan Caxton. It was bad enough that he’d humiliated her at the Harcourts’ ball. Even worse, yesterday he’d given every indication that he had absolutely no memory of the incident.

  But she remembered it all too well, and her reaction last night was further evidence she couldn’t trust herself around the man. She should hate him for what he’d done. What was wrong with her? She was a fool for harboring this ridiculous infatuation for a man who obviously cared nothing for her.

  “What are you planning to do, miss?” Alfred asked, motioning for her to precede him through the paddock gate.

  She sighed, and with another offer of sugar, coaxed Thunder back to the stable. “I don’t know yet.” She glanced up. Despite her bad mood, the sky was once again blue and clear as a freshwater lake. The few white clouds moved lazily as boats, their sails rising puffy and high. The breeze tickled the trees and the warm sun flashed off the quartz rocks and pebbles on the path.

  At the stable door, she handed Thunder’s halter to Alfred. “I need a walk. Maybe the fresh air will help me figure this out.”

  A walk would clear her head, would distract her from the realization that, in all likelihood, she would have to approach Winterbourne about Thunder. An awkward situation, at best. Then why, she scolded herself, was she beginning to look forward to it?

  He was one of the most notorious rakes in England, she reminded herself, turning her back on Tanglewilde and heading for the green fields of Hampshire. His exploits and transgressions were the stuff of legends. Being in his arms yesterday, even for a moment, she’d felt like a schoolgirl discovered with her hands full of sweets. She felt guilty just being near him. He’d held her, whispered in her ear. She was practically a fallen woman now.

  Yes, he was that bad.

  And worse! The rumors about him curled her toes, they were so scandalous. Rumors of liaisons with courtesans, widows, even unmarried young ladies. Francesca frowned, stepping over a boulder. She wasn’t sure she believed him that debauched, but it would certainly fit his reputation.

  Francesca had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’d paid little attention to her destination, but now she realized she’d reached the charming clearing where she often came to be alone, think, or reflect.

  Reflect on the fact that the Marquess of Winterbourne was not a nice man. Nor one to be trifled with. She should pray she’d never have to see him again, release the sliver of hope lodged stubbornly in the back of her mind that one day he’d come to her, declare his love, and sweep her into his arms.

  Oh, she was such a fool! She plopped down under the shade of a large oak tree. The morning dew lingered on the shadowed grass, wetting her skirt through the thick folds of her mantle.

  She felt a part of this place, had always felt a connection to the natural world. The air here had a mystical, spiritual feeling, and it seemed to her that angels whispered in the rustle of trees. But today she felt uneasy, as though something or someone watched her. She glanced behind her, saw nothing but the swaying tree branches and rustling leaves. With a small shudder, she clasped her hands.

  Five

  Ethan galloped across the rolling fields, heading for Skerrit’s farm. Rain didn’t pound down on him for the first time in several days, but that was the only bright spot in his dreary day. After speaking with the magistrate the night before, it was clear the man knew nothing of Skerrit’s involvement with the smugglers. But Ethan was increasingly convinced the farmer’s murder was linked to his role in the smuggling ring—a role Ethan would now have even more difficulty verifying.

  Ethan flicked the reins with frustration. He was tired and annoyed, a lethal combination, and Skerrit’s murder was another in a long list of annoyances. What should have been a simple investigation was turning into a maze of complications.

  First the girl. Now the murder.

  What next?

  He passed the fork in the road that signaled the turn-off and noticed fresh wagon tracks in the ground. Easing Destrehan to a stop, Ethan dismounted.

  The wheel ruts hadn’t been there yesterday. The grooves disappeared through a clump of trees a few yards away, but beyond that, foliage obscured his vision.

  Probably nothing. Local farmers taking their crops to town.

  Then why did the tracks come from Skerrit’s farm?

  Hobbling Destrehan out of view, Ethan followed them.

  Once through the trees, he emerged in a flat meadow with a trickle of water running through it. The clearing looked empty, no sign of horses or carts, but Ethan studied it with a practiced eye. The place would make an ideal campsite.

  As the pieces of the puzzle snapped into place, a rush rippled through him. This spot was close enough to Skerrit’s property that men transporting goods from the farm could camp here for the night. That meant that not only was Skerrit involved in smuggling weapons from Portsmouth or Southampton to France, he’d been hiding them as well. Last night Skerrit received payment for his services, though probably not as he’d anticipated.

  Perhaps he’d cheated one of the smugglers or learned something he wasn’t supposed to. Clearly, whoever the murderers were, they weren’t professionals. They’d taken no pains to hide the body. Was the death a warning to someone else, or were the killers just lazy?

  Or was there another reason altogether? Perhaps it was a distraction to draw attention away from the smuggling ring as they transported the arms shipment?

  A sound caught Ethan’s attention, halting his thoughts. His gaze darted to a large oak several feet away, and a flicker of red in the breeze.

  A hair tie.

  The red satin streamer hung loosely down a woman’s black mantle, her waist-length locks swirling around it. She knelt under a large tree, head lowered, showing no sign of having heard his approach. Her hair reminded him of thick, long curls of chocolate-colored ribbon. Recognizing those glossy curls, he felt his gut tighten with annoyance. What the hell was the girl from Skerrit’s farm doing here, once more precisely where he did not want her? He strolled up behind her, standing there a full minute before he realized what she was doing.

  Praying?

  “I ask for your help—again, I know—and in return, I promise”—at her pause, her whispered words hovered in the clearing like morning mist—“I promise not to fall prey to temptation.”

  Temptation? That was certainly an area to which he could relate.

  Grinning at the idea that occurred to him, he leaned down and brushed his cheek against the wisps of her hair. “Are you tempted, sweetheart?”

  She jolted, head whipping around and loose curls and ribbon flying about he
r shoulders like streaks of crimson lightning.

  Ethan didn’t step back, and she arched her neck, squinting up at him.

  “It’s you!”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  She scrambled up, and he grasped her elbow to help.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “The words right out of my mouth.”

  She was still struggling to rise, the tree roots behind her forcing her to step forward to avoid losing her balance. Mere inches separated them, and he smelled her scent—remembered it from the day before. He hadn’t tried to place it then, but he did so now. Like the color of her hair, she smelled of chocolate and cinnamon.

  With a small sound, she backed away, a wary look in her eyes.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll lead you into temptation?”

  “No!” She sounded defensive.

  Good. He had a mission. And the first order of the day was to dispense with this girl so he could investigate the clearing for signs of the smugglers.

  “I think you’d better run home, Miss Dashing.” He released her arm and gave her a little push toward the path through the trees. “Too much temptation out here.”

  She stared at him, eyes widening. They were the shade of cocoa swirled with rich cream. From the shock in her gaze, he could tell she hadn’t missed the innuendo. “I assure you, I am quite well, Lord Winterbourne.” But she took another step back. “I walk here frequently.”

  Trees, a stream—what could interest her here? “Why?” he asked. “Can’t you pray somewhere else? A church perhaps?”

  Her mouth curved down at the corners. “I like it here. Where I can be alone.”

  “You’re not alone now.”

  “No. I’m not.” She swept the ribbon, which had blown across her cheek, aside. Perhaps she wished she could sweep him aside as easily.

  “I have no intention of leaving, Miss Dashing, so if your prayers are done, you should go.”

  “I should go?” The ribbon blew forward, obscuring the glare in her eyes.

  Ethan grinned in spite of himself. She wouldn’t make this easy, but then he liked a challenge, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much.