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

  Personally, Francesca disliked the hall and the drawing room. She hated the cold, formal entry with its sightless marble busts, and the drawing room was too much her mother’s domain—overly vibrant and lush. Like her mother, it smelled of roses and powder. The chairs and settle were upholstered in damask and silk, their woods rich and warm. The gold draperies were heavy, laden with the weight of their fabric, and the floral pattern of the paper on the walls was rich and sumptuous. A luxurious room, and an inviting web designed by a spider who knew how to lure fat, juicy flies.

  The spider arranged her skirts again on the dark green settle and raised both eyebrows expectantly at the fly in question.

  Lord Winterbourne narrowed his eyes. “Madam, I thank you for—”

  “Signore, per favore.” Francesca flinched as her mother cut Winterbourne off again. Even worse, Lady Brigham shook a finger at him before spreading her arms and smiling graciously. “Avanti! Prego, si accomodi. Please sit down.” She rang the bell on the small table next to the longue, alerting the footman to bring the tea tray.

  “Signora.” Winterbourne all but growled the Italian word. “If you would have your man show me to the library, I’ll wait for the viscount there.”

  “My, but you are certainly anxious!” She gave him a conspiratorial wink before waving his request away. Francesca groaned. She had the sinking feeling that before the day was done, she’d be thoroughly humiliated.

  “Mio marito will be home very shortly now, my lord. Paolo, our majordomo”—her mother gestured to Norton, who, to Francesca’s annoyance, she insisted on addressing by the Italian version of his Christian name—“will inform his lordship you are waiting. Ah! The tea is here. Do sit down, Lord Winterbourne.”

  The footman stood behind Winterbourne, tea tray in hand but unable to enter whilst the marquess blocked the door. Snagged by her mother in front and penned in by her staff in back, Winterbourne had no choice but to step into her mother’s crafty web. From the way his shoulders tensed, she saw he knew it, but he took a seat on the green-and-gold silk armchair next to Francesca with surprising good grace.

  She was tempted to feel sorry for him but reminded herself it was his own fault he was here. That realization must have crossed his mind as well because the look he gave her was full of camaraderie. The kind of look she, Lucia, and their brother John often shared.

  He wasn’t a nice man, she reminded herself, and she wouldn’t feel sorry for him, even if he gave her that look again.

  Especially if he gave her that look again. The unexpected warmth in his gold-flecked eyes heated her through, from heart to belly. She took a steadying breath and told herself it was probably a ploy to convince her to help him. As though she could.

  Peter, the red-haired footman, served the tea and set the tray, burdened with small sandwiches and Francesca’s favorite chocolate tarts, on the rosewood side table just within her reach. She glanced up at him, and Peter gave her a conspiratorial wink. She smiled at the footman as her empty stomach grumbled. Lord, she loved those tarts.

  “Tea, Signore?” her mother offered.

  “No.” His tone was steely. He shifted, and Francesca noticed the chair seemed much too small for his muscular frame.

  “Oh, but you must try a sandwich. I am certain you are famished.” She pushed a plate burdened with half a dozen tiny sandwiches toward him.

  Winterbourne must have felt the web tightening around him, but if he was smart he wouldn’t struggle. He’d be on his way to Grayson Park much more quickly that way. And there was always the remote possibility that her father’s arrival would save him.

  “I must give you my sincerest thanks once again, Signore.” Her mother handed Francesca a cup of tea without the sugar or milk she preferred.

  “It’s not necessary, Signora.” His impatient gaze darted to the door.

  “Oh but it is necessary, my lord. The safety of my daughters is my only concern in life.”

  And their marriage to a wealthy lord, Francesca thought wryly.

  Francesca added two lumps of sugar to her tea and reached for the third. Her mother glared at her, and Francesca dropped the tongs. Her stomach growled.

  Her gaze roved and settled on the plate of chocolate tarts beside her. She could almost taste them—sweet and rich on her tongue. Francesca peeked at her mother, who shook her head. She slumped. Apparently her mother’s concern did not extend to making sure her daughter received nourishment of any sort.

  “Naturally you’re concerned for Miss Dashing’s safety.” Winterbourne sounded as if he answered by rote. Francesca’s attention had once again strayed to the forbidden chocolate tarts, and she tore it from them to see his face. He was glowering at her mother from under lowered brows, the sheer force of his annoyance like a blast of freezing wind. Of course, her mother didn’t notice, but Francesca felt a sudden, desperate need for the comfort of a chocolate tart.

  “When I heard the awful news this morning—fammi respirare!—my poor heart almost stopped from the fear.” Lady Brigham set down her teacup and turned to Francesca, who blushed because she’d been eyeing the tea tray again. “That was the state I was in this morning when I learned that our neighbor was dead, possibly even murdered!”

  Francesca dropped her cup, jumping at the clatter it made against her saucer. “Murdered? Who was murdered, Mamma?” She looked from her mother to Winterbourne. “What are you talking about?”

  “That awful neighbor of ours. Mr. Scarlet.”

  “Skerrit!” Francesca’s tea sloshed over the rim of her cup and stained her dress. “He’s dead? How?”

  “He was murdered last night, shortly after dark,” Winterbourne said.

  “Shortly after—” Francesca felt her throat tighten. Skerrit must have been killed right after she’d left with Thunder. But by whom?

  “What happened?” Francesca blurted out. She stared at Winterbourne, looking for clues in his features. He’d left before her, but he might have gone back. She took a deep breath. Winterbourne must have sensed the trail of her thoughts because his gaze met hers. In his eyes, she saw neither guilt nor denial. He wasn’t a nice man, but she didn’t think he’d killed Skerrit. Couldn’t think that of him. Besides, what reason would he have?

  “Who killed him?” Francesca asked, tearing her gaze from Winterbourne.

  “No one knows, mia figlia,” her mother answered. “The culprit is still at large.” She put a hand to the lace at her throat.

  But if Winterbourne didn’t kill the farmer, then who did? Francesca shuddered, frosty fingers skittering along the small of her back. Had the killer been lying in wait even as she’d argued with Winterbourne? Had she passed him on her return to Tanglewilde? Was that why Winterbourne had insisted on seeing her home today? Had he really been concerned for her safety?

  She wanted to laugh, but his amber eyes were watching her, the honey-colored flecks trapping her again. He’s not a nice man. He’s not a nice man.

  “Horrible man,” her mother said, and Francesca jumped, half-afraid she’d voiced her own thoughts. But her mother was talking of Skerrit. “I could not even tolerate the sight of him. Of course, I did not want him to die. Imagine! A murder in our own little patch of Hampshire.” She fell back on the chaise, hand to her forehead. “I can hardly bear to think of it. Oh, how my heart is pounding!”

  Francesca had wondered how long it would take for her mother to collapse into one of her spells.

  “Bloody hell,” Winterbourne muttered.

  Avoiding his eyes—she didn’t really want to see his reaction—she rose dutifully and knelt by her mother, reaching across the lush fabric to take her hand. She was closer to the tarts now. She deserved a tart after this day’s trials. As soon as her mother wasn’t looking...

  “Calm down, Mamma,” Francesca soothed. “Take deep breaths.”

  Her mother clutched at her chest and gulped.

  “Here, have a sip of your tea.”

  “Grazie, mia cuore.” Her mother smiled at her and patted
her hand before shifting her gaze back to Winterbourne. Francesca eyed the tarts again.

  “Lord Winterbourne, you must tell me your opinion of the situation. Are we safe here in Hampshire? Should we remove ourselves to Town until these cold-blooded murderers are discovered? You must advise me, Signore. I have two daughters to think of.”

  Winterbourne shifted. “You should consult with your husband on the matter, Signora.” He spread his hands in an impatient gesture. “Is he expected soon?”

  Francesca bit her lip. He wouldn’t escape so easily.

  “Oh, but I would be so appreciative of your own opinion, my lord.”

  Francesca wanted to know as well. First highwaymen, now Skerrit dead. Could those two happenings really be a coincidence?

  Winterbourne certainly seemed concerned. He’d locked his jaw so tightly she could see the whiteness along the edges. She swore the armchair shrunk beneath him when he sat forward abruptly.

  “I see no reason for you to leave Tanglewilde at this point.” He sounded as if he squeezed the words from his stiff lips. “But keep your daughters home. It’s not safe for them to be out alone.”

  Francesca huffed. He would say that! She tried to rise from the floor, but her mother tightened her grip on her hand, shuddering dramatically and closing her eyes.

  Francesca sighed. One taste of a chocolate tart and she could endure anything—even her mother’s histrionics. She sank down again. If her mother would only keep her eyes closed a few more seconds...

  “When I think of the harm that could have come to Francesca, I can hardly bear it,” her mother lamented.

  “Don’t think of it, Mamma.” Francesca reached stealthily for one of the chocolate tarts.

  Across from her, Winterbourne raised a brow. She felt a quiver of attraction in her belly. Fighting it, she gave him a look, imploring him to remain silent. He winked. Then, just as her fingers grazed a tart, her mother slapped her hand away. Francesca gasped. How had her mother seen when her eyes weren’t even open?

  “But I must think of it!” Lady Brigham fluttered her eyelids. “We owe the marquess our gratitude.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Winterbourne glanced at the plate of tarts, then at Francesca, his expression uncharacteristically sympathetic.

  “Oh, but you must allow me to do something to thank you.” Lady Brigham smiled at Winterbourne. “Perhaps a small dinner party? Is Tuesday next convenient?”

  Winterbourne made a strangled sound. “I don’t think—”

  “The weather was unseasonably warm today,” Francesca interrupted in desperation. She recognized the look in her mother’s eyes and knew she was about to turn to the dreaded topic of marriage. “Don’t you agree, Mamma?”

  She didn’t think she’d ever sounded quite so excited about the weather, but she had to stop her mother before Winterbourne murdered her. Her mother released her hand, and Francesca retreated to the settle, dread closing a fist on her insides.

  “I would not know, dolce.” Lady Brigham twisted her lips into a frown. “I have not been outdoors all day. Instead, I have been pacing my chamber, worried to death about you.” She turned her attention back to Winterbourne. “Naturalmente, you will want your brother to attend the dinner, but you must allow me to arrange the rest. We have some of the best families in all of England in this part of Hampshire, Signore. I’m sure the earl must have remarked upon it.”

  “No.” Winterbourne pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He couldn’t have been more obvious about his desire to leave.

  “Really? But—”

  “Mamma, have you heard that Mrs. Jensen’s new mare had twin foals last week?” Francesca knew a discussion of horses was unlikely to distract her mother before she began planning the wedding breakfast, but she had to try. “They are a lovely shade of bay, although she assures me their coats will darken like their mother’s.”

  “How fortunate for Mrs. Jensen.” Her mother pursed her lips, directing her gaze back to Lord Winterbourne. “Do you know, we have yet to see Lord Selbourne at any of the public balls in the village this fall, and I must tell you that we have been sorely disappointed.”

  “Selbourne doesn’t dance.” He had his watch out again. “Madam—”

  “Signora.”

  Francesca saw a muscle in his jaw tense, and she twisted her hands together, casting about for something else to distract her mother.

  “Signora. It’s late.” He rose, no longer trying to veil his impatience. “Is there any possibility of seeing your husband this afternoon?”

  “I expect him any moment, my lord. But you must be hungry. Do have a tart before Francesca eats them all.”

  Francesca jerked, her gaze flashing from her mother to Winterbourne, her face hot with embarrassment.

  “No thank you, Signora.” He put his watch away and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not hungry.”

  Her mother smiled, a practiced expression of innocence, and placed one of the tarts on a small plate, handing it to him. “They are quite good, I assure you. My chef is from Italy, but he has been trained in French cooking. And if you do not eat them, Francesca will, and with her figure...”

  She raised her brows at Francesca, who wished she could disappear. If only God would take pity on her and send a bolt of lightning to strike her dead. And if it killed her mother too, well, she’d be the last one to fault God for His poor aim. Winterbourne’s gaze raked over her, apparently making his own assessment of her figure, and she felt her face turn the shade of beets.

  “Francesca may not be la bella di famiglia—that title is usually given to my younger daughter—but you will not find a sweeter girl in all of England.” She glared at Francesca as if to suggest that she had better live up to the praise. “Or in all the world, for that matter. Molto dolce!”

  Winterbourne set the plate he’d been forced to accept on the side table with slow, precise movements. He looked like a man watching a play for the hundredth time and trying desperately not to strangle the director. Well, she didn’t much like the play or the director, either, but at least he wasn’t the one on stage.

  “You will not find many girls like Francesca.”

  Francesca let out a whimper of mortification.

  “I imagine not.” The hardness in his voice could have ground diamonds to dust.

  “Mamma, the hour grows late.” Francesca almost leapt on her mother to staunch the flow of words that threatened to stream forth. “And Lord Winterbourne has a long ride. Perhaps we should continue this conversation at another time.”

  “Rubbish! Lord Winterbourne wished to speak with your padre, and he is not yet home. But you really must join us for dinner, my lord. As I’ve said, my chef Tommaso is excellente.”

  In answer, Winterbourne rose and turned toward the door. “Thank you for the offer, but, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”

  Francesca cringed as her mother jumped up to intercept him.

  “Mamma mia! My lord, you have not yet spoken with Viscount Brigham.” She scurried in front of him. Francesca dropped her face in her hands, unable to watch any longer. The whole awful scene would have been funny if it wasn’t happening to her.

  “I assure you His Lordship will arrive momentarily,” her mother gasped.

  Through the gaps in her fingers, Francesca saw Winterbourne step to the left. Her mother scuttled left. Winterbourne darted right. Her mother scampered after him. Francesca groaned, wondering if she should even attempt to intervene in the pathetic dance. Then she heard the sweetest sound of her life.

  “By God! What the devil is that beast still doing in my stables?”

  Nine

  Lord Brigham threw open the drawing room door, and Ethan barely had time to yank the girl’s mother out of the way before the viscount stormed inside.

  “Where is Franny?” He gave his wife a cursory glance. “Where is your daughter, madam?”

  “Impossibile!” Lady Brigham fluttered a hand to her forehead.

  Lo
rd Brigham’s gaze snapped to his daughter. “There you are!”

  Francesca stood in front of the chaise longue wringing her hands.

  “I thought I told you—”

  “Daddy,” the girl interrupted. “We have a guest.” She gestured to Ethan, and Brigham whipped around, eyes widening as they locked on him.

  “Who the devil is this?”

  Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. He was beginning to think he was the only sane person in the house.

  “Lord Winterbourne, you must know my father, Viscount Brigham. Daddy, surely you know the Marquess of Winterbourne from the Lords?”

  The viscount’s eyebrows came together, and he scowled. “Winterbourne,” he muttered.

  Ethan inclined his head.

  “What brings you to Tanglewilde?”

  “Your daughter,” Ethan said. “If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you about her.”

  Lady Brigham gasped. “Mamma mia!”

  Ethan tried very hard not to grimace. And he noticed that Brigham couldn’t quite control the pained expression that crossed his features at his wife’s outburst either.

  “In private,” Ethan added with a significant look and an inclination of his head toward the viscountess.

  “Fammi respirare! My little girl is finally—”

  “Mamma!” Francesca screeched, a look of horror on her face.

  Brigham shook his head. “Do cease this caterwauling. A man can’t think!”

  “Sorry, Daddy. I—”

  He held up a hand. “Winterbourne, my library is this way. If you would follow me.”

  Ethan nodded to Brigham to lead the way. If he never stepped foot in that drawing room again, it would be too soon. He followed Brigham into the entrance hall but couldn’t resist one glance back. Francesca, still standing in the center of the room, frowned at him. He winked, and she gave him a murderous glare.

  Francesca—he didn’t know when he’d started thinking of her so informally, but he found he liked her name. It was undoubtedly chosen by her mother, but it seemed to suit her. She had the look of an Italian. Dark, mysterious, passionate. And Ethan liked the way it sounded in his head. Thought he might like the way it rolled off his tongue as he whispered it in her ear, fingers tangled in her mane of chocolate curls.