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

  Their gazes locked for a long moment, and Ethan felt a punch of regret that he wouldn’t see her again, would never see her cocoa eyes darken with desire for him, her dusky lips part for his kisses.

  It was for the best, he reminded himself. He needed to return to his investigation, and he’d never been interested in innocent Society misses—Victoria had taught him they didn’t stay innocent for long. He’d make sure she was protected and walk away.

  Francesca averted her eyes, breaking the connection between them. The expression on her face was a mixture of dismay and distrust. She obviously didn’t relish the idea of his meeting with her father. Ethan didn’t blame her. After all, if he had anything to say about it, her life would change.

  Once in the library, Brigham lit his pipe and settled into the leather chair behind a mammoth mahogany desk. Like the desk, the rest of the library was built on enormous proportions. Dark wood shelves towered over the room, bowing under the weight of their volumes. The leather armchair Ethan occupied would seat two comfortably, and a massive fire blazed in a marble fireplace, spanning almost an entire wall.

  Ethan felt some of the day’s tension ease from his shoulders. This was a man’s room—the room of someone he could talk to, reason with. After the half hour spent with Brigham’s wife and daughter, he desperately needed conversation with someone—anyone—reasonable.

  At that moment, Brigham seemed reasonable. Cordial even. “Brandy?” Brigham indicated a decanter on the table behind the desk.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Need something stronger, then? I usually go straight for the gin myself after a scene like that one.”

  “I can well imagine.” Ethan sunk comfortably into the male camaraderie. He was so glad of the moment’s respite from demanding women that he wasn’t even eager to bring up the reason for his visit. No matter. By unwritten rule, Brigham and he would first talk of trivialities.

  The viscount leaned back in his worn chair, the fragrant smoke from his pipe swirling around him. “Italy was a mistake, I can tell you that. Took her there after our wedding, and she’s never left. Should have gone to the Lake District or Brighton. At least then I could understand her half the time.”

  It was said lightly, Brigham’s tone more endearing than censorious, and Ethan decided he liked the man. The viscount had a sense of humor and obviously cared for his wife, though Ethan couldn’t imagine how the man lived with the outlandish woman.

  Ethan guessed Brigham to be about fifty and still in his prime. Francesca shared his brown eyes and hair, though hers were richer, darker. And were Pocket here, the valet would have approved of Brigham’s attire immediately—it was flawless, except for his cravat, which he’d skewed when his wife had uttered one of her Italian exclamations.

  Brigham puffed on his pipe. “If only my wife had some aptitude for languages, it would be tolerable. As it is, the poor woman can’t conjugate a verb to save her life.”

  “Perhaps if she practiced more?”

  Brigham smiled and set his pipe down. “Suggest it, and you’ll find yourself with a dawn appointment.”

  Ethan allowed himself a wry smile.

  Brigham took another sip of his brandy, then eyed Ethan expectantly. Obviously, the trivialities were at an end. “I respect you, Winterbourne. I respect you and your service.”

  Ethan made no show of understanding Brigham, though he assumed the man referred to the rumors that Ethan was a spy for the Foreign Office.

  “I even liked your stepfather,” Brigham continued. “We tangled a few times in the Lords, but he was a good man.”

  “Thank you, my lord”. He rarely heard praise for the late Earl of Selbourne. He should have expected it. After all, Brigham was frequently described as a brilliant politician. This was the man whom the statesman Fox considered a trusted advisor and a brilliant strategist.

  Brigham picked up his pipe again. “As I said, I like you. But I don’t like you, Winterbourne, if you take my meaning. I can’t say I’m pleased to see you at Tanglewilde. What exactly is your business with me and my daughter?”

  “This isn’t a social call, sir. I escorted your daughter home this afternoon.”

  “Franny? You escorted—” He frowned. “Did she try to fob that colt off on you?”

  “Colt?”

  “Brought it home last night, and I told her to get rid of it. We have a menagerie as it is. One more creature and we can start charging admission—rival the Tower in visitors.”

  Here was his mistake again. He should have never bought her that horse. He hadn’t been thinking, just wanted her away from Skerrit. It suddenly occurred to him that he might very well be the reason she’d been out roaming the countryside alone and unprotected. She’d been searching for a home for the colt. “The horse is my fault,” he admitted.

  “I see.” Brigham steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the desk. Ethan was glad the viscount appeared attentive. He didn’t think the man knew of the dangerous situations in which his daughter insinuated herself.

  “I found your daughter arguing with Skerrit last night. He was obviously abusing the animal. I thought the most expedient solution was to buy the colt and give him to Miss Dashing. I did not think of all the ramifications. I merely wanted to see her safely away from Skerrit.”

  Brigham gave Ethan a penetrating look, and he wished he’d accepted that offer of brandy. “So you were at Skerrit’s farm last night?”

  Ethan met his stare. “Yes.”

  “And, coincidentally, Skerrit was found dead a few hours later.”

  With his reputation, Ethan should have expected the suspicion, but he didn’t have to like it. He curled his fingers around the arms of the plush armchair. “I don’t think I like your insinuation.”

  “Well, by God!” Brigham pounded a fist on his desk. “I don’t think I like the idea of my daughter and a—a man like you at Skerrit’s farm hours, maybe minutes, before the man was murdered.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Ethan almost smiled. Now they were making progress.

  “I know all about you, and I don’t want my daughter associating with your kind.” He pointed his pipe at Ethan.

  “Absolutely.” Francesca should be home, locked safe in her room, tucked under the covers, wearing nothing but—

  Ethan blinked and shifted his attention back to Brigham.

  “And Franny has no business skulking about Skerrit’s farm. I’ll speak to her about it.”

  “Good.” Ethan crossed his arms and sat back. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear.

  “And don’t try to—” Brigham paused in his tirade, bushy eyebrows snapping together. “Good?”

  “Excellent.” Now that Brigham and he were in agreement, he could return to Grayson Park with a clear conscience.

  The viscount’s eyes narrowed. “You agree?”

  “It’s obvious your daughter needs further supervision.”

  “Is it?” Brigham lifted his pipe again.

  “This morning I found her almost a mile from here. Alone.” He paused for emphasis. “She would have been easy prey for fortune hunters or thieves.”

  “Come now, Winterbourne,” Brigham said around his pipe. “This is Hampshire, not London.” He leaned back in his chair. “Franny may be something of a free spirit, but she is quite safe in her little rambles.” He chuckled. “Too much Mrs. Radcliffe—The Mysteries of Udolfo, you know.”

  Ethan sat forward, annoyed at Brigham’s casual attitude toward his daughter’s safety. “She wasn’t safe last night.”

  Brigham held his pipe aloft, considering. “Point taken, but I hardly think whoever shot Skerrit would have bothered with my daughter.”

  Ethan felt his temper begin to rise. Was the man really this stupid? “And what if she’d seen or overheard something she shouldn’t?”

  Brigham shifted in his chair. “I said I’d speak with her. Now, if that is all...”

  Ethan knew he should go; he’d done all he could. But he wasn’t satisfied. H
e wanted to know the girl was safe and protected. The devil take him if he understood why he cared so much. She wasn’t his concern. He had smugglers to capture, the safety of his country to consider.

  “That’s not all,” Ethan heard himself say. Brigham raised an eyebrow, but Ethan couldn’t seem to stop himself. “That’s far from all. Your daughter—”

  Brigham banged his pipe on the massive desk. “Don’t presume to tell me about my daughter, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t if you paid half as much attention to her as you would Pitt’s latest diatribe on the Irish problem.”

  Brigham snorted. “And what would you know about politics? I’ve seen you in the Lords even less than I saw your stepfather.”

  Ethan’s mouth tightened. He didn’t like the comparison. It was true that he, like his stepfather, had no interest in Parliament—preferred actions to words—but that was where the similarities ended.

  “I’m not my stepfather.” He gave Brigham a hard stare.

  Brigham stared back. “From what I hear, my daughter has much more to fear from a connection with you than from the worst vagabond in the woods.”

  “I’m not interested in your daughter except to make sure she’s safe.”

  Brigham looked skeptical, and Ethan couldn’t blame him. He didn’t understand this need to protect her himself. Regardless, he would make certain she was safe.

  “I assure you she is quite well protected—” Brigham flicked his hand dismissively.

  “I beg to differ,” Ethan interrupted.

  Brigham stood, hands braced on his polished desk. “Norton!” he bellowed at the door. He glared down at Ethan. “I don’t believe all the rubbish about your exploits in France. But I’ve heard enough of your exploits in the bedchamber. My daughter won’t become another of your trophies.”

  Ethan rose to his full height, standing across the desk from the viscount. Brigham was not a small man, but Ethan still had several inches on him. He leaned forward, hands on the desk, mirroring Brigham’s posture. “And if I wanted her, do you think a man like you could stop me?”

  Brigham made no response, and the two stood silently appraising each other, tension building with every tick of the clock on the mantel. It began to chime four as the majordomo opened the library door.

  “You called, my lord.”

  “Lord Winterbourne was just leaving, Norton.” Brigham’s gaze never left Ethan’s. “Escort him out.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Norton stood aside, holding the library door open.

  The clock dinged for the second time, but Ethan waited until the clanging ceased and the muted tick-tock of its turning wheels and cogs filled the hushed room. Then he leaned slowly and deliberately forward until his face was inches from the viscount’s.

  “If anything happens to her, anything at all...” Ethan’s words pounded the silence with the sharp staccato of a hammer. The threat hung in the taut stillness between them.

  “Good day, sir,” Brigham said.

  Ethan turned and strode through the door into the entrance hall. His long strides quickly outpaced the flustered majordomo who ran behind him in a feeble attempt to keep pace.

  Somewhere in the background he heard Lady Brigham squeal, “Oh, Signore!”

  He didn’t slow. Outlandish mother. Indifferent father. He was well rid of them.

  “My lord? Oh, Lord Winterbourne! Arrivederci, Signore. Come again! Anytime! Per favore?” Her voice faded.

  A footman entering the hall jumped aside. Ethan bore down on the door. The majordomo made a last rush, scampering to open the door before Ethan could tear it from its hinges.

  He stalked through the courtyard, careless of where he stepped and smashing several of the smaller plants. When he’d passed under the portico, he made for the stables and Destrehan. He didn’t know what angered him more—Brigham’s blasé approach to his daughter’s safety or his own preoccupation with her.

  He was behaving like a fool, and he knew it. His reaction to her was incomprehensible. Take those chocolate tarts the footman had brought with the tea. Ethan had found himself unreasonably angry that the girl’s mother wouldn’t allow her to have one. He had even begun to plan ways to distract the woman so that Francesca could swipe one. Ridiculous.

  Halfway to the stable, he’d forced his thoughts back to Skerrit’s murder and the smugglers by the stream. Amazing what a man could do if he put his mind to it. He congratulated himself on dismissing the girl so quickly. By the time he reached Grayson Park, she’d be a distant memory. She was already a distant memory.

  Until he saw her in the distance, striding up a short rise.

  He slowed down.

  Damn.

  Keep walking. Keep walking.

  She wasn’t wearing her mantle any longer, and even from this distance he saw the way her full breasts pushed against the fabric of her light blue gown. The way the material clung to the curve of her hips when the wind caught it, as the breeze did now, chasing up the folds of the cloth, molding the fabric against her shapely body, then moving to frolic in her long chocolate tresses, which had once again escaped their confinement. Her dark hair swirled about her milk-white face, reminding him of the beautiful enchantress from his nanny’s nursery tales. She used fairy magic to bewitch mere mortals.

  Damn. He sounded like a lovesick poet—the kind of inane fop he’d detested at Cambridge.

  He sped up again, closing the distance to the stable.

  The stocky boy with whom he’d left Destrehan saw him coming and rushed inside. “One minute, yer lordship. One minute.”

  While he waited, he couldn’t resist a last glance at Francesca.

  She was gone.

  He blinked once, certain his eyes were deceived. He tensed and scanned the estate, but saw only empty lawn. She’d disappeared into the dusk.

  “Eerie how she does that,” the stable boy said from beside him. “She seems to disappear on you, but she’s no witch or anything.” He pointed across the yard, and Ethan saw her entering a small white building. She opened the door, the warm glow of a lantern illuminating her briefly.

  He relaxed. She was safe.

  “Though she does have a way about her,” the groom commented as Francesca closed the door behind her. He gestured vaguely, unable to find the words, but Ethan knew what he meant.

  She was part of this place. Not just the people, but part of the hills, the trees, the fields. Even the landscape seemed to welcome her as it might an old friend, giving her strength and power. She was an enchantress, working her spell over everyone and everything she encountered.

  The groom held Destrehan steady while Ethan mounted. He spurred the horse toward Grayson Park and didn’t look back as he rode away. He’d seen the last of Francesca Dashing. She wouldn’t cast her spell over him.

  Ten

  Francesca, her terrier puppy, Lino, trotting behind her, strolled past a cluster of bright saffron crocuses she’d planted earlier that year in front of the small white building. She pushed open the door and, with a smile, entered her sanctuary. Her hospital.

  Warmth and love reached out with affectionate arms to embrace her from every corner, just as they had the first time she’d entered. She’d been shocked and overwhelmed by her parents’ gift of the remodeled old bake house six years ago.

  The hospital wasn’t as vibrant and new as it had been that first day. It smelled more like the lye soap she used to scrub it down than fresh flowers now, and the paint on the pale yellow walls—once shiny and bright—peeled in places. The pattern of tiny sprigged flowers on the butter-colored curtains had faded, and the lace sweeping the material back from the window was frayed at the edges.

  But the large straw-colored table in the center of the room remained sturdy and the rows of white shelves lining the walls were neatly stacked with strips of clean linen, bottles, and vials. The room might not be new, but it was clean. And the wear and tear only made the hospital more precious to her. Every scuff mark and stain reminded her of an animal she’d heale
d. In this place, the incident with Winterbourne and her mother seemed a lifetime away.

  Only yesterday evening she’d fallen into Winterbourne’s arms at Will Skerrit’s barn. And now Skerrit was dead. Murdered. She could hardly believe it. Her father must allow her to keep Thunder now. She certainly couldn’t rely on Winterbourne to do her any favors. She’d spotted him riding away just as she set out for her hospital.

  Winterbourne again! Why could she not put the man out of her thoughts for more than a few moments at a time? He wasn’t thinking of her.

  Francesca sighed, sinking back in a familiar chair while Lino curled into his favorite corner. She rubbed his ears, the wiry hair sliding between her fingers. “I know I can count on you to love me, Lino,” she said with affection.

  Some things never changed. She was not the kind of woman that attracted a man like the Marquess of Winterbourne. She wasn’t sophisticated or beautiful or witty or even all that accomplished. And she certainly didn’t possess any of the other...charms that Winterbourne seemed to prefer in his female companions.

  Lord, the best he could do when describing her today was to comment that she looked different.

  Different!

  She certainly wouldn’t swoon over that accolade.

  If only Winterbourne had looked different—changed into an ugly, loathsome troll. If anything, he was even more appealing than the last glimpse she’d had of him in Town. He had the same face—cheekbones and jaw sculpted with an artist’s precision. The intensity and color of his eyes shifted with his mood, and his strong form was sleek and hard with corded muscles.

  She could never hope to interest a man like Winterbourne. And, she decided, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them, perhaps she didn’t want to. After all, as she had told herself countless times today, he was not a nice man. True, he had seemed concerned for her safety when he’d walked her home—his good deed for the decade, not anything to do with her. In fact, he’d made it quite clear he would never see her as anything more than a housemaid in expensive clothes.