Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (15 page)

P
hil had been
insensible to the world when Morgan and his family had caught up to her at the townhouse. Jared had apologized and explained that she got that way sometimes, when consumed by an idea. Even so, Morgan had expected to see her that night, at the soiree Jared had confirmed that they had been invited to. She hadn’t been there.

Was she ill? Had she not wanted to see him?

Giddy clapped him on the shoulder as they marched up the stairs of the Tenwick townhouse. “Cheer up, old chap. If you don’t chase away that sour look, all those lovely debutantes Mother and Lucy threw at you tonight will run screaming.”

Morgan glared at him. “I thought I asked you to help mitigate that.”

“I did!” Gideon pressed his hand to his heart in mock injury. “There are only so many debutantes I can dance with at once.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you’re amused. Wait until Mother turns her attentions on you. You won’t be as apt to joke, then.”

Truthfully, Morgan wouldn’t have found the night quite so excruciating if any of the debutantes had been able to hold a candle to Phil’s vivacious personality. But no, Mother and Lucy seemed bent on throwing insipid, pale, proper young ladies into his path. All were interchangeable. In fact, he doubted if she set them in front of him at that moment, he would be able to recall their names. And he had an impeccable memory.

He could remember in vivid detail, for instance, the way Phil ran her tongue along the edge of her upper lip as she assembled one of her inventions. She hummed under her breath, too, a chaotic, nonsensical tune that it was a miracle her parrot hadn’t yet learned. It was an assault on the ears.

He’d loved every second of it. It, like her, had been unique, unpredictable. He rubbed at the streak in his hair, afraid to admit that he might be falling for an enemy spy. Unlike Freddie, his brother’s bride, it didn’t appear as if Phil was being coerced into spying. Sooner or later, he would have to escort her to Newgate Prison and the gallows.

At the landing, he turned away from his brother. “I’m heading to my study for a bit.”

Giddy hesitated. “Do you want some company?”

“No.” Morgan’s voice was curt. He forced himself to soften it. “I’d prefer to be alone.”

“Would you…like me to talk to Mother? Perhaps I can convince her to let you alone for a bit.”

Morgan smirked. The only way Gideon would be likely to do that would be if he confessed to their mother that he hoped to find a bride instead. Morgan shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. Thank you, but I’ll speak to her myself.”

Or maybe he wouldn’t. If he admitted why he hated all the vapid young debutantes she tossed in his path, she would only redouble her efforts to match him with Phil. That, he couldn’t have.

He bid his brother goodnight and shut himself in his study. The room was cool and quiet, a blessing after the night he’d had. He crossed to the mantle, knowing the way by rote, and lit a candle. Once it flared to life, he scanned the study, a force of habit. Everything was in its place. He relaxed.

Wait—what was that on his desk? It looked a bit like a little mechanical duck with a ribbon tied around its neck. No, not a duck. A parrot. He smiled as he plucked it off the desk.

The contraption had been weighing down a note. Morgan lifted it.

Even if something doesn’t work out as intended, it can still create something wonderful. -P.

Had Phil…
made
this for him? He peered at it closer. Sure enough, the piece of glass he’d given her, or one very similar to it, was set in the very heart of the parrot. At the back, a little winding key stuck out between the metal wings. Morgan twisted it. He held his palm flat and set the toy in the center. The little parrot danced, flapping its wings. As it did, the glass in the middle caught the light of the candle and transferred a rainbow of colors onto the metal, making it look as though the bird was as colorful as Pickle.

His breath caught in a thick, aching lump in his throat. Phil had made this for
him.
It was the most unique, thoughtful, bizarre gift anyone had given to him. It embodied everything he loved about her. No other woman would think to give him a gift like that. In fact, aside from his family, no woman had ever given him a gift at all. Then again, he felt closer to Phil than he had any other woman of his acquaintance. She was more than an acquaintance, more than a friend. Heaven help him, but he might have fallen in love with her.

His eyes burned. He set the toy down on the edge of the desk. What was he going to do? He turned toward the window, even though night had blanketed London and all he could see was his reflection thrown back at him in the glass.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Morgan turned to face Lord Strickland.

The spymaster did not look pleased. The steely gleam in his eyes matched his stiff gait as he entered the room and shut the door. Like Morgan, he was dressed in eveningwear. The candlelight glinted off beads of sweat on his bald pate.

“It’s been two weeks.”

I know.
Morgan bit his tongue. He straightened his shoulders. He refused to cower before Strickland, even if he was Morgan’s superior.

Strickland stalked closer. “Tristan could have done this in one.” He offered the statement with a blasé shrug, as if it was a fact, not a motivator.

Morgan narrowed his eyes. Was Strickland trying to stir the rivalry between him and his brother? Apparently, he’d never been told that the rivalry was all one-sided. Morgan didn’t much care if Tristan could do it faster.

You might have at the beginning of this mad mission.
Back then, he had yearned for fieldwork, for the glory and the danger. There was a danger, all right, but thus far his heart had been the only casualty.

He couldn’t give Phil up, even if it seemed to be what Strickland wanted.

“I’m working as fast as I can,” Morgan answered, his voice even. “I have a few more suspicions I need to check out.”

That didn’t seem to be the answer for which Strickland hoped. The stocky man bristled. “What sort of suspicions?”

Morgan stepped closer, using his height to his advantage. “You want the new commander of the French spies in London, right? Not a minor member.”

Strickland made a face. “I could have a dozen minor members if I wanted. I want to know who Harker’s replacement is.”

“Then I need a bit more time.” His fingers curled into his palm. The bite of pain steadied him. He couldn’t give Phil up. Not yet. Even if she was a part of this spy network, she couldn’t be the leader.

For his sake and hers, she couldn’t.

“Don’t take too much time. This is a war, Tenwick, and don’t you forget it.”

When Strickland turned, Morgan’s knees weakened. What could he do? Soon he was going to have to make a choice—his duty to his country or Phil. Strickland paused at the edge of Morgan’s desk. Morgan’s breath caught. Did he suspect that Morgan had been taken in by an enemy spy? If he assigned another man to this job, that man wouldn’t hesitate to hand Phil to the hangman’s noose. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let Strickland lose faith in him.

The spymaster paused to run his fingers over the gift Phil had sent him. Every muscle in Morgan’s body stiffened.
Don’t touch that.
It was Morgan’s, not Strickland’s.

“Cute toy. Is there a happy event on the horizon that might be splitting your interests?”

Every breath shredded Morgan’s throat as though he inhaled a vat of needles. He fought for composure. If he leaked even a shadow of the turmoil gripping him, Strickland would know the truth.

“No. This mission has my full attention, I assure you.” His voice was cold. He infused it with dismissal, as he might if he faced a thieving servant. Strickland held his gaze for a moment more, his eyes hard and measuring.

Morgan didn’t back down.

Strickland nodded. “I’ll expect a progress report from you tomorrow, then.”

“Monday.” Any sooner and Morgan wouldn’t have time to concoct something plausible. He’d have to give up Phil. He couldn’t.

The spymaster’s eyebrows twitched, falling down across his eyes. “Monday,” he repeated between gritted teeth. “But it had best be there with the morning post.”

Morgan nodded stiffly. “It will be.”

His heart stopped beating as Strickland’s gaze bored into him, searching out his secrets. With a nod, the spymaster turned on his heel and exited the study. He left the door wide open behind him.

Morgan planted his palm on the desk beside the toy parrot. His knees gave way and he dropped into his chair. His heart made up for missing a beat by pounding three times as fast.

Zeus, Phil. What have you gotten yourself into?
His eyes ached as he shut his heavy eyelids.

He didn’t know what to do. Did he turn his back on his country in order to warn her? Or did he turn her in?

The decision burned like salt in an open wound as he scooped up the little parrot toy and the candle. His footsteps were heavy as he trudged up the stairs to the family wing. As he reached the top steps, a gray-haired maid juggled a tray laden with a cup of chocolate and some biscuits as she attempted to open the door to his mother’s room.

Mother must have still been awake. Desperate to confide in someone, he loped forward to take the tray from the maid. “Allow me.” He deposited his candle and the parrot on the tray before he gripped the handles.

The maid curtseyed. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was just bringing that to the dowager. Will you have some vittles before bed?”

“Thank you, no. In fact, if you’ll just open the door, I’ll bring this to her. You can go to bed.”

She curtseyed again. “Of course, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Morgan gritted his teeth. He hated being bowed and scraped to. It was why he usually surrounded himself with those servants in his household who were also spies. At least they knew he was put to better use than sitting like a lump in a Parliament chair for half the year.

The maid claimed one of the two candles perched on the tray and left as he backed into his mother’s room, carefully balancing the tray. He found his mother abed. In the candlelight, her room looked as though it was swathed in dark colors, burgundy and chestnut, charcoal and sapphire. Nestled against a heap of pillows with a book in her lap, Mother perked up the moment she saw him.

“Morgan! What are you doing here?”

He carefully set the tray in her lap before he spilled the contents of the cup. “I noticed you were awake. Do you have a few moments to talk?”

“For you, always.”

He turned on his heel, shutting the door and dragging a surprisingly heavy, spindly chair from between the armoire and the vanity. He lowered himself into it next to her.

“Oh, bother. I would have asked for two cups of chocolate, had I known you wanted to join me.”

Morgan smiled. “Thank you, but I’m not thirsty.”

“Why don’t you have a biscuit?”

When Mother thrust the tray at him, he took one, if only to keep her from calling the servants to bring something else. He opened his mouth, but he didn’t know how to broach the subject of Phil. He couldn’t confess the full extent of his troubles. Thus far, he and Tristan—and now Gideon—had managed to keep Mother from worrying about their extracurricular activities by the simple method of hiding the fact that they were Crown spies. He couldn’t expose her to more distress for their well-being by confessing his role in the war. As it was, she worried herself near to death over his brother, Anthony’s, involvement.

With a little frown, Mother picked up the parrot toy. “What’s this?”

“Forgive me. That’s mine.” He reached forward to retrieve it from her. Although his hackles didn’t rise the way they had when Strickland had touched the device, Morgan didn’t want anyone to touch it. It was his. Phil had made it for
him.

Mother held it out of reach. “Wait a moment. What is it exactly?”

“It’s a toy. It winds up through a key on its back.”

Mother flipped it over and wound up the toy. It danced as she set it down. She smiled, one of the purest, most genuine smiles that he’d seen in years. He felt like a heel for wanting to take away the toy, but it didn’t belong to her.

“It’s darling.”

She cast him a coy glance as he snatched the parrot from her side of the tray. He put it back closer to him, within easy reach.

“Why did you buy it? Will it be needed in, oh, about nine months’ time?”

Heat scalded his cheeks. “Don’t look at me that way, Mother. I’ve gotten no woman with child. It was a gift.”

“A pity.”

He stuffed the biscuit into his mouth to save himself from having to answer.

Mother pressed, “Who gave it to you?”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Phi—Miss St. Gobain sent it to me. She made it, actually.”

“Did she?” Mother brightened. “Oh, how delightful!”

He rubbed his hand over his chin. The bristles of his stubble, beginning to grow in again, roughened his skin. “I think so. Can I…can I ask your honest opinion of her?”

Mother reached over to squeeze his hand. Her skin was warm. “I’ve already given you my blessing.”

“Yes, but I know how desperate you are to see me married.”

“Not so desperate,” Mother said. “Not if she wouldn’t make you a fine wife.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You must have sent twenty such women in my path tonight. None of them would have made good duchesses.”

Mother grinned. “That was to remind you how wonderful Phil is. She is a singular woman, Morgan. She cannot be replaced.”

He ducked his head and picked up the parrot, tracing the intricacies with his finger. “I feel the same way.”

“I knew it!”

He raised a weary glance toward his mother. “I don’t want to make a mistake and lose her. But first, I need to know if she is a good woman, a loyal woman.”

“She strikes me as the sort of woman who wouldn’t turn her back on you once she’s welcomed you into the fold. Morgan, dear, stop worrying so much. That’s my domain. It’s your domain to live life and be happy. Does Phil make you happy?”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, the word soft, as if he didn’t want to admit it to himself.