Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) (16 page)

When he raised his gaze, he found tears in his mother’s eyes. She smiled. “Then that’s all that matters.”

Not quite.
Morgan still had to find a way to keep Phil from the hangman’s noose. He didn’t want to—couldn’t lose her. He laid the parrot toy on the tray again.

“Can you look after this for me tonight? I have to go out.”

“Of course.”

Morgan leaned over to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Thank you.” When he straightened, he strode for the door.

He’d almost shut it behind him when Mother called out. “Give my regards to Phil.”

He shook his head as he shut the door. Not a chance. What he had to discuss with Phil tonight was far beyond his mother. He only hoped that once he confessed his feelings for her, it would be enough to sway her from spying for the French. He didn’t know what else he could do.

No, that wasn’t quite true. At that moment, he didn’t know what he
wouldn’t
do to convince Phil to join him, in war and in life. His chest tightened. He had never been so frightened of a conversation.

He knew with searing, earth-shattering clarity how Tristan had felt upon being confronted with Freddie’s treason. Morgan could only hope that his and Phil’s predicament would end just as happily.

A
s Phil licked
her fingers and dabbed the plate to catch as many crumbs of the seedcake as she could, Meg stepped into the kitchen. She propped her hands on her hips.

“Phil, what’re you doing?”

The kitchen was dark and cold, the servants having long since cleaned and retired to bed. The sole light came from the candle Phil had carried downstairs with her, set now on the stained and pockmarked table likely used for chopping. The pantry door stood open, a testament to how she had found the seedcake.

Phil brushed off her hands as she answered, “I was hungry. I believe I missed supper.”

“And lunch,” Meg answered. “Which is why I set aside some food to be reheated.” The kitchen staff, by now, were experts at reheating food.

With a sheepish smile, Phil stood. “Oh, good. That seedcake didn’t go terribly far.” She stepped up to the stove, examining it. Under her breath, she muttered, “Now, how do you turn this thing on?” Considering that she could probably construct a stove from the parts she had in her invention room, her cooking skills were woefully inadequate.

Fortunately, she had Meg. Her friend shooed her back onto the stool by the pockmarked table. “I’ll do it. It won’t do for you to set the kitchen on fire.”

Phil pursed her lips. She considered arguing, but if she did, she would have to reheat her own meal. She sat on the stool to wait.

“Where’s that blighted bird of yours?” Meg asked conversationally as she lit the stove. Once she stoked the coals, she shut the grate and found a long-handled iron pan. She set it atop the stove as she waited for it to heat up.

“Pickle wasn’t in the invention room. I thought he was with you.”

Meg scrunched her nose with disgust. Her freckles pinched together. “Not if I can help it.”

Phil shrugged. “He must be in the house somewhere. I can whistle, if you want.”

“No, thank you. I think we’ll do fine in the kitchen without that overgrown canary trying to filch the food.”

Phil tucked away a smile. She picked a few more crumbs from her plate. “Did you have my invention delivered to the Tenwick townhouse?”

Meg cast her a speaking look. “My brother delivered it personally, as I told you three hours ago.”

“Did you? Forgive me. I must have been preoccupied.”

The maid rolled her eyes. “Yes, you were fiddling with those goggles again.”

“LEGs,” Phil corrected.

Meg found and scooped some butter into the pan, scarcely waiting for it to start melting before she added the contents of a covered plate—cubed potatoes, turnip, ham and diced onion. Absently, she said, “I refuse to call them legs unless they start walking.”

Phil grinned. “If I did that, I doubt they would be of much use as light-enhancing goggles.”

When Meg didn’t answer, Phil drummed her fingers on the table. “Was the gift well received?”

“I don’t know.” Meg tilted the pan to pour the contents onto the plate once more. She then crouched to spread the heated coals across the inside of the stove, to encourage them to cool.

Phil shifted on the stool. “Which brother delivered it? I’ll ask him just as soon as I finish eating.”

As her friend deposited the dish in front of her and found her a fork, she said, “It won’t do you much good. The duke wasn’t at home. Here.” She shoved the fork into Phil’s hand. “Eat your hash.”

A determined glint lit Meg’s eye. Phil dug into the food, shoveling a forkful into her mouth. “It’s very tasty. Why wasn’t Morgan at home?”

“He was probably out at the ball you missed.” Meg nudged the plate closer, glaring until Phil took another bite.

Once she swallowed, she asked, “Three hours ago? What time is it?”

“After midnight. Eat some more.”

A knock sounded from the front door. Meg frowned. “Who can be calling at this hour? Stay here,” she told Phil. “I’ll answer the door.”

Phil shrugged. She applied herself to the meal as her friend left. She hadn’t lied, it was delicious. Before she knew it, she’d devoured everything on her plate. She was a bit thirsty, though. She rooted around until she found a jug of milk. She poured herself a glass.

Meg returned, an odd look in her eye and seeming a bit frazzled. “Pickle is up in the servants’ quarters this evening,” she informed.

Ah. That explained her frazzled look.

Phil polished off the milk in her glass and set it down. “I’ll fetch him out again.”

“No.” Meg waved her hands, trying to banish away the idea. She put the dishes in the sink and scooped up the candle on the table. “The children love him. Let him stay the night.”

Phil frowned. Although Pickle might be quiet when it was dark, come dawn he would put up a racket. “Are you sure? He can be disruptive.”

With brusque little touches to Phil’s shoulders and back, Meg herded her out of the kitchen. “Nonsense, the twins will love some extra time with him.” She turned Phil toward the stairs. “It’s late. Off to bed now.”

Phil shrugged. Given the long day at her worktable, perhaps sleep wasn’t the worst suggestion. However, Meg’s enthusiasm to hurry Phil up the stairs surprised her—especially when, on the third floor, Meg said goodnight and moved to continue up.

“Wait. Aren’t you coming to my room with me?” Meg usually helped Phil to undress. In fact, she usually insisted upon it.

Meg yawned, hiding the expression behind her hand. “I’m dreadfully tired. Do you think you can get on without me tonight?”

“Of course.” Phil had done so before, usually after insisting vehemently that Meg not wait up for her.

“Wonderful.” Meg grinned. A sparkle lit her eye from the candle she held. “I won’t wake you early tomorrow. It’s been a late night, and all.”

“Thank you.” Phil’s voice held a questioning note. She usually preferred to rise early no matter how late she stayed up the night before. Then again, she didn’t need Meg to rouse her most days—in fact, Meg spent a lot of her time trying to keep up with Phil’s schedule.

“Have a good sleep.”

Wait, did she just wink at Phil? Maybe it was a trick of the light. A moment later, she whirled and continued up the stairs. Shaking her head, Phil trudged down the hall on her own, wondering at her friend’s odd behavior.

When she reached her bedchamber, she discovered the reason. The door was left wide, a candle on the vanity beckoning her forward. But, to her surprise, the room was not empty. Morgan perched on the edge of her bed, waiting for her.

Of all the ways she’d pictured the Duke of Tenwick awaiting her in her bedchamber, seated at the foot with his elbows braced against his knees was not one of them. At least, not while he was clothed in full eveningwear. His royal blue jacket gaped open, the gold buttons gleaming, to reveal a cream-colored waistcoat and snowy white shirt. His cravat hung loose, the color a stark contrast to the dark stubble along his jaw. He wore blue knee breeches and tall Hessian boots. A sight to behold in a ballroom, no doubt, but in her bedchamber she would have preferred to see him without a stitch. It would, at the very least, have made the night infinitely more fun.

And, in her fantasies, he certainly didn’t wear a brooding expression. A lazy smile perhaps, his mouth red from kissing and his hair mussed. Alas, it was not to be.

Upon recovering from her shock, Phil turned and shut the door. Meg must have seen him—perhaps she’d even let him in. But Phil highly doubted that a man as sensitive to reputation as him would care to have his presence in the manor bandied about, if only among her staff.

The bed creaked as he stood. Phil mustered her composure and turned to face him. Why had he come here so late? Had he received her gift? His gray eyes were sharp, but she couldn’t tell from their expression whether he’d loved the gift or hated it. Her stomach twisted. As did her hands in her dark skirts, the same she’d worn earlier in the day when she’d seen him. She forced her fidgeting hands to stop.

As she opened her mouth, she found herself cut off as he blurted, “You have to stop spying for the French.”

Phil slowly closed her mouth. She would have preferred to hear a confession of his undying love—or at the very least, his esteem for her—but, admittedly, pretty words best belonged with the rest of her fantasy. This, it seemed, was business.

But why was he here if he still believed her a French spy?

She stepped closer. The shadows beneath his eyes weren’t only due to the flickering light of the candle. He looked worried. Distraught, even. When she reached up to touch his cheek, he turned his face to kiss her palm. The bristles of his growing beard scraped her wrist.

He stood and cupped her face. His gaze was haunted. He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then her lips. He lingered there, a soft but urgent pressure. He pulled away only enough to look her in the eye.

“Please, Phil.” His voice was a rasp. “I know you were born in France. Obviously, you have some lingering loyalties, and I can’t blame you for them, but you must cut ties. I can’t stand by and watch the woman I love throw her life away.”

Her breath caught. Maybe this was exactly like her fantasy, after all. She swallowed hard before she found her voice. “You love me?”

“With every corner of my wretched heart.”

She smiled, reaching up to lay her hand atop his, still cupping her cheek. “I love you, too.”

The admission set loose a torrent that had been dammed between them since they’d met. Morgan crushed her to him. His lips found hers, hard and hungry as he pressed her against his body. She clutched at his broad shoulders, her head spinning. His hands roved over her back and hips and rear as if trying to memorize her shape. That wasn’t a bad idea. She ached to explore him, too.

But perhaps she should explain a few things first.

Reluctantly, she broke the kiss. As he rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard, she whispered, “Would you love me even if I wasn’t a French spy?”

“God, yes.” His voice induced a shiver over her skin. “That’s what I’m trying to convince you to do.”

She smiled. “Your wish is my command. I don’t spy for the French. I never have.”

He pulled away, his expression baffled. “If not the French, then who?”

She met his gaze, willing him to believe her. “I’m not a spy at all.”

His expression closed off. “Don’t lie to me, Phil. I’m a Crown spy. I know the signs. Every time I’ve followed a tip to interrupt a secret meeting, you’ve been there.”

She backed away, wrapping her arms around her torso. This was the difficult part. Could she trust him?

Of course she could. This was Morgan, the man who loved her. The man she loved, as well. In fact, if any man had been made for her to marry, it would have been him. He didn’t try to belittle or stifle her intelligence, her inventions, her freedom. He respected her. Perhaps he even admired her. If she would trust him with the rest of her life, she could damn well trust him with this.

She caught and held his gaze. “It wasn’t me. The spy is…” She took a deep, steadying breath. “The spy is my brother. But it isn’t his intention.”

* * *

M
organ’s ears rang
. Relief warred with dismay in his chest. Phil wasn’t the spy he was looking for.

Her brother was. And if Morgan turned
him
in to the crown…he was sure he would lose Phil. He sat heavily on the bed. The mattress swayed a bit on its ropes but quickly settled into place again.

“What do you mean, it isn’t his intention?” Morgan’s voice was gruff. More so than he’d intended. Guilt stabbed him as a shadow crossed over Phil’s face.

He held out his hand to her. He gentled his voice. “Please, come here. Tell me everything.”

His heart pounded a chaotic racket in his chest, so loud it nearly drowned out his thoughts. Phil took a hesitant step forward, lifting her skirt above her ankles as she did. When she slipped her hand into his, he clutched her. Her skin was a bit clammy. She was afraid.

Of him? Or of the news she intended to impart?

Tentatively, she perched on the edge of the bed next to him. He didn’t release her hand. He needed that connection between them. Her leg bounced with nervousness.

“He doesn’t want to spy,” she whispered. “He told me so.”

“And you believed him?”

Morgan tightened his hold on her hand as she tried to pull away.

“Of course I did! He’s my brother.”

Morgan lifted their joined hands to press his lips to her skin. “I have brothers, too, remember? They’ve lied to me on occasion. This is important. I want to know if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Her eyes were dark and stormy with the temper she kept a tight rein on. Given the purse of her lips, she would unleash that tempest on him if he said another word against her brother.

“Jared can’t even remember our home in France. His home and allegiance is here, in England.”

Morgan searched her face, trying to detect any hint of doubt. There was none. She believed her brother to be innocent. Perhaps not of wrongdoing, but of the intent. He released a slow breath and adjusted his hold on her hand.

“I believe you.”

She relaxed.

“If he doesn’t want to spy, then why is he doing so? This isn’t the sort of thing you can do by accident.”