While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (12 page)

Ethan sipped the last of his drink and massaged his temples. It had been so long since he’d shown any interest in a respectable woman that his brother would probably fall over from shock if he realized the direction of Ethan’s thoughts. It had been years since he’d even glanced in the direction of a woman from the
ton
. Not since Victoria.

Victoria. The acid taste of humiliation was as fresh as his last swallow of gin. If he hadn’t spilled most of it, he would have taken another swig to wash it down. However young and guileless the Dashing girl appeared now, he knew she would be no different from Victoria in the end. No different from any of the women reared in a society where lies and betrayal were elevated to an art.

Well, he had never been much of a collector.

He lifted his glass. “Alex, the blond’s yours if you want her.” He clinked his empty glass to Alex’s. “I’m leaving.”

Ethan shoved his way through the crop of farmers and emerged on the street through a cloud of muttered curses.

There had been times, after Victoria, when he would have lost himself in the women, the noise, the stink of the tavern. Nights when slamming his fist into flesh—and having his own flesh equally abused—was the only way to banish the image of blue eyes and golden hair to the black well in his mind where it belonged.

Not tonight. Tonight he welcomed the unpolluted country breeze on his face, the reprieve from the grating of voices.

On the street, he took a moment to find his bearings. Stepping out of the light leaking from the tavern, he angled for the livery stable where he’d left Destrehan then slowed when he saw two men standing in the shadows.

Ethan reached for his pistol, hand closing on the familiar handle before he’d even had time to consider them. But as he moved closer, he realized the men were deep in discussion and hadn’t noticed him.

His grip on the weapon eased, but he didn’t relinquish his hold. They were standing under the awning of a shop, long since closed for the night. The sign above read Bonnets and Begonias.

Both appeared to be locals—one dressed as a merchant, the other in what looked to be servant’s livery. As there were few large estates in the area, Ethan wondered if the man was one of Alex’s.

“When I left, Dr. Dawson had just arrived,” the servant was saying. Ethan came closer and noted the colors of the man’s livery were not those of Grayson Park.

“Is she badly hurt?” The merchant looked up to acknowledge Ethan’s passing with a nod.

Ethan slowed. He felt a prickle of apprehension, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Don’t know.” The servant twisted to glimpse Ethan and bobbed his head. “All I know is, she was attacked. Had to be carried inside.” The men moved closer together, giving Ethan room to pass. “The mother howling and screaming in that god-awful Italian.”

Ethan stumbled. It felt like a cord had been attached to his shoulder blades, and someone had just pulled it tight. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He was in France again—the roar of the crowd, the flash of the guillotine—and he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t save them.

“Father bellowing for a doctor,” the servant went on, jolting Ethan back, “and calling for his pistols.”

No.

Ethan swung around and grasped the man by the arm. With horror, he saw the servant wore the blue-and-gold livery of Tanglewilde.

No. Not Francesca.

“What happened?” Ethan hissed. The servant tried to pull away, and Ethan found himself shaking the man. “Is Miss Dashing hurt?”

The servant half-turned to his companion, but Ethan pushed him against the shop window, pressing an arm across the man’s shoulders. “Tell me, goddamn it!”

“No,” the servant choked out. “S-she was attacked.”

“Who?” Ethan pressed the man back harder. “Which daughter?”

Don’t let it be her, he prayed.

“The elder.”

Ethan gulped for air. Not again. Not again, was all he could think.

“Miss Francesca,” the servant panted.

The cord tightened, squeezing Ethan until his whole body vibrated with tension. “Who did it?”

The servant shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Where is she now?” Black spots danced in front of Ethan’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think for the panic and rage.

“At home, sir. At—”

The servant’s words were lost in the rush of blood in Ethan’s ears. He released the man and began to run.

T
he night air pummeled Ethan’s face as he urged Destrehan faster. But the frigid wind was far warmer than the cold knot of fear and fury in his belly. What the devil had happened? And how?

He’d left her safe and whole only hours before, even warning her father about the dangers of allowing her to go out alone. Old fool.

Lights blazed at Tanglewilde as Ethan raced up the drive, jumping from Destrehan before his mount had even come to a stop. He tossed the reins to a gaping youth, pushed past him, and barged into the entrance hall. Ethan swung around when he heard the fast click of shoes on the marble.

“What’s going on here?” a man’s voice echoed through the hall. The irate majordomo hastened toward him. “Who do you think—”

“Where is she?” Ethan barreled down on the servant. The majordomo skidded and slowed.

“Lord Winterbourne,” the man said with an attempt at formality, “I—we did not expect you.”

Ethan continued to advance.

“If you would be so kind as to wait in the drawing room”—the servant gestured with a shaking hand—“I will see if Lord Brigham is at home.”

Ethan halted before the man, his face mere inches from the servant’s. “I don’t give a damn whether Brigham wants to see me or not. Where is she?”

Retreating a step, the majordomo spread his hands. Ethan sent him a look that would chill icicles in Hell.

“She’s resting in her room.” The servant raised an unsteady hand to his neckcloth.

“Which way?” Ethan glanced down one side of the entrance hall then the other.

“Sir!” The majordomo’s face paled. “Surely you do not expect to be granted entrance to Miss Dashing’s
bedchamber
?”

Ethan resisted the urge to grab the man by the lapels and throw him against one of the marble busts lining the hall. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Look...ah—”

“Norton,” the majordomo supplied, standing straighter.

“I don’t have time for this, Norton.” Ethan took a step forward, his advance trapping the servant against a pedestal. “Take me to her room, or I’ll search the whole goddamn house myself until I find it.”

“How dare you, sir!” Norton tried to wriggle around the column. “Perhaps you are accustomed to this sort of behavior at
Grayson Park
, but at
Tanglewilde
we observe a strict decorum.”

“Fine.” Ethan glanced around. “Search the whole house it is.” He turned and started down the entrance hall.

“Lord Winterbourne,” he heard a gruff voice call from behind him. “This way.”

Ethan spun around and lowered his clenched fists. A tired, disheveled man with a scruffy gray beard and rumpled hair hastened toward him from the opposite end of the hallway. “I’m Alfred Shepherd, the head coachman. I’ll take you to her.”

“But—” the majordomo began to protest.

Shepherd held up a hand in warning, then motioned to Ethan. The coachman walked quickly, and Ethan followed without comment. He’d follow the devil himself if it would get him to Francesca faster.

Upstairs, one glance down the dimly lit hallway showed Ethan which room was hers. The staff had gathered outside and spoke in hushed, somber tones.

As he and Shepherd passed the adjacent room, he saw a young girl—blond and pretty—hovering in the doorway. She was taller than Francesca and her coloring fair, but Ethan could see the resemblance. She started when she saw him and took a hesitant step forward. She looked pale and tired, and the cord pulling his shoulders constricted once more.

“You were here this afternoon,” she said. “Are you here to help?”

He heard the desperation, the worry in her voice. Ethan opened his mouth to respond but said nothing. What
was
he doing here?

Better to think of that later.

“Yes,” he finally answered.

She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “Oh, good! Father is so distraught. He doesn’t know what to do.”

“Where is your father?”

She nodded toward her sister’s door. “Inside with the doctor and
Mamma
.” The girl bit her lip, tears in her eyes. She looked behind him to the head coachman. “Mr. Shepherd, do you think Cesca will be all right?”

Shepherd stepped forward. “Of course, miss.” He took her hand from Ethan’s sleeve, and Ethan looked down at the warm place it had rested. “Just a bump on the head.”

But Ethan heard the hesitation in Shepherd’s voice. The fear. The cord tightened again, and the tension in his body was almost painful. Slowly, he walked forward.

In silence, the group of servants moved aside.

Francesca’s door was ajar, and, pushing it open, he stepped inside. The dark room smelled of candle wax and worry. In the dim light he could make out almost nothing, but gradually the outlines of furniture became more distinct, and he heard hushed voices.

In the heart of the room stood a large half-tester draped with a pale, flimsy fabric, and Francesca lay in the center. She was propped up with a wealth of plush ivory pillows, her hair a spill of rich chocolate around her pale face. Pink-and-white bedclothes were tucked around her small body, leaving only her arms exposed. Underneath the bulky covers, she seemed too delicate, her limbs thin and fragile in white silk with lace at the slender wrists.

Seeing her so vulnerable, so
small
, wrenched at him. The feeling was too familiar, reminding him of another time, another place. His efforts at protection had failed then as well.

He swore under his breath. Why hadn’t he protected Francesca? Thoroughly searched the grounds for roving smugglers? Insisted her father lock her in the house?

The voices ceased, and Ethan pulled his eyes from her to survey the room. Her mother sat in a chair beside her daughter, on the opposite side of the bed from Ethan, and a man stood next to Lady Brigham, holding the girl’s wrist. Slumped in a chair at a dressing table in the corner was Brigham himself.

He paused at the side of her bed and clenched his hands against the impulse to take her hand in his. He had to be calm, reasonable. Ferret out the information he needed. “What happened?” he asked.

Lady Brigham sobbed loudly and dropped her head in her hands. The viscount looked up and began to rise. “Winterbourne? What the bloody hell are you doing here? We don’t need—” Brigham lurched, stumbled.

“Sit down,” Ethan ordered.

Brigham looked ready to protest, and Ethan held up one solitary finger. Without a word, Brigham fell back into his chair.

“What happened?”

Lady Brigham sobbed louder.

“She was on her way home from her hospital,” Brigham began, “and a man attacked her. Luckily Shepherd got there in time to chase the man away, or else...”

Ethan rounded on the man holding Francesca’s wrist. “Are you the doctor?”

“I am.” The man released her hand, laying it at her side. “Dawson.” The doctor put his hand on the girl’s forehead then looked expectantly at Ethan.

“Winterbourne,” he said.

Dawson nodded. “The Earl of Selbourne’s brother?”

“How is she?” Ethan asked, bypassing the pleasantries. He needed to hear she was well. His body still thrummed with tension.

“She suffered quite a scare, but except for a few bruises and scratches, she will be fine.”

Ethan hadn’t realized his fists were clamped together until then. They felt stiff as he forced them to relax.

“Is she conscious?”

She hadn’t yet opened her eyes. God, please let her be sleeping.

“She’s been awake off and on. I’ve given her a mild sedative. She has a knot the size of a plum on the base of her skull and will probably have a headache in the morning.”

Ethan wanted to feel relief but couldn’t. Not until he knew.

“Was she—” Ethan began, then glanced at her mother. “Are there any other injuries?”

The doctor raised his eyebrows in understanding.

“No. She was not harmed in any other way.”

The cord holding him prisoner slackened. His darkest fears hadn’t been realized. She’d been lucky.

The doctor withdrew his hand from Francesca’s forehead and turned to his medical bag, lying open beside Lady Brigham. Francesca’s eyes fluttered open.

“
Mamma
?” Her voice was faint, but it drew every eye in the room.

Lord Brigham sat up and Lady Brigham ceased her soundless sobbing for a moment. She grasped her daughter’s hand to her heart. “I’m here,
dolce
.”

“Would you do something for me?” Her face was half-turned from him, and Ethan could not see her clearly, but at that moment, if she’d asked the question of him, no matter the request, he’d have gone to the ends of the earth to grant it. This attack was his fault. After Skerrit’s murder and the smugglers he’d seen nearby, Ethan could not believe Francesca’s attack unrelated. If he’d caught the leader of the smugglers by now, she wouldn’t have been in danger, wouldn’t have been attacked. He and Alex had done their best to investigate quickly and thoroughly, but they hadn’t been fast enough.

“Of course,
dolce
.”

“Would you have Cagnolino brought to me?” Francesca sounded almost embarrassed to be asking a favor. Ethan stared at her, willing her to look at him, acknowledge him, but her heavy eyes closed again.

“Your puppy?”

“Yes.” The word came out slow and slurred.

Lady Brigham glanced at the doctor who looked uncertain. “Francesca—”

“Please,
Mamma.
” She grasped her mother’s hand tighter, and Ethan felt the cord tense again at this sign of weakness. “I have to know he’s safe and well. Everyone tells me Lino’s fine, but”—her voice broke off for a moment—“he—” She put a hand to her forehead.

Ethan leaned forward.

“Lino tried to protect me. He—the
man
threw him, and I couldn’t see what happened.”