While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (13 page)

Something in her voice sent a warning jolt through Ethan. For a moment, he’d been almost certain she would say the man’s name.

“Please let me see Lino,” Francesca went on. “And then I’ll sleep, I promise.”

Lady Brigham turned back to the doctor, now holding a blue opaque bottle suspended above his bag, his eyes riveted, as all their eyes were, to this small, injured girl.

“Dr. Dawson?”

“If it eases her mind, I see no reason not to.”

“I’ll send Mr. Shepherd.” She began to rise, but Francesca reached out, misjudging the distance and missing her mother’s arm. The failed gesture stopped Lady Brigham all the more completely. “
Mamma
, send Daddy to do it.” Her eyes turned to Lord Brigham. “He’s so upset,” she whispered. “Alfred will know what to do.”

Ethan closed his eyes, shaking his head. She thought of everyone but herself. And they allowed it.

Hot anger pulsed through him. Lady Brigham rose and went to her husband, kneeling beside him and speaking in whispered tones. At first Brigham seemed to object, but finally he stood. On tottering legs, he went to his daughter and kissed her forehead. When he looked up, his gaze met Ethan’s. But the viscount’s eyes no longer held any fire. They were hollow and empty, beaten by the same feelings of helplessness Ethan felt. Brigham turned and shuffled from the room.

“Lord Brigham.” The doctor closed his bag and followed. “A word with you.”

With Brigham and the doctor gone, the room seemed empty. Francesca closed her eyes when her mother resumed her seat, then seemed to make an effort to open them again when Ethan took a step toward her. She stared at him blankly, almost as though she thought him an apparition.

“Oh, Lord Winterbourne.”

Ethan winced at the harsh intrusion of Lady Brigham’s voice.

“What are we ever to do? My poor, poor baby!”

“I’ll take care of it,” Ethan heard himself say.

And he meant it. He would find the bastard who’d done this to her.

Find him and kill him.

“I knew we could count on you, my lord.
Grazie. Grazie
.”

Ethan’s gaze locked with Francesca’s, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she said, “You came.” Her speech was slow, a hint of wonder in her voice. Ethan noted she’d made a statement, not asked a question.

“I came,” he answered. He’d had no choice, really. Nothing could have stopped him.

Her brow wrinkled. “I thought I dreamed you,” she murmured.

He stood over her, looking down at her face, illuminated softly by the candlelight. It was too dark to see the first signs of bruises, but he noticed a scratch near her lip. He wanted to reach out and touch it, wipe it away, erase it and everything bad that had ever happened to her.

“Who did this?” He gestured to her prone form. “Do you know him?” His tone was gruff, angry. He heard Lady Brigham’s gasp, but Francesca only furrowed her brow and sank further into her plump pillows.

Ethan took a deliberate breath and tried to leash the deluge of guilt and temper, the unreasonable rage he felt because he hadn’t been there to protect her. The last thing he wanted was to traumatize her. Still, he needed information. He needed proof her attacker had been one of the smugglers so he could find the bastard—and he
would
find him, there was no question of that. He needed her to answer his questions now. Clearly, the sedative was working in her, but he counted on the information still being fresh in her mind.

Ethan turned to her mother. She’d taken Francesca’s hand again when he’d spoken. “Lady Brigham, I have to ask these questions now if I’m to find her attacker.”

The woman’s head bobbed like a marionette’s.

“In fact, it would be better if I could speak with your daughter alone.” He glanced at Francesca. She puckered her lips and raised her head slightly.

“Oh my, but that’s most inappropriate,
Signore
.” But she was already rising. “Although under the circumstances—” She gestured vaguely.

“I promise I’ll be good.” Ethan gave her a roguish smile.

Lady Brigham melted. “Oh, I know. I know!” She looked sternly at her daughter. “Now, Francesca, you must answer all of Lord Winterbourne’s questions.”

Francesca looked at her mother, then at him, and frowned. Ethan could see that, even in this diminished state, she would be stubborn. Lady Brigham turned back to him. “And
Signore
, you must promise not to tire
mia figlia
.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he promised and winked. Anything to make the woman retreat.

With a spring returning to her step, Lady Brigham turned to leave. Her daughter caught her sleeve, her fingers slipping down the fabric. “
Mamma
. Don’t forget Lino.”

“As soon as Mr. Shepherd returns, I’ll bring you the puppy.” Her mother patted her hand. ”Do you need anything,
Signore
?”

Ethan hesitated. The idea had crossed his mind half a dozen times since he’d stepped in the room. And if he was to make the request, now was the time to do so. But still he held back, not sure he could trust himself. Didn’t trust that his decision was motivated by the desire to protect rather than blatant sheer desire.

He glanced at Francesca again. She was watching him, her eyes cloudy but her lips still pursed, the ugly red scratch stark against the white canvas of her skin.

The devil take it, Ethan decided. “I need a room, madam. I’ll be staying until this is sorted out.”

Lady Brigham let out a little gasp and almost reeled from what appeared to be something akin to rapture.

Ethan gritted his teeth. Did the woman think of nothing but marriage?

“We would be honored.” Her pitch rose with excitement.

“Ask your housekeeper to have a room prepared and to send for my things from Grayson Park.”

“Mrs. Priggers will see to it immediately, my lord,” she squeaked. Ethan could have sworn she bounced out the doorway.

He shook his head, amazed at the woman’s transparency. She’d have the marriage announcement in the
Times
before the night was over. He’d have to set her straight tomorrow.

“You’re not—” Francesca closed her eyes, then opened them, seeming to struggle to concentrate. “You can’t stay here tonight.”

“No?” He rounded the bed, stopping at Lady Brigham’s vacant seat then removing his gloves and laying them on the arm of the silk upholstered armchair.

“No.” She sounded relieved and shook her head as if to clear the silly notion all together. Ethan almost grinned. She seemed so sure of herself.

He took the seat, meeting her fuzzy gaze. “You’re right.”

She smiled too broadly and closed her eyes in relief.

“One night is too brief. I was thinking more of a week.” He leaned back. “But it may be two, depending on how helpful you prove.”

She opened her eyes, blinked, and stared at him. “What?”

“I’m staying,” he repeated.

With a moan, she turned her head into the pillows. “What am I to do?” he heard her mumble. “This
can’t
be happening.”

Ethan scowled. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “What’s wrong?” she groaned. “The most handsome man in England just moved in with me, and he asks what’s wrong.” Her voice was groggy, but Ethan froze at her words.

This was something new. She thought him the most handsome man in England?

“What’s
wrong
?” She pointed a limp but accusatory finger at him. “You’re
bad
!”

“But handsome.” He grinned.

She closed her eyes with a sigh.

“I’m staying,” he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. That fact was non-negotiable. He wouldn’t leave her unprotected again.

She opened her eyes, and her skin seemed to pale in contrast to their dark depths. She looked exhausted, would probably be asleep in a matter of moments.

But first he needed answers. Needed to get his hands on the bastard who’d dared touch her. “Tell me about the attack, sweetheart,” he said, softening his tone. “What happened?”

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Can’t talk about that,” she mumbled. “Don’t want to.”

He took her hand. “I know. I know you’re scared.”

She opened her eyes, and he saw the fear in them, felt her fingers tense in his.

“But I need you to answer my questions anyway. Who did this?”

“Don’t know.” Her eyes drifted closed. “So tired.”

He was losing her. Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face close to hers. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Tell me something, Francesca. Anything.”

Her eyelids drooped. “I—” She yawned. “I think I love you.”

E
than closed the door of the chamber he’d been given the night before and allowed his gaze to rest on Francesca’s door, located in the opposite wing. He started down the corridor, hoping he remembered the location of the stairway. When he found it, he descended slowly, attempting to organize his thoughts. He had one task: find her attacker.

If, as he suspected, her attacker was one of the smugglers, catching the smuggler before uncovering the leader of the men might put his mission for the Foreign Office in jeopardy. That could not be helped. He’d have to rely on Alex to work quickly to uncover the leader’s identity.

He reached the foot of the stairs and headed for the entrance hall. He didn’t know why he felt this overwhelming responsibility for her protection. Why he felt her attack was his fault. But the new feeling of protectiveness wasn’t something he wanted to examine too closely. Her vulnerability struck a chord in him. That was all. He’d find her attacker and that would be the end of it.

That would have to be the end. She was, after all, the daughter of a viscount. He might not care for most of Society’s conventions, might test their limits, but even he knew what went too far. And a dalliance with Francesca Dashing would leap far over the line.

He passed several servants carrying trays or dusting furniture. Ahead, just past the main entrance, was the door to Brigham’s library. He intended to talk to the viscount, and that was as good a place as any to search for him.

After a brief knock, Ethan opened the library door.

“By God, Winterbourne!” Brigham’s head jerked up. “You startled me. I didn’t expect you.”

Norton, the majordomo, stood next to the viscount, pointing to a stack of papers spread over the gleaming desk. The look of disapproval the servant shot him rivaled Pocket’s on mornings when Ethan had stumbled home, clothing soiled and disheveled, after a bad night.

“Shall I show Lord Winterbourne to the drawing room, my lord?” The majordomo’s voice had ice in it.

Brigham waved. “Not necessary, Norton. Might as well get this over with.”

Norton bobbed his head, cheeks flushing. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, you may go.”

The majordomo gathered up the papers and walked stiffly past Ethan. Ethan thought he heard a small, indignant huff when the servant shut the library door behind him. “I don’t think he likes me.”

Brigham gestured to a chair. “Shouldn’t be a surprise after the way you shouldered your way into my daughter’s room last night.”

The viscount folded his hands together, resting them on the massive mahogany desk. Outwardly, the older man appeared to have recovered from the shock of the night before. But Ethan noticed that his face was still haggard, the lines around his mouth deep set and his eyes red rimmed.

Brigham studied him for a long moment, but Ethan said nothing. He wouldn’t apologize and could offer no reason for his behavior the night before. Devil take him if he wasn’t still trying to figure it out himself.

Brigham made a small sound in the back of his throat. “My wife tells me she’s invited you to stay for a day—or so.”

“You don’t approve?”

Brigham sat back. “Even if I were inclined to allow an...extended visit, I hardly believe it necessary. I’ve contacted the magistrate—”

“Gravener?” Ethan snorted and looked out the windows facing the park. “The man couldn’t find his arse if he had both hands wrapped around it. He’ll never find the man who attacked your daughter.”

“And you will?”

Obviously Brigham knew something of his involvement in the Foreign Office or he would not still be under the man’s roof.

“Yes.”

There was absolutely no doubt in Ethan’s mind. And if Brigham had an inkling of who he really was, he’d know it too. He’d ferreted out spies that were so well hidden
they
didn’t know where they were, deciphered codes in five minutes that those who’d designed them took a quarter hour to make out, found his way in—and out—of the most heavily guarded prisons in Paris. He could find a would-be rapist in the Hampshire countryside.

“Why do you have such an interest in this affair? Surely a man of your position has other, more pressing, responsibilities.”

Ethan couldn’t reveal the details of his mission. In silence, he spread his hands, noncommittal.

Brigham pulled at his cravat. “I’ll be honest, Winterbourne. As I’ve said before, I respect you, but I bloody well don’t trust you. I don’t want you near my daughter.”

“I don’t blame you.” Ethan crossed one leg over the other. “But are you really in a position to refuse an offer of assistance? Even from a blackguard like me?”

Brigham scowled and leaned back in his chair. In his set expression, Ethan could see the viscount wanted to find the man responsible as much as Ethan did.

“And you think you can do a better job than Gravener? You can protect her?” There were notes of desperation and fear in the old man’s voice.

Ethan rose and put his hands on the massive desk between them. “I can do what the magistrate can’t.”

“And what is that?”

He pushed away from the desk and strode across the room to the windows. “Protect her twenty-four hours a day.”

Brigham snorted. “I cannot allow you to reside under this roof. Your character is such that both my daughters could be ruined in the eyes of the
ton
, not to mention the local population, if word of your presence here were to become known.”