While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (16 page)

“And it only takes one to grab you when no one else is looking and finish what he began last night.”

His words slammed into her. They were as hard as the look in his eyes. Once again, she felt a flash of fear, caught the flicker of an image—a man in black above her, his hands under her skirts—before she could suppress it.

She stiffened, pulled inward. She hated this. Hated the fear. Hated that she needed Winterbourne’s protection, that deep down she wanted it. She’d never wanted to need or want a man again. But right now she could barely contain her own apprehensions, much less counter Winterbourne’s, and more than anything she needed to feel the healing sun on her face and the rejuvenating nip of the wind on her cheeks.

She stepped away from him then, backing down and feeling defeated. “Very well. Come if you like.”

With a breeziness she didn’t feel, she turned for the door. Her hand was reaching for the handle when the door flew open and Lady Brigham leapt inside.

Her mother’s head whipped around frantically, her blue skirts billowing and her golden curls bouncing. When she spotted Francesca, she squealed and dove. Before Francesca could dart out of the way, her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Francesca’s head felt as though a board slammed into it.

“
Mia figlia, preziosa
! Is it true? Tell me it’s true,
dolce
!”

“Tell you what’s true,
Mamma
?” Her voice rattled between her mother’s shakes. “What are you talking about?”

“Your betrothal,
naturalmente
! Do not tease me,
mia cuore
.” Her mother thrust her away with a wounded expression.

“My
betrothal
? Of course, it’s n—”

She felt warmth encircle her waist and a firm squeeze. Winterbourne stood beside her, his arm encircling her. “It’s true, my lady,” he interrupted. “I see your husband wasted no time in telling you. I only asked his permission an hour ago.”

Francesca stared at Winterbourne, dumbfounded. She had
not
agreed to this ridiculous mock engagement, and she had certainly never agreed to lie about it to her mother.

Angry, she looked back at her mother, ready to reveal the truth and end the farce once and for all.

The words died on her lips.

Tears filled her mother’s eyes. With her hands on her tremulous lips, her face was such a beacon of happiness that for a moment Francesca wished with all her heart that the betrothal
was
real. She glanced back at Winterbourne, now fastened firmly to her waist, and saw that his mouth had quirked into a half smile in response to her mother’s obvious elation.

“B-but—
how
?” her mother sputtered. “When?”

Winterbourne looked down at Francesca, a tender expression on his face. “I fell in love with your daughter the first time I saw her.”

Francesca stared into his eyes, the honey-gold flecks trapping her in the amber surrounding them. It’s not true.
It’s not true
, she repeated to herself.

As if he could read her thoughts, Winterbourne gave her mother a sheepish look and said with a chuckle, “Well, the second time I saw her. I barely remember the first.”

Francesca swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, to deny all of his lies, but the muscles in her throat were paralyzed.
Not true
. Not true, she silently chanted instead, trying to at least convince herself.

“Oh, how romantic!” Her mother clasped her hands together over her heart. “And when did you ask
mia figlia
,
mia figlia dolce
, to marry you?”

He looked down at Francesca again and squeezed her side. Her skin came alive under his hand, warmth radiating into her body from every inch making contact with him. Then he took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles.

Gaze still locked on her face, he said, “I asked her last night, and she agreed.” He glanced back at her mother with that charming, roguish smile of his. “Not without a few stipulations, of course.” He raised one mischievous eyebrow, and her mother tittered with laughter.

“
Naturalmente
!”

He was still staring at her and holding her hand lightly between his fingertips when Francesca finally pried her gaze away from his to glance at her mother. The poor woman was euphoric, not to mention completely convinced.

And Francesca realized that
she
wanted to be convinced as well. More than anything, she wanted to believe that this betrothal was real. That—just for one day—the Marquess of Winterbourne wanted her, loved her.

A tiny but insidious thought crept into her mind. Perhaps if she played along, perhaps if they pretended to be betrothed, it might somehow become reality.

No.

Francesca squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the idea away.

No. This was wrong.

She couldn’t fathom what her father might have been thinking, but perhaps somehow Winterbourne had convinced him that tricking her mother into believing this betrothal was real was the best course of action. For her own part, she couldn’t bear to lie. Couldn’t bear to watch her mother so happy, when Francesca knew that in a few days, when the truth came out, she would be equally unhappy, if not more so.

She took a deep breath, “
Mamma
,” she began, her tone full of regret.

Winterbourne must have realized her intent because he squished her hand. She darted a glance at him. A warning flickered in his eyes. The gold flecks had changed from languorous molten honey to gold sparks of fire. She narrowed her eyes in challenge. How dare he try to intimidate her? This was
her
mother, not his, and he couldn’t bully her into lying to her own mother. She shot him a defiant look and turned back to her mother. Lady Brigham was watching her expectantly, her face bright in anticipation of another surprise.

Francesca sighed, her shoulders sagging. Lord help her, she couldn’t do it. With all that had happened in the past day, she couldn’t dishearten her mother any further. Tomorrow would be soon enough to break the poor woman’s heart.

“Nothing,
Mamma
.” Francesca pulled out of Winterbourne’s arms. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”

Her mother enfolded her in a warm hug, and Francesca closed her eyes and returned the embrace, just as she had when she’d been a little girl. Her mother’s hugs had never failed to make all right with the world then, so perhaps if she hugged her hard enough, and wished long enough, her mother’s embrace would do the same today.

I
t was obvious Francesca loved her home, Ethan thought as she led him along the path to the stable. He nodded, only half-listening, as she proudly pointed out Tanglewilde’s various buildings, stopping to greet each servant. It would have made an ideal opportunity to learn the names of the staff and the layout of the estate’s grounds, if only he’d been listening.

Seeing Francesca embrace her mother so warmly, and Lady Brigham’s joyful return of affection, caused him a twinge of guilt. More than a twinge, actually. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so guilty. Could count on one hand the number of times he’d
ever
felt guilty.

He paused as Francesca was waylaid once again, this time by one of the dairymaids, and tried to determine where he’d gone wrong. He’d paced his chamber last night and thought he’d crafted the perfect plan. A betrothal. He’d written to Alex, given him the pertinent information, and asked his brother to work even harder at finding the leader of the smugglers.

Everything had come together as he’d anticipated, and he should be feeling a sense of satisfaction right now. Clearly, he hadn’t considered all the angles. He’d forgotten the female factor.

He swore under his breath. How could he have foreseen that Francesca would give him a look of such longing that he nearly bent down on one knee right there to propose in earnest? The proposal would have been ruined when he’d choked on the words. He would have to marry one day, his title demanded it, but that day was a long, long time away.

Francesca finished her conversation with the dairymaid and motioned him to follow her. At the rate they were moving, he estimated they’d arrive at the stables by next Thursday. But their slow progress didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, the fresh air revived her. The pale strained expression from the night before was gone, and she looked happy, cheeks rosy and eyes shining. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

It wasn’t the first time that day. If he had any sense at all, he’d forbid her any and all chocolate while he was in residence at Tanglewilde. He’d nearly ravished her in the parlor when she’d inadvertently smudged chocolate from one of the tarts on her lush lower lip.

He hadn’t been able to take his eyes from that smudge or from her. The need, the desire, to kiss her lips and taste that chocolate on them had driven him half-mad.

The smudge was gone now, and Ethan wished his attraction could be wiped away as easily. It might have been, if she didn’t insist on swinging her hips so seductively as she walked in front of him.

He averted his eyes and was relieved to find that the large stable complex loomed before them. He corralled his thoughts, bringing them back to the matter at hand. While she looked in on Skerrit’s horse, he could question the grooms.

“Miss Dashing!”

Ethan recognized the grizzled man who’d braved Brigham’s majordomo the night before emerging from the stable.

“I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Are you certain you’re well enough to be out and about?”

“I’m wonderful, Alfred.” Francesca waved and smiled. “Thanks to you.” They stopped beside the stable’s entrance, and she gave the man a quick hug. The old servant blushed with pleasure. She had Tanglewilde’s staff wrapped around her little finger, and she’d do the same to him if he wasn’t careful.

“I owe you my life,” Francesca said.

“Anyone would have done the same, miss.”

“No they wouldn’t, Alfred. Don’t try to be modest. You’re a hero, and I would see my father reward you as you deserve.”

“No, miss. I don’t want anything, except to see that you’re well. Oh, and to catch the bastard—pardon my language, miss—who hurt you.”

The man met Ethan’s eyes. Francesca followed his gaze, and said, “Lord Winterbourne, this is Mr. Shepherd.”

“We met last night.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Then you must already know Alfred is our head coachman.”

Ethan nodded.

She smiled at the old man again. “He’s also the best animal caretaker in all of Hampshire.” As if offering proof, she gestured to a nearby paddock where a groom exercised two gleaming geldings in their prime.

“Miss Dashing has a tendency to exaggerate, your lordship.”

To Ethan’s amazement, the coachman blushed—again. Ethan propped a shoulder against the stable wall. “I doubt it, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“From what I understand, we owe you our gratitude for rescuing Miss Dashing last night.”

“I happened to be in the right place, my lord, and I did what I could. Wasn’t able to catch the bastard, unfortunately—pardon my language again, miss. Miss Dashing made sure he didn’t escape without something to remember her by, though.”

Francesca’s cheeks colored to strawberry. “I think I’ll go in and check on Thunder,” she murmured. Putting a hand to her cheeks, she scooted past the man and disappeared into the stable. Ethan watched her go, tempted to follow.

“Kneed him in the balls, she did,” Shepherd said. “He all but crawled away, tail between his legs.”

“Good.”

Shepherd nodded to the stable. “She’ll be all right inside, your lordship. Peter and Joe are there and won’t allow any harm to come to her.”

“Can you trust them?”

“They’ve been here for the last couple of years. I assure you neither of them attacked her. They’d protect her with their lives.”

From what Ethan had seen thus far of the staff’s loyalty to their young mistress, he didn’t doubt that statement. “You were there, Mr. Shepherd. Do you know who attacked her?”

“No, my lord. The coward wore a hood, and I couldn’t see his face. But he also wore a greatcoat, and even in the dark, it looked far finer than most in these parts can afford.”

Ethan nodded. “Is that the only reason you don’t believe it was anyone at Tanglewilde?”

The coachman stiffened. “No one here would harm a hair on Miss Dashing’s head.”

Ethan nodded again. He would examine every possibility. His gut told him the murder of Skerrit and the attack on Francesca were related, but he wasn’t ready to rule out other suspects yet. “What about someone from the village?” He glanced at the surrounding estate, his mind turning. “Does Miss Dashing have any enemies?”

“Hardly, my lord.” Shepherd huffed. “His Lordship and the family are well liked in these parts, especially the Miss Dashings.”

Ethan caught himself before he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Shepherd had just ruled out the staff at Tanglewilde, vagrants, and the whole of Selborne village.

Again, all signs pointed to the smugglers, but he could hardly mention those men to Shepherd.

“You intend to find the man, my lord?” He stuck a piece of hay between his teeth and clamped shut on it.

“I
will
find him, Mr. Shepherd.” Ethan straightened away from the stable wall. “And when I do, you can be sure he’ll suffer.”

The coachman deftly slid the hay from one side of his mouth to the other. “You let me know if you need any assistance, your lordship.”

“I do. I have half a dozen more questions for you, and I need to question the stable hands. Send them up to the house later and—”

“Mr. Shepherd! Mr. Shepherd!” A hefty young man in groom’s clothing hurled himself at the coachman, a small bundle wrapped in a gray horse’s blanket in his arms.

Shepherd moved swiftly to meet the youth, and Ethan followed. “What is it, Nat? What have you got there?”

“An injured rabbit, sir.” The boy was red-faced and huffing from exertion. “I was out walking and heard her screams. Got herself caught in a poacher’s trap and wasn’t dead. I got her out, but her leg’s mangled.”