While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (2 page)

“I think you’d better release him,” she said. “He looks as though he can’t breathe.”

Winterbourne’s cool gaze locked on her face, and his fingers tightened on Skerrit’s neck.

“Unless you really would kill him?” she squeaked. She hated Skerrit, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.

Winterbourne’s fingers flexed, and she began to fear he really
did
intend murder. Finally, with a last shove, Winterbourne released Skerrit and rose to his knees, gulping air like a fish caught in a net.

“Lord Winterbourne! Forgive me, your lordship. I had no idea it was you.” He struggled to his feet, hands on his knees, still trying to catch his breath.

Winterbourne wiped his hands on his breeches then locked his arms across his chest, watching the man labor as one might watch the toils of an ant.

“Why are
you
here?” Skerrit wheezed between gulps of oxygen.

At the farmer’s demanding tone, an ominous look crossed the marquess’s face.

“My lord,” Skerrit added quickly.

“My horse threw a shoe,” Winterbourne answered after a moment. “I saw your farm and thought you might lend assistance.”

“Of course,” Skerrit answered too quickly, with an obsequious little bow. “I’d be honored to assist in any way I can.” He spun toward the barn, but Francesca wouldn’t allow him to scurry away so easily.

“Mr. Skerrit! Wait just a moment.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ve come to discuss this latest incidence of abuse with you. I’ll have you know I won’t tolerate it.”

Skerrit turned back, looking down his thin, crooked nose at her. At times like this, she hated her short stature. It particularly galled her to have to look up at the odious farmer. She felt more like an indignant child than a dignified woman of one and twenty.

“To what abuse are you referring, Miss—Dashing, is it?”

Francesca beamed at the marquess, pleased to see that he shared her concern.

“My lord, excuse me,” Skerrit answered for her, making the ingratiating bow again. Little toady! “This girl is a nuisance.” He pointed a dirty finger at Francesca. “What I do with my animals is my business. Now get off my property!” He screamed the last, apparently forgetting Winterbourne.

Francesca set her jaw. “Not until you release Thunder to me.”

“Look, you stupid little chit—”

Francesca raised her voice over his. “I won’t leave him here after the way you mistreated him today. I saw you ride by, whipping him and pushing him past the limits of any animal.”

“I told you. My animals are my business.”

“Thunder needs medical attention.”

Skerrit turned beseechingly to Winterbourne, probably hoping to tap into some shared male condescension toward women. But as far as Francesca could tell, the marquess’s face didn’t betray any emotion.

“Who is Thunder?” Winterbourne asked. He sounded bored.

Francesca gave him a frown.

“It’s the ridiculous name she’s given to my colt.” Skerrit gave a derisive laugh. “The chit’s daft, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.” Winterbourne reached into his charcoal tailcoat and extracted a slim silver case. “How much do you want for the animal?”

Francesca stared at the marquess, her breath coming out in an indignant huff. “My lord, I appreciate your assistance, but I really must insist you allow me to handle this.”

Winterbourne shifted, blocking her view with his bulky shoulder. With an exclamation of disbelief, she scooted around him.

“How much?” he repeated.

“I wasn’t really looking to sell.” Skerrit rubbed the grimy cleft in his chin with his thumb, and Francesca pursed her lips at the spark of greed in the farmer’s eye.

“Perhaps I could persuade you.”

“You can’t possibly mean to
buy
the colt,” Francesca exclaimed. Didn’t Winterbourne see that Skerrit would just use the money to buy another horse, and she’d be right back where she started? Alarm shot through her, and she stepped between the two men, facing Winterbourne.

He raised his chin, looking over her head at Skerrit, the only acknowledgment of her presence between them. “Fifteen guineas,” he offered.

Francesca felt her jaw drop. Insufferable man! Had she compared him to a warrior a moment before? Despot was more accurate.

“My lord, the animal is worth much more than fifteen guineas! Only come and see... ”

Skerrit’s whining grated on her nerves, and she whirled on him.

“I have no desire to see the evidence of your handiwork, Mr. Skerrit. The offer is now twelve,” Winterbourne snapped behind her.

Skerrit shook his head, and Francesca let out a pent-up breath. But Skerrit was no fool. He wouldn’t bargain much longer. She rounded on Winterbourne, feeling dizzy at all the sudden turns.

“Lord Winterbourne, I really must insist you do
not
purchase this animal. It would be better if I took the colt home and cared for him temporarily.” There. That ought to settle the matter.

Winterbourne glanced down at her briefly, and she nodded her head in encouragement.

“I suggest you accept my offer,” he said to Skerrit over her head.

She almost stamped her foot in aggravation. Instead, she tapped the marquess on the chest. “Lord Winterbourne, have you been listening? I said that I didn’t think—”

“I’ll take it,” Skerrit agreed.

“No!” she protested.

Winterbourne extracted an ivory card from the silver case. “This is my brother’s solicitor here in Southampton. The earl’s name is on the back.” Reaching around her, he handed the card to Skerrit. “My man is in Yorkshire, but show Selbourne’s solicitor this card and you’ll be compensated for the animal.”

“I don’t believe it,” Francesca moaned. All her hard work, and in three minutes the meddling marquess had ruined it, causing her who knew how many more problems. She wanted to scream but settled for waving her hands frantically in front of Winterbourne’s face in a last, desperate effort to gain his attention.

He leveled his amber gaze on her, expression bemused. “What are you doing, Miss Dashing?”

“What am
I
doing? What are
you
doing, my lord? I told you
not
to buy the horse!”

“It’s too late for that now.” He waved Skerrit away.

Francesca spun around in time to see the lanky farmer slink off, grinning his gap-toothed, yellow smile all the way.

“Why are you complaining?” Winterbourne crossed his arms and stared down at her, now treating
her
like the ant. If she wasn’t so angry, she might have been intimidated.

He jerked his hand impatiently. “You wanted the horse. Now you have the horse.”

“You don’t understand. I never wanted to buy the horse. You’ve just given that man money to purchase another poor beast and—wait! You’re not even keeping Thunder?”

“No. I bought him for you.”

“B-but you don’t even know me! You can’t buy me a horse! What will people say?”

“I couldn’t care less.” Obviously, the marquess considered their conversation over because he turned away from her, striding on long, lean legs to the far side of the stable. Francesca followed, though she had to run to keep up.

“But
I
care. My family will care.”

He glanced back at her, seeming surprised she hadn’t disappeared. “That’s not my concern.”

They rounded the stable’s corner, and Francesca saw he’d tethered a beautiful sorrel gelding near a forgotten woodpile. The horse nickered when he saw his owner approaching. The marquess quickened his pace, outdistancing her.

“Lord Winterbourne.” Francesca slowed to a walk as he reached the horse and began loosening the reins. Without a word, he mounted the gelding, gracefully turning him away from her and the stable.

Oh, no. She wasn’t about to allow him to ignore her this time.

“Lord Winterbourne!” she bellowed so loudly that not only all of Hampshire but half of Scotland probably heard.

His horse certainly did. The copper-red animal jerked his head toward her. She saw the impatient flick of Winterbourne’s wrist on the reins, then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed muscled legs into the beast’s flank and guided the mount to face her. The softness was gone from his eyes, and she felt the stab of his piercing gaze.

The last lavender and indigo rays of the autumn sun illuminated him from behind, melding horse and rider into one, transforming him into some mythical being—a satyr or centaur. The sky was darkening, but through the shadows of dusk, his eyes dismissed her.

“Good-bye, Miss Dashing.” He spurred his horse and rode into the streaks of dying light.

“Wait!” she called after him. “I thought you said your horse lost a shoe.”

Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother to turn around. Hands on her hips, Francesca frowned after him.

E
than Caxton, the Marquess of Winterbourne, suppressed an uncharacteristic shudder and urged Destrehan forward. Grayson Park, pale and dreary, rose before him like a hoary mist out of the inky night. Destrehan shied as they crested the hill overlooking the estate, and Ethan knew exactly how the thoroughbred felt. He reined the horse in and stroked the gelding’s sleek copper mane.

He’d been raised primarily in London and had never liked Grayson Park. The estate was tainted with too many bad memories—having been his mother’s last refuge when his stepfather flaunted his newest mistress.

In the moonless darkness, his late stepfather’s country house appeared even more formidable and massive than usual. Baroque in style, the house was a long, severe rectangle of gray granite. Two-dozen windows overlooked the south lawns, most of them as black as the far reaches of Hell. Weak light shone from a handful of parted drapes on the upper floors, and the dim glow gave eerie illumination to the gargoyles leering down at him, their talons gripping the stone balustrade encircling the roof.

Ethan wasn’t superstitious, but he’d felt uneasy on the ride back from Skerrit’s farm. The ghostly vision of Grayson Park only heightened the feeling. On top of everything, the image of the Dashing girl standing next to Skerrit’s woodpile, twilight tumbling about her like the curls of her chocolate hair, refused to leave him. He couldn’t put her out of his mind, and it was damned unnerving.

He
should
have seen her home. He’d realized his lapse halfway to Grayson Park, but when he returned, both she and the horse were already gone. He cursed his error these last five miles or so, consoling himself with the certainty that she was native to the area—a country miss who most likely lived close to Skerrit’s farm. Nothing could account for his oversight. Nothing except a mixture of unyielding anger that his presence had been revealed and the unexpected distraction of a well-shaped ankle.

He’d been inspecting Skerrit’s property, searching for evidence that the farmer was not what he seemed. Careful to keep out of sight, Ethan had rounded a corner of the stable and seen the girl climb on the rickety bucket to peek inside the barn. He should have retreated, but then she leaned forward and he caught the flash of her slender ankle. His gaze lingered, skimming her shapeless mantle and fastening on the thickness of her rich hair. He’d paused just long enough in his appreciation to see her wobble. He’d been in time to catch her, but his valiant efforts cost him his anonymity.

Ethan hoped the lie he’d told about Destrehan losing a shoe didn’t arouse the farmer’s suspicions. The excuse was weak at best. If Skerrit doubted it, weeks of surveillance and careful preparation were destroyed. Skerrit would undoubtedly disappear, and with him, Ethan’s best chance at uncovering the French government’s most successful arms smuggling operation.

Perhaps meddlesome women, not French spies, were the real threat to his mission. Spurring Destrehan forward, he tamped down his annoyance and covered the last few yards to the arched brick entry of Grayson Park.

A footman carrying a flambeaux materialized from the gloom and took the horse’s reins, while another appeared almost immediately to light the marquess’s way. Ethan dismounted and paused to run his hands along Destrehan’s fore and back legs, checking for any injury or strain.

He rested his hand on the horse’s warm chest. “Tell the grooms to cool him down before feeding and watering him.” Ethan gave Destrehan an affectionate pat. “Then he needs a good rub down. I want him ready at first light.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The grand foyer of Grayson Park was shadowed and drafty, and the flickering candles added a touch of the ethereal, but Ethan could just make out the solid form of his stodgy valet, Pocklington, standing ready at the foot of the stairs.

The elderly valet appeared as immobile as the marble statue on the table beside him. It was the end of a long day, but Pocklington—ever the “gentleman’s gentleman”—stood polished and poised. Not a wrinkle in his clothes nor a gray hair out of place on his head. Ethan caught the servant’s gaze, nodded to his man, and took the blood-red carpeted steps two at a time, Pocklington following. At the landing, Ethan turned right and strode down the long gallery.

The estate now belonged to his half brother. Alex had only acquired the house and accompanying title a few years before, when Alex’s father, their mother’s second husband and the Earl of Selbourne, died. Ethan knew Alex had found precious little time to think of improvements and redecoration. Still, Ethan would have made removing the dour portraits from the dark, wood-paneled walls a priority.

He knew their names and titles. And he’d passed them often enough that he was familiar with each ancestor’s variation on a reproving glower.

Stopping at the bedchamber he always occupied when visiting the Park, Ethan grasped the handle of the mahogany door and stepped inside. His eyes flicked to the walnut bedside cupboard and the full decanter of brandy squatting on top.

Pocklington shut the door behind him. “Would you care for a brandy, my lord?”

Before Ethan had time to answer, the valet had crossed to the table, unstopped the decanter, and begun pouring the amber liquid into one of the crystal glasses beside it.

“Thank you, Pocket.” It was a rare occasion when Ethan drank more than one glass of brandy or a few sips of wine. A man who lived on instinct and quick thinking, he’d been saved more than once by using his wits when other men were too inebriated to do so. But after the events of this evening, Ethan needed a drink—maybe two.