While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (23 page)

“Fine,” she said.

He released his hold on the door, and she was suddenly aware of how close Ethan was standing. If she moved so much as an inch, she’d brush against him. He seemed to become aware of their closeness as well and took a step back. She felt the absence of the heat from his body immediately, but thankfully she was no longer paralyzed by the cold fear of her attacker.

She turned to the door and pulled it open. “I’d better visit the hospital. The bunny has been alone all night.”

“Good,” she heard him say behind her. “I have business with the house servants, so take the footman with you.” She heard the edge in his voice and turned back to him. “Don’t go anywhere but the hospital or back to the house.”

Francesca shivered at the warning in his voice and eyes and at the image that came to her mind. She saw the shadow of a man, standing behind the crumbling ruins of the wall. His face a mask of hatred, icy eyes glittering with malice in the dark.

She nodded her acquiescence to Ethan and stepped into the hall, where the line of busts stared with their sightless eyes.

She shuddered.

“I
f Winterbourne gives your mother one more
brilliant
suggestion, I’ll strangle him.” Lord Brigham cupped Francesca’s elbow and drew her into the hallway later that day. She glanced back as the drawing room door shut behind them and glimpsed her mother furiously scribbling notes. Francesca felt trapped in a dream. She’d almost laughed when her parents announced they’d decided to host a betrothal ball. Except that a ball with Winterbourne as her betrothed meant she would dance with him, stand beside him, perhaps even be kissed by him.

Her father angled for his library. “I do not want to contemplate how much this ball will cost me.” He kept his voice low and an eye on the drawing room behind them.

Francesca gripped her father’s forearm. “Daddy, why did you agree to this betrothal ball? And in only one week? What will we tell everyone when Winterbourne and I call it off?” Her reputation could hardly stand another broken engagement.

Her father’s eyebrows drew together, and he tugged at his skewed cravat. “I don’t know what else to do, Franny. We have to catch this man. First you.” He gave her an uncharacteristically tender glance. “Now that groom.” His forehead furrowed again. “We need to lure the man into the open.”

“And you think a betrothal ball will do so?”

Her father closed his eyes for a moment, and he looked sunken and suddenly old. Defeated. Francesca clasped her hands together to stop herself from putting her arms around him and hugging him to her. He was a proud man, and she knew he detested this deception and the necessity of having Winterbourne come to their aid as much as she.

“I don’t know, Franny.” He opened his eyes. “I honestly don’t know, but at this point I’m willing to do whatever is required.” He gave her arm a less than reassuring squeeze, and Francesca watched him shuffle to his library. Only a few days before, he’d been vital and alive. Now he appeared tired and beaten.

And she had no one to blame but herself. Winterbourne, the attack, this betrothal—all her fault. If only she had left the hospital a few minutes earlier that night. If only she had walked home with one of the grooms instead of alone. How many times had Alfred scolded her for not doing so? If she could but remember more about the attacker, Ethan or the magistrate might have found him and locked him up.

If, if, if!

Now it was too late, and Nat lay bruised and battered in the stables. Poor, sweet Nat had been attacked, perhaps by the same man who’d assaulted her. And it was her fault because she couldn’t be more helpful.

But all the guilt and the ifs didn’t change anything. Didn’t change the fact she was personally indebted to Winterbourne for protecting her or that her father felt beholden as well.

Lord, she’d been a fool to agree to this fake engagement. But she’d really had no other choice. Did her reputation matter all that much when she considered the recent attacks? Who might be next? Lucia? Lady Brigham?

And so she’d gone along, part of her secretly wishing her fantasies for Winterbourne would turn to reality. But this sham betrothal would fool no one. It was laughable really. And next week she’d be standing in front of the whole of Society, the only one not laughing.

She thought of her father’s tired expression. This was it. Winterbourne had gone too far. He’d have to think of another way to catch the attacker. It was time she put her foot down—instigate an insurrection among the ranks and showed his generalship that though he might have won her father’s approval, her mother’s adoration, and her staff’s respect,
she
wouldn’t surrender quite so easily.

She stomped through the entrance hall, breezed out the south door, and walked right past Peter, lounging at the bottom of the terrace steps.

“Miss Dashing, wait!” he called.

She paused so the footman could catch up, staring in the direction of the tack house as she did so. By the end of the day, she vowed, Winterbourne would be flying a white flag from the front door.

With Peter on her heels, she marched across the battleground between the house and the stable complex, formulating her strategy. She and his generalship would have a little parley, and this time she would not back down. He’d sidestepped her in the past, but today she planned a full frontal assault, and she would not allow him to avoid it.

“Aren’t we walking to the hospital, miss?” Peter asked when she took the fork in the path leading to the stables.

“No, Peter, we’re not.” Francesca didn’t pause in her brisk stride.

“But Lord Winterbourne said—”

“Lord Winterbourne is sometimes mistaken.” Francesca threw the words over her shoulder. “Plans change.” As his lordship would soon learn.

She advanced the last few feet to the tack house, halted outside the door, and turned on her heel to address the footman. “Thank you, Peter. That will be all.” She gave him a sharp nod, almost expecting him to salute in return.

The servant looked at the tack house, then at his mistress. “Yes, miss.” He stepped away reluctantly.

Turning to the door, Francesca squared her shoulders, reached for the handle, and flung wide the door. “Winterbourne!”

Although it was a typical dreary November afternoon, the sun in the overcast sky was bright enough that it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom in the tack house.

She stepped inside, searching the murky darkness for him. As the vague outlines and silhouettes of the room began to take shape, she finally spotted him sitting behind a makeshift table directly across from the door.

Oh, Lord.

He’d removed his coat and sat only in shirtsleeves, the white lawn rolled to the elbows. He was even more naked than the night before! And with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look on his dark, handsome features, his demeanor was every ounce the conquering hero.

So he’d anticipated her arrival. Knew she’d be less than pleased with his unilateral decision-making. That knowledge leveled the battlefield and raised her anger a notch. If he’d known she wouldn’t approve, why hadn’t he discussed the ball with her? Francesca closed the door, and scooting around an abandoned saddle, stepped forward.

“Miss Dashing. This is a pleasant surprise.” His voice, as always, was deep and sensuous, but his slight emphasis on
pleasant
sent a shiver skipping down her arms.

Francesca clenched her hands in an effort to stop the wayward path of her thoughts. The man could turn even the most innocuous word into a seduction, and if she started thinking about his velvet voice and captivating kisses now, the skirmish would be over before it even began.

“I wish I could say the same, sir.” She grasped hold of her anger again in an effort to obliterate her body’s traitorous attraction. Standing before him as he lounged behind the desk, she felt more exposed than she liked.

She straightened her shoulders. “But I’m afraid my errand at present is anything
but
pleasant.”

She expected him to look contrite at her show of temper, perhaps even apologetic. Raise an eyebrow at the very least! But the amused smile he gave her instead was infuriating. Not only had her first volley missed; evidently, he found her anger amusing.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he drawled.

Leisurely, he propped his long legs on the planks that formed the top of the improvised table and crossed his feet at the ankles. If his posture was any indication, the enemy was issuing his challenge. She was more than willing to engage the opposing forces, provided she had the right ammunition. And that meant outwitting him.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts, allowing her gaze to roam the tack room from the saddles to the harnesses, all gleaming from the grooms’ religious care.

Every inch of her—down to the smallest pore and hair follicle—was uncomfortably aware that he watched her.

It seemed he was always watching her. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d placed the table on which he’d propped his feet facing the window an unobstructed view of the hospital. Far too convenient for coincidence, Francesca thought. If nothing else, he was vigilant in his self-appointed task of protecting her.

And she appreciated that vigilance. She really did. But there
was
a limit.

Releasing the reins she held, she turned to him and accidentally jounced the table with her hip. With the addition of the temporary desk the tack room was crowded. Just what she needed, considering his presence alone crowded a room. But she would try not to think of that now.

She took a step back, mustering her resolve and her indignation. “I spoke with my parents after we parted this morning.” She kept her voice level. He merely blinked, his amber eyes unreadable. “I understand you’ve proposed a betrothal ball.”

“You don’t approve.” It was a statement, and he followed it with an indifferent wave.

She prickled with annoyance at his apparent lack of concern but forced herself to give him an icy smile. “A lady might hope to be consulted on the matter of her own betrothal ball.” She stepped to the edge of the plank serving as his desk, forgetting she’d wanted to keep some distance between them.

“It’s my task to find your attacker. I’ll decide how to go about it. All you need do is cooperate.” Across from her, he locked his hands behind his neck and leaned back in the chair.

As if that was an acceptable response! She narrowed her eyes. Time to send in the infantry. Let him know she wasn’t always so sweet and biddable. She moved around the edge of the desk, stood next to him and braced her hands on the plank.

“All I need do is cooperate?” She said each word slowly and with emphasis. His mouth quirked, a small tick she wouldn’t have caught if she hadn’t been so close, so intent on his face. She glared at him, hoping the effect was menacing. “Are you
trying
to humiliate me?”

He didn’t speak for a moment, and he didn’t look away. In his gold-flecked stare she saw something flicker, a flash of anger in his amber eyes. She wondered, too late, if perhaps a temporary retrenchment and reformulation of strategy might be advisable.

Before she could step away, he put a hand over hers. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Heat shot through her skin where he touched her, and she inhaled sharply. Her hand looked small and pale against the bronzed corded flesh of his muscular forearms. Staring at his strong hand and feeling his warmth against her, she wanted to give in. How could she
not
want this man to protect her?

Then she remembered the ball. “You’ll have to think of another way. My reputation—”

His thumb moved in a circle on the back of her hand and her thoughts went muzzy for a moment.

“Your reputation will not be damaged. You will call off the wedding after you catch me
in flagrante delicto
. Everyone will take your side.”

“In flagrante...” Her muddled brain was slow to comprehend. “Oh. Oh!” She tried to snatch her hand away, but he had it neatly trapped. “Is there no other way to catch the attacker?”

He leaned forward, the material of his shirt grazing her fingers. “The ball gives me the advantage. And Francesca?”

She looked into his eyes, now more brown than golden.

“I prefer the advantage.”

For a moment she could only stare at him. It wasn’t until he leaned back that she caught her breath again.

“It’s a mistake to allow the man who assaulted you to choose the battlefield,” he said. “So far he’s picked the time and place.”

“And you think my attacker will be foolish enough to make an appearance at a ball filled with hundreds of people?”

He gave her a hard stare. “He’ll find a way to be there.”

She tried to ignore the tingles coursing along her flesh from the feel of Ethan’s warm hand on hers, tried not to notice how good it felt to touch him—her skin against his.

“How do you know? Did one of the servants see something?” Her voice was husky, made more so when she looked into his dark, liquid gaze. She was falling under his sensuous spell again.

“No. But the timing of Nat’s attack last night is such that he must have attacked while we were together in the hospital. There’s a chance he’s still nearby and keeping watch.” As Ethan spoke, he lifted her hand, drew her closer. “I think he was after you last night. He won’t give up an opportunity to be near you.”

“This is...dangerous.” But she wasn’t speaking of her attacker anymore. She knew she should move away, withdraw her hand from Ethan’s and retreat from enemy territory, but her body was frozen under the strength of his stare.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll protect you.” The arrogant flash of his white teeth broke the spell momentarily. Not only would this engagement ball feed the gossip mills, but, by Winterbourne’s own account, the affair would expose her family and everyone present at the ball to danger. Even he, seasoned warrior that he was, couldn’t protect
everyone
. And she could not allow her family to be threatened. She already blamed herself for Nat.