While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (30 page)

“You said something earlier about civility?” he whispered, setting the plate down. “If you want to see civil”—he reached out to wipe a trickle of pink strawberry juice from the corner of her lips—“come outside with me. I’ll show you civil.” He licked the strawberry juice from his finger.

She froze, the large fruit still wedged between her lips. Just looking at her aroused him. What he wouldn’t give to have her alone for ten minutes.

She lowered the strawberry and glanced about the room at the other guests, most of whom, though they were doing their best to appear indifferent, were observing the interplay intently.

“You are very bad,” she said quietly, her expression adorably serious. “Everyone is watching us, and most of them can probably hear us as well.”

He winked. “I love it when you call me bad.”

She sighed, apparently giving up her efforts at reform. “I don’t know why. It’s not a compliment.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

“Miss Dashing! There you are!”

Francesca turned reluctantly away from him as Peter, red hair flaming under the bright chandeliers, rushed into the room.

“What is it, Peter? Is something wrong?”

“No, miss, but your mother needs to see you right away.
Right away
!” he stressed, eyes bulging. “Mr. Pitt has arrived, and you must be introduced at once. She said
at once
, miss.” He nodded vigorously for emphasis.

Ethan sighed. Back to work. Francesca gave him a sympathetic glance, and he motioned for her to follow Peter. On their way through the door, Ethan spotted Alex. His brother leaned against a wall, a lady on either side of him. But though he appeared to be amusing the women, Alex’s attention was elsewhere. His brother’s eyes scanned the room, no doubt searching for anything or anyone unusual—something Ethan realized he should have been doing himself. Alex was turning out to have a talent for spying. Maybe it
was
time to cut the apron strings and allow him to go to France on his own.

Francesca and Peter turned toward the library and Ethan turned as well. As soon as the meeting with Pitt was over, he intended to follow his brother’s example. He’d already started a mental inventory of the attendees. He gave Alex a last glance, considering when he’d have a moment to speak with his brother, and saw Alex stiffen.

Ethan’s eyes followed Alex’s to rest on Roxbury. Roxbury was smiling and bowing to a petite, dark-haired woman Ethan didn’t know.

Keep watching him, Alex, Ethan thought. His brother could definitely spot the refuse.

E
than spun her around, and Francesca laughed—a genuine sound of pleasure and the first time she’d felt any in hours. He was an excellent dancer, a skill, which despite the efforts of some of London’s best caper merchants, she had never quite mastered. But then when she was with Ethan, she forgot all her inadequacies. He, unlike Roxbury, never seemed to notice them. Each time she looked into Ethan’s eyes, she was greeted with the warm amber glow of approval.

He was giving her one of those warm looks at that very moment. Smiling at her, he seemed to enjoy seeing her laugh. She laughed again, a real laugh, not the tinny, false laughs she’d forced all night. His eyes darkened, searing her, and Francesca’s breath caught.

It had been this way all evening. They’d exchange a look, her cheeks would heat, her pulse jump, and the next thing she knew, she’d lost the thread of conversation and had to ask her guest to repeat his or her last statement.

If Ethan’s outward behavior was any indication, no one would question whether Lord Winterbourne was pleased with his choice of brides. Even Francesca found herself forgetting at moments that the engagement wasn’t real, that Ethan didn’t really love her.

Moments like right now. She tried not to think about how much she loved him as he swept her into his arms again in the next figure of the dance. She glanced into his face to see if he was enjoying himself as much as she and caught him staring across the room. She followed his gaze, stiffening as she saw Roxbury standing near the replica of the Sistine Chapel. Roxbury watched them, his face a cold mask. She shivered, thankful for Ethan’s presence beside her. Ethan must have felt her shudder; he turned his attention back to her and gave her a reassuring smile.

Her uneasiness evaporated, but she still felt Roxbury’s hateful gaze on her. She was the center of attention for two men, a rare occurrence, and she couldn’t help but compare them—Roxbury with his cold beauty, icy stare, and cool disdain of all he saw seemed nothing to Ethan’s inviting attractiveness, admiring glances, and natural superiority. Ethan had been right when he’d told her some men hurt others because it made them feel more powerful. Roxbury had belittled her to build his own self-esteem. Ethan needed no such crutch. His innate supremacy was acknowledged by all.

Ethan looked away from her again, and she saw Selbourne had come into the ballroom and was lounging near the Leaning Tower of Pisa. She sensed something pass between the brothers, some silent communication, but when she looked back at Ethan his amber eyes were absorbed with her again. She smiled, but there was no joy in it now.

She was forgetting this ball was only a charade, a game they were all playing to lure her attacker into the open. She wondered if Selbourne had caught the man and if that was the message his look conveyed to Ethan. She trembled when she considered the possibility that the man who had tried to rape her might be in the same room with them this very moment. Then Ethan took her hand in his, warm and strong over hers, and she put her fears aside.

All except one, a niggling fear, eating away at her heart: Ethan would soon be gone.

After the dance, Ethan escorted her to her mother, who immediately tangled her daughter in the web of her latest introductions. Francesca heard him make some excuse about fetching her lemonade, and he was gone.

She watched him cross the room, nodding to several ladies and stopping to chat with various gentlemen as he did so, but he didn’t stop long, and a moment later he exited the ballroom with Selbourne in tow.

“My dear.” The Duchess of Devonshire put her hand on Francesca’s arm. “I do not deny he is handsome, but I am not so ugly as to warrant being completely ignored.”

“Oh!” Francesca was jolted back to her illustrious guests. No doubt the beautiful duchess was not accustomed to being ignored. “I’m terribly sorry, Duchess. What were you saying?”

“Nothing of any consequence, to be sure,” she said, her familiar lisp evident.

Francesca nodded as the duchess went on and tried to appear attentive, but her thoughts were on Ethan and his brother.
Had
they caught her attacker, or were they meeting to discuss spy secrets? Ethan’s affairs with the Foreign Office were none of her business, but she was intrigued by his espionage work. She wished she knew more about him, wished she could see him in action, see that part of him no one else had. It would be something only she and a handful of others knew, something she could keep and hold close to her heart when he was gone.

“I am pleased to see you have such real affection for your betrothed,” the duchess was saying, and Francesca snapped her eyes back to the distinguished woman. As the duchess spoke, she led Francesca away from her mother and the crowd of matrons. Francesca couldn’t have been more thankful. “There are far too many who marry for money or title rather than love.”

Francesca looked quickly into the duchess’s face. Her Grace’s unique living arrangement was common knowledge. For some time Lady Elizabeth Foster, the mistress of the fifth duke of Devonshire, had resided in the Devonshire household. From all appearances, the duchess accepted, even welcomed, her husband’s mistress. Of course, the notorious Duchess of Devonshire was not one to pass judgment. Her own extramarital dalliances were numerous and well-known.

“Do you mind stepping out with me for a bit of fresh air?”

“No, Duchess,” Francesca answered by rote. One did not deny a duchess.

The duchess turned Francesca toward the French doors of the ballroom, now cracked open to alleviate some of the stifling heat from the crowds. “It is lovely to see a couple so obviously enamored of one another. I have watched young Winterbourne for a long time.” They stepped onto the lighted terrace, and the duchess linked her arm with Francesca’s. “And I did not think he would ever fall in love. But it is as plain as the nose on my face that he loves you.” The duchess eyed her shrewdly.

Francesca began to shake her head, to deny it, then remembered that the duchess was saying exactly what they’d wanted everyone to believe. The duchess gave her a knowing smile. “Now, if I do not miss my guess, you came this way to sneak away for a secret rendezvous.” She scooted Francesca toward the pale white steps leading from the terrace to the south lawns.

“Rendezvous, Duchess?”

“For heaven’s sake, do not keep him waiting!” She peered back into the ballroom. “Oh! I see my friend Lady Melbourne coming, and she always has the best gossip.”

With that, the duchess hurried through the door to intercept her friend. Francesca was left standing alone, surrounded by brightly colored lanterns and torches. For the first time that night, she wasn’t the center of attention, and the freedom felt good.

She made a quick survey of the lawns and terrace just to be certain. No one was about, which didn’t surprise her. Most of the servants were indoors assisting with the ball, and now that she was away from the main house, all was quiet. A short distance from her were the buildings of the stable complex, the tack house, and her hospital. She stared at them, wondering if Ethan and Selbourne were there. She walked lazily around the terrace, then tripped down the steps. She wouldn’t go far, just around the lawn, keeping in the light from the house.

The delightfully cool November air and the blissfully open space of the lawn rejuvenated her after the crush of so many people inside. She took a deep breath, admiring the view she so loved. It was as familiar to her as the lines on her palm or the sound of her name. Spontaneously, she flung her arms wide and twirled around, exulting simply because she was alive.

A hand grasped one of her out-stretched arms and snatched it roughly behind her back. With a yelp of surprise, Francesca lost her balance and fell to her knees. A jolt of pain hit her as the gravel bit her skin through her thin gown. Instinctively, she twisted her head to see who held her, but the man’s other hand came up and knocked her face forward, covering her mouth before she could scream.

No, no, no! she shrieked against the hand.

Only a garbled mumble was audible. She scrambled forward but was hauled by her hair against the body of her captor. He shoved a foul piece of cloth inside her mouth. Over that, he cinched a gag, the material pulling at the tiny, delicate wisps of her hair at her nape when he knotted it in back.

She knew without thinking that this was the same man who had attacked her before. He had come back and intended to finish what he’d begun. Francesca whipped her head to stare at the house. Safety was so close, but even if she managed to free her mouth and scream, no one would hear her. The guests were inside enjoying the ball, and the music and loud voices would drown out any cries she made. Of course, she would be missed, searched for, but by then it would be too late.

Her captor grabbed a fistful of her hair again. “Get up,” he growled. With a jerk on the knot of her hair, the man pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, knees bent in pain. He pushed her forward, away from the lights of the house, into the darkness.

Each step took her further from safety, further from the ball. She had to get away. He pushed her again, and she tripped, twisting as she did so. Her sudden movements left her captor slightly off balance and, ignoring the shrieking from the roots of her hair, she stomped down hard on his foot. His grip faltered, and she struck out again, clawing at anything she could lay hold to, punching and tearing at whatever her fingers encountered. When he jumped back, she pulled free with a wrenching twist, reeling at the jagged stab of pain as a several strands of her hair ripped out.

But the stinging burn of pain was nothing compared to her panic. She staggered forward, tripping over her long skirts, then hiked them up and ran. The sharp stones of the path bit through the sensitive skin of her foot. Somewhere she’d lost one of her slippers, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but escape. He was behind her, blocking the path to the house, so she cut toward the stables, praying someone—a servant, a groom—anyone would be there.

Behind her she heard her assailant grunt, swear, and then follow her with quick, heavy footsteps. She pulled at her last reserves and increased her speed. Topping a small rise in the path, she saw the stable complex before her. Her heart sank at its deserted appearance, but she kept running. It was her only chance.

Hoping the stables only looked abandoned, she screamed. The sound was barely audible. She would have ripped the gag off, torn the foul cloth from her mouth, but she needed her hands to hold her cumbersome skirts at her knees. Her overtaxed lungs gasped for air, but she told herself to keep moving. She was almost there.

She raced down the small hill, conscious that her attacker was right behind her now.

His footsteps were louder. Pounding.

Just a few more yards. If she could just keep ahead of him...

Cutting pain bit into her foot, and she floundered. It was all the opportunity her pursuer needed.

Merciless arms gripped her, throwing her to the ground. She thrust her hands out in a vain effort to ease the fall, but her cheek hit the hard dirt and she tasted bitter earth on her lips. Her breath knocked out of her, but not her will to fight. When the man’s hands gripped her around the waist, lifting her to her knees, she kicked and squirmed. He swore again as she wrested one arm free and twisted to claw at his face.

Instead of flesh, she felt the rough material of a hood. She grasped the material and pulled, but the man managed to take hold of her wrist, wrenching first it, then the other, behind her back. She fought for breath as he secured her with what felt like a coarse length of rope.