While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (40 page)

Furthermore, he had other reasons to attend the Nitterling affair. Lord Nitterling had ties with the Foreign Office, and Ethan was anxious to know if his fellow spy had heard any news. Alex had gone to France, and from the missives Ethan had received it appeared the investigation of the smuggling operation was progressing well. Perhaps his fears that Alex hadn’t been ready were unfounded. Meanwhile, Ethan’s other operations in the department had been quietly taken over by other members. He could give up his role as a spy without guilt. And he intended to. Right after he spoke to Nitterling.

Besides, he told himself, he would have to introduce Francesca to Yorkshire Society at some point. This was as good an opportunity as any.

“What do you think of attending a ball Thursday night?” he said, changing the subject from Pocket’s choice of flowers for her hospital.

“A ball?” She sat forward in her chair and gasped with pleasure. “I’d love it! Whose ball is it?”

“Lord and Lady Nitterling.”

She creased her brows. “Hmm. Nitterling. I know Mrs. Carbury mentioned them.”

“Probably.” Ethan set his wine down on the table between them. “They don’t go into Town very often, but they are the center of Society here in the county. This is a good opportunity for you to meet some of our neighbors.”

“Oh, yes!” She clapped her hands together and jumped up. Ethan grinned, reached out, and pulled his wife into his arms.

“Oh, Ethan, it will be so much fun,” she murmured as she settled herself into his lap. She wasted no time wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling his lips to her mouth, and kissing him with a passion that took his breath away. He returned the gesture wholeheartedly, willing to let the night take its inevitable course.

It wasn’t until much later, Francesca warm and naked in his arms under the billowy canopy of white silk draperies surrounding her bed, that he realized he’d forgotten to mention the most crucial aspect of the Nitterling’s ball to her: the men.

Though she may not yet realize it, she was fair game. Unmarried women were generally off-limits for dalliances, but married women and widows were a young buck’s prime hunting ground. Francesca was young, beautiful, and new to Yorkshire. As his wife, there were any number of young rakes who’d like the privilege of boasting that they’d been intimate with the wife of the Marquess of Winterbourne and survived.

Ethan studied his wife. Her eyes were closed and her hand was curled into a loose fist and poised under her jaw. In the waning glow of the firelight, he could still see the blush on her cream skin from their earlier lovemaking. Her cocoa lashes lay heavily against her cheeks, giving her the added appearance of innocence. How he wished he could keep her innocent forever.

But it wasn’t possible, and he knew it. He could no more protect her from the advances of the rakes at Nitterling’s ball than he could protect his own heart from seizing up every time he even thought of where he would be if he lost her.

If she betrayed him.

He rolled onto his back and pulled her to him. She sighed in her sleep and latched her arms around him. He would have to trust her. Trust that she loved him as much as she seemed to. Trust that she wasn’t Victoria. Trust that his heart was safe in her hands.

“S
he’s lovely,” Nitterling said, settling into a chintz armchair in his small but neat library at Bellerive. He motioned for Ethan to take a seat himself.

Ethan chose a paisley settle across from the earl. “I know.”

Nitterling laughed heartily. “I see marriage hasn’t changed you much.”

Ethan shrugged and leaned back on the settle. “I’m beginning to feel the effects.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Nitterling said.

Ethan frowned. The moment he and Francesca had arrived, she’d been led in one direction while Nitterling pulled him in the other. Ethan had looked back just in time to see the young Viscount Templeton, Nitterling’s son and heir, swoop down on Francesca, digging his talons into her arm.

“She’s Viscount Brigham’s daughter, if I’m not mistaken.” Nitterling rose and poured himself a glass of brandy.

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t have thought you were Brigham’s ideal for a son. I’d heard rumors about marriage negotiations between Brigham and the Dandridges.” He lifted the decanter of brandy. “Brandy?”

Ethan shook his head. “Brigham’s not all politics. He’s a good man. Wants to see his children happy more than anything else.”

“A rare quality in a man these days.” Nitterling returned to the chintz armchair, resting his arm on its back. “He can afford to be generous at this point, though. He still has two remaining offspring to ply as political snares. And”—Nitterling set his drink on a nearby side table—“he’d be a fool if he objected to a connection with one of the richest, most powerful men in England.” Nitterling pointed a long finger at Ethan. “Take an interest in the House of Lords next Season, and the viscount will probably die of sheer happiness.”

Ethan chuckled. This was why he liked Nitterling. The earl had a way of seeing through people, cutting through the fancy clothes and looking into their very marrow. Unraveling schemes and machinations were child’s play to the earl, and it was one reason he’d been such an invaluable asset to the Foreign Office over the years.

“Have you heard from Grenville?” Ethan asked, turning the conversation to the topic he’d come to discuss.

Nitterling didn’t look surprised at the abrupt shift in subject. “Didn’t think you’d come just to dance,” he remarked, leaning on the armchair again. “As a matter of fact, had a letter from the Secretary just a few days ago. Mentioned your brother was in France.”

“It seems some of our British arms have gone astray.”

As capable as Alex was, it still made Ethan nervous to think of his brother in volatile France. But he’d never admit his fears, though he knew Nitterling had similar doubts.

“Mmm. Misplaced and vanishing armaments have become quite a problem of late.”

“I agree.” Ethan leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Anything in it?”

Nitterling’s face remained stoic. “I don’t have any proof. I can’t name names.”

“But you agree there’s someone in power behind the operation? How else could it have succeeded for so long?”

Nitterling rounded the armchair, deliberately taking his time to sit down. “As I said, I have no names. But—” He sat back and steepled his fingers.

Ethan said nothing, merely waited.

“But if I were to...say, generate a list of possible candidates, it would probably be a relatively short list.”

“Well connected politically.” Ethan kept his voice relaxed, casual, as if they were discussing horse racing or a boxing match.

Nitterling nodded and picked up his brandy. “A member of the peerage.”

“Unmarried. Possibly come into his property.”

“Possibly.” Nitterling swirled the brandy. “A man who needs money, though.”

Ethan rubbed a hand along his chin. “Does Grenville have any likely suspects?”

“No.”

Ethan’s hand froze. “Why the devil not?”

“Because there’s a war on right now, and he’s short of men. You’re out of commission and your brother is in France, I’m certain doing all he can...”

He trailed off and Ethan picked up the obvious thread. “But Alex is new and relatively inexperienced. Grenville doesn’t think he’ll find the man we want.”

Nitterling held up a hand. “Pray don’t misunderstand. We all have the utmost respect for Selbourne’s capabilities. Grenville has no doubt your brother will find the smugglers and uncover the operation.”

Ethan wished he had that brandy now. “Hell of a lot of good that will do if the ringleader remains unknown.”

Nitterling spread his hands. “What’s to be done?”

Ethan opened his mouth to tell the earl what was to be done, what he knew had to be done, and shut it again just as quickly. He couldn’t go to France right now. Couldn’t go for a thousand reasons, and Francesca’s safety was at the top of the list. He needed to be here, needed to protect her. He needed to stay away from France and his former role in the Foreign Office to keep from further endangering her. But sitting idly in Yorkshire while his country needed him would be harder than he’d anticipated. Suddenly he needed to see Francesca. To remind himself why he was still here.

“I think I’ll find my wife.” He stood and Nitterling followed.

“She’s in good hands. I heard my son secure the first dance with her.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ethan muttered as he started for the door.

He did a quick survey of the dining room as he passed and, not seeing Francesca’s beribboned chocolate curls, headed up the stairs to the first floor and the ballroom. When in his initial perusal of the guests he still didn’t locate Francesca, he did a more-thorough search. He spotted the usual gaggle of rakes and rogues, but they’d cornered some other young woman, leaving him to wonder where Francesca could have gone. He’d been in Nitterling’s library for a little over an hour, but surely if she’d fallen ill someone would have come to fetch him.

Perhaps she’d needed some air. Ethan imagined that Templeton would have been only too happy to escort her through the gardens. Ethan stepped onto Bellerive’s terrace, ignoring the attempts of various members of Yorkshire Society to secure his attention, and scanned the estate’s manicured lawns. They were brightly illuminated with light from hundreds of torchiers and lanterns, and Ethan could clearly discern the half-dozen or so couples who’d braved the cool night air to walk amongst the sculpted paths. Francesca and Nitterling’s son weren’t among them.

Ethan clenched his fists around the stone balustrade encircling the terrace. Francesca and Templeton. He didn’t like the way his mind paired the two. He liked the sharp but insidious feeling of jealousy pricking him even less, but he couldn’t seem to stop it.

Ethan whirled around and barreled through the ballroom. He didn’t know where Templeton had taken Francesca, but the devil help the rakehell when he found out.

He strode down the halls of Bellerive, ignoring the startled gasps of the busy footman he collided with, throwing open one door after another, stepping into each room and searching it quickly with his eyes.

By the time he reached the end of the hall, Ethan was frustrated, angry, and chagrined by his lack of control. He almost didn’t open the last door. He knew he was allowing his past to cloud his judgment of the present. He knew he was acting like a fool—a jealous husband. And what did he have to be jealous of? Francesca loved him. Any idiot could see that.

But his palm was already wrapped around the door handle, so he thrust it open anyway. Immediately the couple inside sprang apart. The only the light came from the fire, but Ethan saw it all quite clearly.

Francesca and Templeton.

He froze. For a moment it was seven years earlier and he was staring at Victoria, her blond hair a splash of gold on the ebony desk and George Leigh splayed on top of her. He felt the same rush of rage overwhelm him as he stepped inside the room and closed the door with a deceptively quiet snap behind him.

“Ethan!” Francesca was saying. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching for you.”

He didn’t look at her. He’d deal with her later. His stare was focused on Templeton. The man was backing away from Francesca, eyes wide, holding his hands out, palms forward.

“Interesting,” Ethan said, still advancing on Templeton. “Because I’ve been looking for you,
wife
. I looked for you in the dining room, the ballroom, and the gardens.” He flicked a glance at her. “Where did you look for me?” He inclined his head at the room. “Certainly you didn’t expect to find me in here.”

“I was showing her these etchings.” Templeton gestured toward a row of framed prints on the far wall. “It’s not at all what you think, my good man.”

Ethan slitted his eyes. “Isn’t it?”

“Ethan!” Francesca cried as he reached for Templeton’s throat.

Ethan grasped Nitterling’s son and hauled the man against him. “I think,” he said in a low voice, “that it is exactly what I think.”

“Oh, God! Please don’t shoot me!” the young viscount blubbered. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Ethan rammed the man against the wall, and Templeton’s head collided with a frame, shattering it. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish I’d shot you.”

Ethan struck out, his fist making solid, satisfactory contact with Templeton’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back, and Ethan heard Francesca squeal. The sound seemed to come from some distant, indeterminate place. He pulled his fist back again, wanting to see the younger man’s facial features reduced to a grisly mishmash of blood and bone.

But before he could throw the next punch, Francesca grasped him with both hands. Her hold was not strong enough to prevent him from hitting the man if he’d wanted, but it was surprisingly firm.

“Ethan, no,” she pleaded. “Allow me to explain.”

He stared at her, surprised to see that her hair was dark instead of blond and her eyes cocoa-brown, not periwinkle blue. He shook his head to clear it but held onto his fury. “There’s nothing to explain.”

“Yes, there is. Please...”

Ethan glanced at Templeton again then back at Francesca. “You’re not worth it.” Ethan released him, and the man slumped against the wall, barely remaining on his feet. “How dare you betray me like this?” He gestured to the unsteady viscount.