While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (44 page)

“The farmer’s name was Skerrit.” Gagnon’s words whooshed out. “Will Skerrit. I don’t know the girl’s.”

Ethan saw Alex’s forehead crease as he made the connection, and a razor blade of cold dread scraped its way along Ethan’s gut. “I want the girl’s name,” he said softly.

“I told you, I don’t know,” Gagnon blubbered.

“You’d better tell me something.” He jabbed the knife again. “The name of the man you worked for.”

“I don’t know his name, either—”

Ethan pressed the knife harder. He’d been right all along. The smugglers and the attack on Francesca had been related. But her attacker had been someone she knew, which meant the leader of the smugglers was someone she knew.

Someone
he
knew.

“Urg! B-but I can describe him.”

Ethan tamped down his rising panic while Gagnon wet his lips and swallowed nervously. “He dressed real well, like he was a nobleman. Had that kind of speech too.”

“Go on.” Ethan’s voice sounded deceptively calm. He did not like where this was headed. “What did he look like?”

“About your height, a little younger than you, though. Brown hair, blue eyes.”

Ethan seethed, hand tightening on the knife. “More.

Gagnon frowned, seemed to remember something. “Strange eyes too. Real light blue. Gave me the shivers when he looked at me. Looked like he could see through me or something.”

Ethan didn’t breathe. He knew those eyes. “What else?” With formidable power of will, Ethan managed to keep his voice level.

“On more thing. He always wore gloves. Black leather gloves. Never saw him without them.”

“Roxbury.” Ethan thrust Gagnon away, turning to Alex.

“Roxbury?” Alex frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Oh God. Francesca.

He’d thought she’d be safe in Yorkshire, but if Roxbury led the smuggling operation, Ethan had underestimated his cunning and resources.

Heart pounding, vision blurring, Ethan struggled to leash his fury, his terror. “The eyes—”

“A lot of men have blue eyes, Ethan,” Alex argued, but Ethan was already on his feet and striding toward the door.

No, not Francesca. She wasn’t safe.

And he’d left her alone.

Ethan plunged into the swirling snow outside, Alex right on his heels.

“The eyes, the gloves,” Ethan said over his shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “Roxbury was wearing black leather gloves at the engagement ball.”

Gagnon burst through the tavern door after them. “Hey, what about my money?”

Ethan turned and, without pausing, tossed him the full contents of the purse.

“What the hell?” Alex teetered, torn between retrieving the money and tearing after his brother. Ethan heard him curse and then call, “Just because Roxbury was wearing black leather gloves at your engagement ball doesn’t mean he’s our man.” Alex grabbed the shoulder of Ethan’s snow-covered coat. “Ethan, wait. Let’s go to Camille and our other contacts, confirm this before you rush home to England and accuse the Earl of Roxbury of being a traitor.”

Dread mounting inside him like the howling storm around them, Ethan shook his brother off.

“No.” He grabbed Alex and shook him roughly. “I have to go. Don’t you understand?” He shook Alex again. “I may already be too late.”

F
rancesca tucked her Christmas list under a sheet of gold paper and smiled as Mrs. Carbury entered the morning room, where Francesca had spread out her supply of pretty papers, ribbon, and twine, and gifts for Ethan’s servants and tenants.

“I thought you might like some tea, my lady.” The housekeeper set a tray on one of the few tables not covered with Christmas trimmings.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carbury. I’d love some.” Francesca arched, feeling some of the knots and tightness in her back and neck give way. Her stomach growled when Mrs. Carbury handed her the tea and a small plate with a slice of bread.

“It looks as though you’ve made quite a bit of progress, my lady.” Mrs. Carbury gave an approving nod to the neat arrangement of wrapped packages Francesca had put to one side.

Francesca looked up from buttering her bread to the stack of brightly beribboned gifts. “Yes, I’ve finished the presents for the poor. Would you ask Daniel and Isaac to be prepared to leave within the hour? And please tell Hurst I’ll need the coach readied.”

“Yes, my lady. Is there anything else?” Mrs. Carbury gave the pile of presents another glance.

“No, there’s nothing else, and I saw that peek, Mrs. Carbury! Now off with you before I decide not to give you a gift at all!”

Mrs. Carbury laughed and scurried from the room, her steps as light as those of a young girl. Francesca watched the door close, lifted her teacup, and pulled her Christmas list from beneath the gold paper.

She stared at it and tried to concentrate. Christmas was her favorite time of year, but this holiday she took no delight in the traditions and rituals. Wrapping the gifts for the poor and the servants seemed more a chore than a pleasure, and overseeing the preparations, small though they were, drained her of energy.

Tomorrow was Christmas, and Ethan would not be here with her. She would turn twenty-two—a wife without a husband, a mistress of a house without a master. If she were lucky, she’d be so busy the rest of the day her mind would be too full for thoughts of Ethan.

She hoped Daniel and Isaac were ready. For a moment, she considered taking one of the other footmen as well. It was silly, she knew, to take so many servants with her today, but ever since her ride back from the Ingletons’ farm, she’d been on edge.

A moment later, Grendell entered the morning room, interrupting her thoughts.

“A servant claiming to come from the Ingletons’ farm is here to see you, your ladyship. Shall I show him in?” Grendell’s large, fierce face was drawn down in clear disapproval.

Francesca tucked the Christmas list under the gold paper again. “Why do you say he
claims
to be from the Ingletons’, Grendell?”

She was intrigued. Grendell, laconic to a fault, never embellished his announcements.

“I have not seen him about before, my lady.”

“Oh.” Francesca stifled a smile. Surely Grendell did not know all of the servants in Yorkshire. “Perhaps he just arrived. Did he say what it was about?”

“No, your ladyship. He would not.” The furrows in Grendell’s face deepened. “I tried to send him away—”

“That’s all right, Grendell. Show him in.” Francesca shifted the papers on the desk. Mrs. Ingleton’s baby had most likely arrived, and she would need to visit.

A moment later an emaciated youth entered, and Francesca shot up in concern. He was dirty and shivering, his patched, worn clothing inadequate for summer, much less late December.

The youth bowed to her. “My lady, I have a message for you.”

“Never mind about that now!” Francesca hurried around the edge of the desk, sending her stack of pretty papers flying. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. You’re freezing.”

The boy gave her a grateful look and edged closer to the fireplace.

“Grendell?”

The butler stepped into the doorway. “My lady?”

“Please have Cook prepare something warm for this boy. He’s starving. I want him to leave here with a full stomach.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The boy turned from the fire. “Oh no, my lady. I couldn’t accept your charity.”

“Nonsense! It’s Christmas Eve, and I insist. And not only that. You must have a warm coat to wear home.”

The boy shook his head, looking ready to protest again. “And do not argue with me, young man,” Francesca said. She used her best imitation of her mother, sans the Italian. “If you refuse, it will make me cry, and you don’t want me to cry, do you?”

The boy stared at her, worry in his eyes. “No, my lady!”

“Good! Then it’s all settled.” She looked at the gloomy butler. “You’ll see to it, Grendell?”

“Of course, my lady.” The grimace on Grendell’s face indicated he was acting against his better judgment.

Francesca squared her shoulders. “I’ll send the boy to the kitchens in a moment.”

“Yes, your ladyship.” Grendell turned and walked regally from the room.

Francesca turned back to the boy, studying him. He appeared a good deal warmer and less hunched over than when he’d entered, but he still hadn’t spoken and was staring at his hands.

“Tell me the message and then you must visit the kitchens. You say you came from the Ingletons’?” she asked. She didn’t think she could have heard Grendell correctly earlier. Mr. and Mrs. Ingleton would never neglect a servant so.

The boy nodded morosely, and Francesca pursed her lips. She would have to speak with Mr. Ingleton.

“Is the message from Mr. and Mrs. Ingleton?”

The boy peeked at her then back down at his hands. “In a manner of speaking,” he mumbled.

Francesca frowned. Why didn’t he just tell her the message? “Oh! Is it about Mrs. Ingleton’s baby?” she asked. Young boys were often embarrassed by talk of female matters. She smiled encouragingly. “Has the baby come?”

The boy didn’t answer, just glanced up quickly then back down again, twisting his fingers together.

A queasy feeling began in her stomach. “Is there a problem?”

The boy gave her another troubled look, and that was all Francesca needed. “I’ll go right away! Mrs. Ingleton might need me.” She picked up her skirts and dashed for the hall.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” the boy called after her.

Francesca paused on the threshold to give him a puzzled look. “Why, yes. Isn’t that what you came to tell me?”

The boy nodded forlornly. “Yes, ma’am. I just thought—” Then his head jerked up and his expression brightened. “It looks like it will snow. Maybe you’d better wait until tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow might be too late.” The boy’s face fell, and Francesca smiled at his sweet concern. “What is your name?”

“Ralph, my lady. Ralph Brompton.” He stared at the floor again as he said it.

“Thank you for your concern, Ralph, but I think I can handle a little snow. Why don’t you go find the kitchens and have something warm to eat now?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said and followed her into the gallery.

Ten minutes later Francesca and Daniel were riding for the Ingletons’ farm, Francesca on Thunder and Daniel on the gelding he usually rode.

Daniel frowned. “Pardon me, again, my lady, but I don’t like this.”

“What’s not to like, Daniel? I’m sure the boy was upset over nothing, but I’d feel better if I checked on Mrs. Ingleton myself.” Francesca glanced at the darkening sky. The boy had been right. The air smelled of snow. “We may be a little late in delivering the packages to the poor, but if you and Isaac don’t mind, I don’t.”

“It’s not that, my lady,” Daniel answered. “I didn’t recognize that servant, and no one else can remember ever seeing him before either.”

“Oh, surely that boy is harmless.”

Daniel nodded but looked unconvinced.

Up ahead, Francesca could see the crumbling towers of the Norman castle, and behind it the sinister Yorkshire sky. She shuddered. It was silly to feel so apprehensive when she saw the castle. The storm would probably bring them snow for Christmas, and the ruins would look lovely under a blanket of white.

They had just turned away from the ruins and onto the path toward the Ingletons’ farm, when Francesca heard a sharp cry. She pulled Thunder to a halt, and Daniel rode up beside her.

“What was that?” she said, twisting to regard the old keep. Once again she noticed how jagged, how skeletal, the ruins were.

“I don’t know, ma’am. It sounded like it came from the ruins.”

They heard the cry again. And this time Francesca recognized it—the sound of a wounded animal or child. Her protective instincts flared, overriding her apprehensions. “I think something’s wrong.” Without waiting for Daniel’s acknowledgement, she dug her heels into Thunder’s flank and rode headlong for the ruins. Behind her Daniel pressed his own mount to follow, calling out for her to wait.

But Francesca had no intention of waiting. Her heart pounded in her ears and the queasy feeling in her stomach grew. Oh Lord, please don’t let me be too late, she prayed. If only her hospital were ready! But the building, though it had four walls and a roof, still needed to be painted and supplied. She reached the castle and practically leapt from Thunder’s back. A quick survey of the ruins gave her no indication where the cry had come from. She took a step forward, intent on searching among the fallen stones, when she heard a loud crack behind her.

Francesca spun around, darting her gaze among the trees for the source of the sound. She saw no one. A few yards away, Daniel clutched his chest and toppled from his horse.

“Daniel!” Francesca screamed.

“Leave him.” The cold voice stopped her in mid-stride.

She swung around to see Roxbury step from a small cluster of trees. He held a pistol in his hands.

“Roxbury!” She took a step back, clutching her hands to her breast in an effort to still her heart. “What are you doing here?” She stared at the pistol. “What have you done?”

Roxbury only smiled and tucked the weapon into his waistcoat. “I think the answer to that question is obvious, Francesca.” He nodded evenly to the footman lying behind them on the ground.

“But—” She couldn’t speak. It was inconceivable that Roxbury had just shot her footman. It was a dream, an illusion. She shook her head and tried to clear it.

Roxbury advanced on her, his dark greatcoat billowing out behind him, his hands in his black leather gloves opening and closing at his sides. Roxbury’s pale blue eyes were like ice—cold and sharp—as they pierced hers, and she knew this was no dream. She took a step back and tried to swallow her horror.

“I have to go to my footman,” she stammered, taking another step back. “He’s hurt.” She needed to help Daniel, to take them both away from Roxbury as quickly as possible.

“No.” Roxbury’s eyes were hard. “I like him where he is. I wanted you alone. All to myself.”

His words made no sense to her. He might as well have been speaking Dutch, but she didn’t have time to piece it all together. Her ears were ringing with alarm. She had to escape him. Now.