While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (11 page)

Damn. He sounded like a lovesick poet—the kind of inane fop he’d detested at Cambridge.

He sped up again, closing the distance to the stable.

The stocky boy with whom he’d left Destrehan saw him coming and rushed inside. “One minute, yer lordship. One minute.”

While he waited, he couldn’t resist a last glance at Francesca.

She was gone.

He blinked once, certain his eyes were deceived. He tensed and scanned the estate, but saw only empty lawn. She’d disappeared into the dusk.

“Eerie how she does that,” the stable boy said from beside him. “She seems to disappear on you, but she’s no witch or anything.” He pointed across the yard, and Ethan saw her entering a small white building. She opened the door, the warm glow of a lantern illuminating her briefly.

He relaxed. She was safe.

“Though she does have a way about her,” the groom commented as Francesca closed the door behind her. He gestured vaguely, unable to find the words, but Ethan knew what he meant.

She was part of this place. Not just the people, but part of the hills, the trees, the fields. Even the landscape seemed to welcome her as it might an old friend, giving her strength and power. She
was
an enchantress, working her spell over everyone and everything she encountered.

The groom held Destrehan steady while Ethan mounted. He spurred the horse toward Grayson Park and didn’t look back as he rode away. He’d seen the last of Francesca Dashing. She wouldn’t cast her spell over him.

F
rancesca, her terrier puppy, Lino, trotting behind her, strolled past a cluster of bright saffron crocuses she’d planted earlier that year in front of the small white building. She pushed open the door and, with a smile, entered her sanctuary. Her hospital.

Warmth and love reached out with affectionate arms to embrace her from every corner, just as they had the first time she’d entered. She’d been shocked and overwhelmed by her parents’ gift of the remodeled old bake house six years ago.

The hospital wasn’t as vibrant and new as it had been that first day. It smelled more like the lye soap she used to scrub it down than fresh flowers now, and the paint on the pale yellow walls—once shiny and bright—peeled in places. The pattern of tiny sprigged flowers on the butter-colored curtains had faded, and the lace sweeping the material back from the window was frayed at the edges.

But the large straw-colored table in the center of the room remained sturdy and the rows of white shelves lining the walls were neatly stacked with strips of clean linen, bottles, and vials. The room might not be new, but it was clean. And the wear and tear only made the hospital more precious to her. Every scuff mark and stain reminded her of an animal she’d healed. In this place, the incident with Winterbourne and her mother seemed a lifetime away.

Only yesterday evening she’d fallen into Winterbourne’s arms at Will Skerrit’s barn. And now Skerrit was dead. Murdered. She could hardly believe it. Her father must allow her to keep Thunder now. She certainly couldn’t rely on Winterbourne to do her any favors. She’d spotted him riding away just as she set out for her hospital.

Winterbourne again! Why could she not put the man out of her thoughts for more than a few moments at a time? He wasn’t thinking of her.

Francesca sighed, sinking back in a familiar chair while Lino curled into his favorite corner. She rubbed his ears, the wiry hair sliding between her fingers. “I know I can count on you to love me, Lino,” she said with affection.

Some things never changed. She was not the kind of woman that attracted a man like the Marquess of Winterbourne. She wasn’t sophisticated or beautiful or witty or even all that accomplished. And she certainly didn’t possess any of the other...charms that Winterbourne seemed to prefer in his female companions.

Lord, the best he could do when describing her today was to comment that she looked
different
.

Different
!

She certainly wouldn’t swoon over that accolade.

If only Winterbourne had looked different—changed into an ugly, loathsome troll. If anything, he was even more appealing than the last glimpse she’d had of him in Town. He had the same face—cheekbones and jaw sculpted with an artist’s precision. The intensity and color of his eyes shifted with his mood, and his strong form was sleek and hard with corded muscles.

She could never hope to interest a man like Winterbourne. And, she decided, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them, perhaps she didn’t want to. After all, as she had told herself countless times today, he was not a nice man. True, he
had
seemed concerned for her safety when he’d walked her home—his good deed for the decade, not anything to do with her. In fact, he’d made it quite clear he would never see her as anything more than a housemaid in expensive clothes.

She plopped her forehead on her knees in disgust. So why was she sitting here torturing herself, remembering the feel of his body against hers, his scent clinging to her skin?

Something flickered outside the window, and she froze, staring at the darkening skies beyond. A shiver ran up her spine. Was someone watching her?

Nothing moved, and she shook her head at her own foolishness.

She needed a distraction—and not the imaginary sort. A cup of chocolate would be best, but failing that, gingerbread. With a shiver of delight, she remembered the gingerbread she’d pilfered from the kitchen yesterday morning. She retrieved the tin from the cupboard and unfolded the scrap of linen inside. Amazingly, the gingerbread was still moist, and Francesca ate it slowly. It was sweet—the perfect mixture of cinnamon and spices, complemented by the tangy taste of fresh ginger. When it was gone, she methodically licked each finger, savoring the last crumbs of the treat.

Not a bad distraction. She’d think of a hundred distractions until the memory of the Marquess of Winterbourne was as fleeting as his fading scent of leather and sandalwood on her hands.

T
he Golden Goose should have been the perfect retreat. Dark, rank, noisy—the drinks were cheap and so were the women. But though he had a full glass of gin in front of him and at least three barmaids vying for his attention, Ethan wasn’t enjoying himself.

“The blond.” Alex leaned back, and the rickety tavern chair creaked.

Ethan looked up from studying the depths of his untouched drink and saw his brother watching the women draped around the bar. Their rouged cheeks were as garish as their low-bodiced gowns and their unnatural shades of hair color, ranging from brass to flame. One of them winked at him, and Ethan looked away. Tonight he had no appetite for the fare they offered.

Farmers, merchants, and a disproportionate number of unsavory men crowded around the tavern’s half-dozen tables. Alex had told him the reputable residents of Selborne frequented The Queen’s Hotel on Gracious Street.

This was not The Queen’s Hotel.

Except for the barmaids, The Golden Goose was a solely male domain, its patrons engaged in the time-honored masculine pursuits of drinking, smoking, and gambling. By the looks of them, most managed to keep on the right side of the law, but there were several men present that Ethan had a feeling would smile, shake hands in greeting, and, when the chance arose, beat him senseless and empty his pockets for half a shilling.

Lounging in dark corners and crannies, those few didn’t meet his stare. But after years of experience in seedy taverns, he felt their eyes on him through the darkness and smoky haze, sizing him up, waiting for an opportunity.

Let them try. He’d welcome the distraction of a good fight. He certainly hadn’t come to The Golden Goose for gossip. He was beginning to wonder why he’d come at all.

Alex rocked back in his chair. “I’d take the blond.” The three buxom women pranced back and forth or leaned across the bar to display their wares.

“Why don’t you then?” Ethan had already dismissed the women, his eyes back on the dregs, seeking out those who looked to be spoiling for a fight.

“I’m not the one who needs cheering up.”

“And I do?” Ethan’s attention snapped to his brother.

Alex glared at him, cold gray eyes assessing. “I don’t know what the hell happened to you today, but you’ve looked Friday-faced since you walked in the door.”

Ethan glared back. “Nothing happened.”

“Right. So the maid who came running out of my drawing room, sobbing hysterically, had nothing to do with you?”

“Nothing.” Ethan crossed his arms.

One of the tavern wenches giggled loudly, but Alex continued to stare at him. “You didn’t say a word to her?”

“No.”

Alex’s chair thumped on the floor, and he leaned forward with a dubious look. “Are you sure?”

Ethan shrugged. “All I did was ask her not to make so much noise.”

“What was she doing?”

Ethan reached for his glass, turning it in a half-circle. “Dusting,” he muttered.

“Dusting?” Alex’s palm came down on the wobbly table with a crash, and nearby tavern patrons glanced their way. “With what? A hammer?”

“No, one of those feathery things.” Ethan sat up defensively. “It rustled too much.”

“It rustled—” Alex shook his head, running a rough hand through his much-abused hair. “And what about my cook? I suppose that had nothing to do with you either?”

Ethan spread his hands. “I can’t help it if the woman wants to resign.”

“She’d never mentioned leaving before. I practically had to drag her valise from her hands.”

“So she found another position.”

“She told me you came into the kitchen and demanded chocolate tarts.” Alex pointed an accusatory finger.

“I was hungry.”

Alex pointed a finger accusingly. “Since when do you like chocolate tarts?”

“What’s your point?” Ethan spun his gin glass. “She didn’t quit.”

“Only because I offered her a fortune to stay.” Alex shook his finger. “I’m billing you for half her new salary.”

“Fine.”

“And—”

“What the hell is wrong with everyone today?” Ethan shoved back from the table, unsettling his gin. The clear liquid sloshed over the rim of his glass and onto the scarred wood.

The men nearby turned to glance at them, but, apparently seeing no prospects for violence, went sullenly back to their drinks. It would take more than a verbal outburst to interest the clientele of The Golden Goose, though the underlying tension in the tavern was almost palpable. It mirrored Ethan’s own edgy nerves.

His expression bland, Alex lifted his hastily rescued gin from the trembling table and sipped. “Are you sure it’s everyone
else
?”

“What the devil does that mean?”

Alex held his hands up in mock defense. Ethan opened his mouth, a retort ready, then abruptly closed it again. A man shouldered past him, and Ethan moved out of the way, slumping into his chair.

Who was he deceiving? Not Alex, and certainly not himself.

She’d gotten to him. He was supposed to forget her, but somehow she’d gotten to him, and he couldn’t rid his mind of her. Even the choking smoke and the raucous laughter of the tavern didn’t divert him.

The goddamn chocolate tarts. If that wasn’t a sign he’d lost it, he didn’t know what was. He’d seen how Francesca’s eyes lit when the footman brought the tray and how they strayed back to the untouched sweets again and again. And he’d found himself unreasonably annoyed that she wasn’t allowed a chocolate tart. The girl was probably famished, and she obviously liked tarts. Why shouldn’t she have one if she wanted? Why shouldn’t she have everything she wanted?

Ethan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. It was thoughts like those that were the problem. When he opened his eyes, Alex was leaning back in his chair again, an arrogant smirk on his face.

“It’s the Dashing chit,” Ethan muttered.

“The viscount’s daughter you told me about?” Alex uncrossed his arms and lowered his knee, banging his chair on the floor.

“Yes.”

“The one you mistook for a maid?” Alex chuckled.

“
Yes
.”

“The one—”

“Stop while you’re ahead,” Ethan said softly.

Alex clamped his mouth shut.

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Ethan tried to lessen the steady hammering behind his eyelids. Alex’s eyes danced with amusement. “She must have given you quite a dressing down.”

“I’ve had worse.” The noise level in the tavern escalated, and his head began to throb.

“And probably better. Forget her.”

“I can’t,” Ethan grumbled. Behind him, a burly man called for a whisky.

“What?” Alex said when the man had taken his glass and moved away.

“I said,
I can’t
.” Ethan winced at the disappointment he heard in his own voice. Next he’d be writing sonnets.

“Can’t what?” Alex shouted as a rowdy herd of farmers tramped through the door.

“
Can’t forget her
.” His teeth were so tightly clenched he could have bitten through iron.

“Oh.” Alex waved a hand. ”Spend ten minutes in private with the blond. You’ll forget about the prim Miss Dashing fast enough.” He smiled rakishly at the woman.