While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (3 page)

He shrugged off his coat, savoring the warmth of the fire roaring in the hearth. Slipping the knot of his cravat loose and unfastening the buttons of his collar and waistcoat, he noted that not only had the fire been stoked, but the heavy gold drapes of the bed had been neatly tied back, the bedclothes remade without so much as a crease.

Pocket handed him the brandy,
tsk
ing quietly as he bent to retrieve the discarded garments from the plush gold and burgundy Turkish carpet. Ethan settled into a Chippendale armchair while Pocket shook imaginary wrinkles from his tailcoat.

On nights like this, Ethan appreciated the luxury of a valet. Seventy if a day, Pocket had more energy than most men in their prime. Ethan smiled when the valet pulled open the marquetry-decorated doors of the walnut wardrobe. The garments Ethan had left strewn about the floor this morning were now spotless and impeccably arranged inside, tucked neatly into Holland covers. “I trust your afternoon went well, my lord.”

Ethan took another swallow of his brandy and was surprised to find it the last. “Not as well as I’d hoped, Pocket.” Irritation flashed through him as he thought of the girl again.

“Oh?” Pocket immediately retrieved the empty glass and poured him another. The man had eyes in the back of his head.

With a nod, Ethan accepted the glass, and Pocket returned to the open wardrobe. “I hope there was no trouble, my lord.”

“Hmm.” Ethan took another sip of the liquor, gilded by the light of the fire. “It depends how you define trouble.”

“And how do
you
define it, brother?”

Ethan turned to see his half brother, Alex, the Earl of Selbourne, standing in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light from the corridor outside.

Ethan arched an eyebrow. “The same way as any other man, I suppose.”

Alex’s gray eyes narrowed.

Pocket made a small sound of disapproval at the earl’s unexpected appearance, but Ethan merely raised his glass in greeting and motioned his brother inside. Alex closed the door and pulled a chair opposite Ethan. He dropped down, stretching his long legs toward the fire.

“Care for a drink?” Ethan asked.

“Will I need one?”

Ethan shrugged and motioned Pocket to pour another glass of brandy. The valet’s expression turned pained at having to serve the earl, but he complied without verbal protest. Ethan studied his brother. He and Alex bore more than a passing resemblance to one another. Both had strong features and dark hair curling about the collar, but Alex’s gray eyes were colder than Ethan’s.

Unlike Ethan, Alex hadn’t the advantage of being raised heir to the respected Winterbourne title. Consequently, his little brother had been unable to shrug off the scandals and rumors that plagued the Selbourne family as Ethan had. Alex had been young and impressionable when the late Earl of Selbourne began his descent into complete debauchery. Ethan had been angry, indignant at the man’s blatant and all-too-public humiliation of his mother, and he’d compensated by further disciplining his own life. Alex had reacted by turning cold and distant.

Still, in general temperament, the similarities between the half brothers were remarkable. Serious and guarded by nature, both tended to shun the frivolous pastimes of Society for more worthy—and often dangerous—pursuits in the service of their country. But of the two, Ethan knew he was the more patient, the more disciplined. And those were skills he intended to teach his brother.

Accepting a glass from Pocket, Alex said, “Your trouble can usually be traced to a woman.”

“Is that so?” Ethan gave a half smile, amused at his brother’s statement. After all, Alex had had his own share of problems with the fairer sex.

Alex responded with a dark look. “But I
know
that can’t be the case today.” His expression darkened further. “Don’t tell me you spent the whole day with some wench you met at The Golden Goose.”

“Your faith in me is touching as usual, brother, but I went to Skerrit’s farm as planned.”

Alex’s relieved expression annoyed Ethan, and he tightened his fingers on the brandy glass.

“And?” Alex scooted to the edge of his chair.

Ethan considered and took another drink of his brandy, swirling the liquid in the glass and watching the firelight glint off the crystal edges. He glanced at his younger brother. Alex had been watching Will Skerrit for almost three months and had compiled detailed information on the man—he probably even knew the color of his drawers. Ethan suspected that Alex had lived more in hiding places around Skerrit’s crumbling farm than he had within the walls of his newly acquired Grayson Park. And if not for the crackling of the logs on the fire, he imagined he’d be able to hear his little brother’s teeth grinding as he struggled to maintain his veneer of casual indifference.

His eyes shifted to Alex’s fingers, tapping a staccato rhythm on the side table. Ethan had every intention of telling his brother all that he wanted to know—in his own good time. But right now he had other things on his mind, specifically one petite, nosy girl with chocolate-brown hair.

“What do you know of the Dashing family?” Ethan asked.

A blank look dropped like a sheet over Alex’s face. “Who?” He turned to Pocket, now engaged in cleaning a nonexistent spot on Ethan’s coat, but the valet’s expression was equally bewildered. Although not, Ethan noted, as annoyed as Alex’s was fast becoming.

“Who?” Alex’s edgy tone mirrored his emotions. His brother really had to learn patience.

“The Dashings.” Ethan hooked one leg over the arm of his chair.

“Why the hell do you think I know who the Dashings are?” Alex almost exploded out of his chair. “If you want to know something about Skerrit, I can tell you what the man had for breakfast this morning, but I haven’t spent much time dallying with the locals.”

Ethan tapped a finger to his lips. “Then I suppose you don’t know Miss Dashing.”

“No.”

Ethan wondered how Alex managed to grind the word from his locked jaw.

“Now, can we return to the matter at hand? Skerrit?”

“This
is
the matter at hand.” Ethan emptied his glass then shook his head when Pocket gestured in silent offer to pour him another. “She was poking around Skerrit’s today.”

Alex started, granite-gray eyes hard and sharp. “Do you suspect her of some involvement?”

“Miss Dashing?” Ethan snorted. “Hardly. Her main concern seemed to be Skerrit’s horse. Apparently the man not only smuggles arms to the French, he also mistreats his animals.”

“Oh, dear,” Pocket murmured from across the room.

With a self-satisfied grin, Alex sat back. “So you concur with my assessment then? Skerrit is smuggling arms for the French.”

“All the signs are there. And the man is no fool, either. He had the gall to pull a weapon on me, but he was smart enough to use a rusty blunderbuss, not anything suspect.”

Alex stared at his brother, looking ready to smash him with the granite in his eyes. “Skerrit caught you!” He catapulted out of his chair. “I’ve been watching the man unnoticed for months, and the first time you, the much-lauded spy, attempt surveillance, you’re discovered. That’s just wonderful, Ethan. Tell me this gets better.”

Ethan looked hard at his brother. “Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job, Alex.” He set his glass down with a clink. “I’ll decide when and if I’ve compromised my position or yours. Don’t forget I was smuggling aristos out of Paris when you were still in leading strings.”

“Please.” Alex ran a hand through his hair. “You’re only six years older.”

“And for your edification,
little
brother,” Ethan added, “I did us both a favor this afternoon by ridding the area of the interfering do-gooder. If I hadn’t done so, we might have had her surprising us in the future at a less opportune moment.”

“And just how did you manage to rid us of the Dashing chit?” Alex sat and arched one skeptical brow.

“It was a mistake. I know that now.”

“
Ethan
.”

“I bought her the horse.”

Alex choked, then shut his eyes and reached for his brandy. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“I admitted my mistake.” Swinging his leg back over the arm of the chair, Ethan set it on the floor with an audible thud. Alex threw him an exasperated look, and Ethan curled his hand around the arm of the Chippendale, restraining the impulse to pummel Alex senseless.

“When word of this leaks, you’ll be linked to the Dashing girl.”

Ethan dug his fingers into the chair arm. “The gossip will die if I don’t fuel it.”

Alex did not look mollified. Ethan released the chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. Attempting a casual air, he stared at the portrait of a reproachful ancestor hanging above the fireplace mantel. The ancient earl watched him with fierce blue eyes.

“I’ll look into her identity further.” He leaned back, suddenly liking the way everything was coming together, liking the notion of seeing the girl again, ensuring she was safe. There was little he could do at present if Skerrit suspected him, but at least he could find out more about her. “I’ll investigate.”

“We don’t have time for that, Winter,” Alex argued.

Ethan dropped his gaze from the portrait to his brother.

“Oh, dear,” Pocket murmured.

“I need your help with Skerrit.”

“You have it,” Ethan said, voice edged with annoyance. The two brothers locked stares.

“Oh, dear!” Ethan heard Pocket moan. “Not again!”

“Stop your ‘oh dears,’ Pocket,” Ethan snapped. “I want you to uncover something about this girl so I can locate her tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear,” Pocket muttered again.

“Find out what village she lives in and what her father does, whether he’s a farmer or a merchant—anything you can.”

“I shall do my best, my lord.” The valet closed the wardrobe’s door with a snick. “But I wonder if you might be referring to one of Viscount Brigham’s daughters? If I am not mistaken, their family name is Dashing, and I believe their estate is in these parts.”

Alex’s head jerked up. “Tanglewilde? It’s only a mile or so from Skerrit’s farm.”

Ethan thought back to the girl and shook his head. “No, she’s not gentry. She was plain. A country miss. Probably just a coincidence.” But Ethan felt a sliver of doubt lodge in his mind. Was he mistaken or had her accent been too refined for a simple country girl? And she
had
carried herself rather well...Of course, any well-trained servant could ape her betters.

A tap on the door interrupted them, and Ethan discarded the whole asinine notion. Pocket went to answer the knock, and while he spoke quietly to one of the servants, Ethan returned to staring at the frowning relic of the man in the portrait. Ethan was accustomed to disapproval and scorn, but he was also accustomed to having his way. The Miss Dashings of the world had never caused him serious problems before. Why should this one nosy chit be any different? He wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to interfere with his plan to snare Skerrit.

“My lords?” Pocket said, closing the door again. “I am afraid I have some disturbing news. One of Mr. Skerrit’s servants found him with his throat slit.”

“What?” Ethan rose. He’d left the man very much alive no more than three hours ago.

“There’s more,” Pocket said. “It seems a card bearing Lord Selbourne’s name was on the body. The magistrate”—he consulted a card—“a Squire Gravener, is downstairs, and he has requested an interview with both of you.”

“A card with
my
name?” Alex stared at Pocket. “How the hell did he come by that?”

“Damn.” The deeply lined mouth of the man in the portrait now seemed to smirk. Ethan closed his eyes.

Perhaps everything wouldn’t go as planned.

“I
’m almost done, miss,” Helen, Francesca’s lady’s maid, said, stifling a yawn before pinning another curl.

Francesca stole a look at her maid in the mirror, feeling a pang of guilt at waking the already harried servant so early. But she had to run to the stables to see Thunder before her father heard the news of her latest addition.

“I’m sorry to squirm so, Helen, but the weather is perfect today. I must be out in it.”

In the oval mirror of the tulipwood dressing table, her eyes left Helen’s face and strayed to the reflection of the Hampshire countryside surrounding Tanglewilde. When she’d bounced out of bed and pulled the pink silk drapes from the window a mere half an hour earlier, the horizon had been just tinged with gold, but now the sky was streaked with fast-fading pink and orange. For a November morning, the weather was exquisite—bright sunlight beaming through a pale blue, cloudless sky. She couldn’t wait to escape the stuffy house and enjoy the sunshine.

And perhaps the fresh air would keep her thoughts from the past and, most especially, from Winterbourne.

Helen tied a red ribbon into place and stepped away to admire her work. Half an hour from now, Francesca’s hair would once again be a tangle of curls, the ribbon lying forlorn and forgotten in a patch of clover. But Lady Brigham demanded her daughters adhere to the rules of Society even in the country, which meant Francesca’s hair and dress must follow the latest styles. Francesca considered it a monumental waste of time.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror then looked quickly away again. Her features were still plain and uninteresting, and even the most fashionable coiffure wouldn’t change that.

A quick rap sounded at the door, and Lucia burst inside, wearing her blue mantle and a bonnet with blue ribbons trailing from one hand.

“Cesca! I’m so glad I caught you. I thought you might have already gone.”

“I’m leaving this minute,” Francesca answered, turning to her maid. “Thank you, Helen. That will be all for now.”

Helen gave a quick curtsy and exited. Francesca turned back to her dressing table, taking a moment to straighten her matching ivory comb and brush. “What did you want to see me about? Isn’t Miss Russell waiting for you?”

“Miss Russell!”

In the mirror, Francesca saw Lucia drop her mantle and bonnet then flop onto the large pink-canopied bed, her blond curls bouncing. “What do I care for Miss Russell?” Her sister leaned eagerly forward. “I heard from my maid who heard from one of the grooms that you brought Mr. Skerrit’s horse home last night. Is it true?”