While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (43 page)

He gazed down into her face. Though they were cloudy with passion, her dark, misty eyes locked on him. He drove into her again, and her mouth parted, lips forming an O as her body arched to meet his. With a final cry, Ethan took hold of her hips and surged into her, lost in her sleek body, lost in the staggering experience of making love to her.

“Ethan?”

The voice came from far away. He tried to ignore it.

“Ethan.” It was more insistent now.

Ethan gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the memory. The silky skin at the curve of Francesca’s thigh had felt so real this time. Even better, he was certain he’d recalled the exact shade of her cocoa eyes.

“Ethan!” There was the sound of a fist making contact with a table and Ethan opened his eyes. Alex’s steely gray gaze, not Francesca’s warm brown one, was fixed on him.

“What?” Ethan sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and scowled at his brother.

“Are you even listening? I’m trying to fill you in on my meeting with Camille Villiers.”

Alex spoke in French, and for a moment Ethan felt a vague sense of disorientation. Then it all came back in a rush, and he reached instinctively for his drink. He put the glass to his mouth, an action that had become all too familiar of late, and was surprised when no more than a trickle of brandy teased his tongue.

Swearing under his breath, he motioned to the tavern owner to bring him another. Alex’s lips twisted in disapproval, and Ethan looked away, his eyes scanning the smoky room filled with thieves, whores, and cutthroats. It could have been a replica of a dozen or so taverns in Paris, where it seemed he’d spent the better part of half his life, searching for answers and finding none.

The tavern owner refilled the glass and when he turned to go Ethan put a hand on the beefy man’s arm. “Leave it.” Ethan nodded at the bottle.

When he’d slaked his thirst, or rather renewed the feeling of numbness he now maintained at all costs, he eyed his brother through slitted lids.

“He’s not coming,” he told Alex in French.

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, I’ve had enough.” It was late, and Ethan was tired, impatient, and ready to go. He had a quarter-bottle of brandy left and the means to buy more. That was all he wanted tonight. Anything to wipe away the last vestiges of Francesca from his memory.

It wasn’t working. Paris. Immersing himself in his work. He hadn’t forgotten her as he’d intended. What was worse, she was beginning to affect his performance. Once a man of infinite persistence and determination, Ethan now couldn’t bear to be still. Watching and waiting gave him too much time to think. And his thoughts these days and nights inevitably turned to Francesca.

“Relax. You look anxious,” Alex said in a low voice. He arched his eyebrows at Ethan’s fingers, which were tapping an allegro rhythm on the table.

“I
am
anxious.” But Ethan ceased the rhythmic drumming. “I don’t trust this Citizen Gagnon.”

“Camille Villiers trusts him. You’ve never doubted her before.”

Alex was right—an annoying habit his brother had picked up of late. Ethan made no response; instead, he surveyed the murky tavern in the heart of France’s Montmartre district for what he guessed was the tenth time. He’d been in France almost three weeks and the man he and Alex were meeting tonight was their best hope for finding the identity of the smuggler’s leader. According to Camille Villiers, a trusted French contact and longtime friend, Gagnon had been part of the smuggling operation. But, for whatever reason, the man had decided the work was too dangerous and bowed out.

Ethan and Alex hoped a few drinks and a little gold would loosen Gagnon’s tongue enough to persuade the man to reveal his former employer’s identity. But they’d waited for at least an hour, and Gagnon had yet to make an appearance.

Ethan frowned at his glass. It was almost empty again. He fumbled for the bottle of brandy and poured, misjudging the distance so that a good quantity of the alcohol sloshed over the side.

Alex slanted him a dark look. “How many is that tonight?”

Ethan bent to slurp the brandy so it wouldn’t spill when he lifted the glass. If only Pocket could see him now, he thought bitterly. His cravat dangled in the brandy pooling on the table, and he knew he looked drunk and disheveled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or had a decent meal.

And he didn’t care. He wanted numbness. “It’s none of your concern, Alex.”

“Will it be my concern if you fall over on the Boulevard de Rochechouart and I have to carry you back to the hotel?”

Ethan glared at him. “I’m fine.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something that sounded like, “If you say so.”

But he wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine since the night of the Nitterlings’ ball, and Ethan didn’t think he’d ever be fine again. He took another sip. This was why he hadn’t wanted to get involved with Francesca. From the start, he knew she’d bring him nothing but grief.

The devil take him, he was even lying to himself now. He lifted the glass to his mouth again and then, without drinking, abruptly set it down. The brandy made it easy to lie. To tell himself Francesca had been at fault, that she was responsible for the pain he felt now. But he knew it was a lie. If he was honest with himself, a rare occurrence these past few weeks, he could admit that he had not really tried to avoid involvement with Francesca. In fact, from the moment he’d seen her outside Skerrit’s barn, he’d looked for an opportunity to be with her again.
He’d
seduced her.
He’d
insisted on marriage. She’d never pressed him, never pushed him—except to confide in her, to trust her.

And he hadn’t been able to do it.

She wasn’t Victoria. When he opened the door at Bellerive and saw her and Nitterling’s son together, he’d seen Victoria, not Francesca.

It was impossible that Francesca would betray him. She’d loved him even when he hadn’t known she existed—even after he’d humiliated her in front of the
ton
by abandoning her publicly in Lord Harcourt’s ballroom. And she’d always believed in him, defended him when she had every reason not to. She’d seen the evidence of his so-called revenge on George Leigh for herself, but she’d never doubted there was more to the story, and accepted his explanation unconditionally.

No, it was his own fears, his own unwillingness to expose himself to vulnerability that caused him pain and drove him to escape their growing intimacy.

But it was too late for escape. He’d fallen in love with her, and it scared the hell out of him. He’d loved once before and had been hurt, and he loved Francesca more deeply, more completely, than he’d ever loved Victoria. How much more deeply and completely could Francesca hurt him then?

He shook his head, pushing the glass out of reach. It was no use. He loved her. He loved her whether he was drunk or sober, in England or France, no matter if she was wrapped in his arms or glaring at him, hands fisted on her hips. And he wanted to tell her, wanted to start over, make everything right between them, learn to trust her, even as he taught her to trust him.

And he wanted to start now. He wanted to be with her this very moment. It was almost Christmas—if he left tonight, he could be at Winterbourne Hall for Christmas Eve.

A woman’s shriek and a man’s lewd bellow caught Ethan’s attention, and he glanced around the grimy tavern again. Suddenly France, once his escape, had become his prison.

“I think you should leave France,” Alex said

Ethan’s head snapped up. “What?”

Alex nodded, raking his gaze over his brother, reminding Ethan of his unkempt appearance. “You need to go home. To Winterbourne Hall.”

“I know—” Ethan began.

Alex held up a hand to ward off Ethan’s expected protests. “You’re becoming a liability, Ethan. It’s only a matter of time until you make a mistake that could bring us all down.”

Ethan opened his mouth to agree, but Alex went on, “Don’t argue with me, Ethan. There’s something between you and Francesca.” Alex’s tone was a mixture of incredulity and pity.

Ethan smiled. Alex had never been in love, thought it was for fools.

“I love her,” Ethan said, surprised at how easily the words passed from his lips now.

“And if I have to write to Grenville and have him order you—” Alex’s eyebrows shot together and he narrowed his eyes at Ethan. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I love her.”

“You do? I mean, good. Right.”

“I need to be with her.” Ethan reached into his waistcoat for money and stood.

“You’re leaving
now
?” Alex sounded incredulous.

“Why not?”

“Leaving so soon?” A large man with snow dusting the threadbare coat slung over his arm stood behind Alex. “I was told you wanted to talk.”

Gagnon. One glance at the man and Ethan knew he was the smuggler Camille had told them about. He was burly and rough—the kind of man who would take orders, do his job, and not ask questions. Gagnon looked from Ethan to Alex and back again.

Ethan was suddenly as sober as if he’d been hit by a blast from the storm outside. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. He could finish this mission once and for all and make his way home to Francesca. Standing before him was a man who knew the identity of the leader of one of the most successful arms smuggling operations to France—a man purported to be a British citizen and an aristocrat with ties to Parliament, a traitor Ethan would give his right arm to see drawn and quartered as traitors deserved. In a matter of moments, he could know the traitor’s identity—if he played his cards right.

Ethan glanced at Alex. His brother looked ready to deal.

“Sit down, citizen,” Ethan said, resuming his own seat. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Gagnon looked over the tavern warily before he sat.

“Drink?” Alex indicated the bottle on the table.

“Don’t mind if I do, citizens.”

Ethan flicked a finger for another glass. The tavern owner brought it and, while Alex poured Gagnon a dose of brandy, Ethan made a point of settling their bill. He made certain Gagnon saw the amount of gold he carried, jangling the coins for emphasis.

When the tavern owner walked away, Ethan’s gaze met Gagnon’s. From the greedy look on the Frenchman’s face, Ethan knew the flash of coin had not gone unnoticed.

The first card was on the table. Alex would play the next.

“I understand we have a mutual friend, Citizen Gagnon,” Alex said. Ethan could see his brother mentally shuffling the deck. “She told us you might have some information about a shared enemy.”

Gagnon sipped his drink. “Perhaps.” He glanced at Ethan. “For the right price.”

“You can expect to be amply compensated,” Alex told him. “
If
the information is good.”

Card two on the table.

Gagnon frowned as though he’d just noticed one of his aces was only a ten of spades. “What do you mean,
if
the information is good? The information is good!”

“We’ll need to verify that, of course,” Ethan said coolly. “We’ll pay you half now and the rest when your story has been verified.”

Card three on the table.

“Now wait just a minute.” Gagnon’s fist hit the table and the glasses clattered. “I was told you were willing to pay for information.”

“You can’t possibly expect us to pay the full amount without verifying all the facts, citizen,” Ethan said. “How will we know if you’re telling the truth?”

“How long will it take? And how do I know you’ll pay up?”

“You seem rather eager for the money, citizen.” Alex gave Gagnon a look of mock concern. “Can it be that you have just remembered all that money you owe—the rent, the new shoes for your son, the bill to the baker?”

Gagnon’s eyes widened.

Alex shook his head sadly. “So many debts. Too bad you didn’t get paid for the job you did.”

Card four on the table and one away from a five-card trick.

“How do you—” Gagnon’s face flushed crimson. “I should have gotten paid. I did my share, but when that crazy bastard started talking about hurting that girl, I wanted out. I don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

Ethan and Alex exchanged a look. The game was taking an unfamiliar turn. They kept their expressions neutral. Gagnon needn’t know they weren’t aware of the reason he’d broken with the other smugglers.

“So you backed out,” Ethan said.

“He was a crazy bastard. You should have seen his face after he killed that farmer—not that the man didn’t deserve it.”

“Farmer?” Alex asked casually.

“Mean, skinny little man. He was hiding the arms until we could get them out of the country. Guess he outlived his usefulness.”

Ethan’s hand closed in a white-knuckled grip on the glass in front of him and his heart began to thud in his chest. Neither he nor Alex had considered the possibility that Gagnon had been part of the operation in England. They’d assumed he’d worked on the French end, but now Ethan remembered that day in the clearing with Francesca. The smugglers had spoken of a Frenchie.

Ethan struggled to remain calm, composed. If the farmer was Skerrit, then who was the girl? The door to the tavern swung open, admitting more patrons as well as a swirl of snow. He was suddenly very, very cold. “What was the name of the farmer?”

Gagnon opened his mouth, then narrowed his eyes. “I’m not paid for telling you that information.”

“You want more money? I’ll double it if you tell me the name of the farmer and the name of the girl.”

Gagnon’s jaw dropped, and Alex’s expression wasn’t much different. Ethan knew he’d just blown the game, cleared the cards off the table with a sweep of his arm. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t playing anymore.

“Double it?” Gagnon said dubiously. “Do I get it now or—”

Ethan grabbed Gagnon by his filthy collar, hauling the man half-across the table. Impatience, hot and explosive, threatened to boil over. With a flick of his wrist, he withdrew the knife he carried in his boot and pressed it against the Gagnon’s stomach, away from the view of curious eyes.

“Either tell me what I want to know, or you’ll feel my fingers at the other end of this knife tickling your insides.” Ethan pressed the blade harder.