While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (7 page)

It had been bad enough imagining arriving at Tanglewilde—traipsing past all the servants and God knew who else—with the notorious Marquess of Winterbourne at her side. That in itself would create enough scandal among her bored, sleepy neighbors for a year. Probably more. But if she showed up, tossed over his shoulder like a soldier’s spoils of war, she’d die from the shame. She’d already been the source of gossip once because of him.

He gestured for her to begin walking.

Francesca winced. She could not return to Tanglewilde with the Marquess of Winterbourne. She was already out of her father’s favor because of Thunder; she could only imagine the array of colors he’d turn if she brought Winterbourne to dinner.

Lord! Thunder! She still had to find a place for her baby. She eyed Winterbourne. Now that she knew the real reason he’d been at Skerrit’s and bought the horse, it seemed unlikely he’d be willing to take the colt, even temporarily.

“Lord Winterbourne,” she began, not sure what she was about to say.

A warning flashed in his eyes, and she grasped her skirts in her hand, scurrying out of his reach and onto the road. He followed her.

Even worse than her father would be her mother. Though he’d treated her abominably at the Harcourts’ ball, the marquess was prime marriage material. A juicy fly for her mother to trap in her web. A snack to feed her mother’s obsession with Francesca’s unmarried state. Despite her mother’s love of gossip, she cared almost nothing for the marquess’s tainted reputation. Like the rest of the
ton
, she could forgive almost anything if the gentleman had enough money, power, or good looks. Winterbourne had all three—in abundance.

And Francesca did not want to imagine what Winterbourne’s impression of her mother would be. The viscountess would probably collapse in utter delight at the sight of him. She’d certainly waste no time bringing up the topic of marriage and making not-so-subtle hints that he should consider her daughter as a prospective bride.

Francesca felt terror creeping in as they topped the final rise. At the summit, they’d have a full view of Tanglewilde.

She turned abruptly and came to a full stop, holding up her hand to stall his progress. “I wish to extend my most fervent thanks for the escort you have provided me today, but I fear I must insist upon traversing the last quarter mile alone.” She gave the speech in her most authoritative tone and curtsied prettily, thinking it a nice touch. It was actually one of her more graceful curtseys, until Winterbourne led his horse past her and she almost fell over.

“W-where are you going?” she stammered, regaining her footing and stumbling after him.

“I want to see what it is you’re trying to hide.”

He strode the last few feet and topped the small hill, then paused, put his hands on his hips, and frowned.

Francesca knew what he saw without having to look.

Tanglewilde lay on the slight rise of a broad verdant valley, surrounded by the sloping hills of the Hampshire countryside. She and Winterbourne faced the south side from this angle, which meant they had to cross an expanse of grassy pastures dotted with white sheep and goats to reach the rear of the house itself. From this vantage point, one could see the stables and the various smaller storage and work buildings of the estate as well as some of the tenants’ cottages.

The north façade offered a more impressive view of the house, but she’d always preferred this charming, if simple, view from the south. She looked at Winterbourne to gauge his reaction.

But he was staring at her, his brow creased in a bewildered expression that she almost found endearing. She had the momentary urge to take her thumb and smooth the wrinkle between his eyebrows.

She bit her lip hard, reminding herself that she was irritated with him.

“—work here?”

He’d asked her a question, something about the house. She paused for a moment, trying to fill in what she’d missed.

“Oh, I believe our staff numbered forty at last count,” Francesca answered, wondering why he wanted to know. If he was that interested in the estate, she’d never convince him to leave her on the rise.

Keep calm, she told herself. Don’t panic.

“
Our
staff?” Winterbourne asked, regaining her attention. “What exactly
is
your position here? You have ample free time for a maid, and you’re a little young to be the housekeeper.”

“What?” Maid? Housekeeper? What could he possibly—?

She staggered backward as she realized. She would have fallen straight down the hillside, too, if he hadn’t released the reins of his horse and reached out at the last minute to steady her.

She swatted at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”

He jerked away. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? What’s
wrong
?” she screamed. The horse skittered to the side, and Winterbourne grasped his bridle to steady him.

Now she’d scared the poor horse.

“Maybe you’d better sit down a moment,” Winterbourne said when he had the gelding under control again.

Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. He probably thought her half-mad, which, at that point, wasn’t far from the truth. She could kill him. She
wanted
to kill him.

Not only did he not recall walking away from her on the dance floor—leaving her at the mercy of the
ton
’s ridicule—at the Harcourts’ ball, he didn’t even remember
her
. Mistook her for one of Tanglewilde’s
maids
!

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” She jabbed a finger at him.

His eyes narrowed in an expression that she’d seen her father make whenever her mother asked him a particularly tricky question. But Winterbourne, arrogant bachelor that he was, seemed to think he had the answer.

“Of course I know who you are.” He paused, then added, “Miss Dashing,” as if to prove his point.

“Oh, really?” She tapped her toe in aggravation. “When did we first meet?”

He gave her a weary expression and spoke as though addressing a child or an imbecile. “We met yesterday afternoon—”

“Wrong!” she stamped her foot. “We met last year at the Harcourts’ ball.”

He frowned. “Lord Harcourt?”

“Yes. And, though I didn’t think it possible for anyone to
ever again
humiliate me as much as you did on that occasion, I find that I am mistaken. You’ve
outdone
yourself today.”

A full ten seconds passed in silence. Her chest heaved, and she fought to control her anger as she watched him struggle—
struggle
—to place her.

Finally, he said, “Were you in Lord Harcourt’s employ at the time?”

“Employ?
Employ
?”

He stepped back, obviously aware he’d made a mistake and obviously,
maddeningly
, still not sure what that mistake had been. Francesca straightened to her full height of five feet two inches.

“I have never been
employed
by Lord Harcourt, nor anyone else. I am the Honourable Miss Francesca Dashing, eldest daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Brigham. And Tanglewilde”—she gestured at the vast estate sprawled behind her—“is my home. Does that refresh your memory, Lord Winterbourne, or need I go on?”

T
he tone of her voice suggested he’d better not ask her to go on. He didn’t need to. She was beginning to look familiar. Pocket was right. He could picture her father—a distinguished gentleman of fifty or so with brown hair, graying at the temples. But the girl—the girl didn’t look like a viscount’s daughter. Her clothes, though neat, were worn, and her hair blew wild and disheveled, her face pink from exertion. Nothing about her said staid Society miss, except perhaps the cutting look she presently bestowed upon him.

A look that was as sharp as her wits. She’d only been guessing, but when she’d asked if he was a spy, Ethan nearly balked. Now a puzzle piece snapped into place. “Roxbury,” he said.

She started and one pale hand rose to her throat. “W-what did you say?”

“You’re betrothed to Roxbury.” He’d always thought it an odd match, which was probably why he could now recall seeing the couple on one or two occasions. The girl—warm, unsophisticated, and petite—in the shadow of the icy, rigid, self-righteous earl. He surveyed the estate in the meadow below them. “Is Roxbury at Tanglewilde?”

One glance at her face answered his query.

“No.” Her hand closed protectively on the ties of her mantle, her small white fingers contrasting sharply with the black material. “He—
no
.” Her voice shook and sounded almost relieved.

Interesting—and telling.

“You’re no longer betrothed?”

Her eyes flicked to his. “We broke off the betrothal last March.”

Ethan almost nodded his approval. He’d never liked the earl. Didn’t know the man well, didn’t want to. He couldn’t imagine what this girl had seen in the pompous ass.

“Was it a long betrothal?” He was still trying to remember where they’d met. She’d mentioned that they’d been introduced.

“No. He and I met that night at Lord and Lady Harcourt’s ball.” She broke off and a flush rose from her throat to her cheeks.

He blinked. An image of her, gloved hand to her throat and blushing madly, flashed into his mind. He was transported back to the Harcourts’ with disorienting suddenness. How could he have failed to recognize her? That picture of her had imprinted itself on his brain.

It wasn’t a night he wanted to remember. Seeing Victoria had been the final card of a bad hand. He’d just returned from a mission in France and had only gone to the Harcourts’ because Lord Grenville would be there. Ethan had known the Foreign Secretary had been anxious to hear his findings.

No sooner had Ethan spoken with his superior than he’d been besieged by a horde of matrons and their giggling, pink-faced daughters. He had wanted nothing more than to go home, climb into bed, and sleep for a week. But Lady Harcourt had stood like a sentry on the fringe of the masses, and if he left without dancing even one set, he’d offend her. He had been at Cambridge with Harcourt, and since the baron and his wife were two of the members of the
ton
he actually liked, he’d surrendered.

Nodding to the first pushy woman Lady Harcourt had presented to him, he had taken the arm of the woman’s wide-eyed daughter and prepared to suffer through the half-hour ordeal. He’d been so distracted by hunger and sleep, he had barely glanced at the girl he danced with and had completely forgotten her when Victoria entered the ballroom.

Victoria. Resplendent as ever, he’d thought. He’d been unable to stop himself from staring. Haughty as ever too. He’d watched with disgust as her disdainful glance deigned to touch on the other guests. She sickened him. Even his fondness for the Harcourts wouldn’t keep him in the same room with her.

So he’d walked away, his one thought to put as much distance between himself and Victoria as quickly as possible. But when he’d turned to exit, he’d inadvertently glimpsed the scene in the ballroom. Standing motionless in a swirl of dancers had been this girl, his partner. When he’d walked away, he’d never even considered her.

He had considered her in his carriage on the way home, though, and the image had flicked through his mind at various other idle moments. He cursed himself silently whenever it did. He knew he was a bastard, knew he shouldn’t have allowed Victoria to affect him like that. The girl, now standing before him wearing almost the same look she’d worn that night, hadn’t deserved to be treated so callously.

He’d toyed briefly with the idea of sending a note of apology—he could probably uncover her name from Lady Harcourt. Then he’d been called back to the Continent, and he’d thought it for the best. There weren’t enough words, enough pieces of vellum, or enough ink in the world for him to make amends for all the mistakes he’d made in his life.

And he wouldn’t begin to attempt to do so now.

“We danced at the Harcourts’ ball,” he said matter-of-factly. She nodded, probably waiting for his rote apology. “I didn’t remember you until just now. You look”—he let his eyes sweep over her, a petite woman in a dark mantle and worn blue dress, the vast expanse of Hampshire spreading behind her—“different.”

He wanted to say
beautiful
, but that wasn’t quite right. She wasn’t beautiful, not what he considered beautiful. But something about her, something intense and haunted in her eyes, attracted him.

“Different?” she said, those cocoa eyes flashing. “I shall add that to my journal tonight under the Compliments section, right below Good Teeth.”

Ethan winced.

“Good day, Lord Winterbourne.”

She spun away from him and marched down the hill toward the estate. He took two steps, caught her arm, and twisted her around.

“Release me!” She jerked her arm, but he tightened his hold.

“I would accompany you. I intend to have a few words with your father.”

She stopped struggling. “Concerning?” Her forehead creased, worry clouding her eyes.

“Come.” Ethan, still holding her arm in one hand, grasped Destrehan’s reins with the other and started down the hill. He pulled her along, her resistance irrelevant on the downward slope of the terrain. But her protests would have been futile in any case. As he’d said, he’d carry her kicking and screaming if he had to. He wanted to know what kind of father permitted his daughter to wander about the countryside without an escort or even a chaperone.

She continued to pull away from him, showing no signs of giving up, until they reached the hill’s nadir.

“My father’s not at home.” Her voice wavered. “He rode into Selborne this morning.”

He led the way through a pasture, avoiding the manure piles as best he could. The south front of the house rose before them, and as they came closer, the girl ceased her struggles.

“Let go of my arm,” she hissed at him.

Ethan skirted an ornery-looking goat and ignored her request. The matter was settled.

“Let go! I must put my hair to rights and straighten my clothes before we step inside.” She sounded almost frantic, and Ethan spared a glance at her, halting when he saw her. She looked windblown, wrinkled, and wild.