by Shana Galen
Seeing her so vulnerable, so small, wrenched at him. The feeling was too familiar, reminding him of another time, another place. His efforts at protection had failed then as well.
He swore under his breath. Why hadn’t he protected Francesca? Thoroughly searched the grounds for roving smugglers? Insisted her father lock her in the house?
The voices ceased, and Ethan pulled his eyes from her to survey the room. Her mother sat in a chair beside her daughter, on the opposite side of the bed from Ethan, and a man stood next to Lady Brigham, holding the girl’s wrist. Slumped in a chair at a dressing table in the corner was Brigham himself.
He paused at the side of her bed and clenched his hands against the impulse to take her hand in his. He had to be calm, reasonable. Ferret out the information he needed. “What happened?” he asked.
Lady Brigham sobbed loudly and dropped her head in her hands. The viscount looked up and began to rise. “Winterbourne? What the bloody hell are you doing here? We don’t need—” Brigham lurched, stumbled.
“Sit down,” Ethan ordered.
Brigham looked ready to protest, and Ethan held up one solitary finger. Without a word, Brigham fell back into his chair.
“What happened?”
Lady Brigham sobbed louder.
“She was on her way home from her hospital,” Brigham began, “and a man attacked her. Luckily Shepherd got there in time to chase the man away, or else...”
Ethan rounded on the man holding Francesca’s wrist. “Are you the doctor?”
“I am.” The man released her hand, laying it at her side. “Dawson.” The doctor put his hand on the girl’s forehead then looked expectantly at Ethan.
“Winterbourne,” he said.
Dawson nodded. “The Earl of Selbourne’s brother?”
“How is she?” Ethan asked, bypassing the pleasantries. He needed to hear she was well. His body still thrummed with tension.
“She suffered quite a scare, but except for a few bruises and scratches, she will be fine.”
Ethan hadn’t realized his fists were clamped together until then. They felt stiff as he forced them to relax.
“Is she conscious?”
She hadn’t yet opened her eyes. God, please let her be sleeping.
“She’s been awake off and on. I’ve given her a mild sedative. She has a knot the size of a plum on the base of her skull and will probably have a headache in the morning.”
Ethan wanted to feel relief but couldn’t. Not until he knew.
“Was she—” Ethan began, then glanced at her mother. “Are there any other injuries?”
The doctor raised his eyebrows in understanding.
“No. She was not harmed in any other way.”
The cord holding him prisoner slackened. His darkest fears hadn’t been realized. She’d been lucky.
The doctor withdrew his hand from Francesca’s forehead and turned to his medical bag, lying open beside Lady Brigham. Francesca’s eyes fluttered open.
“Mamma?” Her voice was faint, but it drew every eye in the room.
Lord Brigham sat up and Lady Brigham ceased her soundless sobbing for a moment. She grasped her daughter’s hand to her heart. “I’m here, dolce.”
“Would you do something for me?” Her face was half-turned from him, and Ethan could not see her clearly, but at that moment, if she’d asked the question of him, no matter the request, he’d have gone to the ends of the earth to grant it. This attack was his fault. After Skerrit’s murder and the smugglers he’d seen nearby, Ethan could not believe Francesca’s attack unrelated. If he’d caught the leader of the smugglers by now, she wouldn’t have been in danger, wouldn’t have been attacked. He and Alex had done their best to investigate quickly and thoroughly, but they hadn’t been fast enough.
“Of course, dolce.”
“Would you have Cagnolino brought to me?” Francesca sounded almost embarrassed to be asking a favor. Ethan stared at her, willing her to look at him, acknowledge him, but her heavy eyes closed again.
“Your puppy?”
“Yes.” The word came out slow and slurred.
Lady Brigham glanced at the doctor who looked uncertain. “Francesca—”
“Please, Mamma.” She grasped her mother’s hand tighter, and Ethan felt the cord tense again at this sign of weakness. “I have to know he’s safe and well. Everyone tells me Lino’s fine, but”—her voice broke off for a moment—“he—” She put a hand to her forehead.
Ethan leaned forward.
“Lino tried to protect me. He—the man threw him, and I couldn’t see what happened.”
Something in her voice sent a warning jolt through Ethan. For a moment, he’d been almost certain she would say the man’s name.
“Please let me see Lino,” Francesca went on. “And then I’ll sleep, I promise.”
Lady Brigham turned back to the doctor, now holding a blue opaque bottle suspended above his bag, his eyes riveted, as all their eyes were, to this small, injured girl.
“Dr. Dawson?”
“If it eases her mind, I see no reason not to.”
“I’ll send Mr. Shepherd.” She began to rise, but Francesca reached out, misjudging the distance and missing her mother’s arm. The failed gesture stopped Lady Brigham all the more completely. “Mamma, send Daddy to do it.” Her eyes turned to Lord Brigham. “He’s so upset,” she whispered. “Alfred will know what to do.”
Ethan closed his eyes, shaking his head. She thought of everyone but herself. And they allowed it.
Hot anger pulsed through him. Lady Brigham rose and went to her husband, kneeling beside him and speaking in whispered tones. At first Brigham seemed to object, but finally he stood. On tottering legs, he went to his daughter and kissed her forehead. When he looked up, his gaze met Ethan’s. But the viscount’s eyes no longer held any fire. They were hollow and empty, beaten by the same feelings of helplessness Ethan felt. Brigham turned and shuffled from the room.
“Lord Brigham.” The doctor closed his bag and followed. “A word with you.”
With Brigham and the doctor gone, the room seemed empty. Francesca closed her eyes when her mother resumed her seat, then seemed to make an effort to open them again when Ethan took a step toward her. She stared at him blankly, almost as though she thought him an apparition.
“Oh, Lord Winterbourne.”
Ethan winced at the harsh intrusion of Lady Brigham’s voice.
“What are we ever to do? My poor, poor baby!”
“I’ll take care of it,” Ethan heard himself say.
And he meant it. He would find the bastard who’d done this to her.
Find him and kill him.
“I knew we could count on you, my lord. Grazie. Grazie.”
Ethan’s gaze locked with Francesca’s, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she said, “You came.” Her speech was slow, a hint of wonder in her voice. Ethan noted she’d made a statement, not asked a question.
“I came,” he answered. He’d had no choice, really. Nothing could have stopped him.
Her brow wrinkled. “I thought I dreamed you,” she murmured.
He stood over her, looking down at her face, illuminated softly by the candlelight. It was too dark to see the first signs of bruises, but he noticed a scratch near her lip. He wanted to reach out and touch it, wipe it away, erase it and everything bad that had ever happened to her.
“Who did this?” He gestured to her prone form. “Do you know him?” His tone was gruff, angry. He heard Lady Brigham’s gasp, but Francesca only furrowed her brow and sank further into her plump pillows.
Ethan took a deliberate breath and tried to leash the deluge of guilt and temper, the unreasonable rage he felt because he hadn’t been there to protect her. The last thing he wanted was to traumatize her. Still, he needed information. He needed proof her attacker had been one of the smugglers so he could find the bastard—and he would find him, there was no question of that. He needed her to answer his questions now. Clearly, the sedat
ive was working in her, but he counted on the information still being fresh in her mind.
Ethan turned to her mother. She’d taken Francesca’s hand again when he’d spoken. “Lady Brigham, I have to ask these questions now if I’m to find her attacker.”
The woman’s head bobbed like a marionette’s.
“In fact, it would be better if I could speak with your daughter alone.” He glanced at Francesca. She puckered her lips and raised her head slightly.
“Oh my, but that’s most inappropriate, Signore.” But she was already rising. “Although under the circumstances—” She gestured vaguely.
“I promise I’ll be good.” Ethan gave her a roguish smile.
Lady Brigham melted. “Oh, I know. I know!” She looked sternly at her daughter. “Now, Francesca, you must answer all of Lord Winterbourne’s questions.”
Francesca looked at her mother, then at him, and frowned. Ethan could see that, even in this diminished state, she would be stubborn. Lady Brigham turned back to him. “And Signore, you must promise not to tire mia figlia.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he promised and winked. Anything to make the woman retreat.
With a spring returning to her step, Lady Brigham turned to leave. Her daughter caught her sleeve, her fingers slipping down the fabric. “Mamma. Don’t forget Lino.”
“As soon as Mr. Shepherd returns, I’ll bring you the puppy.” Her mother patted her hand. ”Do you need anything, Signore?”
Ethan hesitated. The idea had crossed his mind half a dozen times since he’d stepped in the room. And if he was to make the request, now was the time to do so. But still he held back, not sure he could trust himself. Didn’t trust that his decision was motivated by the desire to protect rather than blatant sheer desire.
He glanced at Francesca again. She was watching him, her eyes cloudy but her lips still pursed, the ugly red scratch stark against the white canvas of her skin.
The devil take it, Ethan decided. “I need a room, madam. I’ll be staying until this is sorted out.”
Lady Brigham let out a little gasp and almost reeled from what appeared to be something akin to rapture.
Ethan gritted his teeth. Did the woman think of nothing but marriage?
“We would be honored.” Her pitch rose with excitement.
“Ask your housekeeper to have a room prepared and to send for my things from Grayson Park.”
“Mrs. Priggers will see to it immediately, my lord,” she squeaked. Ethan could have sworn she bounced out the doorway.
He shook his head, amazed at the woman’s transparency. She’d have the marriage announcement in the Times before the night was over. He’d have to set her straight tomorrow.
“You’re not—” Francesca closed her eyes, then opened them, seeming to struggle to concentrate. “You can’t stay here tonight.”
“No?” He rounded the bed, stopping at Lady Brigham’s vacant seat then removing his gloves and laying them on the arm of the silk upholstered armchair.
“No.” She sounded relieved and shook her head as if to clear the silly notion all together. Ethan almost grinned. She seemed so sure of herself.
He took the seat, meeting her fuzzy gaze. “You’re right.”
She smiled too broadly and closed her eyes in relief.
“One night is too brief. I was thinking more of a week.” He leaned back. “But it may be two, depending on how helpful you prove.”
She opened her eyes, blinked, and stared at him. “What?”
“I’m staying,” he repeated.
With a moan, she turned her head into the pillows. “What am I to do?” he heard her mumble. “This can’t be happening.”
Ethan scowled. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “What’s wrong?” she groaned. “The most handsome man in England just moved in with me, and he asks what’s wrong.” Her voice was groggy, but Ethan froze at her words.
This was something new. She thought him the most handsome man in England?
“What’s wrong?” She pointed a limp but accusatory finger at him. “You’re bad!”
“But handsome.” He grinned.
She closed her eyes with a sigh.
“I’m staying,” he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. That fact was non-negotiable. He wouldn’t leave her unprotected again.
She opened her eyes, and her skin seemed to pale in contrast to their dark depths. She looked exhausted, would probably be asleep in a matter of moments.
But first he needed answers. Needed to get his hands on the bastard who’d dared touch her. “Tell me about the attack, sweetheart,” he said, softening his tone. “What happened?”
She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Can’t talk about that,” she mumbled. “Don’t want to.”
He took her hand. “I know. I know you’re scared.”
She opened her eyes, and he saw the fear in them, felt her fingers tense in his.
“But I need you to answer my questions anyway. Who did this?”
“Don’t know.” Her eyes drifted closed. “So tired.”
He was losing her. Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face close to hers. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Tell me something, Francesca. Anything.”
Her eyelids drooped. “I—” She yawned. “I think I love you.”
Twelve
Ethan closed the door of the chamber he’d been given the night before and allowed his gaze to rest on Francesca’s door, located in the opposite wing. He started down the corridor, hoping he remembered the location of the stairway. When he found it, he descended slowly, attempting to organize his thoughts. He had one task: find her attacker.
If, as he suspected, her attacker was one of the smugglers, catching the smuggler before uncovering the leader of the men might put his mission for the Foreign Office in jeopardy. That could not be helped. He’d have to rely on Alex to work quickly to uncover the leader’s identity.
He reached the foot of the stairs and headed for the entrance hall. He didn’t know why he felt this overwhelming responsibility for her protection. Why he felt her attack was his fault. But the new feeling of protectiveness wasn’t something he wanted to examine too closely. Her vulnerability struck a chord in him. That was all. He’d find her attacker and that would be the end of it.
That would have to be the end. She was, after all, the daughter of a viscount. He might not care for most of Society’s conventions, might test their limits, but even he knew what went too far. And a dalliance with Francesca Dashing would leap far over the line.
He passed several servants carrying trays or dusting furniture. Ahead, just past the main entrance, was the door to Brigham’s library. He intended to talk to the viscount, and that was as good a place as any to search for him.
After a brief knock, Ethan opened the library door.
“By God, Winterbourne!” Brigham’s head jerked up. “You startled me. I didn’t expect you.”
Norton, the majordomo, stood next to the viscount, pointing to a stack of papers spread over the gleaming desk. The look of disapproval the servant shot him rivaled Pocket’s on mornings when Ethan had stumbled home, clothing soiled and disheveled, after a bad night.
“Shall I show Lord Winterbourne to the drawing room, my lord?” The majordomo’s voice had ice in it.
Brigham waved. “Not necessary, Norton. Might as well get this over with.”
Norton bobbed his head, cheeks flushing. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, you may go.”
The majordomo gathered up the papers and walked stiffly past Ethan. Ethan thought he heard a small, indignant huff when the servant shut the library door behind him. “I don’t think he likes me.”
Brigham gestured to a chair. “Shouldn’t be a surprise after the way you shouldered your way into my daughter’s room last night.”
The viscount folded his hands together, resting them on the massive mahogany desk. Outwardly, the older man appeared
to have recovered from the shock of the night before. But Ethan noticed that his face was still haggard, the lines around his mouth deep set and his eyes red rimmed.
Brigham studied him for a long moment, but Ethan said nothing. He wouldn’t apologize and could offer no reason for his behavior the night before. Devil take him if he wasn’t still trying to figure it out himself.
Brigham made a small sound in the back of his throat. “My wife tells me she’s invited you to stay for a day—or so.”
“You don’t approve?”
Brigham sat back. “Even if I were inclined to allow an...extended visit, I hardly believe it necessary. I’ve contacted the magistrate—”
“Gravener?” Ethan snorted and looked out the windows facing the park. “The man couldn’t find his arse if he had both hands wrapped around it. He’ll never find the man who attacked your daughter.”
“And you will?”
Obviously Brigham knew something of his involvement in the Foreign Office or he would not still be under the man’s roof.
“Yes.”
There was absolutely no doubt in Ethan’s mind. And if Brigham had an inkling of who he really was, he’d know it too. He’d ferreted out spies that were so well hidden they didn’t know where they were, deciphered codes in five minutes that those who’d designed them took a quarter hour to make out, found his way in—and out—of the most heavily guarded prisons in Paris. He could find a would-be rapist in the Hampshire countryside.
“Why do you have such an interest in this affair? Surely a man of your position has other, more pressing, responsibilities.”
Ethan couldn’t reveal the details of his mission. In silence, he spread his hands, noncommittal.
Brigham pulled at his cravat. “I’ll be honest, Winterbourne. As I’ve said before, I respect you, but I bloody well don’t trust you. I don’t want you near my daughter.”
“I don’t blame you.” Ethan crossed one leg over the other. “But are you really in a position to refuse an offer of assistance? Even from a blackguard like me?”
