by Shana Galen
He met Shepherd at the stable, pleased to see the coachman exercising Destrehan.
“Would you like to talk to some of the grooms now?” Shepherd asked.
Ethan looked back at the coachman. “Lead the way.” He could use an hour or so away from Francesca. Maybe by then her enchantment would have worn off.
Fifteen
Several hours later, after a glass of port with Brigham, Ethan climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, no further in his investigation than before. He’d set up a makeshift office in the tack house to conduct his interviews because the building had a window looking out at the hospital. From that vantage, he’d been able to keep an eye on Francesca’s movements as well as Peter, who had stood guard on the hospital’s stoop.
The servants he’d interviewed had attempted to help, but none of the information proved useful in narrowing Ethan’s search for Francesca’s attacker.
He rolled his shoulders, dreading the long hours of interviewing before him the next day. Interviews that, if the house servants were anything like those who toiled outside, would be full of Francesca’s good deeds. He’d begun to think the girl should be canonized. For some reason, the staff’s adoration annoyed him. He felt—Ethan frowned—unworthy.
Ridiculous. He’d never been unsure of himself before.
Ethan gritted his teeth at the stab of insecurity.
At least he wasn’t the only who’d one fallen prey her charms. Even her father had capitulated, stating that he would pay Ethan so Francesca could keep Skerrit’s horse.
Now, at the top of the steps to the family’s private chambers, Ethan spotted the two saucers of azure eyes blinking at him through the crack of one of the doors in the female wing.
He slowed. Francesca’s chamber was just down the hallway, and he remembered that her sister’s room was closer to the stairs.
He glanced back at the door, taking in the girl’s poorly veiled attempts at spying.
“Are you in training for a career in the Foreign Office?” He paused in front of his door. “Seen anything I should know about?”
“Nothing!” To his surprise, the girl flung her door wide. “This household is perfectly tedious.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “I’d hardly call your sister’s attack last night tedious.”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean that. I’d never want anything to happen to Cesca.” The blond stepped into the hallway, tall and slim, one hand poised on her door handle. “I meant that there’s never any good gossip to overhear.”
“I see.” Something in the girl’s expression made him wary. She looked far too impetuous. Growing up, he’d rarely seen his older sister, Emily, as she’d mostly been away at school in France. Alex had been his lone companion throughout their youths, so Ethan had little experience dealing with chits still in the schoolroom. The ones just out were bad enough.
“I have a question,” the girl before him declared. She stood in front of her door, hands clasped behind her, head cocked to one side.
“What’s that?” He was still wary, though the serious expression on her face made him smile.
“Are you really planning to marry my sister?”
He was instantly suspicious. “Why?”
He wondered if, while playing at spying, she’d heard something to the contrary. For both Francesca’s and her sister’s sakes, this engagement had to be universally believed.
“I don’t believe it. That’s why.” The girl gave a succinct nod that reminded him of her father.
“Why not?” Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her.
“Because I’ve heard about you, Lord Winterbourne.” She raised a hand. “And before you start to lecture me, I know I shouldn’t have been listening, but I couldn’t help it! My life is so tedious. You have no idea.”
Ethan prayed for patience. “What have you heard? Exactly?” He could well imagine some of the stories circulating about him.
“You are a rogue,” she stated matter-of-factly. “And a rake.”
Ethan’s grinned. “Is that all?” He could relax. She had no idea the betrothal was contrived.
The girl tossed her blond curls, blue ribbons swirling. “I cannot repeat the rest.”
“I see. And your point?”
“My point, Lord Winterbourne, is that I can’t help but question your interest in my sister. She’s not exactly a diamond of the first water.”
“Maybe I’m not interested in diamonds of the first water.”
“But Francesca? I love my sister more than anyone—well, maybe anyone except my brother, John. Has Cesca mentioned him? He’s away at school. Eton.”
Ethan opened his mouth then paused, not certain which question to tackle first.
“Anyway,” she went on without waiting, “she’s not for you.”
“Who?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Cesca, of course.”
“You don’t think she’s good enough for me?”
The girl laughed. “Hardly! She’s smart, beautiful, and kind. If anything, she’s too good for you.”
And there it was again—that feeling of being undeserving of her. “Don’t hesitate to speak your mind,” Ethan grumbled.
“I never do. My mother says I’m too impulsive, and I’ll regret it one day.”
“Your mother’s probably right.”
She harrumphed. “I don’t believe in regrets.”
“Neither do I,” Ethan said.
She gave him an appraising look, and he saw the beginnings of respect in her eyes. “That’s what Cesca said about you. That she forgave you because you’ve had to learn to be callous.”
“She said that?”
“It was what she meant. She said she can’t imagine what it must be like for you every time you appear in public.”
“What it must be like for me?” He scowled, uncertain how to take the girl’s revelations. He was used to being the subject of discussion and generally found it vaguely annoying, but the idea of Francesca discussing him was also somewhat—he groped for the right word—flattering? Or at least it would have been if it didn’t seem as though she felt sorry for him.
The girl took a quick step forward, blocking the light from a wall sconce. “She wasn’t pitying you—just commiserating. After you abandoned her at the Harcourts’, everyone was talking about her. I told her I had a few things I’d like to say to you.” She glowered at him, pretty face scrunched into a look of contempt. “But Cesca said—” Her voice changed pitch, becoming higher and sweeter.
Ethan imagined it was supposed to sound like her sainted sister.
“‘Everyone makes mistakes, Lucia. And I know the Marquess of Winterbourne is an honorable man.’”
The girl looked at him expectantly, but Ethan was speechless. She’d defended him? Even after he’d humiliated her at the Harcourts’ ball, even after he’d treated her as callously as he might a beggar on the street, even when there clearly was no defense for his behavior, she’d defended him.
“You’re right,” he finally managed. “I don’t deserve her.” He raked a hand through his hair. Francesca was beginning to annoy the hell out of him. No one could be that perfect.
“So you’re really betrothed to her then?”
“Yes.” He was surprised how easily he told the lie. He was surprised at how little it felt like a lie and at the ache of disappointment he experienced knowing it was. The disappointment faded rapidly when he thought of Victoria and her betrayal.
Lucia nodded and turned back to her door. “It’s just too good to be true,” she murmured.
Still in a daze, Ethan moved toward his own door, but her half-whispered words filtered through the haze. He turned back.
“What did you say?”
Lucia shook her head, a gesture of disbelief tinged with irritation. “Her life is too good to be true. Here she’s been in love with you—pining over you—for years.” She flung her arms out in exasperation. “And now she’s actually betrothed to marry you!”
/> Ethan’s heart stopped as though a large fist punched him hard and fast on the sternum. Francesca had been in love with him for years? He knew she was attracted to him—had called him the handsomest man in England, even said she loved him. But she’d been medicated and half-asleep, and her present behavior gave him no indication that she felt anything more for him than mild attraction. If anything, she seemed to actively dislike him, wanted to be rid of him.
Perhaps her sister was mistaken. He scrutinized the girl more closely. She was young and silly, but not stupid.
“And it isn’t just you, you know! She always has her way,” the girl whined. “Mamma even excused her from dinner, and with no guests invited well, except you—it will be so tedious.”
“She won’t be at dinner?”
“Francesca argued until Mamma and I had megrims. Finally, Mamma told the cook to send a tray to the hospital,” her sister prattled on. “Francesca insists she won’t leave the rabbit yet. I wish I could eat in the hospital, but Mamma says no. I’ve been trapped in the house all day with Miss Russell and her Latin and haven’t even had a chance to see the poor rabbit!”
“I’ll take you tomorrow,” Ethan said absently, his thoughts still on Francesca. He didn’t like the idea of her in the hospital after dark, even if Peter was with her.
“Really?” the girl shrieked. “Oh, thank you!” She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. Ethan held his own arms rigid, afraid to move. “You will be the best brother ever!” She finally released him, then raced on long, gangly legs into her room.
Ethan didn’t blink for a full minute after her door closed. Pray God he never had a daughter. If she was anything like Francesca’s sister, he wouldn’t know which way to turn. Finally, shaking his head, he went to his own room.
Pocket lay in wait for him. The valet paused in mid-stride across the chamber, whirling to face him.
Ethan held up a hand. “Quit worrying, Pocket. I won’t be late to dinner.” He shut the door.
Pocket looked pointedly at the open watch he held in his hand. “I fear you may, my lord. But, in an effort to assist you, I have taken the liberty of laying out the blue coat and the white brocade waistcoat.”
“I won’t need it.”
“Oh, dear.” The valet looked anxiously at his watch before pocketing it.
Ethan strode to the small desk. There was a letter from Alex perched against the inkwell. He picked it up and broke the seal.
“My lord,” Pocket tried again, wringing his hands. “Although these Dashings are somewhat rustic, I am told that they do dress for dinner. I hope you will reconsider.”
Opening the letter, Ethan shook his head. “There’s no need. I won’t go down to dinner.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I would go to the hospital.” He would have to speak to her father again tomorrow. Francesca couldn’t be allowed to remain in the hospital after dark. He knew she could be stubborn, but she was coming into the house if he had to drag her, kicking and screaming.
“But isn’t the hospital a sort of kennel, my lord?”
Ethan looked up. Pocket’s face had gone white, his hand clutching his throat. “There must be quite a bit of fur and-and animal hair about the place, my lord.” Pocket cast a protective eye over the clothes he’d lain out.
“She keeps it very clean,” Ethan assured him, sitting down at the small desk chair.
Pocket gave him a dubious look, bestowed a last forlorn glance upon the clothing, then reluctantly began to place it back in the wardrobe. Ethan turned his attention to Alex’s missive, but with all of Pocket’s sighs and banging of drawers and cupboards, he couldn’t focus.
“Pocket.” He barely managed to keep the exasperation from his voice.
“My lord?” Pocket paused in mid-slamming of the wardrobe door, his tone all innocence.
“I need a favor.”
“Of course, my lord.”
His stomach rumbled, and he grasped at the first thought that came to mind. “Go to the kitchen and have the cook prepare a second tray to take to the hospital.” He dropped the letter on the desk and did a mental double check of the plan now formulating in his mind. When Pocket was already at the door, he added, “On second thought, forget the tray. Tell the cook to put enough for two in a basket.” He smiled. “And a bottle of wine. And tell him I’ll be down in a moment to take it to the hospital myself.”
Pocket was too well trained to allow his jaw to drop, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from bulging. “A picnic, my lord?”
“Exactly.”
“Indoors?”
Ethan crossed his arms. “You have some objection?”
“Not at all, my lord.” But the valet continued to stare at him as though he were a piece of lint marring a coat. “It is—it seems—”
Ethan arched an eyebrow.
“Romantic,” Pocket muttered.
What the devil did that mean? “I can be romantic, Pocket.” Not that his idea had anything to do with romance. It was purely for appearances. Had nothing whatsoever to do with romance—or the knowledge that Francesca had at one time pined, and might still be pining, for him.
“Of course, my lord.” The valet looked skeptical. “You are most romantic.”
Ethan frowned, beginning to question the whole idea, not to mention his sanity.
Pocket stepped forward. “If I might make one suggestion, my lord.”
“Go ahead,” Ethan said with a sigh.
His seventy-year-old valet had romantic advice to impart. What next?
“Gingerbread, sir.” Pocket said with a bob of his head.
Ethan blinked. “Gingerbread?”
“Yes, my lord. Miss Dashing adores it. Apparently, the only dessert she prefers to gingerbread is—” He scowled, trying to remember. “Ah! Chocolate tarts.”
“You’re a fount of culinary information, Pocket.”
“Yes, my lord. Shall I tell the cook to put a few slices of gingerbread in the basket as well?”
“Tell him to put enough for three.” If she liked gingerbread, gingerbread she would have.
The valet nodded his approval.
“And Pocket?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Keep up the good work.”
The furrows in Pocket’s face deepened with something resembling pleasure. “Thank you, my lord.”
The door clicked shut and Ethan finally focused his attention on Alex’s letter. The first half was a diatribe on what Alex called Ethan’s “damn foolish half-cocked plan.” Must be referring to the betrothal, he thought with a grin.
Ethan skipped a few lines, reaching the heart of the missive. The section was encoded, but Ethan was familiar enough with the code Alex and he shared that he could decipher it in his head.
Alex had gone back to the smuggler’s camp and found it deserted. Ethan swore when he read the news but wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected the men to wait around to be discovered.
Alex considered the smuggler’s departure, so close to the farmer’s murder, a definite sign of their involvement. Alex’s theory was that the men had killed their leader, Skerrit, planning to take the farmer’s share of the francs upon delivery of the arms.
But Alex and Ethan had argued this point before. Ethan didn’t think Skerrit had the intelligence or the connections to head such a large operation. There was someone else, someone with important connections—possibly even government connections—organizing and running the smuggling venture. Ethan was in Hampshire to determine the real leader’s identity.
Ethan tossed the letter down and cursed. He was almost out of time and afraid that if he didn’t act soon, he might miss his only opportunity of finding the smuggler’s leader. Ethan knew the types of inquiries his brother was making—subtle and with the promise of blunt for the right information—required time to yield results. Time he didn’t have. Time the French were using against him.
Meanwhile, his task of finding Francesca’s attacker had produced no fruit. Th
e smugglers had left the area, which meant she should be safe. Unless they were merely in hiding. Unless he was wrong, and the attacker hadn’t been one of the smugglers after all.
“Damn!”
Ethan thrust Alex’s letter into the fire and turned to leave. The time for inquests and interviews was over. If he couldn’t find her attacker, then he’d have to bring the man to him. Perhaps a betrothal ball would lure the man out of hiding.
But he would need help, and, God help him, Lady Brigham was the perfect place to start.
Sixteen
Francesca stacked the remaining strips of cloth she used for bandages in neat, straight piles on a shelf, feeling tired but content. The hospital smelled of pine needles, wood smoke, and home. She checked her tidy stack of splints and the amount of liquid remaining in the small bottle of whisky she’d pilfered from her father’s library to clean wounds, then kneeled down beside the brown rabbit’s kennel.
She’d given the creature a small dose of laudanum to ease her pain and keep her calm. Now the bunny was lying on her side, awake and watching her, but breathing calmly and steadily. With slow, measured movements, Francesca reached out and stroked a velvet ear, the running like warm water through her fingers. The rabbit watched her, eyes wide, but other than that the bunny showed no sign of alarm. The laudanum must be working.
Francesca wished she were as calm. For most of the day she’d been too busy to think about the previous night’s attack, but now with the rabbit out of danger and night falling, she shivered when she caught a glimpse through the window of the line of trees just beyond the remains of the old Roman wall. Was the man from last night crouching out there, watching the hospital, waiting for her?
The sensation of helplessness—of blind terror—she’d experienced the night before washed over her again. She could hear his voice next to her ear, smell his scent—full of sweat and arousal—and feel his gloved hands on her bare flesh.
She shuddered violently, her sudden movement causing the rabbit to jerk away.
Stop it! she scolded herself.
