While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0)

by Shana Galen

  She awoke sometime later. It must have been near dawn because through the split in the window curtains she could see streaks of mauve filtering through the black horizon. The fire had been stoked and she’d been carefully covered with the blankets. One of her arms was lodged under a makeshift pillow.

  She rubbed her fingers over the material and realized it was Ethan’s coat. And here she’d been trying to keep him in the valet’s good graces. Exasperating man! No wonder Pocket always looked so aggrieved.

  But she couldn’t stay angry with Ethan—not after what they’d shared last night. Her body was still glowing, infused with tingles of pleasure every time she thought of him. Somehow, she’d always known it would be like this with him. She’d had no experience with lovemaking, but from the first time she saw Ethan she knew nothing with him would ever be ordinary. She stretched languorously, her body unconsciously seeking his warm, solid form beside her, but she felt only empty space. Puzzled, she cracked her eyes open once more and scanned the hospital.

  It was empty, and she realized she was alone. She sat up and glanced around the room. Lino was curled in the corner near the fire and the bunny was nibbling at the straw in her cage. There was no sign of Ethan. But then, why should she expect him to be here? What reason would he have to stay? It wasn’t as though he loved her.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she resolutely dashed them away. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever. She’d vowed not to regret making love with him, and she would keep that vow.

  Outside she heard a step on the porch and realized Peter must already be at his station. Het face flushed. She had been out all night. She could only imagine what Peter must think of her, what lay before her when she stood before her parents.

  She was a ruined woman now.

  Through the window, she saw the sky had turned orange, and the sun was rising. In the distance, the biting November wind whipped the tree branches. Francesca shivered. Only her shivers had nothing to do with the weather.

  Twenty-seven

  “Francesca! Mia figlia, preziosa! Mi dolce! Mi cuore!”

  Ethan stifled a groan. Lady Brigham attacked her startled daughter before Francesca had even stepped through the library door.

  Rather than strangle the woman, Ethan shoved his hands in his pockets. Not five minutes before he’d told the viscountess to remain calm when Francesca arrived. The night before he’d had Alex inform Francesca’s parents she was in her hospital, safe and unharmed. It went without saying that he was with her, and the fact that Brigham hadn’t banged down the hospital door in the wee hours of the morning meant the viscount assumed that by the time he heard of his daughter’s whereabouts, the damage had been done.

  Upon entering his chamber earlier that morning, Ethan had been greeted by her irate father. Brigham had taken one look at him, strode to the hallway, and called for his pistol.

  “If you could oblige me,” Ethan said as he laid his waistcoat on the unused bed, “I prefer a straight shot to the head.”

  “Oh, I’ll shoot straight, by God,” Brigham answered him. “But I don’t intend to aim for your head.”

  Ethan cringed. “I was afraid of that,” he grumbled. “Would you consider an alternate solution?”

  Brigham shut the door. “I’m listening.”

  Ethan could all but hear the church wedding bells.

  An hour later, when Francesca entered, Brigham was calmer and seated behind his massive mahogany desk. Behind him, equally massive mahogany shelves bulged with rows of books, some stacked two and three on top of one another. Unlike his wife, the viscount was taking the news of his daughter’s attack and imminent marriage quite well.

  “Stop pawing the girl, Madam,” the viscount told Lady Brigham, who was now alternately embracing her child and examining her for signs of injury. Brigham put down the pipe he’d been puffing and rose from his dark brown leather chair. “How are you, Franny?”

  Francesca gave her father a grateful look. She’d yet to glance in Ethan’s direction, though he was leaning on her father’s desk just a few feet away.

  “I’m fine, Daddy,” Francesca managed before she was engulfed in another of her mother’s fierce embraces. “Just fine, Mamma,” she squeezed out.

  Then, over her mother’s shoulder, Francesca’s gaze finally dared Ethan’s. She darted her glance quickly away, but not before Ethan saw the questions in her eyes. How much did her parents know? What had he told them? And the last: what, besides desire, did he feel for her this morning?

  Ethan knew the answers to the first two, but the third still eluded him.

  “Oh, mia cuore povera!” Lady Brigham finally released her daughter, falling into the leather armchair between the desk and the fireplace. She adjusted the hem of her yellow muslin dress so that it pooled about her elegantly. “My poor heart nearly burst when your findanzato told us what happened.”

  Francesca flicked her gaze back to him, and Ethan saw the panic in her chocolate eyes.

  “He told you what happened?” she repeated carefully.

  Lady Brigham put a hand to her forehead. “I need my smelling salts. I am not well.”

  Brigham came around the desk. “Calm yourself, Madam. Look at your daughter.” He gestured to Francesca, now standing abandoned in the center of the room. “She is perfectly well.”

  And from all appearances, she was. But Ethan knew otherwise. He’d seen the bruises marring her pale skin himself, caressed each the night before with a silent but brutal reproach for not protecting her better.

  Lady Brigham turned to him. “It seems that once again we owe you our gratitude, Lord Winterbourne.” She fluttered her lashes.

  “Yes.” Brigham drew the word out, turning his hostile stare on Ethan. Ethan stared back, unblinking until the viscount slid his gaze to his daughter. Francesca paled visibly and gripped the material of her pearl gray gown.

  Studying her, Ethan doubted her choice of attire this morning had been as random as his. The gown, with its high neck and long sleeves, concealed the bruises on her neck and arms. In fact, the only mark that could not be masked was a small scrape on her cheek, and even that would heal in a day or so.

  The scrape did nothing to mar her beauty. When he’d left her sleeping a scant two hours before, he’d marveled that even after all she’d been through the night before, she could sleep so peacefully, the innocence of her expression enchanting him even more than she had when he’d held her in his arms.

  But watching her now, shifting under the weight of her father’s stare and the heavy silence in the room, Ethan could see she was far from well. Her face was pale and her eyes puffy with faint purple smudges underneath. She was obviously exhausted and should have been in bed. He had half a mind to order her to rest, would have done so if this meeting with her parents could have been put off.

  Brigham was still staring at his daughter. “I, for one, cannot begin to thank his lordship.” His tone was far from grateful.

  Francesca blushed. “Y-yes.” She glanced at Ethan. “He—if he had not been there—”

  “There is no need to recall any of it, mia cuore,” Lady Brigham interrupted. “Your findanzato has told us all.”

  “All?” Francesca choked. She reached out to grasp something, ostensibly for support, but managed only to snatch at the tense air in the room. Her face paled, and she settled for gripping the material of her gown between her fingers.

  Ethan pushed away from the desk and went to her, took her elbow, and seated her in a small chair near her mother and across from her father’s desk.

  “I told your parents about the attack.” His touch stopped the hand wringing momentarily. “That your assailant escaped and he is most likely someone you know.”

  Her fingers gripped the chair’s arm. Her gaze bore into him as if to determine what else he might have said. He returned her silent inquiry with a steady look, allowing her to read into it what she would.

  “Do you have any idea who this man is, Franny?” her father asked. He was back b
ehind his desk, all business.

  Francesca tore her gaze from Ethan’s to answer. “No, Daddy. He wore a hood.”

  “Mamma mia!” Lady Brigham flung out an arm and barely missed clipping Ethan with her grand gesture.

  “Winterbourne said you told him there was something familiar about the man’s voice.” Brigham clamped his lips around his pipe. “He called you Cesca?”

  Beside Ethan, Francesca stiffened.

  Brigham grunted. “How could someone you know—we know—do such a thing?”

  She shook her head, releasing her breath in a slow, measured stream. Ethan exchanged a look with her father. Brigham had better to end this meeting soon, or he’d end it for him. Brigham frowned, but dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “You said you thought the man was wounded,” he said to Ethan through a haze of smoke.

  “The dog bit him hard enough to draw blood.”

  “Poor Cagnolino! He is a true hero!”

  Ethan stepped aside just in time to avoid a collision with Lady Brigham’s out-flung arm.

  Brigham frowned at his wife, sat back, setting down his pipe.

  “I’ll ride into Selborne this afternoon and make a few inquiries. Discreetly, of course. I’ll also pay a visit to Dr. Dawson. If the bite was bad enough, the man may have sought medical attention.”

  “I’ll ride with you and see your solicitor,” Ethan said. “Have him draw up the necessary papers. I’ll sign after I acquire the license.”

  Francesca’s brows creased with confusion.

  Brigham grunted. “I ride within the hour. Best to get an early start. You have more than enough to do, what with leaving for Yorkshire tomorrow.”

  “Mamma mia!”

  Even with her mother’s loud exclamation, Ethan heard Francesca’s startled gasp and knew what she must be thinking—that he was leaving her. He wasn’t so certain she’d like the truth any better.

  Brigham pushed himself up from behind his desk and went to stand before his daughter. “I understand felicitations are in order.” The viscount’s voice was cold and hard, and the look of bewilderment and dread Francesca had worn since entering the library only deepened.

  “Felicitations?” Her voice shook a little, and Ethan decided now was as good a time as any for her to take her place at his side. After all, she was to become a permanent fixture there. He might be confused about his feelings for her, but he knew this marriage would take her away from Tanglewilde and protect her. The fact that it would also mean she was his, and his alone, was a point he did not want to contemplate too deeply at the moment.

  He took her hand, drew her out of the chair, and put his arm around her waist. She tried to wriggle away, looking pointedly at her father, but Ethan didn’t let go.

  “I told your parents the good news, cara.” He squeezed her waist to quell her squirming.

  She stilled. “What good news?” The look she slid him was wary.

  “Why, that you’ve consented to move the wedding date forward. We marry tomorrow.”

  “What?” She jumped, hurling herself away from him as if burned by his touch. “You’ve done what?” she screeched.

  Her mother, who’d behaved almost identically half an hour earlier, was by her side in an instant. “I know, dolce! I know. It is truly impossibile.” She patted her daughter’s shoulder and issued her husband and Ethan scathing glares. “I tried to tell him it could not be done, but your padre, who obviously does not care one whit for my wishes and who, apparently, wants to see me suffer, agrees with your findanzato.” She turned away from the two men in disgust. “I could not budge either of them.”

  Francesca stared at Ethan. He arched a brow, daring her to try and budge him. Her eyes narrowed defiantly. She wouldn’t give in easily, but then, neither would he.

  She turned to Lady Brigham and, taking her mother’s hands in hers, said, “Mamma, I’m sorry, but there will not be a wedding.”

  “Of course there will be, mia cuore.” Her mother bobbed her head with the conviction of one who is rarely contradicted. “Certamente, it will be difficult to arrange in such a short time—”

  Francesca shook her mother’s hands. “No, Mamma. I mean that I will not marry him.” She tossed Ethan an irritated glance over her shoulder. “This betrothal was a ruse, a charade so that Ethan could find my attacker. We never intended to marry. He doesn’t love me, and I will not marry him.”

  Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. Her words held a finality that he didn’t care for. She was his now, and she would marry him. Whether she liked it or not.

  “Fammi respirare!” Lady Brigham swung around so that she and Francesca were now facing Ethan and Brigham. “I do not believe it!”

  Francesca stepped back from her mother. “It’s true, Mamma. The betrothal was a sham. I don’t love him.” She studied the floor, avoiding Ethan’s hard gaze as she spoke. “And I won’t marry him.”

  “The devil you won’t,” Ethan said through clenched teeth.

  She put her hands on her hips. “The devil I will!”

  It took all of his willpower not to take two steps, grab her, and shake her. She was lying. She loved him. He knew it, and so did she. She loved him, and she would marry him. Whether she liked it or not.

  She glared at him, and he stared right back.

  “Mamma mia!”

  “Arrogant man!” Francesca continued. “If you think you can bully me into—”

  “By God, I’ve had quite enough of this!” Brigham bellowed.

  Francesca jumped and clamped her mouth shut.

  Ethan locked his gaze on her. She glanced at him, looked away, but Ethan’s stare didn’t falter. She was his, and the sooner she accustomed herself to the idea, the better.

  Her father strode behind his desk and poured himself a brandy from the table holding his supply of fortification. When he’d drunk about half of it down, he turned, red-faced and veins bulging, back to his daughter.

  “You will marry Winterbourne, Franny, and you’ll do it within the hour if I say so.”

  “No, I—”

  He pointed one finger at her, glass of brandy and water still wrapped between his other fingers. “Don’t you dare argue with me, Franny. I won’t tolerate it.” He took another swallow of reinforcement. “You say you don’t love him?” Brigham cocked his head toward Ethan. “Perhaps you should have thought of that last night.”

  His meaning was unmistakable, and Francesca took a startled step back.

  “Mamma mia!” Lady Brigham stumbled, clutching her heart. “Oh, I shall faint!”

  “Would you deny last night, Franny?” Brigham asked his daughter.

  She whipped her head to look at Ethan, but he only arched a brow. A scarlet flood washed from her neck to her forehead.

  “I didn’t think so.” Brigham slammed his glass onto the corner of his desk. “Then I will see you”—he looked at Ethan, then back at his daughter—“both of you, in the church tomorrow at eight.” He mumbled something about Selborne, turned, yanked open the library door, and strode forward without a backward glance.

  The heavy wood slammed with a finality that Ethan didn’t think boded well for any further challenges.

  “Impossibile! Horrid man!” Lady Brigham fanned herself rapidly a few times, pacing the floor, then whirled on her daughter. “But he is right. Although I am certain nothing untoward occurred last night.”

  Ethan met her gaze unabashedly, but Francesca stared at the carpet, digging her toe into the plush fabric.

  “Your absence was noted, and if you do not marry now there will be a scandal.”

  She sidled up to the desk, lifting her husband’s discarded glass of brandy. With a gulp, she drank the remainder down. “I will not have a scandal, Francesca.” She gave her daughter a sober look.

  Francesca nodded her head and stared at the floor.

  “I will not have my daughter ruined, cast out by Society. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mamma,” Francesca whispered.

/>   Ethan, standing near her, barely made out her reply and doubted her mother heard at all.

  “If you will not do this for yourself and your own safety, think of your sister and what will become of her if you make us the latest on-dit.”

  Lady Brigham set down the empty glass and straightened her shoulders. Ethan had never heard her string together so many words in English at one time. Beyond that, he’d never heard her put together so many sentences that all made sense.

  “I will leave you alone for a few moments to sort this out between yourselves. Then I want to see you in your room, Francesca. I cannot even begin to contemplate all that we must do.”

  “I’ll be there momentarily.”

  “Buono.” Lady Brigham opened the door, pausing to glance back at her daughter. “And Francesca?”

  “Yes, Mamma?”

  “When I next see you, I want to see you smiling. He’s handsome, rich, powerful, and considerate.” She gestured to Ethan, indicating that, despite all appearances, she did still realize he was present. “And if you do not love him, you are a fool.”

  Twenty-eight

  “At least your mother has good taste,” Ethan said when the door closed behind her.

  Francesca slanted him a sideways glance. “You don’t mind her talking about you as if you were a piece of property she was thinking of purchasing?”

  “It’s not the first time.” Ethan shrugged as he crossed to Brigham’s desk, resting his hip against it.

  Francesca didn’t move. Between the two chairs, she stood rigid as a statue.

  “And I’m not marrying her,” he added.

  Her head came up at that. “You can’t possibly mean to marry me, either. What new plan have you and my father concocted now?”

  “None.” He gave her a quelling look. “I will marry you. Tomorrow.”

  “Because my father is forcing you.”

  So that was it, he thought. That was the source of her objection.

  “No one, not even your father, makes me do anything I don’t want to.”

  She nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement. Her brows wrinkled, and she clasped her hands together. “But then—why?”