She shook her head. What am I doing? She was no spy. She wasn’t prepared for this sort of thing. Maybe she should leave, ensconce herself in her room and stay there for the remainder of the party.
You’re so close. Are you a coward?
She didn’t have to be a coward to be afraid of what the French spies would do to her if they found her. But she’d left them in the library, and she’d taken a shortcut through the passageway to get here. She still had time to search Lord Graylocke’s room, if she hurried.
She slipped into the hall. Muffled voices emanated from the room directly across from the duke’s. She slipped past. The room next to the one with voices opened to reveal an empty adjoining bedchamber. The locked door in the duke’s room must lead to one, as well. She continued down the line. The next door she opened led to Lucy’s room, judging by the feminine décor. The one next to hers also contained muttering. It must be Lord Gideon. Freddie slipped across the hall and tried the next door.
It opened to reveal a room that was clearly in use. The hearth was cold, but there was a candle on a table by the door, burned halfway to the holder. Clearly, it had been left so far from the rest of the room in order to prevent anything from catching fire.
Nothing in the room was neat. Didn’t Lord Graylocke have a valet? Even if he didn’t keep one—the man was absent, after all—one of the other servants should have tidied his room. The room was smaller than the duke’s, made to seem even more so from the clutter. The bed was made neatly, though a man’s banyan had been carelessly tossed across the foot. On a low table beside the armchair facing the hearth were piles of books. Some had pieces of paper sticking out of them, marking the place where he’d left off. Lord Graylocke’s house slippers had been abandoned at the foot of the armchair, though they had been arranged neatly. Spare coin littered the top of the sideboard, along with scraps of paper and other trinkets. Was that a rabbit’s foot? How bizarre. Freddie’s head reeled as she tried to take in the full breadth of the chaos.
She didn’t have time to linger. She had to search. At least, unlike with the duke’s room, she didn’t have to worry about putting things back in their place. There didn’t seem to be any sort of order to the mess whatsoever.
At least this room didn’t contain a larger-than-life portrait of Lord Graylocke. If Freddie had had to be subjected to his shrewd gaze while she searched his room, she might have swooned.
She began with the books beside the armchair. The plush, oriental-patterned rug muffled her footsteps. She sank to her knees as she rifled through the books, even flipping through them to ensure that no secret correspondence was hidden between the pages. She found no red book with a gold-embossed seal on the front. She ran her hands over and beneath the armchair. Nothing.
Why was the fire in Lord Graylocke’s room out, whereas the hearth in the duke’s bedchamber was lit? Curious, Freddie crouched in front of the hearth and explored the neatly-swept fireplace. She found no loose bricks, even when she reached as far up the chimney as she dared. The only thing it earned her was soot-blackened sleeves and gloves. She turned her gloves inside out and stuffed them in her reticule along with her detachable sleeves. The small bag bulged with the contents and she couldn’t draw it all the way closed.
Irritable, she moved along the room as quickly as she dared. She found no secret compartments, no books hidden behind paintings, no lumps or hard items in the pillowcases or mattress. When she reached the table next to the bed, she paused. She perched on the edge of the mattress as she picked up one of six miniatures collected on the bedside table. Lord Graylocke’s parents and siblings. He kept portraits of them next to where he slept? She traced the frame with reverent fingers. He loved his family.
Then why betray his country and endanger his family? Unless they were in on the conspiracy, as well.
Impossible. Lucy couldn’t possibly know, let alone participate, not with the protective way her brothers wouldn’t even let her conduct her writing research. Besides, Harker had only mentioned the two oldest Graylocke brothers, no one else. They must be the only French spies.
As she carefully replaced the miniature, she couldn’t reconcile the kind of man who loved his family so well and yet turned his back on them and his country. Could his brother be at fault? Freddie would have followed her sister anywhere, even into disrepute, in order to ensure nothing happened to her.
It doesn’t matter what his motives are. He’s the enemy.
As she crouched at the foot of the bed to check beneath it, the latch on the door jingled. Someone was coming in!
Chapter Eight
Freddie squeezed beneath the bed, whisking her skirts out of sight just as a man stepped into the room. His steps were muffled by the carpet next to the door. He was alone.
Freddie wiggled closer to the foot of the bed. Who was here? The shadows stretched across the room, blanketing the underside of the bed and shrouding her. She peeked beneath the drape of the bed skirt.
The man’s back was to her. He wore eveningwear entirely of black, from his polished boots to the jacket covering his wide shoulders. The dark color of his clothing brought out brown tints to his dark hair. When he sighed, running his hand through his hair, he gifted her with his profile.
Lord Tristan Graylocke.
“What a headache.”
In that, she couldn’t agree more. Her heart hammered in the base of her throat, a painful beat counting down the seconds until he found her in his room. She bit hard into her lower lip to keep from making a sound.
The clench of her teeth stifled her gasp a moment later when he swiftly undid the buttons of his tailcoat and shucked it, throwing it over the back of the armchair. He was undressing!
That, she most certainly did not want to be present to watch. And yet, some wild part of her wouldn’t let her look away. His cravat came next, the strip of cloth let fall to the floor mere feet away from her. When Lord Graylocke shifted, bending down to tug off his boots, Freddie held her breath and scurried farther beneath the bed.
She wasn’t here to gawk at his male form. She was here to find a book. Even that thought couldn’t spur her into movement. Fear paralyzed her.
Leaving his boots by the door, Lord Graylocke padded in his stocking-clad feet into the adjoining room, a dressing room. The moment he was out of the room, Freddie lurched into action. She rolled to the edge of the bed.
Wait. What if the book was hidden beneath here, after all? She gritted her teeth. Her fingernails made sharp crescents of pain in her palms as she warred with herself. Releasing an exasperated breath, she leaned beneath and ran her hand along the frame.
The search yielded nothing but wasted time. Her entire body tingled with the near certainty that Lord Graylocke would leave his dressing room in a moment and find her out. She needed to escape.
She darted across the room so quickly, she forgot about the boots he’d left tangled on the floor. She tripped over them and fell against the table by the door, jostling her hip and the candle. She dove for the candlestick, catching it but burning her hand with hot wax in the process. Hissing, she replaced the sputtering flame on the table.
When she looked up, her gaze locked upon the figure darkening the dressing room door. Lord Graylocke. Her mind blanked. She could think of nothing but escape. She lunged for the door. Her fingers slipped on the latch and she wrestled it open a moment too late. Lord Graylocke splayed his palm over the door and shoved it closed, leaning his full weight against it.
His heat bracketed her back. She turned, but she had nowhere to run. The wooden door was cool against the backs of her bare arms. She lifted her chin to meet Lord Graylocke’s fierce stare.
“So you are a spy, after all.”
Freddie’s lips parted, but she couldn’t find the words to speak.
He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t bother denying it. Not even you can concoct a persuasive argument as to what business you had in my room and why you were attempting to sneak out.”
Her gaze dipped t
o the bare hollow of his throat. The candlelight illuminated his skin, giving it a golden glow. The laces of his shirt were undone, spreading wide to show his collarbone and a hint of the crisp, black hair on his chest.
Freddie’s cheeks flushed. “Can we have this conversation while you’re dressed?”
He laughed, leaning a bit closer. “No. I like it better when you’re off-balance.”
Freddie swallowed. She lived most of her life tripping over her feet, not over her tongue. She didn’t like this tongue-tied feeling. She forced herself to focus on his chin, not his sharp gaze. The dark shadow of stubble covered his jaw.
She licked her lips, a nervous habit. “Are you going to kill me, Lord Graylocke?” Her heart rattled in her chest like it was trying to escape. What good would she do her mother and sister if she were dead?
“Tristan.”
His dark, intimate tone shocked her. She raised her gaze to his. The look in his eye was just as wicked.
“I…I beg your pardon?”
“If we’re going to speak frankly, in my room and while I’m half dressed, no less, you ought to at least call me by my Christian name.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, the sensual curve of his lips. “That isn’t proper.”
“None of this is. What do you say…Frederica?”
She made a face. “I prefer Freddie.”
When he took a step back, she suddenly found herself able to breathe freely again. She gulped for air. It froze on the way to her lungs when he bowed over her bare hand, lifting it to his lips.
“Lady Freddie.”
She was no Lady, and never would be. She clamped her lips together, refusing to play his game and point out the error, thereby admitting that she was lesser than him.
She was not. Rank didn’t amount to everything.
The moment his lips brushed her skin, tingles cascaded over her hand. She yanked it out of his grasp. “I’d like to leave.”
His face hardened as he straightened. “Not yet.”
She swallowed at his curt tone. She glanced toward the miniatures he kept at his bedside. Right now, there was no trace of that softhearted man. His every contour was filled with determination.
“Why are you doing this?”
Given his tone, no answer would be to his liking.
She raised her chin. “You wouldn’t understand.”
At that, his left eyebrow twitched higher. “Wouldn’t I? We’re both fighting for something.”
Again, her gaze turned to the small oval portraits of his family. “I have no idea what you’re fighting for.”
He no longer leaned against the door. She fumbled for the latch, hoping to yank the door open and escape before he caught her.
Then what? He already knew she was a spy. Perhaps he didn’t know for whom. Could she pretend to be on his side? Probably not convincingly, given the hawkish way he examined her.
“I don’t expect someone like you to understand. After all, I can’t fathom why you’ve aligned yourself with Harker.”
She notched up her chin an inch higher. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” Her voice was weak. Grouping herself with the likes of him left a bitter taste in her mouth. But she wasn’t only doing this for her sake and for Charlie’s. She was doing this for Britain. If their allegiances had been the other way around, she never would have agreed, not for love or money.
Tristan grunted, a noise of disbelief. “Even you don’t believe that.”
Drat! How could he tell?
“Are you being coerced?”
She pressed her lips together to keep from saying a word. She managed to twist her fingers around the latch and carefully draw it out. Almost there! Triumph swept through her.
Until Tristan laid his weight on the door once more. “Close-lipped are you, Miss Vale?” He leaned so close, his breath batted over her cheek. He smelled sweet and a bit spicy, like after-dinner port. “Maybe this will help.”
He canted his head and pressed his lips against hers.
Her breath hitched. Her knees weakened. Her fingers tightened over the door handle, the only solid thing keeping her standing. Her head whirled like she’d spun around too fast. All because of the warm weight of his mouth against hers. When he retreated and cooler air rushed in, her lips throbbed with awareness.
“You don’t have to work for Harker. We could use a woman like you.”
“Never.” The word left her lips, scarcely louder than her breath. Even so, when he leaned his head closer again, she couldn’t help but tip her chin up to meet him.
His kiss was different this time. Less cajoling and more demanding. She surrendered, transferring her hand from the door to his broad, firm shoulder. When he nipped at her lips, she gasped at the sensation. He deepened the kiss, pressing her against the door. His body was the only thing holding her upright.
Sensation swept her away. The feel of his muscular body against hers. The harsh sound of their breathing. His taste, sweet port with a slight bitter undertone of cheroot smoke. The hungry way he kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough.
Abruptly, he stepped away. She leaned against the door. Her legs trembled. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“You should leave.”
She didn’t understand why he was letting her go after catching her spying, but she didn’t question him. Her hand slipped as she fumbled the latch free. She stumbled into the hall, drawing the door shut behind her before she leaned her weight against it. She needed a moment to steady herself.
It was a moment she didn’t have. A woman’s heels clicked against the floor upon her approach. Lucy, it had to be. Freddie couldn’t be seen here. She darted for the other end of the hall, and the heavy tapestry shielding the hidden door. Her legs wobbled, threatening to give way. If Lucy found her outside Tristan’s door…
Heaven help Freddie. Lucy wouldn’t suggest she and Tristan marry, would she? The notion birthed a torrent of desperation. It lent her strength. With difficulty, she lifted the heavy tapestry and pried open the door behind her.
She shut it just in time. The click of the heels paused for a second, then resumed. A moment later, a door opened and shut. Freddie leaned against the cold stone wall, relieved.
It was only at that moment that she realized she didn’t have so much as a candle to light her way. She didn’t dare return to that corridor, so close to Tristan. Instead, she opted to fumble the rest of the way in the dark. A fitting end to the escapade, considering she felt the exact same way when it came to spying.
Her future was just as murky.
Chapter Nine
Tristan looked like he’d dragged himself through the grime of London’s underbelly. The scrape of the razor eliminated the dark stubble lining his cheeks, but after a night spent tossing and turning while thinking of Freddie—Miss Vale—his hair refused to be tamed. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, evidence of his sleepless night.
No woman had ever gotten under his skin this way. Then again, he’d never been pitted against a woman who seemed so innocent. Every bone in his body rebelled at the idea of her spying for Harker, even though he now had irrefutable proof. He did the dirty, dangerous spy work so that innocents like Freddie wouldn’t have to.
She’s the enemy. Even knowing that she worked for Harker didn’t ease the guilt roiling in his gut. Given the reflection staring back at him from the round handheld mirror, it showed in his appearance. At this rate, he would develop a white streak in his hair like his brother. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do without the help of his valet. Like with Morgan, Tristan’s valet was a spy in the network. With Harker in residence, he didn’t have the time to devote to traditional valet duties.
Tristan tried to tell himself that his appearance didn’t matter. The debutantes at this hellish party were here to ensnare the duke’s interest, not his. The knowledge didn’t ease the bitter feeling in his chest. With a sigh, he set aside the mirror, tied his cravat, and shrugged on his coat.
Instead of making his way to the breakfast room, he arrowed for Morgan’s door. Before he lifted his hand to knock, his brother emerged. He looked startled.
“You look like you just crawled out of Hell.”
Tristan grimaced. “I wasn’t able to sleep.”
“Women troubles?” Morgan quipped.
Tristan’s stomach tightened. More than you realize. “In a way.” When Morgan moved to step past him, Tristan blocked his path. “I found a spy in my room last night.”
The duke’s face hardened. “Why didn’t you send for me?”
“I let her go.”
At the disdain that crossed his brother’s face, Tristan curled his fists. He added, “I couldn’t very well lock up one of Mother’s esteemed guests.”
Morgan rubbed the furrow forming between his eyebrows. “Miss Vale, I take it?”
Tristan crossed his arms. “Indeed.”
“And she admitted to working for Harker?”
He gritted his teeth. Not in so many words. It had been implied, however. He’d seen the knowledge in her eyes. She’d known she’d been caught. She hadn’t even pretended to be on his side in the war, which he would have expected of a seasoned spy. Why would Harker choose a woman whose every emotion could be read on her face? As a distraction?
She had certainly been that. The feel of her soft curves against his body had driven him wild. The moment she’d surrendered to his kiss, he’d been lost. He’d been seconds away from drawing her toward the bed before he’d realized who she was.
An innocent. A virgin. For all his carousing, he didn’t defile young debutantes.
He scrubbed his hand over his mouth. “I couldn’t think straight with her in my room. She has nowhere to go while she’s here, so I didn’t see the harm in releasing her.”
The corner of Morgan’s mouth crooked up. “I didn’t know you were in danger from the plain ones.”
Plain? Was he blind? Tristan bit his tongue. It didn’t help. “She may dress as if she’s been put on the shelf, but beneath those dresses, she is anything but plain.”
Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) Page 7
