She huffed, then dropped down onto her flat feet and maintained a stubborn silence.
“I guess you don’t want it badly enough.”
He dropped his arm, tucking the glass into his pocket once more. The relief of no longer having to hold his arm in that position rushed through him, making him giddy. He swayed toward her. If he dipped his head, he could still take that kiss. He could almost taste her on his lips. His blood sang.
No. He turned away, slipping between the narrow gap in the hedges. Without looking in her direction again, he told her, “You know where I am if you change your mind.”
12
Four days. Phil hadn’t seen Morgan Graylocke in four days. Which, considering his sister’s daily visits and constant invitations, was more difficult than Phil had imagined. She shut herself in her invention room as much as possible.
She’d offered him a kiss—the very thing he’d stolen while they were in the alley a week ago—and he’d declined. Instead, he wanted the name of a smuggler. Why? Did she not kiss well? He couldn’t possibly have need for invention parts from France. He wasn’t, to her knowledge, an inventor.
But, given his long and upstanding lineage, he might take issue with a smuggler selling French items. No, she couldn’t give him the name of her contact, even if the weasel hadn’t returned her inquiries after acquiring another prism. She resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to complete her LEGs any time soon.
That didn’t mean she didn’t have plenty of other inventions vying for her attention. She was never devoid of ideas. In fact, she had several pocketbooks devoted to them.
On the perch behind her, her pet parrot squawked, “I want a pickle.”
“You are a pickle,” she retorted.
He made an indignant sound. When she let down the device she worked on in order to peek over her shoulder, Pickle bobbed his head. “Pickle, pickle, pickle!”
She rolled her eyes. “Go ask Meg.”
The macaw launched into the air in a flurry of wings. He soared through the door to the hall, which she left open while she worked in case he wanted to come or leave. Phil returned to her invention. Minutes later, a faint shriek echoed from somewhere else in the manor.
Phil laughed. “I guess he found her.”
She pressed her lips together, humming under her breath as she fastened a particularly delicate piece. That done, she consulted her plans to build the remainder of the device. No, that was never going to work. What had she been thinking? She grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil, sketching out what she had so far. She tilted the sheet toward the afternoon sunlight drifting through the window. As she puzzled out the problem, she tapped the butt of the pencil against the worktable.
After a minute—or maybe five, she often lost track of time while contemplating her inventions—she realized that she wasn’t alone. Her brother stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched and his hands thrust into the pockets of his waistcoat. He wore no cravat, and his shirt was open to bare his throat.
“Jared.” She couldn’t quite keep the surprise from her voice. She’d been trying to steal a moment with him ever since they’d returned from Vauxhall, to no avail. He seemed determined not to spend a minute in her presence. When she met him in the breakfast room, he exited. When she tried to talk to him, he left the house. The rift between them had grown, seething like a festering wound. At a loss for how to mend it, she’d shut herself up with things she could mend.
Her brother stared at his feet. His forelock dripped into his eyes. “Remember when you asked me where I’d gone the other night?”
She dropped the pencil on the worktable and turned toward him. “Yes. Forgive me, Jared. I know you’re an adult. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I was—”
“Worried?” He glanced up through his fringe, his expression sheepish.
He wasn’t angry with her. Relief gushed through her. “Yes, exactly. I was afraid you might be in trouble.”
His expression turned hard. He swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. “I am in trouble, Phil.”
Her knees weakened. She groped for her workbench and sat. “How? What’s going on?” Her voice was small. She squared her shoulders and tried to appear strong. No matter what, she would handle this. How much trouble could Jared have found? He was a quiet young man who didn’t spend his time carousing, even if he did have a mistress.
Maybe his mistress is with child.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Maybe you should let him tell you the problem himself instead of speculating.
Stiffly, he crossed the room to sit next to her. The bench was relatively low to the ground. While it was comfortable to her, his knees jutted up at what looked to be an uncomfortable angle. He didn’t complain.
He didn’t look at her. The next few moments stretched on in silence as he fidgeted, tugging off his glove one finger at a time and then pulling it back on.
Phil laid her hand on his sleeve. “Jared, tell me. We can handle this.”
He dropped his head into his hands. His mournful admission was muffled but it sounded something reminiscent to, “I’m being blackmailed.”
Her heart pounded at her ribcage, trying to escape. Please tell me I heard wrong. “Blackmail?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, as though he battled tears. “Yes. By the French.”
“The French.” Was this an elaborate hoax? “We live in England, now.”
“I know.” His face scrunched. He raised his gaze to the ceiling, as if seeking guidance. “I don’t know how this happened. I don’t even remember how to speak French.”
Jared had been a toddler when Phil and their parents had fled the revolution in France. At first, England had been a respite to a weary family, but it had soon become clear that their welcome was conditional. If they wanted to make England their home, they had to eradicate all signs of their heritage.
And they had. Phil’s father had made a game out of learning English, rewarding her by letting her test his inventions. Within months, English was the only language spoken at home. Soon, she spoke it with such fluency that her accent betrayed no trace that she’d ever lived anywhere except in London.
She hadn’t thought about their old home in France for years. This was her home, the only one that mattered.
“Start at the beginning,” she told Jared. “What happened?”
“I was approached one night by a woman, Lady Whitewood.”
Was she the woman Phil had found Jared meeting with at the Vauxhall Gardens?
“She blackmailed me, forced me to do something for her.”
“What did she make you do?”
Phil didn’t know this Lady Whitewood, but a name like that didn’t sound French. Perhaps she, like Phil’s family, had changed her identity. If so, she hadn’t also changed her allegiances. Why side with the country that chased you out under threat of death?
Jared shrugged one shoulder, a surly gesture she recognized well. “Small things at first. Listen to a conversation at White’s and report back. Bring something here or meet with another person there.”
Phil struggled to breathe evenly. She must pretend to be calm, even if she seethed inside. “But now it’s worse?”
He gave that one shouldered shrug. “I don’t want to do it anymore. If I’m caught, I’ll be hanged. But if I don’t, she’ll…” He dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to lie to you anymore.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “You did the right thing. I’ll take care of this. But why is she blackmailing you?”
His shoulders grew even stiffer and Phil recognized the look on his face. She knew it well and it meant he wasn't going to tell her. She knew from experience that if she pressed him on it, he'd withdraw into silence. Maybe even refuse to tell her more or let her help solve the problem. And she needed him to let her help. He was the only family she had, and she couldn't let him get deeper into this mess.
“This will work
out fine, I promise,” Phil said. She retracted her hand and slipped out of her shoes to mull over the problem. “Here’s what you’ll do. You’ll go to the next meeting as planned. While you have Lady Whitewood occupied, I’ll search her home.”
With luck, Phil would find something to incriminate Lady Whitewood and Jared could stop this dangerous game. No one ever needed to know, least of all the British government.
Unless they knew already.
Phil's heart skipped as she realized that whenever she had followed Jared to his mysterious meetings, Morgan had interrupted her. She'd thought it an odd coincidence, but now in light of Jared's confession, maybe it wasn't so odd after all.
Was it possible that Morgan was a British spy?
No. It was ludicrous. He was a duke, for heaven’s sake!
But if he was a spy, it would explain why he’d chosen the name of her smuggler over the chance to kiss her again.
... And it was possible that he thought she was the one spying for France.
Had the coincidental meetings—and even the kiss—simply been a ruse to get her to incriminate herself somehow? Yet Phil had sensed real passion in Morgan, a true connection. Then again, maybe he was just a very good spy.
All the more reason to avoid him until she sorted out this problem with Jared.
* * *
When Morgan stepped into his study, his brother on his heels, he found a young black boy of about ten in front of the desk. Morgan stiffened. Was he a slave? If so, not for much longer. With one abolitionist vote passed in Parliament, forbidding the trafficking of slaves in Britain, it wouldn’t be long before the vile trade was eradicated altogether. Morgan studied the boy. If he was a slave, perhaps Morgan could buy his freedom.
The boy’s round cheeks bespoke of being well-fed and he was dressed in a clean outfit of red-and-cream livery. Morgan didn’t recognize the colors or the crest on the breast. The crest looked somewhat similar to a half-dozen noble houses.
As Gideon shut the door, the boy glanced between the two Graylocke brothers. “Your Grace?”
Morgan stepped forward. “What can I do for you?”
The boy bowed, tugging on his forehead. “I’m to give this to you, Your Grace.” He held out a thick vellum envelope.
“Thank you.” Although thicker than most missives Morgan received, it was surprisingly light. “Are you instructed to wait for a reply?”
“No, Your Grace.” The boy bowed. “Good day.”
He snaked between Morgan and Gideon too quickly for Morgan to stop him. In the space of a heartbeat, the boy slipped into the hall and shut the door behind him. Morgan turned his attention to the envelope. Its sender would tell him where to direct his inquiries about the boy’s freedom.
After he pried off the seal and unfolded the note, he let out a pent-up breath. The note was from Strickland. The boy wasn’t a slave—he was a spy. His conscience at ease, Morgan turned his attention to the note. A card remained in the envelope, presumably an invitation.
He groaned. “Strickland believes the next meeting of French spies will be at a soiree tomorrow evening.”
Gideon stepped closer, reading over Morgan’s shoulder in the afternoon light. “What’s wrong with that? Who is Lady Whitewood?”
No one you’d care to meet. “A widow. This isn’t the kind of soiree I can bring Lucy to.”
Understanding dawned on Gideon’s face. “Oh, it’s one of Tristan’s soirees, is it?” His eyes gleamed.
Good God, could he actually be interested in going? Morgan hated those lewd displays. He felt out of place. He wasn’t a prude—at least, he didn’t think he was—but he didn’t fit in with the tawdry crowd as well as Tristan did.
Tristan wasn’t in London. Gideon was. And it would make him feel more at ease if he didn’t have to attend alone.
He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “How would you like to come with me to ferret out a spy?”
Gideon grinned. “Are we searching for your beguiling Miss St. Gobain?”
Morgan sighed. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”
A well-bred young gentlewoman like Phil wouldn’t attend one of these parties of her own volition. It would ruin her reputation if she was recognized there. If she was in attendance, there could only be one possible reason—because she was the French spy, after all.
He tucked his hand into his pocket, fingering the innocent-looking piece of glass she wanted so badly. He’d examined every inch of it in as close detail as he could. If it held a secret, he couldn’t decipher it. Which, given that he was the best codebreaker in Britain, was an ill omen if the glass ring did signify in the French spy efforts.
Like every time he touched the glass, his mind conjured an image of the woman who wanted it back so desperately that she’d offered to kiss him. He should have taken her up on the offer.
No. He hardened himself. If she was the French spy, he couldn’t allow himself to be taken in. He had to put the needs of his country above his attraction to this woman.
No matter how she beguiled him.
13
This was not the sort of ball Phil had expected. Jared flew his colors as he sheepishly ducked his head, plucking at his cravat. Normally she would tell him to stop, but even if he took it off, he wouldn’t be as undressed as some of the guests.
Reluctantly, she let the butler take her bonnet and shawl. Jared passed off his topper. She squared her shoulders and resolved not to be embarrassed by the brazen display of skin tonight. After all, she was no prude. If men and women wanted to…indulge, it was no business of hers.
She did wish that she had known before walking in the door, however. She removed her detachable sleeves and gave them to the butler, as well, to stow with her things.
Then she sidled closer to her brother. “Find Lady Whitewood,” she instructed. “Keep her occupied.”
He nodded, his jaw clenched. She’d already told him what she planned to do tonight—search the townhouse for proof that Lady Whitewood was a French spy, to discreetly pass on to the government. At the very least, she hoped to find whatever Lady Whitewood was using to blackmail Jared. Once she destroyed it, he would be free to cut his association with the traitor, and their lives could return to normal. Unfortunately, Jared had been very tight-lipped about what that piece of blackmail contained. Phil would have to root it out for herself, for all that Jared was adamant she wouldn’t find it in Lady Whitewood’s possession.
When it came to her brother’s well-being, she would stop at nothing to keep him safe. Lady Whitewood was about to discover exactly how formidable an enemy the St. Gobain family could be.
With a bit of a swagger, Jared entered the nearest sitting room. Phil peeked into the room. The women wore the darker, richer colors that indicated maturity and marriage. Their dresses dipped low across their breasts, showing off their charms. More than half the men had doffed their jackets and cravats, walking around half-dressed and sidling closer than was strictly proper to the women.
Now that her initial shock had worn off, curiosity replaced it. The Society she ventured into now and again upheld such a rigid rectitude that it often grated on her nerves. Perhaps she had been associating with the wrong sort of people all along.
A man pressed his lips to a woman’s neck. A brazen gesture in the middle of a room crowded with people, but no one seemed to mind, least of all the woman. She canted her head to allow him greater access. Her eyelashes formed dark crescents against her cheeks as she shut her eyes in ecstasy.
Phil’s stomach fluttered as she relived the passion she’d found in Morgan’s arms. This wasn’t the time or the place to be thinking about him. Until she straightened out this catastrophe around her brother, she had to keep her distance.
And after that? She had always avoided romance, for fear that a man would curtail her independence. That fear still plagued her, but she had to wonder if she was missing out. Once her brother was safe again, would she and Morgan be able to resume their encounters where they had left off?
She shook her head. He’d offered her marriage after a single kiss; she doubted she would convince him to let her explore passion with him. Not without a marriage demand. She was not a commodity to be acquired and she refused to treat herself that way. Her body was hers to share with whomever she pleased, whether or not she elected to tie herself to him for life.
To keep herself from being tempted to think more of Morgan and what might never be, she focused on her task. She turned away from the intimately lit room, sweetly perfumed and decorated with provocative works of art. A young woman, no older than Phil, led a man half again her age up the stairs, a promising smile on her face. He, in turn, looked star-struck. Phil checked to ensure no one paid attention to her before she scampered after them.
The couple continued on to the third floor, but Phil stopped on the second. The first door that she tried led to an unlocked study. She left the door wide to allow for light to stream in while she found a candle and tinderbox to light it. The flame flared to life and she set it on the desk just inside the room. She shut the door most of the way, leaving it open so she could hear if someone approached. Then she turned her attention to the room.
The study was tasteful and feminine, the writing desk more delicate than the ones found in men’s studies. Above the mantle was a painting of a wild horse galloping across a field. The walls were paneled in oak, a lacy curtain across the window helping to add a delicate touch. Nestled between bookshelves on the far side of the room was a pink settee. Unable to resist, Phil brought the candle to the bookshelves to read the spines. She expected to find lurid novels or poetry, but instead she was surprised to find that she recognized some of the titles. Scientific treatises, the journals of explorers. Lady Whitewood had an interest in science.
Phil clenched her teeth and turned away. She wasn’t supposed to like the woman who was forcing her brother to commit treason. She tucked her gloves into her reticule and focused on her task.
Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) Page 11