Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2)

by Dobbs, Leighann

  Seeing no other choice, Phil slid her hand onto his arm. “Thank you.”

  She gave Morgan an apologetic look. His face was impassive. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that he didn’t care who escorted her.

  Wait. Did she know better? He’d kissed her. They’d shared her enthusiasm for her inventions. He’d even given back the prism. But did that mean as much to him as it did to her?

  “To Hyde Park?” Gideon asked, his voice light.

  Phil shrugged. “Why not? It isn’t terribly far a walk.”

  Gideon needed no further encouragement. He set off at a loping pace down the street, lined with townhouses five or six stories tall, each with a neatly-groomed lawn and enough space between the buildings to walk two abreast into a larger space out back. Phil scrambled to keep up with his long-legged stride. She fisted her skirt in one hand and drew it up over her ankles.

  “Would you mind slowing down? Unlike you, I don’t have legs like a stork.”

  He grinned, but slowed his pace. “Forgive me, Miss St. Gobain.”

  She glared at him. “Call me Phil. You’ve done so before.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t believe, at the time, I knew you were female.”

  “And now seems like the perfect moment for you to stand on ceremony?”

  “You and my brother seem to be getting close.”

  We are.

  We aren’t.

  Truth warred with instinct. She bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know what answer to give him. Were she and Morgan getting close? If so, she didn’t know whether to welcome it or discourage him.

  She still had to save her brother from his predicament with Lady Whitewood, and she couldn’t have Morgan looking at her too closely until she did so.

  Gideon bent nearly double to mutter near her ear. “Or is it all an act to fool him, Lady Spy?”

  Phil bit back a groan. She counted ten steps before she hissed back, “I am not a spy.”

  “Of course you would say that.”

  “I thought Morgan was the only spy in the family.”

  Gideon laughed. “You’re joking, right? Did he tell you that?”

  Phil chanced a glance over her shoulder. Lucy battled to restrain her parrot, who wanted nothing more than to fly into a sky several shades lighter than she was. In the rear, Lady Graylocke still engaged in an awkward conversation with Jared, given the look on his face. Morgan was the closest, mere paces behind, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Phil and Gideon.

  She faced forward once more. “He didn’t tell me a thing. I deduced it from his behavior.”

  Gideon straightened. “Well, think of it as a family business.”

  Phil raised her eyebrows. “Are Lucy and Lady Graylocke in on the business as well?”

  His face blanched. “Lawks, no! And I trust you won’t tell them, or I’ll have to expose you as well.”

  Phil rolled her eyes. “I told you, I’m not a spy for anyone.”

  Though Jared was, however unwillingly. She clamped her lips shut, refusing to say another word.

  Fortunately, they soon reached the looming gates of Hyde Park. The tall, wrought iron bars were pushed wide to admit visitors. Gideon and Phil strode in without encumbrance. They paused on the soft grass next to the gate to wait for the others.

  Within moments, Phil found herself snagged out of Gideon’s grasp by Lucy. She demanded to know more about Phil’s inventions and picked her mind on the art of parrot training at the same time. Phil wished that she had more pearls of wisdom to offer, but Pickle was, for the most part, ungovernable. If he behaved, it was because he wanted to, not because she told him to.

  Lucy squawked rather reminiscent of her parrot as Antonia leaped from her arm to perch on a tree branch above them. Still attached, Lucy’s arm was wrenched up over her head. She glared at Antonia’s iridescent blue tail-feathers. “If you decorate me with your droppings, I’ll put you in Giddy’s room. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Phil wasn’t entirely sure how this would be a punishment for the bird, but Lucy seemed convinced that it was something to be avoided. For Gideon to avoid, perhaps.

  With her hand still dangling in the air, Lucy turned to Phil. She leaned in closer. About a hand taller than Phil, she had to crouch a bit to put their faces on an equal level.

  “Tell me the truth. Do you have any feelings for Morgan?”

  Phil’s breath seized. Her chest ached as she risked a glance over her shoulder. Morgan and Gideon, several inches apart in height, were ensconced in conversation with their mother and Jared. Jared had dropped Lady Graylocke’s arm and now stood a bit to the side, on the edge of the circle. Every now and again, he cast an uncomfortable glance around him and fiddled with the ties on his shirt. He’d already managed to lose his cravat.

  Morgan glanced in Phil’s direction. Ten or more feet separated them, but as he settled his gaze on her, her breath caught as if he was pressed up against her again. His gray eyes pierced her, as if he searched her mind for their topic of conversation.

  I doubt you’d approve.

  Phil turned her gaze back to Lucy, who looked smug. Considering her arm still hung above her head, it looked comical.

  “I feel that Morgan needs to learn to live life rather than think about it.”

  Come to think about it, he’d already started to take her advice on that front. His impulsive kiss earlier in her invention room had proven that. Most lords—hell, most men—would have laughed in her face and continued to live their upright, prudish lives. Deep down, Morgan must battle against the same sensation she did. The rigid confines of Society pressed too tight sometimes, demanded too much. She didn’t want to conform. She much preferred to be herself.

  Lucy smiled. “You’re just the woman to teach him about life.”

  Phil cocked her eyebrow. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Perhaps. But please don’t entertain any hopes that I’ll marry him.”

  Lucy’s expression fell. “Why not? Don’t you think he’ll make a good husband? He’s kind and considerate, if a bit of a boor about some of my more reckless activities. But I’m sure you could bring him around. He seems smitten with you.”

  Shaking her head, Phil muttered, “Whatever Morgan is, he isn’t smitten with me.” Bent on uncovering her French connections, perhaps. Eager to keep an eye on her. Perhaps even consumed by lust when they found themselves alone. But certainly not smitten.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Phil forced a smile. “I said he’ll make some woman a fine husband, I’m sure. But that woman won’t be me.”

  “Why not?”

  She fought the urge to rub her temple, where a throb had started in time to her pulse. “I don’t intend to marry, Lucy.”

  Her dark brown eyes grew as wide as saucepans. “Ever?”

  “Ever. I like my life the way it is.”

  She didn’t want a man to stop her from inventing, or from doing anything else she pleased. Morgan didn’t stop you earlier. In fact, he’d encouraged her efforts. He’d seemed disappointed when his contribution to her LEGs hadn’t resulted in a working prototype. Could she consider marrying him?

  No. It would be mad.

  Lucy looked a bit sad as she whispered, “Maybe you should consider living life instead of thinking about it, too.”

  Phil glanced at Morgan again. He stared at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. For all that he was a spy, and likely only staying close to her in order to catch her in an act of treason, he couldn’t be a blackguard. He’d given back her prism, after all. He’d genuinely wanted it to work.

  Wait. Maybe she could make something else out of the prism. A sketch already formed in her mind’s eye. She turned to Lucy, determined to jot it down before it slipped away.

  “You carry a pocket book, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said, her voice wary. “In my reticule. Why?”

  “Drat.” That reticule dangled from the wrist currently suspen
ded in the air. “I just got struck by inspiration. I have to write it down. I’ll have to go home.”

  She turned away as Lucy called, “Wait a moment! I’ll go with you. Come here, Antonia.” The parrot squawked. Given the vigorous wing flapping and repetition of, “Giddy, giddy, giddy,” Antonia didn’t plan on emerging from the tree any time soon.

  “No time,” Phil called over her shoulder. “I can’t let this idea slip away. I have to jot it down now!” She hiked her skirts to her knees and bolted from the park.

  If anyone followed, she didn’t notice. Her mind was already ensconced on the second floor of her townhouse, in the invention room. She breezed into her house, panting for breath.

  “Miss Phil—”

  She waved at Mr. O’Neill and dashed for the stairs, taking them two at time. Mutters pooled like eddies in her wake as she passed other servants. She slid to a stop in front of her invention room and yanked on the bracket, pushing aside the door with impatience. The lantern still burned. Her hands shook as she found a scrap of paper. It had a blueprint for a musical instrument that played itself on one side. She flipped it over, found a pencil, and scribbled down her idea, tracing the lines in her mind’s eye.

  Feverishly, she hunted for the parts she would need to complete the device. It was simple, similar to one or two mechanical toys that she’d made before. It shouldn’t take her long. Once it was complete, she would send it to Morgan and he could delight in the knowledge that he had helped to build something, after all. Her body hummed as she considered the way he would smile when he saw it.

  She hunched over her desk, frantic to complete the project. If anyone came to interrupt her, she didn’t notice for a long, long time.

  17

  Phil had been insensible to the world when Morgan and his family had caught up to her at the townhouse. Jared had apologized and explained that she got that way sometimes, when consumed by an idea. Even so, Morgan had expected to see her that night, at the soiree Jared had confirmed that they had been invited to. She hadn’t been there.

  Was she ill? Had she not wanted to see him?

  Giddy clapped him on the shoulder as they marched up the stairs of the Tenwick townhouse. “Cheer up, old chap. If you don’t chase away that sour look, all those lovely debutantes Mother and Lucy threw at you tonight will run screaming.”

  Morgan glared at him. “I thought I asked you to help mitigate that.”

  “I did!” Gideon pressed his hand to his heart in mock injury. “There are only so many debutantes I can dance with at once.”

  Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you’re amused. Wait until Mother turns her attentions on you. You won’t be as apt to joke, then.”

  Truthfully, Morgan wouldn’t have found the night quite so excruciating if any of the debutantes had been able to hold a candle to Phil’s vivacious personality. But no, Mother and Lucy seemed bent on throwing insipid, pale, proper young ladies into his path. All were interchangeable. In fact, he doubted if she set them in front of him at that moment, he would be able to recall their names. And he had an impeccable memory.

  He could remember in vivid detail, for instance, the way Phil ran her tongue along the edge of her upper lip as she assembled one of her inventions. She hummed under her breath, too, a chaotic, nonsensical tune that it was a miracle her parrot hadn’t yet learned. It was an assault on the ears.

  He’d loved every second of it. It, like her, had been unique, unpredictable. He rubbed at the streak in his hair, afraid to admit that he might be falling for an enemy spy. Unlike Freddie, his brother’s bride, it didn’t appear as if Phil was being coerced into spying. Sooner or later, he would have to escort her to Newgate Prison and the gallows.

  At the landing, he turned away from his brother. “I’m heading to my study for a bit.”

  Giddy hesitated. “Do you want some company?”

  “No.” Morgan’s voice was curt. He forced himself to soften it. “I’d prefer to be alone.”

  “Would you…like me to talk to Mother? Perhaps I can convince her to let you alone for a bit.”

  Morgan smirked. The only way Gideon would be likely to do that would be if he confessed to their mother that he hoped to find a bride instead. Morgan shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. Thank you, but I’ll speak to her myself.”

  Or maybe he wouldn’t. If he admitted why he hated all the vapid young debutantes she tossed in his path, she would only redouble her efforts to match him with Phil. That, he couldn’t have.

  He bid his brother goodnight and shut himself in his study. The room was cool and quiet, a blessing after the night he’d had. He crossed to the mantle, knowing the way by rote, and lit a candle. Once it flared to life, he scanned the study, a force of habit. Everything was in its place. He relaxed.

  Wait—what was that on his desk? It looked a bit like a little mechanical duck with a ribbon tied around its neck. No, not a duck. A parrot. He smiled as he plucked it off the desk.

  The contraption had been weighing down a note. Morgan lifted it.

  Even if something doesn’t work out as intended, it can still create something wonderful. -P.

  Had Phil…made this for him? He peered at it closer. Sure enough, the piece of glass he’d given her, or one very similar to it, was set in the very heart of the parrot. At the back, a little winding key stuck out between the metal wings. Morgan twisted it. He held his palm flat and set the toy in the center. The little parrot danced, flapping its wings. As it did, the glass in the middle caught the light of the candle and transferred a rainbow of colors onto the metal, making it look as though the bird was as colorful as Pickle.

  His breath caught in a thick, aching lump in his throat. Phil had made this for him. It was the most unique, thoughtful, bizarre gift anyone had given to him. It embodied everything he loved about her. No other woman would think to give him a gift like that. In fact, aside from his family, no woman had ever given him a gift at all. Then again, he felt closer to Phil than he had any other woman of his acquaintance. She was more than an acquaintance, more than a friend. Heaven help him, but he might have fallen in love with her.

  His eyes burned. He set the toy down on the edge of the desk. What was he going to do? He turned toward the window, even though night had blanketed London and all he could see was his reflection thrown back at him in the glass.

  A figure appeared in the doorway. Morgan turned to face Lord Strickland.

  The spymaster did not look pleased. The steely gleam in his eyes matched his stiff gait as he entered the room and shut the door. Like Morgan, he was dressed in eveningwear. The candlelight glinted off beads of sweat on his bald pate.

  “It’s been two weeks.”

  I know. Morgan bit his tongue. He straightened his shoulders. He refused to cower before Strickland, even if he was Morgan’s superior.

  Strickland stalked closer. “Tristan could have done this in one.” He offered the statement with a blasé shrug, as if it was a fact, not a motivator.

  Morgan narrowed his eyes. Was Strickland trying to stir the rivalry between him and his brother? Apparently, he’d never been told that the rivalry was all one-sided. Morgan didn’t much care if Tristan could do it faster.

  You might have at the beginning of this mad mission. Back then, he had yearned for fieldwork, for the glory and the danger. There was a danger, all right, but thus far his heart had been the only casualty.

  He couldn’t give Phil up, even if it seemed to be what Strickland wanted.

  “I’m working as fast as I can,” Morgan answered, his voice even. “I have a few more suspicions I need to check out.”

  That didn’t seem to be the answer for which Strickland hoped. The stocky man bristled. “What sort of suspicions?”

  Morgan stepped closer, using his height to his advantage. “You want the new commander of the French spies in London, right? Not a minor member.”

  Strickland made a face. “I could have a dozen minor members if I wanted. I want to know who Harker’
s replacement is.”

  “Then I need a bit more time.” His fingers curled into his palm. The bite of pain steadied him. He couldn’t give Phil up. Not yet. Even if she was a part of this spy network, she couldn’t be the leader.

  For his sake and hers, she couldn’t.

  “Don’t take too much time. This is a war, Tenwick, and don’t you forget it.”

  When Strickland turned, Morgan’s knees weakened. What could he do? Soon he was going to have to make a choice—his duty to his country or Phil. Strickland paused at the edge of Morgan’s desk. Morgan’s breath caught. Did he suspect that Morgan had been taken in by an enemy spy? If he assigned another man to this job, that man wouldn’t hesitate to hand Phil to the hangman’s noose. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let Strickland lose faith in him.

  The spymaster paused to run his fingers over the gift Phil had sent him. Every muscle in Morgan’s body stiffened. Don’t touch that. It was Morgan’s, not Strickland’s.

  “Cute toy. Is there a happy event on the horizon that might be splitting your interests?”

  Every breath shredded Morgan’s throat as though he inhaled a vat of needles. He fought for composure. If he leaked even a shadow of the turmoil gripping him, Strickland would know the truth.

  “No. This mission has my full attention, I assure you.” His voice was cold. He infused it with dismissal, as he might if he faced a thieving servant. Strickland held his gaze for a moment more, his eyes hard and measuring.

  Morgan didn’t back down.

  Strickland nodded. “I’ll expect a progress report from you tomorrow, then.”

  “Monday.” Any sooner and Morgan wouldn’t have time to concoct something plausible. He’d have to give up Phil. He couldn’t.

  The spymaster’s eyebrows twitched, falling down across his eyes. “Monday,” he repeated between gritted teeth. “But it had best be there with the morning post.”

  Morgan nodded stiffly. “It will be.”

  His heart stopped beating as Strickland’s gaze bored into him, searching out his secrets. With a nod, the spymaster turned on his heel and exited the study. He left the door wide open behind him.