Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  Abruptly, the duke stepped past her. He strode to his room without a word. Without looking behind, he opened the door and slipped inside.

  The vise around Freddie’s chest loosened. What was that? Her mind awhirl, she crept back to the guest wing across the abbey. She knocked over two candlesticks in the process, but managed to slip into her room without setting anything on fire. Or, better yet, waking Charlie.

  But she still couldn’t get her mind off the forbidding look on the duke’s face.

  Freddie tossed and turned to such a degree that at one point, even though she slept in a bed across the room, Charlie grumpily complained of Freddie’s movements and left to sleep with their mother in the room next door. Even then, Freddie spent so much time studying the ceiling that she could probably paint it in blacks and grays.

  With bags under her eyes and exhaustion weakening her limbs, she finally gave up on sleep and dressed for the day. Lisane hadn’t yet entered to help, so Freddie left off her stays and dressed herself in a modest lavender day dress. The abbey bustled with servants, but no other guests stirred as she made her way down the corridor.

  Only one man was awake and down to breakfast when she entered, and it was one she didn’t think to see, given his late night.

  As he noticed her falter in the doorway, the Duke of Tenwick fisted the letter he was reading. He was dressed for a morning ride in a high-necked burgundy riding coat and kid gloves. A plate of steaming eggs, kippers, and bacon was heaped on his plate and he nursed a mug. He thrust it onto the table so forcibly that the creamy brown liquid sloshed over the side, wetting the short graphite pencil beside his dish.

  “G-good morning, your grace.” Her voice was thin and fragile.

  The duke’s gaze sharpened like steel. He stuffed the paper into his pocket, thrust himself to his feet, and stormed toward her without a word. Freddie jumped to the side, vacating the doorway. The air stirred with the force of his passing.

  The livery-clad footman by the sideboard followed after him. Even the servants disdained her.

  Her knees weakened. Her stomach shriveled and her appetite fled. She approached the sideboard with shaky legs and poured a cup of tea.

  As she carried it past the duke’s half-eaten breakfast, a wadded piece of paper caught her eye. It must have fallen from his pocket! Gingerly, she set down her tea before she spilled it and bent to retrieve the paper.

  A quick glance toward the door confirmed that she was still alone in the room. Kneeling on the ground to obscure her actions if someone walked in, she smoothed out the page.

  It looked to be written in code. It might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics, for all she understood the inked message. Someone—likely the duke—had added marks in pencil to certain words. Beneath, he had decoded the message.

  Freddie’s breath caught as she read and re-read the translation. This was a spy message! It detailed the time and location—tonight, while the guests were at supper, at the towering oak tree—for a rendezvous to pass along the coded book. It also detailed the signal the spy was to give the duke to ensure his authenticity.

  Her head spun with this information. This was exactly what she needed to retrieve the book. If she reached the point early and gave the signal to the duke herself…

  She would be betraying Tristan. An ache rooted painfully in her chest. She blinked away the sting of tears.

  “He’s on the wrong side,” she whispered. She would be helping Britain by completing this task.

  More than that, she would be helping her family. She couldn’t let her feelings for Tristan get in the way of that. Even if she was sure she was about to make the worst mistake of her life.

  She didn’t see any other way.

  Miss Vale, Tristan had been told, had gone out for a walk by the time he reached the breakfast room. By luncheon, he concluded that she was either avoiding him or avoiding the guests, because she didn’t soon return. Spending time around the guests—and especially his sister, with her pointed looks and questions—irked Tristan as well. He couldn’t smile, contribute to conversation, or act the carefree rake while he combatted the strange burn in his chest.

  He’d known that he and Freddie could indulge in only one night, but that hadn’t meant he’d wanted to wake without her at his side. Instead, the only sign of her presence was a monogrammed handkerchief on his pillow. FV. Even that felt wrong. ‘FG’ would look better. He’d thrust the thought aside as he’d stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. It smelled soft and delicate, like her lavender perfume. Every time he tucked his hand into his pocket, he found himself fingering those embroidered initials and the thought arose anew.

  He couldn’t ask her to marry him. Every time he told that to himself, a small part of him asked, Why not? He hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer, he just knew it was so. If nothing else, his brother wouldn’t approve.

  And when have you ever given a fig’s end for Morgan’s approval?

  He hadn’t, especially not in recent years, but Morgan was the head of the duchy. His word held weight even with Tristan. Especially with their mother. Tristan couldn’t go against his family’s wishes to pursue love, could he?

  It was a moot point. Even if he asked, he doubted Freddie would accept. If she’d wanted to spend time with him, she would have this morning. They could have escaped the guests together.

  In a foul mood, he shut himself away in Morgan’s study, the one place of solitude in the abbey overrun by guests and family members. The room was dark and cool, devoid of a fire or signs of occupancy. As he shut the door, he rested his forehead against the wood.

  Being alone only left him with his troubled heart.

  “I’ve handled our problem with Harker’s spy.”

  Tristan jumped at his brother’s voice. He rounded, searching the room for the telltale shape. The daylight drifting from beneath the shut drapes lingered on a figure Tristan had inwardly dismissed as part of the furniture. Not so, considering that it moved.

  “What are you doing in here alone without so much as a candle?”

  Morgan gave a low chuckle. The leather armchair squeaked as he stood. The carpet muffled his footsteps as he crossed to pull open the drapes. The cloudy day didn’t allow for much sun, but a gray light fell into the room, illuminating it and the stacks of papers on Morgan’s desk. Nestled between them was a tumbler of brandy, still full.

  When Morgan turned around, his eyebrows raised, he said in that calm, even tone, “I imagine I’m here for the same reason you are. I’m damn and bloody sick of Mother’s matchmaking attempts.”

  A thorn pierced Tristan’s side, just beneath his ribcage. Mother hadn’t tried to throw any young debutantes his way. Did she not think he was good enough for them?

  Was he not good enough for Freddie?

  Wait—his brother’s initial statement registered. “What do you mean you’ve handled Harker’s spy?”

  What had Morgan done to Freddie? Was he the reason she hadn’t been in the abbey all morning? Something hot and sinister unfurled in Tristan’s chest. He didn’t move for fear of what he might do to his brother.

  Oblivious to the line he treaded, Morgan dropped into his desk chair again. He fingered the rim of his glass, but made no move to drink its contents.

  “I left false information for Miss Vale.” He shrugged. “I’m sending my assistant out on a fake rendezvous. When she speaks the code word, impersonating an agent of the Crown, we’ll arrest her. That’s a hanging offense, you know.”

  Tristan trembled. He felt as though a shadow was eating away at his gut. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to compose himself before he spoke. It didn’t help.

  “You can’t do that!”

  Morgan never responded well to direct confrontation. His ebony eyebrows hooked together in outrage as he pushed to his feet. His face was livid.

  “Can’t I? You’ve gotten too close, Tristan. I had to do something. She was deceiving you.”

  No, she w
asn’t. They’d known exactly what temporary insanity it was to indulge in passion last night. Heaven help him, but Tristan wanted more.

  Lud, but his chest ached. It felt as though it would rip open at any second. He rubbed at it, trying to quell the pain.

  “You’re wrong.” He tempered the anger in his voice this time.

  Morgan clenched his fists. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Are you going to tell me that she loves you, then?”

  How can I when I don’t know the answer to that question? Tristan ground his teeth. “No. She never deceived me in that fashion.”

  “Then it was just coincidence that I found her sneaking out of your room late last night?”

  Tristan burned with a protective instinct he couldn’t name. He stepped closer. One step at first, then another and another until only the desk separated him from Morgan. He didn’t break eye contact.

  In a low, lethal voice, he said, “Tell me you have repeated that to no one.”

  Morgan made a face. “And risk hurling you into the parson’s noose? I would never.”

  Tristan swallowed twice before he was able to speak again. Somehow, his hand found its way back into his pocket. The linen handkerchief, soft from many washes, soothed him. He took strength from it. Freddie wouldn’t have left it if she didn’t care for him to some degree. He meant something to her, even if he didn’t know what that something was.

  “I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to look out for me.”

  Morgan’s nostril’s flared. “If I don’t, then who will?” His voice was loud, belligerent.

  It shocked Tristan into silence. Morgan’s temper wasn’t usually this volatile.

  In a more moderate tone, Morgan added, “I’m your brother. I care for your well-being.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions out from under your bloody shadow.”

  Silence rang as Morgan’s face grew slack.

  “You don’t truly feel that way.” There was a note of incredulity in Morgan’s voice, a question.

  Tristan made a face. “Of course I do. You’ve been the golden boy ever since we were small, the heir. When you became Duke…”

  A shadow fell over Morgan’s face like a veil. It cut off any trace of emotion in his eyes. Softly, he admitted, “I never asked for that. I never wanted it.”

  Tristan recalled that grief-stricken time, when the fun-seeking, carefree brother he’d grown up with had turned into the austere man standing in front of him now. “I know.” Tristan’s voice was every bit as soft. The words tasted bitter as he spoke them. “But that doesn’t change the fact that everyone started to look at you differently. I became an afterthought, more than I already was.”

  Morgan’s eyebrows twitched, a hint of fierceness soon subdued. “You aren’t an afterthought. You’re important.”

  “To the spy initiative, yes.” Tristan clenched his hand around the handkerchief. “It was the only goddamn thing I had in my life that mattered, that made me feel like I was contributing, but you had to have that, too.”

  Morgan’s gray eyes grew cloudy. “You think it’s fun being Duke? I can’t go off to war like Anthony. I can barely leave the blasted estate without something requiring my urgent attention! I wanted something that made me feel a little less like a prat who spent his entire life behind a desk.”

  He still spent his time behind a desk, albeit some of that was for the spy movement.

  Fiercely, Morgan added, “I wanted to contribute, too, to keep my family safe.”

  “I know.” Tristan’s voice was so soft, he barely even heard it. He knew exactly how Morgan felt, because he felt the same way.

  They so often butted heads that he didn’t stop to consider that Morgan might chafe at his role in life, too. And, come to think of it, Tristan wouldn’t trade him for the world. He wished his brother a long life and an army of sons. Tristan enjoyed his freedom too well to relinquish it for the responsibilities and notoriety of a dukedom.

  What about for a wife? He’d always considered marriage to be a trap, a constriction on his life. With Freddie, he didn’t feel trapped. In fact, he considered her a ray of light in a bleak and sometimes black existence. He had done many things he wasn’t proud of, more than one of them in the name of spying. Freddie didn’t know the specifics, but she certainly suspected that he wasn’t a saint. When he was with her, she was a balm to his wounds. She made him feel important.

  He had to protect her before she unwittingly found herself thrown in prison for Harker’s crimes.

  Tristan shook his head. “This time you’ve crossed the line, brother. Even in the name of keeping the family safe. You know I would never do anything to jeopardize our family.”

  “I know that you are blinded by her.”

  “I love her!”

  Lud, had he just said that aloud? Judging by the hard look on Morgan’s face, he had.

  “That is exactly why I have to do this. If she wasn’t in Harker’s pocket, I would give you my blessing, but…”

  “So take Harker instead,” Tristan spat. “He’s the bigger threat to the war.”

  Shutting his eyes as if in pain, Morgan rubbed at his temple. “You know I can’t do that. We’ve been forbidden to interfere with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Supposedly he’s being monitored. Does it matter why?”

  Tristan clenched his fists. He still held the handkerchief in his right hand. “It does when you’re trying to make me choose between my family and duty or—” the woman I love. Tristan shut his mouth. He couldn’t bear to speak the words again. With each repetition his conviction grew stronger. What if he couldn’t save Freddie? It might kill him.

  Morgan’s voice turned cold. “The choice should be easy. If you warn her, you’ll be tearing apart everything you care about. I know it isn’t like you to allow your heart to interfere with your judgment, but…trust me on this, brother. I’m only looking out for what’s best.”

  “No,” Tristan spat. “You’re doing what you’re told. I would have thought a duke would be able to make his own decisions.”

  As a painful lump built in his throat, Tristan turned on his heel. He couldn’t argue with Morgan any longer. He had to act.

  But what could he do? His superiors had ordered him not to touch Harker. They can’t know the depth of his depravity. Then again, neither did he. How had Harker convinced a sweet, innocent, perceptive, caring woman like Freddie to spy for him? She’d hinted, but never told him the specifics.

  He needed to know. Now, more than ever.

  He couldn’t warn her about Morgan’s duplicity. His brother was right, he would be turning his back on his country and family, not to mention Morgan’s trust. He hadn’t realized until that moment that for all their squabbles, he valued his brother’s trust. At the end of the day, they were family.

  But if he kept his silence, the woman he loved could die. His head throbbed with the force of his predicament. He didn’t have much time to decide. There had to be another option.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Freddie waited for her sister to look the other way before she stumbled on the way to the door to their room. She purposefully snagged her hem on her toe and leaned her weight into it. The resulting rrrrip! sliced through the air. For once, her clumsiness came in handy, even though she landed on the carpet.

  Charlie bounded to her side, hiking her skirt to her knees. “Freddie, are you all right?” She kneeled to help Freddie to her feet.

  I’m in pain. Freddie bit her tongue to keep from admitting as much. Her plan had been to rip her skirt, not fall face first onto the floor. At least she’d accomplished her goal. She twisted to examine the tear in her skirt. She fit three fingers through it.

  Charlie batted her hand away. “Who cares about your skirt! Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Freddie said. She accepted her sister’s help to stand. A twinge stabbed her ankle, but she leaned her weight onto the other foot and hoped it would go away soon. The dinner h
our approached and she still had to escape through the manor and across the lawn to the overlarge oak tree.

  With Charlie’s help, she crossed to the settee and sat. She felt her ankle. A bit tender, but once she had her ankle boots on perhaps it would ease.

  Her sister perched beside her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She forced a smile. “Of course I am. I fall all the time, you know that.”

  Once again, she reached down to finger that rip. It might be her most impressive yet—it was at least three inches long.

  She feigned remorse. “You’ll have to go down without me. I need to change my dress.”

  Charlie stood. “I’ll send in Lisane.”

  “Don’t!” Freddie regretted her high tone the moment it left her lips. She stumbled over her tongue trying to recover before Charlie guessed that she was trying to avoid dinner. “I mean, she’ll be disappointed with me. You know how she hates when I rip my clothes. And she has so much work with you and Mama, too… It’s only the net overdress. There aren’t any laces. I can put it on by myself.” She shut her mouth with a click and tilted her head up to offer her sister a smile.

  How could she possibly hope to impersonate a French spy when she couldn’t even lie to her sister about a dress?

  Charlie looked dubious. “If you’re certain…”

  “I am.”

  Her sister narrowed her blue eyes. “I can help you dress.”

  “If you do, you’ll be late. I’ll be fine on my own.” The corners of Freddie’s mouth started to ache. She held her smile in place by will alone. “I can take care of myself.”

  As she sighed, a look of resignation crossed Charlie’s face. “Very well. I’ll see you down shortly.”

  “Of course.”

  The pain in Freddie’s cheeks mounted as she continued to smile. Charlie hesitated by the door, glancing over her shoulder as she slowly pulled it shut. Only once she was alone did Freddie let the smile fall from her face. Her ankle stung with short, insistent bursts that faded slowly. She took a steadying breath.