The spy’s mien changed immediately. He drew himself up and said in a commanding tone, “Lord Elias Harker, you are hereby arrested in the name of Britain for the impersonation of a royal spy.”
“No,” Harker said, though his voice was strained. “I assure you, my allegiances have changed. I’ve been passing along information for Britain for some months—”
The spy paid his tirade no mind. His voice laden with sarcasm as he stepped forward, he said, “Then I’d love to know why you passed along a fake signal left for an enemy spy.”
“There’s been a mistake!”
The man snorted. He dug into the pocket of his coat.
Harker was quicker. He pulled a pistol from his pocket and shot the spy. As the man crumpled to the ground, clutching his shoulder, Freddie’s ears rang. She didn’t immediately realize that she’d screamed until Harker turned in her direction, gun still raised.
Tristan and his brother erupted from behind the five-foot-wide tree trunk. Freddie scrambled to get her feet under her, only to trip over her hem and collapse on top of the half-rotted, mossy branch. Harker’s expression morphed into fiery outrage.
And then the shot went off.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Red bloomed on Harker’s chest like the morbid unfurling of a flower’s petals. His eyes glazed over as he collapsed face first onto the ground. Tristan and the duke fumbled to get their pistols out of their pockets and raised. If they hadn’t shot him, then who…
Freddie rolled her back to the log to find her mother lowering a smoking pistol. Mama’s face was set, her chin stubborn. Tendrils of her gray-and-blond hair escaped her coif, lending her a feral look. Freddie had never seen her looking so hard.
Tristan skidded to a stop beside Harker’s gurgling corpse, his brother on his heels. Both raised their weapons at Mama.
No. Freddie had to stop this. She lurched to her feet, intending to throw herself between both parties if need be. Before she caught her balance, her mother dropped the pistol. It landed on the ground with a thud. Mama raised her hand, touching her forehead, then her lips, then her chest.
“A rose plucked unwillingly houses the sharpest thorns.”
What?
The Graylocke brothers looked equally baffled. The duke’s jaw dropped. “You’re our contact?”
Wait, what? Mama was a spy? No. It couldn’t be true. Freddie had been the only thing holding her family together upon Papa’s death. Mama was too weak and malleable to spy.
“I was.”
Mama stepped forward. She barely glanced at Freddie. Instead, she hiked her mauve skirt to her knees as she stepped over the branch. She skirted the growing red stain on the grass and crouched to lay her fingers at Harker’s neck, beneath his cravat.
Her mouth twisted into an expression of disgust as she stood. “I’m not sure what good I’ll do you, now. My value to the Crown rested in my ability to spy on Harker and report his movements.”
Freddie’s ears rang. Her breath gushed from her chest. When her knees weakened, she sat heavily on the log. It groaned, but held her weight.
“Mama? You’re a spy?” The roar in her ears drowned out her words, but her mother must have heard, because she turned away from the Graylocke brothers.
The duke said something about a book and Tenwick Abbey, but Mama waved him off to attend to his spy. Until then, in her shock Freddie had forgotten there was another casualty. Her breath caught and she prayed the man was still alive.
Tristan caught her gaze and held it. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his brother called for his attention and he turned to attend the fallen man. The duke pressed his hand to the man’s shoulder. He must still be alive.
Freddie half-expected Mama to follow after them and offer her assistance. Instead, she hiked her skirts and crossed over the log to sit beside Freddie.
Freddie swallowed twice, trying to summon her voice. When she did, it emerged as a distant croak. “Don’t you want to help them?”
She clutched Freddie’s hand. The squeeze barely registered. Her hand felt numb. Was Freddie going to swoon? She had more mettle than that. Her mouth tasted metallic.
“I’m more worried about you.”
“I wasn’t shot.”
Mama smirked. The weak expression faded immediately. “I’m glad for that, darling, but you don’t look well. You’ve had a shock.” She pressed her free hand against Freddie’s cheeks and clucked her tongue. “Clammy.”
When she tried to pull out of Freddie’s grasp, she clutched Mama’s hand tighter.
“Freddie, darling. I need the smelling salts in my reticule. I’m not leaving.”
Mama spoke in soft, dulcet tones that brought to mind the lullabies she used to sing when Freddie was ill. Reluctantly, Freddie loosened her hold, letting Mama dig through the embroidered reticule hanging from her wrist. The embroidery was only haphazardly done, including what was either supposed to be a dog or a dragon. It was one of the first things Charlie had stitched as a child. Mama refused to part with it for one better made, despite Charlie’s repeated entreaties. Mama said she cherished it, because it reminded her of the past.
When she pulled out the small vial containing the smelling salts, Freddie made a face. “I hate those.”
“I know.” Mama uncorked it. “Have a sniff. They’ll make you feel better.”
With a sigh, Freddie leaned forward to endure the noxious torture. If anything could make her wish for a head cold, it was smelling salts. They did help to grant her some clarity, though. She took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air once Mama put the horrid bottle away. What was supposed to be a cleansing breath turned into a cough at the ripe stench of Harker’s body lying not far away.
Mama eased her hand beneath Freddie’s elbow. “Perhaps we should go inside.”
Freddie dug in her heels. There was no love lost between her and Harker. In fact, it was a relief to know that neither Charlie nor Mama would ever become the subject of his attentions again. That ordeal was over.
Even if Freddie didn’t quite know how she would keep a roof over everyone’s head. No doubt Harker’s estates fell to some long-lost male relative, if not the Crown.
“No, Mama. Not until you explain. How long have you been a spy?”
Mama sighed. Her shoulders drooped. “Since we moved into Lord Harker’s household.” When Freddie opened her mouth, Mama held up her hand. “Wait a moment. Let me collect my thoughts and start at the beginning. I only want to tell the tale once.”
“What about Charlie?”
Mama pursed her lips. “Twice, then.”
Satisfied, Freddie clasped her hands on her lap and waited. She tried not to breathe through her nose, to minimize the stench. If she didn’t turn around and look at Harker’s corpse, she could pretend he wasn’t even there.
“Your father had a gambling problem,” Mama began.
Freddie swallowed, but didn’t interrupt. She knew that already.
Mama wasn’t looking at her face. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the scenery, the line of trees cropping up on the edge of Tenwick Abbey to the south. “The problem with gambling is that whenever he lost, he always thought he would be able to win it back. Even if he recouped some of the money, he kept trying, and eventually, he lost again. Sometimes, even worse. By the time you turned fifteen, he feared that he would be hauled away to debtor’s prison at any moment. The Crown came to him with a proposal, instead.”
Freddie opened her mouth, but her voice must have fled to the soles of her feet with the shock. She shut her mouth again.
Mama continued, “They offered to absolve his debt and set me up with a small annuity if I completed a task for them.”
“If you did?”
Mama turned her head, catching Freddie’s gaze. Her eyes were cloudy in the growing twilight. “Yes, Freddie. Me. They knew Lord Harker was a traitor, you see, and they needed someone to report on his movements. As your father was Harker’s closest living relative, if something were to ha
ppen to him, I would be in a prime position to insert myself into Lord Harker’s household. From there, I could report on his movements, his correspondence, his associates. Any number of things.”
Freddie gasped. “So the Crown killed Papa?”
“What?” Mama barked out an incredulous laugh. “Heavens, no. Don’t be silly! Your father entered the service as well.”
Freddie groped for Mama’s hand. She didn’t realize how tight her grip was until pain flashed across Mama’s face. Freddie licked her dry lips. “Are you…are you saying that Papa is alive?”
Mama nodded. “He is. He leads a secret life somewhere in France, to the best of my knowledge. Our communication has been limited ever since I took up position in Lord Harker’s household. Maybe now…”
Freddie shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tears glimmered in Mama’s eyes. “You and Charlie were so young when it happened. I thought it better to keep you innocent of the endeavor. Then, as you got older… Can you blame me for not wanting this dangerous life for you? I wanted you to have a chance at a normal life.”
Helpless, Freddie shrugged. “I was introduced to this life anyway, by Harker. If I’d known what he was from the beginning I might have been able to do things differently.”
Mama clutched Freddie’s hand tightly. Movement from the corner of her eye and an agonized groan from the base of the tree caught Freddie’s attention. Tristan finished tying a makeshift bandage around the wounded man’s shoulder. The Graylocke brothers positioned themselves at the spy’s head and feet in preparation of lifting him.
In a steely voice, Mama said, “It’s over, now. That’s the important thing.”
His hands red with blood, Tristan lifted his arm as if to run his fingers through his hair. He stopped at the last minute and gripped the spy’s ankles instead. When he glanced up, his gaze met Freddie’s.
She was too far away to discern the expression in his eyes, but if they in any way mirrored the emotions in her heart, he must be battling an inner turmoil. Longing, relief, uncertainty. Love.
When Mama urged Freddie to stand and leave the hilltop, she turned her face away from Tristan’s, unable to look at him any longer and contemplate a future she might never have. Mama was right, this ordeal with Harker was over. But where did that leave Freddie and Tristan?
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Graylocke ancestors stared at Freddie with varying degrees of disapproval, but at the very least, it was a respite from the chaos in the rest of the abbey. Even the duke’s cleverness hadn’t been able to hide the fact that someone had been shot and a guest killed during supper last night. The servants flitted from room to room, gathering in groups to speculate.
The guests were worse. Although they should be packing in preparation of leaving early this week, the entire east wing was filled with sobbing, bacon-brained women bewailing who would be next—as though the Graylockes would allow a rampaging killer to roam free! Those not sniveling spread gossip like the plague, speculating that Harker had been killed in an illegal duel over a woman; now every debutante’s reputation was suspect. Packing was conducted with doors wide open and women strolling alongside the strong, fearsome men they browbeat into escorting them, lest they need protection. Although the dowager duchess roamed the halls, assuring everyone they were in no danger, the ninnies of the ton seemed determined to fear the worst.
Freddie wouldn’t mind half so much if their agitation hadn’t unsettled Charlie even further. Last night, as Freddie had listened to her mother recite the same tale to Charlie as she had to Freddie beneath the oak, Freddie had tried to muster some sort of relief that her father was alive. But no, even if he’d left at the crown’s behest, he’d still abandoned his family and left Freddie to pick up the pieces. At the moment, she was feeling a little churlish at Mama, as well. Clearly, Mama wasn’t nearly as weak a person as she’d pretended all these years, perhaps for Harker’s benefit. If Mama had only taken responsibility for the family instead of seemingly fallen apart, Freddie wouldn’t have had to grow up so quickly.
Maybe she might even have the same charm and polish to attract a husband as Charlie.
Therein lay the rub. Until she’d met Tristan, she’d never wanted or needed a marriage. But he made her feel beautiful, strong, and protected. With Tristan to support her, she felt as though she could take on the world.
Oh, blast. She didn’t want any husband. She wanted Tristan Graylocke. A man she hadn’t spoken to since the messy debacle yesterday. Granted, Freddie had been occupied for most of the night in dissuading Charlie from haring off to France to find their father. And neither Tristan nor the duke had surfaced from the west wing of the house, where the physician had rushed to tend Mr. Keeling, the man who had been shot. In a few short hours, she would depart Tenwick Abbey. She might never see him again.
She didn’t quite know where her family would go, now that Harker was dead. But Freddie was resourceful. She would take care of her family. The thought of doing it alone, without Tristan, made her weary. He’d said he loved her…but he’d been trying to sway her to his side. Which, admittedly, she should have been on all along.
It all worked out for the best.
So she told herself, but Tristan hadn’t proposed. He hadn’t sought her out. Perhaps he didn’t care for her as much as she did for him.
She eyed the door leading to the passage ending in the west wing. A swarm of butterflies took wing in her stomach. If she wanted to know for sure, maybe she had to seek him out.
She rose from her makeshift seat of a sturdy pedestal, leaving the ugly bronze statue she’d moved on the floor next to it. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped toward that ominous door.
“You’re a difficult woman to find, Freddie.”
Her heart somersaulted as Tristan’s voice echoed in the cavernous chamber. She turned. He leaned against the frame of the door. The daylight pouring in from the high windows illuminated the chiseled planes of his face, but cast his eyes in shadow.
Freddie licked her lips. She dropped her gaze to her feet as she traversed the length of the hall, determined not to trip. When his boot steps rang on the stone floor, she raised her gaze to meet his. There was something fierce and determined in his eyes. It stole her breath. Did he mean to kiss her?
She stumbled and collided against his chest as he leaped to catch her. His firm muscles rippled beneath his clothes. His arm slipped around her waist, pressing her against him as she found her feet once more. She raised her gaze. The desire to kiss him mounted. She stepped away, instead.
“I didn’t know you were looking for me. I needed a moment away from…everyone. It’s difficult to think up there.”
Tristan took a small step forward. His gaze was locked on her mouth. Absently, he said, “Do you have something pressing on your mind?”
You.
Freddie swallowed. “With Harker dead, I’m not sure where we’ll go. We won’t have a home much longer.” Not that Harker’s townhouse had ever felt like home to her.
Reaching out, Tristan caught one of her hands. He held it between them, over his pounding heart. Could he be half as nervous to see her as she was to see him? He studied every inch of her face, from her eyelashes to the freckles on her cheeks. When his gaze met hers squarely once more, he murmured, “You can stay here.”
She licked her lips. “That’s very kind, but—”
“No.” His hand tightened on hers. “It isn’t kind. It’s selfish. I don’t want to be parted from you, Freddie. I want you to stay here…as my wife.”
Her breath caught. “Are you proposing to me?”
He nodded, a short, curt thrust of his head. He opened his mouth, but it took him a moment to speak again. “If you’ll have me. You’ve seen what my life is like. It involves danger and secrets. I’ll have to continue my cover as a gambler and carouser. That’ll mean late nights in London.” His grip lightened on her hand as he shifted to examine her fingers, tracing them with his. “I’m probably not
the kind of husband any woman would want.”
“Will you be faithful to me?”
His hand clenched on hers. He met her gaze, his eyes sharp. “Always. I love you. My God, Freddie, you have to ask?”
She covered their joined hands with hers and leaned closer. “I love you, too. Don’t make yourself out to sound like you’ll be a monster. Don’t all men drink and gamble?”
He hesitated. “Most. Some don’t stay out as late after marriage.”
“I’d wager that’s because they have beautiful wives awaiting them at home.”
A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. When he leaned closer, she tilted her face up, hoping for a kiss. Instead, he whispered, “I would certainly have that. What do you say, Freddie? Will you be my beautiful wife?”
A thrill ran through her at the thought that he found her beautiful, born in part because she knew he did. With him, she felt wanton, seductive. It was a powerful feeling, one she looked forward to feeling for the rest of her life.
“Yes.” Worry constricted her chest as she thought of her father. “Promise that you won’t gamble us into debt, though.”
He laid a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “I gamble at the crown’s behest, with Crown funds. You don’t have to worry.”
Gambling could be addictive, an urge a man couldn’t shake, but Tristan didn’t seem to have that urge. He would have made good on it while she was here if he had. If he developed that addiction in the future… They would face the future together. Living without him wasn’t an option.
She leaned closer, pressing her body against his. “I believe now is the time for you to kiss me.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?” He obliged, pressing his mouth to hers in a sweet, lingering kiss.
Passion ignited between them and that kiss grew fierce. Freddie threaded the fingers of her free hand into his hair. Her other hand was still trapped between them alongside his.
When he broke the kiss, they both panted. They parted for only an instant before Freddie swayed closer, needing him to hold her up as her knees weakened. Their lips met again, then parted. Quick, butterfly kisses that she couldn’t get enough of.
Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) Page 21