Page 22 of While You Were Spying

Finally, he said, “Were you in Lord Harcourt’s employ at the time?”

“Employ?Employ?”

He stepped back, obviously aware he’d made a mistake and obviously,maddeningly, still not sure what that mistake had been. Francesca straightened to her full height of five feet two inches.

“I have never beenemployedby Lord Harcourt, nor anyone else. I am the Honourable Miss Francesca Dashing, eldest daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Brigham. And Tanglewilde”—she gestured at the vast estate sprawled behind her—“is my home. Does that refresh your memory, Lord Winterbourne, or need I go on?”

Seven

The tone of her voicesuggested he’d better not ask her to go on. He didn’t need to. She was beginning to look familiar. Pocket was right. He could picture her father—a distinguished gentleman of fifty or so with brown hair, graying at the temples. But the girl—the girl didn’t look like a viscount’s daughter. Her clothes, though neat, were worn, and her hair blew wild and disheveled, her face pink from exertion. Nothing about her said staid Society miss, except perhaps the cutting look she presently bestowed upon him.

A look that was as sharp as her wits. She’d only been guessing, but when she’d asked if he was a spy, Ethan nearly balked. Now a puzzle piece snapped into place. “Roxbury,” he said.

She started and one pale hand rose to her throat. “W-what did you say?”

“You’re betrothed to Roxbury.” He’d always thought it an odd match, which was probably why he could now recall seeing the couple on one or two occasions. The girl—warm, unsophisticated, and petite—in the shadow of the icy, rigid, self-righteous earl. He surveyed the estate in the meadow below them. “Is Roxbury at Tanglewilde?”

One glance at her face answered his query.

“No.” Her hand closed protectively on the ties of her mantle, her small white fingers contrasting sharply with the black material. “He—no.” Her voice shook and sounded almost relieved.

Interesting—and telling.

“You’re no longer betrothed?”

Her eyes flicked to his. “We broke off the betrothal last March.”

Ethan almost nodded his approval. He’d never liked the earl. Didn’t know the man well, didn’t want to. He couldn’t imagine what this girl had seen in the pompous ass.

“Was it a long betrothal?” He was still trying to remember where they’d met. She’d mentioned that they’d been introduced.

“No. He and I met that night at Lord and Lady Harcourt’s ball.” She broke off and a flush rose from her throat to her cheeks.

He blinked. An image of her, gloved hand to her throat and blushing madly, flashed into his mind. He was transported back to the Harcourts’ with disorienting suddenness. How could he have failed to recognize her? That picture of her had imprinted itself on his brain.

It wasn’t a night he wanted to remember. Seeing Victoria had been the final card of a bad hand. He’d just returned from a mission in France and had only gone to the Harcourts’ because Lord Grenville would be there. Ethan had known the Foreign Secretary had been anxious to hear his findings.

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