Page 27 of While You Were Spying

“Skerrit!” Francesca’s tea sloshed over the rim of her cup and stained her dress. “He’sdead? How?”

“He was murdered last night, shortly after dark,” Winterbourne said.

“Shortly after—” Francesca felt her throat tighten. Skerrit must have been killed right after she’d left with Thunder. But by whom?

“What happened?” Francesca blurted out. She stared at Winterbourne, looking for clues in his features. He’d left before her, but he might have gone back. She took a deep breath. Winterbourne must have sensed the trail of her thoughts because his gaze met hers. In his eyes, she saw neither guilt nor denial. He wasn’t a nice man, but she didn’t think he’d killed Skerrit. Couldn’t think that of him. Besides, what reason would he have?

“Who killed him?” Francesca asked, tearing her gaze from Winterbourne.

“No one knows,mia figlia,” her mother answered. “The culprit is still at large.” She put a hand to the lace at her throat.

But if Winterbourne didn’t kill the farmer, then who did? Francesca shuddered, frosty fingers skittering along the small of her back. Had the killer been lying in wait even as she’d argued with Winterbourne? Had she passed him on her return to Tanglewilde? Was that why Winterbourne had insisted on seeing her home today? Had hereallybeen concerned for her safety?

She wanted to laugh, but his amber eyes were watching her, the honey-colored flecks trapping her again. He’s not a nice man. He’snota nice man.

“Horrible man,” her mother said, and Francesca jumped, half-afraid she’d voiced her own thoughts. But her mother was talking of Skerrit. “I could not even tolerate the sight of him. Of course, I did not want him to die. Imagine! A murder in our own little patch of Hampshire.” She fell back on the chaise, hand to her forehead. “I can hardly bear to think of it. Oh, how my heart is pounding!”

Francesca had wondered how long it would take for her mother to collapse into one of her spells.

“Bloody hell,” Winterbourne muttered.

Avoiding his eyes—she didn’t really want to see his reaction—she rose dutifully and knelt by her mother, reaching across the lush fabric to take her hand. She was closer to the tarts now. She deserved a tart after this day’s trials. As soon as her mother wasn’t looking...

“Calm down,Mamma,” Francesca soothed. “Take deep breaths.”

Her mother clutched at her chest and gulped.

“Here, have a sip of your tea.”

“Grazie, mia cuore.” Her mother smiled at her and patted her hand before shifting her gaze back to Winterbourne. Francesca eyed the tarts again.

“Lord Winterbourne, you must tell me your opinion of the situation. Are wesafehere in Hampshire? Should we remove ourselves to Town until these cold-blooded murderers are discovered? You must advise me,Signore. I have two daughters to think of.”

Winterbourne shifted. “You should consult with your husband on the matter,Signora.” He spread his hands in an impatient gesture. “Is he expected soon?”

Francesca bit her lip. He wouldn’t escape so easily.

“Oh, but I would be so appreciative of your own opinion, my lord.”

Francesca wanted to know as well. First highwaymen, now Skerrit dead. Could those two happenings really be a coincidence?

Winterbourne certainly seemed concerned. He’d locked his jaw so tightly she could see the whiteness along the edges. She swore the armchair shrunk beneath him when he sat forward abruptly.

“I see no reason for you to leave Tanglewilde at this point.” He sounded as if he squeezed the words from his stiff lips. “But keep your daughters home. It’s not safe for them to be out alone.”

Francesca huffed. Hewouldsay that! She tried to rise from the floor, but her mother tightened her grip on her hand, shuddering dramatically and closing her eyes.

Francesca sighed. One taste of a chocolate tart and she could endure anything—even her mother’s histrionics. She sank down again. If her mother would only keep her eyes closed a few more seconds...

“When I think of the harm that could have come to Francesca, I can hardly bear it,” her mother lamented.

“Don’t think of it,Mamma.” Francesca reached stealthily for one of the chocolate tarts.

Across from her, Winterbourne raised a brow. She felt a quiver of attraction in her belly. Fighting it, she gave him a look, imploring him to remain silent. He winked. Then, just as her fingers grazed a tart, her mother slapped her hand away. Francesca gasped. How had her mother seen when her eyes weren’t even open?

“But I must think of it!” Lady Brigham fluttered her eyelids. “We owe the marquess our gratitude.”

“That’s not necessary.” Winterbourne glanced at the plate of tarts, then at Francesca, his expression uncharacteristically sympathetic.

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