Page 30 of While You Were Spying

“In private,” Ethan added with a significant look and an inclination of his head toward the viscountess.

“Fammi respirare! My little girl is finally—”

“Mamma!” Francesca screeched, a look of horror on her face.

Brigham shook his head. “Do cease this caterwauling. A man can’t think!”

“Sorry, Daddy. I—”

He held up a hand. “Winterbourne, my library is this way. If you would follow me.”

Ethan nodded to Brigham to lead the way. If he never stepped foot in that drawing room again, it would be too soon. He followed Brigham into the entrance hall but couldn’t resist one glance back. Francesca, still standing in the center of the room, frowned at him. He winked, and she gave him a murderous glare.

Francesca—he didn’t know when he’d started thinking of her so informally, but he found he liked her name. It was undoubtedly chosen by her mother, but it seemed to suit her. She had the look of an Italian. Dark, mysterious, passionate. And Ethan liked the way it sounded in his head. Thought he might like the way it rolled off his tongue as he whispered it in her ear, fingers tangled in her mane of chocolate curls.

Their gazes locked for a long moment, and Ethan felt a punch of regret that he wouldn’t see her again, would never see her cocoa eyes darken with desire for him, her dusky lips part for his kisses.

It was for the best, he reminded himself. He needed to return to his investigation, and he’d never been interested in innocent Society misses—Victoria had taught him they didn’t stay innocent for long. He’d make sure she was protected and walk away.

Francesca averted her eyes, breaking the connection between them. The expression on her face was a mixture of dismay and distrust. She obviously didn’t relish the idea of his meeting with her father. Ethan didn’t blame her. After all, if he had anything to say about it, her life would change.

Once in the library, Brigham lit his pipe and settled into the leather chair behind a mammoth mahogany desk. Like the desk, the rest of the library was built on enormous proportions. Dark wood shelves towered over the room, bowing under the weight of their volumes. The leather armchair Ethan occupied would seat two comfortably, and a massive fire blazed in a marble fireplace, spanning almost an entire wall.

Ethan felt some of the day’s tension ease from his shoulders. This was a man’s room—the room of someone he could talk to, reason with. After the half hour spent with Brigham’s wife and daughter, he desperately needed conversation with someone—anyone—reasonable.

At that moment, Brigham seemed reasonable. Cordial even. “Brandy?” Brigham indicated a decanter on the table behind the desk.

“No. Thank you.”

“Need something stronger, then? I usually go straight for the gin myself after a scene like that one.”

“I can well imagine.” Ethan sunk comfortably into the male camaraderie. He was so glad of the moment’s respite from demanding women that he wasn’t even eager to bring up the reason for his visit. No matter. By unwritten rule, Brigham and he would first talk of trivialities.

The viscount leaned back in his worn chair, the fragrant smoke from his pipe swirling around him. “Italy was a mistake, I can tell you that. Took her there after our wedding, and she’s never left. Should have gone to the Lake District or Brighton. At least then I could understand her half the time.”

It was said lightly, Brigham’s tone more endearing than censorious, and Ethan decided he liked the man. The viscount had a sense of humor and obviously cared for his wife, though Ethan couldn’t imagine how the man lived with the outlandish woman.

Ethan guessed Brigham to be about fifty and still in his prime. Francesca shared his brown eyes and hair, though hers were richer, darker. And were Pocket here, the valet would have approved of Brigham’s attire immediately—it was flawless, except for his cravat, which he’d skewed when his wife had uttered one of her Italian exclamations.

Brigham puffed on his pipe. “If only my wife had some aptitude for languages, it would be tolerable. As it is, the poor woman can’t conjugate a verb to save her life.”

“Perhaps if she practiced more?”

Brigham smiled and set his pipe down. “Suggest it, and you’ll find yourself with a dawn appointment.”

Ethan allowed himself a wry smile.

Brigham took another sip of his brandy, then eyed Ethan expectantly. Obviously, the trivialities were at an end. “I respect you, Winterbourne. I respect you and your service.”

Ethan made no show of understanding Brigham, though he assumed the man referred to the rumors that Ethan was a spy for the Foreign Office.

“I even liked your stepfather,” Brigham continued. “We tangled a few times in the Lords, but he was a good man.”

“Thank you, my lord”. He rarely heard praise for the late Earl of Selbourne. He should have expected it. After all, Brigham was frequently described as a brilliant politician. This was the man whom the statesman Fox considered a trusted advisor and a brilliant strategist.

Brigham picked up his pipe again. “As I said, I like you. But I don’tlikeyou, Winterbourne, if you take my meaning. I can’t say I’m pleased to see you at Tanglewilde. What exactly is your business with me and my daughter?”

“This isn’t a social call, sir. I escorted your daughter home this afternoon.”

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