Page 34 of While You Were Spying

But the large straw-colored table in the center of the room remained sturdy and the rows of white shelves lining the walls were neatly stacked with strips of clean linen, bottles, and vials. The room might not be new, but it was clean. And the wear and tear only made the hospital more precious to her. Every scuff mark and stain reminded her of an animal she’d healed. In this place, the incident with Winterbourne and her mother seemed a lifetime away.

Only yesterday evening she’d fallen into Winterbourne’s arms at Will Skerrit’s barn. And now Skerrit was dead. Murdered. She could hardly believe it. Her father must allow her to keep Thunder now. She certainly couldn’t rely on Winterbourne to do her any favors. She’d spotted him riding away just as she set out for her hospital.

Winterbourne again! Why could she not put the man out of her thoughts for more than a few moments at a time? He wasn’t thinking of her.

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FRANCESCA SIGHED, SINKINGback in a familiar chair while Lino curled into his favorite corner. She rubbed his ears, the wiry hair sliding between her fingers. “I know I can count on you to love me, Lino,” she said with affection.

Some things never changed. She was not the kind of woman that attracted a man like the Marquess of Winterbourne. She wasn’t sophisticated or beautiful or witty or even all that accomplished. And she certainly didn’t possess any of the other...charms that Winterbourne seemed to prefer in his female companions.

Lord, the best he could do when describing her today was to comment that she lookeddifferent.

Different!

She certainly wouldn’t swoon over that accolade.

If only Winterbourne had looked different—changed into an ugly, loathsome troll. If anything, he was even more appealing than the last glimpse she’d had of him in Town. He had the same face—cheekbones and jaw sculpted with an artist’s precision. The intensity and color of his eyes shifted with his mood, and his strong form was sleek and hard with corded muscles.

She could never hope to interest a man like Winterbourne. And, she decided, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them, perhaps she didn’t want to. After all, as she had told herself countless times today, he was not a nice man. True, hehadseemed concerned for her safety when he’d walked her home—his good deed for the decade, not anything to do with her. In fact, he’d made it quite clear he would never see her as anything more than a housemaid in expensive clothes.

She plopped her forehead on her knees in disgust. So why was she sitting here torturing herself, remembering the feel of his body against hers, his scent clinging to her skin?

Something flickered outside the window, and she froze, staring at the darkening skies beyond. A shiver ran up her spine. Was someone watching her?

Nothing moved, and she shook her head at her own foolishness.

She needed a distraction—and not the imaginary sort. A cup of chocolate would be best, but failing that, gingerbread. With a shiver of delight, she remembered the gingerbread she’d pilfered from the kitchen yesterday morning. She retrieved the tin from the cupboard and unfolded the scrap of linen inside. Amazingly, the gingerbread was still moist, and Francesca ate it slowly. It was sweet—the perfect mixture of cinnamon and spices, complemented by the tangy taste of fresh ginger. When it was gone, she methodically licked each finger, savoring the last crumbs of the treat.

Not a bad distraction. She’d think of a hundred distractions until the memory of the Marquess of Winterbourne was as fleeting as his fading scent of leather and sandalwood on her hands.

THE GOLDEN GOOSE SHOULDhave been the perfect retreat. Dark, rank, noisy—the drinks were cheap and so were the women. But though he had a full glass of gin in front of him and at least three barmaids vying for his attention, Ethan wasn’t enjoying himself.

“The blond.” Alex leaned back, and the rickety tavern chair creaked.

Ethan looked up from studying the depths of his untouched drink and saw his brother watching the women draped around the bar. Their rouged cheeks were as garish as their low-bodiced gowns and their unnatural shades of hair color, ranging from brass to flame. One of them winked at him, and Ethan looked away. Tonight he had no appetite for the fare they offered.

Farmers, merchants, and a disproportionate number of unsavory men crowded around the tavern’s half-dozen tables. Alex had told him the reputable residents of Selborne frequented The Queen’s Hotel on Gracious Street.

This was not The Queen’s Hotel.

Except for the barmaids, The Golden Goose was a solely male domain, its patrons engaged in the time-honored masculine pursuits of drinking, smoking, and gambling. By the looks of them, most managed to keep on the right side of the law, but there were several men present that Ethan had a feeling would smile, shake hands in greeting, and, when the chance arose, beat him senseless and empty his pockets for half a shilling.

Lounging in dark corners and crannies, those few didn’t meet his stare. But after years of experience in seedy taverns, he felt their eyes on him through the darkness and smoky haze, sizing him up, waiting for an opportunity.

Let them try. He’d welcome the distraction of a good fight. He certainly hadn’t come to The Golden Goose for gossip. He was beginning to wonder why he’d come at all.

Alex rocked back in his chair. “I’d take the blond.” The three buxom women pranced back and forth or leaned across the bar to display their wares.

“Why don’t you then?” Ethan had already dismissed the women, his eyes back on the dregs, seeking out those who looked to be spoiling for a fight.

“I’m not the one who needs cheering up.”

“And I do?” Ethan’s attention snapped to his brother.

Alex glared at him, cold gray eyes assessing. “I don’t know what the hell happened to you today, but you’ve looked Friday-faced since you walked in the door.”

Ethan glared back. “Nothing happened.”

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