Page 45 of While You Were Spying

He could almost read Brigham’s thoughts as the viscount considered. After the news of the attack spread, the gossipmongers would have Francesca defiled and pregnant within the week. But news of a betrothal to the Marquess of Winterbourne would turn the talk down another path. Possibly protect her reputation.

Brigham sank down and dropped his head in his hands. “And what happens when this is all over?” he asked, voice muffled. “You can’t really mean to marry my daughter, and there are already rumors concerning her falling out with Roxbury.” He looked up. “Tongues will wag if another of her suitors jumps ship, so to speak.”

Roxbury and Francesca. For some inexplicable reason the thought of the two of them set Ethan on edge. He was even more edgy when he realized he had no concrete plan in mind for ending the mock-engagement. An amateur’s mistake. Everyone knew the first rule of espionage was to know one’s escape options.

She’d confessed she loved him last night. If she believed she was in love with him that would complicate his escape. Of course, it was probably only her fatigue and the medicine talking. She didn’t want to marry him any more than he wanted to wed her.

“When this is over, I’ll make sure no one faults your daughter,” he said ambiguously. “I assure you, she’ll emerge with her reputation unscathed.”

Brigham’s eyes narrowed. “And your own reputation?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

Brigham leaned back and took a sip of his brandy. “You know, Winterbourne, I believe you don’t.”

“I have a lot of work to do, so if we’re in agreement—”

“There is one last matter.”

Ethan knew there would be. It had been too easy.

“Give me your word, as a”—he faltered, unsure—“agentleman, that you won’t touch my daughter. She’s not one of your London ladybirds.”

Ethan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He supposed he should have expected the slight. He’d done more than enough to deserve it over the years. And then there were the inevitable comparisons to his stepfather. He watched Brigham size him up, weighing his daughter’s virtue against her safety.

“You have my word, as agentleman, that I will treat your daughter with the highest regard.”

His gaze met Brigham’s. They both knew he hadn’t promised what Brigham had requested.

“I’ll hold you to that,” the viscount told him.

“I’d expect nothing less.” Ethan strode out the door.

“IDON’Tknowwho my attacker is. I didn’t see his face!” Francesca burst out, pulling the covers up to her chin. Thirty minutes before, she’d been safe and warm in the lush darkness of sleep. Now she was being interrogated by—she glared at Winterbourne—alunatic. She didn’t know what else to call a man who ignored all rules of propriety, walked unescorted into her bedchamber—herbedchamber—woke her from a sound sleep, and proceeded to question her.

And all before she’d even cleaned her teeth!

“Tell me everything you remember, Miss Dashing,” Winterbourne said. Then, to her horror, he settled comfortably into the chair beside her bed. “Again, please.”

Again? Francesca stared at him. “Does my mother know you are here? My father?”

“Answer the question.”

Her head pounded and the scratches on her face hurt. She hadn’t asked for the looking glass, but she’d seen the way Winterbourne’s gaze lingered on her face and knew she had bruises.

“I already told you everything.” She notched the sheets a fraction higher over her chin.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking very comfortable and also much like a veritable giant in the delicate pink-and-white striped silk chair beside her bed. “Once more.”

She heaved an annoyed sigh. “I was walking back to the house from my hospital.” Her breathing shallowed once again as the trembling returned to her legs. The hysterical sobs she’d held back last night welled up in her throat once more. And this time she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop them. Wasn’t so certain that once she began screaming, she’d ever be able to stop. She had to make Winterbourne leave. Stall his questions until she was more composed, more herself.

Carefully prying her fingers from her forearms, where her nails left blood-red half-moons, she pressed them delicately against her stinging eyes. “I’m really not feeling very well at the moment, my lord. If you come back this afternoon, I’m confident I will feel more up to speaking about...it.”

“Just a few more minutes,” he said. She heard him lean forward.

Fighting to keep her quivers from spreading, she lowered her fingers from her eyes, set them deliberately on the bedclothes, and forced them to remain steady.

“I-I’m just so tired.” Her voice shook, and she tightened her fingers on the sheets.

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