Page 61 of While You Were Spying

“Yes, my lord. Shall I tell the cook to put a few slices of gingerbread in the basket as well?”

“Tell him to put enough for three.” If she liked gingerbread, gingerbread she would have.

The valet nodded his approval.

“And Pocket?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Keep up the good work.”

The furrows in Pocket’s face deepened with something resembling pleasure. “Thank you, my lord.”

The door clicked shut and Ethan finally focused his attention on Alex’s letter. The first half was a diatribe on what Alex called Ethan’s “damn foolish half-cocked plan.” Must be referring to the betrothal, he thought with a grin.

Ethan skipped a few lines, reaching the heart of the missive. The section was encoded, but Ethan was familiar enough with the code Alex and he shared that he could decipher it in his head.

Alex had gone back to the smuggler’s camp and found it deserted. Ethan swore when he read the news but wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected the men to wait around to be discovered.

Alex considered the smuggler’s departure, so close to the farmer’s murder, a definite sign of their involvement. Alex’s theory was that the men had killed their leader, Skerrit, planning to take the farmer’s share of the francs upon delivery of the arms.

But Alex and Ethan had argued this point before. Ethan didn’t think Skerrit had the intelligence or the connections to head such a large operation. There was someone else, someone with important connections—possibly even government connections—organizing and running the smuggling venture. Ethan was in Hampshire to determine therealleader’s identity.

Ethan tossed the letter down and cursed. He was almost out of time and afraid that if he didn’t act soon, he might miss his only opportunity of finding the smuggler’s leader. Ethan knew the types of inquiries his brother was making—subtle and with the promise of blunt for the right information—required time to yield results. Time he didn’t have. Time the French were using against him.

Meanwhile, his task of finding Francesca’s attacker had produced no fruit. The smugglers had left the area, which meant she should be safe. Unless they were merely in hiding. Unless he was wrong, and the attacker hadn’t been one of the smugglers after all.

“Damn!”

Ethan thrust Alex’s letter into the fire and turned to leave. The time for inquests and interviews was over. If he couldn’t find her attacker, then he’d have to bring the man to him. Perhaps a betrothal ball would lure the man out of hiding.

But he would need help, and, God help him, Lady Brigham was the perfect place to start.

Sixteen

Francesca stacked theremaining strips of cloth she used for bandages in neat, straight piles on a shelf, feeling tired but content. The hospital smelled of pine needles, wood smoke, and home. She checked her tidy stack of splints and the amount of liquid remaining in the small bottle of whisky she’d pilfered from her father’s library to clean wounds, then kneeled down beside the brown rabbit’s kennel.

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