Page 83 of While You Were Spying

Ethan watched her pretend to study the stitching on the lady’s saddle hanging beside her. She looked completely absorbed and completely guilty. She’d never be any good at deception, he thought, and was unexpectedly pleased by the idea. Not so pleasing an idea was that at the moment her innate honesty worked against them. Anyone who gave her a passing glance would know she had been up to something she shouldn’t. And with the state of their attire, it would not be difficult to guess what.

“It’s that clutch-fisted Mrs. Priggers, my lord.” Pocket tiptoed forward, gripping his handkerchief between two fingers. “The woman refuses to provide me with additional drying oil, and, what with the state of your boots, I do not see how I shall ever render them waterproof if”—he stopped and teetered—“Oh, dear! I beg your pardon, miss!”

He’d finally noticed Francesca, who had turned away from the saddle and was straightening her skirts again. Ethan hadn’t bother with his shirt or cravat. “Miss Dashing, you know Mr. Pocklington, my valet.”

She gave Pocket a nervous smile. “Good day, sir.”

“Miss Dashing.” Pocket bowed nimbly. His sharp stare met Ethan’s and there was a distinct look of censure in his shrewd, iron-gray eyes. Ethan knew Pocket didn’t approve of his dalliances with women, though the loyal servant had never actually voiced an opinion. But from the deepening of the creases around the valet’s mouth, Ethan wondered if a lecture might not be in his future. Apparently, trollops in London were one thing, daughters of viscounts quite another.

There was one way guaranteed to distract the valet, though.

“You were saying something about drying oil, Pocket?”

The valet’s frown was replaced by pursed lips of indignation. “Yes, my lord. I am sorry to speak ill of your housekeeper.” He gave Francesca a cursory nod. “But, as I said, she refused—” His eyes widened. “Aagh!” Pocket shrieked.

Ethan jumped. “What is it?”

Pocket rushed forward, and Ethan leapt from his chair, spinning in a wild half circle. Where was his pistol? “What do you see, man?”

Without waiting for an answer, Ethan reached for Francesca, pushing her safely behind him as Pocket rushed by, bent down, and scooped his master’s tailcoat from the floor.

“Look at this!” Pocket’s voice rose to a near screech. He was holding the tailcoat aloft and shaking it vigorously. “Even my exceptionally thick-bristled brush will not cleanthisproperly.”

Ethan scowled. He’d backed Francesca, wide-eyed and rigid, into a corner against the wall. Now he stood, arms outstretched and legs braced apart in front of her. It took a moment for his mind to grasp the fact that there was no real threat—besides the daggers shooting from Pocket’s eyes.

“Devil take it, Pocket!” Ethan lowered the arms shielding Francesca. “I thought it was something serious.”

He heard Francesca chuckle and realized how foolish he looked.

“Thisisserious, my lord,” Pocket huffed, shaking the tailcoat at him in accusation. “Need I remind you that your wardrobe is extremely limited at the moment? What, with the majority of your clothes at Winterbourne Hall and the rest at Grayson Park, I do not know how I shall ever keep you properly outfitted.”

Ethan could feel Francesca inching from behind him, hear her quiet giggles. He wanted to reach back and imprison her once again, recreate the sense of intimacy they’d shared a few moments before. But Pocket had hit his stride now. There was nothing to do but placate the man.

“I’ll send for the rest of my things from Grayson Park,” Ethan offered, feeling magnanimous and hoping Pocket would be mollified enough to leave the

tack room. Instead, it was Francesca who scooted away from him—once again out of reach.

Pocket gave his lord a long-suffering look. “Pardon me, your lordship, but what good is fetching your garments from Grayson Park when you insist on soiling them?”

Ethan saw Francesca press her lips together, suppressing another fit of laughter. She was enjoying this—seeing his valet reprimand him—far too much. She was also edging closer to the door.

“And now I understand there is to be a betrothal ball,” Pocket continued. “And you have absolutely nothing to wear and—”

“Francesca,” Ethan interrupted as she reached for the doorknob.

She turned back to him and raised an amused eyebrow. He could see she was completely aware that, with his valet in the room, there was little he could do to forestall her.

“Yes, my lord?” Her voice was sugary sweet.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I would check on Nat. And perhaps you would like a few moments’ privacy to tend to your domestic affairs?”

Pocket was nodding his head in approval, and Ethan glowered at him. “That’s not necessary.”

She held up a hand. “Oh, no, I insist. Apparently, I have a ball to prepare for.” It didn’t surprise him that she’d given in. With her parents behind him, she must have known he would win. What troubled him was the way her eyes gleamed. It was as though she’d just realized how much exasperation a betrothal ball would cost him and was relishing the thought.

She turned to Pocket, standing beside her with his handkerchief in one hand and Ethan’s tailcoat in the other. “Mr. Pocklington, I would be happy to speak with Mrs. Priggers about the drying oil you need. Is there anything else you require?”

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