Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) (6 page)

The feeling was mutual. Her shoulder blades itched. She had to slip away before Charlie and Lucy found another man to throw into her path.

Mr. Catterson offered her a bland smile. “So, Miss Vale. You’re interested in botany?”

Not at all.
She gave him a thin smile. “Not to compare with you, I’m sure. I hear you and Lord Gideon are in the midst of developing a new species of orchid.”

“A hybrid, yes.”

His pale blue eyes lit up at the notion. It was a pity Charlie wasn’t interested in him for marriage, because he was quite handsome when he didn’t look harried.

“Have you seen drawings of the orchid found in Colonial Brazil?”

“I have not.”

“Beautiful flower. No one in the Botanical Society has been able to grow it outside of its natural climate. Gideon and I are attempting to graft it onto a hardier orchid in the hope that it will take.”

Freddie’s head spun with his enthusiasm for the topic. What was grafting? If she asked, it would be tantamount to admitting that she didn’t know anything about botany, after all.

“Fascinating.”

A brown curl dropped in front of her eyes. As she reached up to bat it away, her hand jerked into his glass. Its contents tipped down his waistcoat, causing a wet splotch on the embroidered fabric.

“Oh, dear. Forgive me.” When she reached forward to help him by reclaiming the glass, the slick surface slipped from her fingers. It shattered on the floor.

Several pairs of eyes turned in their direction. Horrified, Freddie took several steps back to make room for the servants descending to clean the glass and help Mr. Catterson with his appearance.

Everyone’s attention was fixed on him as he swore under his breath. Of those who remained—several guests had left the room to seek other entertainment or their beds, thinning out the crowd—no one glanced in Freddie’s direction.

Freddie turned on her heel and slipped into the hall, unimpeded. This might be her only chance to find the code book.

I
n the evening
, Tenwick Abbey glittered like it was lit from within by a thousand stars. The effect was performed through lit candelabras perched on narrow, Neoclassical pedestals set at intervals throughout the hall. Behind each pedestal, a small round mirror in a gilt frame reflected the light down the hall onto various other mirrors, large and small, oval and square, all in equally ornate frames. A vibrant, ruby runner down the center of the hall provided purchase and muffled Freddie’s footsteps. The light shimmered across the marble floors on either side of the runner and illuminated paintings—old and contemporary, classical and romantic, long and rectangular murals and smaller portraits. Between the paintings stood other pieces of art—busts, statues of rearing horses and mythical figures—along with intricately-painted vases with fragrant cut flowers, likely from the orangery.

In short, the hallway was a nightmare to a lummox like her. It was a labyrinth of items waiting to be broken.

Holding her breath, she slipped among them, keeping to the center of the aisle. She pulled the train of her gown over one arm to keep her hands busy and well away from the priceless breakables.

As she navigated the manor, retracing the latter part of the tour Lucy had provided, she left the occupied portion of the manor behind. Chatter spilled out of a sitting room where someone had set up card tables, four guests to a table. The scattered servant passed her as she left the populated hall in her wake. Silence wrapped around her, a spell she was afraid to break. She tiptoed around the corner to the library.

This corridor was just as opulently decorated as the last. Flecks of gold in the paint of a vase reflected the light. The flowers smelled like the orangery—a thick, cheerful floral scent with a hint of citrus. The door to the library was shut, but light peeped through the crack between the door and the floor. Someone must have lit a fire inside.

When Freddie lifted her hand to the latch, she froze. Were those voices? The male baritones were muffled. She couldn’t hear the words. Holding her breath, she pulled back the latch and eased the door open a crack.

“How are we supposed to deliver the book if we don’t know who in bloody hell our contact is?”

Freddie’s breath caught. That was Lord Graylocke’s voice. Hadn’t she left him in the sitting room? Come to think of it, she hadn’t thought to double-check that he was there before she’d left.

His brother, the duke, answered him. “We pass it to whoever gives us the signal. Our contact must have been compromised. You know it happens.”

Who was their contact? Did this coincide with their spying efforts for the French? Freddie’s heartbeat drummed, but she leaned her ear closer to the door.

“I don’t have to like it,” Lord Graylocke groaned. “This makes our task more difficult. We’re under enough scrutiny during this party as it is.”

“I am,” the duke corrected. “You aren’t Duke. You can wander unimpeded.”

Lord Graylocke’s voice darkened. “Don’t remind me.”

The click of a booted footstep on the wood floor sounded overly loud and alarmingly close. Fiddlesticks! They were walking toward the door.

Freddie recoiled instinctively. Her hip banged the corner of the table. She hissed in a breath. The vase wobbled. She lunged for it, but the slick surface slipped out of her fingers and plummeted to the marble floor. It shattered, the sound ringing in the silence.

Lord Graylocke wrenched the door open. He’d removed his cravat and loosened the laces of his shirt, baring his throat. The buttons of his tailcoat were undone, displaying a waistcoat that molded to his lean abdomen. His gloves stuck out of his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” His dark eyebrows hooked over his eyes, menacing.

Freddie closed her gaping mouth. When she took a step back, he followed, advancing on her. She tripped over the train of her gown, nearly falling. He caught her by the arm above her gloves, holding her upright.

“I—I was looking for a book.” She tried to back away, only to press against the wall.

Lord Graylocke splayed his hand on the wall beside her head. He narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Of course. What else would I be doing?”

Freddie’s voice shrank the longer she spoke. Her pulse thumped like a scared rabbit. She was no short woman, but Lord Graylocke loomed around her. His broad shoulders cut off the reflected light along the hall, casting her in shadow. Warmth radiated from his frame. Her skin burned from his touch on her arm, which he still held. His touch was firm, but not painful.

He leaned even closer. He smelled of port with the smoky hint of cigars. When he tilted his head, light glinted off his irises.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, a tight, disapproving line. As she watched, the set of his mouth softened. How rough would his stubble feel?

She clenched her jaw. What was wrong with her? He was the enemy, a traitor. She loathed everything about him. She jerked her arm out of his hold. In the wake of his touch, her skin tingled.

“Haven’t you heard what happens to gently-bred young ladies when they meddle where they aren’t wanted?”

Was he threatening her? An icy feeling spread through her body like ripples on a pond. Hot on its heels, her anger unfurled. She ratcheted her chin higher.

“I hear it’s the same thing that happens to the sons of dukes who pretend to be gentlemen to hide their black hearts.”

When she turned to leave, he dropped his arm from the wall next to her head. A shiver crawled down her spine as she felt his gaze like a tangible touch. The itch to look back nearly overwhelmed her.

She ignored it, and the instinct that she run. As she strode away from him at a sedate pace, she pretended she wasn’t afraid of him.

Perhaps if she pretended long enough, the fantasy would replace her reality.

* * *

T
ristan stared after Miss Vale
. Her hips swayed in a decidedly feminine swagger. For a moment, he’d thought his warning would spook her away, but now, he didn’t know. She didn’t seem afraid of him. In fact, there had been venom in her voice. She hated him.

What had Harker told her about him? He shook his head. It didn’t matter.

“What was that?” Morgan leaned against the door frame of the library.

Tristan dropped his gaze to his hand. His fingers ached from the memory of touching Miss Vale’s soft, silky skin. Could she possibly be a threat to him? She hadn’t seemed particularly frightening. If anything, she seemed innocent.

Too innocent.

Tristan gritted his teeth. “Miss Vale. She knocked over the vase.” He clenched his fist. The door had been ajar when he’d reached it. She’d been spying on them. She had to have been.

The realization washed over him like an icy rain. How much had she heard?

Morgan didn’t seem as concerned. He shrugged. “Did she? I thought we left her in the sitting room.”

They had. When Tristan had slipped out, she’d been cornered by Theodosia Biddleford and Hester Maize, two old gossips with hawkish stares. Morgan, the more noticeable of the two of them, had escaped first. Tristan had waited to ensure his brother hadn’t aroused suspicion before he followed. He’d timed his exit perfectly, so Miss Vale wouldn’t be at liberty to follow.

He glanced down the hall, but she hadn’t lingered. “She claimed to have come searching for a book.” Despite her excuse, she hadn’t so much as entered the library.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “It is a library,” he pointed out. “Lucy showed her the way during their tour this afternoon.”

“Then why the secrecy? Why skulk about in the hall?”

Morgan’s gaze lingered on the shards of pottery from the vase. “Maybe she heard voices and didn’t want to interrupt.”

Tristan grimaced. “Maybe she heard every word of our conversation.”

Stepping forward, Morgan clapped his brother on the shoulder. Tristan twitched his shoulder, throwing off the touch. He didn’t need his brother to brush away his concerns as if they didn’t matter. Tristan was the one who went out into the field; a misstep would put his life in jeopardy, not his brother’s.

“Even if she did,” Morgan said, “we didn’t admit to anything incriminating. Let her believe she caught us in something. If she’s bumbling around shattering pottery, she isn’t a very good spy to begin with.”

That lightened Tristan’s mood somewhat. Morgan was right. Miss Vale acted far from a seasoned spy. So what was she doing at this party? Had Harker tasked her to spy on Tristan and his brother?

Maybe she’s been duped.

Tristan clenched his fist, trying to banish the memory of touching her. Maybe she was a very good actress, and he was the one being duped.

T
he farther Freddie
strode from the library, the more her tremors dissipated. Why had she let Lord Graylocke intimidate her? He was a scoundrel, a traitor, but if he’d meant to hurt her, he would have done so. Could he have a shred of honorability in that muscular frame?

She paused as she reached a junction between two corridors. Straight ahead to the left were the broad marble stairs leading to the guest chambers on the floor above. To the right, the long hallway ended in the ancient door leading to the portrait hall. Long shadows stretched down that corridor, a product of the reflected light near where Freddie stood.

She glanced over her shoulder. The hallway was deserted. The silence weighed on her. From somewhere deeper in the abbey, she heard the distant
tick, tick, tick
of a pendulum clock. Her heartbeat matched the steady rhythm.

Lord Graylocke was in the library with the Duke. That meant he would certainly not be in his bedchamber. Had he hidden the book there?

Weariness swept through her at the thought of more subterfuge. She’d have to avoid the other members of the Graylocke family, along with any servants. If she was caught… She didn’t know what punishment the duke would seek, but she didn’t anticipate enjoying the outcome.

They are French filth.

Even that thought didn’t motivate her to move.

But the thought of Charlie did. Of Freddie’s mother, too. This was for their future, a future far away from Elias Harker. If she could free them from his influence, the threat of punishment paled in comparison with the reward.

Please let Lord Graylocke be stupid enough to keep the book in his room unguarded.

Freddie filched the nearest candelabra from a pedestal. The intricately-wrought, silver-coated metal imprinted into her palm through her silk glove. Taking a deep breath, she arrowed along the hall toward that heavy wooden door. The flames spluttered with her quick steps. She shielded them with her free hand as best she could.

When she reached the tall, forbidding door, she hauled it open only far enough to slip inside. It thunked shut. She flinched as the sound echoed and amplified along the vaulted ceiling of the room.

No light drifted through the windows this time. They yawned far above her, gigantic swathes of shadow perched high on the walls. The candelabra shed light in a yellowish ring, reflecting off the dulled metal of the suit of armor. The visor on the helmet glinted as though someone was watching her. The hooded gazes of Tenwick dukes long dead crawled across her skin.

“There are no such things as ghosts.”

Could she be sure of that? She had to approach those disapproving faces in order to find the well-concealed door between them. Tentatively, she stepped forward, giving the other artifacts in the room a wide berth. She didn’t want the bust of some ancestor sniffing her bosom again—or worse, shattering on the floor.

The heels of her evening slippers clicked on the floor as she stepped forward. The sound resonated, throwing itself back at her as if someone followed her. When she glanced behind, she saw no one.

Find the door and get out of here
. Unease tickled the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, peering at the spaces between the overlarge paintings and trying to avoid the way the candlelight caught the flecks of paint in their expressions.

The door.
Finally.
It wasn’t shut by a latch or lock, but rather with a large iron ring. The ring was hard and a bit rough, as though she felt the beginnings of rust beneath her gloves. When she tugged gently on the ring, the door stuck fast. Transferring the candelabra to her less dominant hand, she dug in her heels and yanked on the door. It pulled free of the frame with a groan that echoed in the darkness. Her pulse pounded as she slipped inside.

When she shut the door, the resulting gust of air kicked up a swirl of dust. It coated Freddie’s throat. She coughed, making a face at the bitter taste.

The candlelight slid over drab stone covered in dust and cobwebs. Clearly, the servants didn’t clean this portion of the abbey. A smudged trail down the center of the passageway indicated that it got some use, likely by Lucy. The air smelled musty and stale.

As Freddie continued down the passage, it narrowed. The walls seemed to close in on her, now barely wider than her shoulders. The ceiling passed no more than a foot over her head. Breathing in pants through her mouth, she followed the passage as it changed direction. The stone on either side of her muffled all sound, even that of her breathing. Her heartbeat sounded overly loud in her ears.

At last, the passage led directly to another wooden door. Like the first, this had no handle on the inside. She braced her palm against the wood and pushed. The door didn’t stick as badly on this end, but there was something hampering its ability to open. When she slid through the gap, holding the candelabra away from her body, still in the passage, her questing fingers met heavy, embroidered cloth. A tapestry? She wrestled it over her head and pulled the candelabra through, hoping it wouldn’t catch flame.

Instead, she managed to bang her wrist on the edge of the door. The candelabra fell from her fingers and landed on the floor with a clang. The light guttered out. Freddie swore beneath her breath. She knelt, scooping up the metal fixture and the warm wax candles that had fallen free of their holdings. When she entered the hall, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Light mirrored along the hall. She wouldn’t need the candles. She thrust them into a corner and shut the door.

The tapestry was a deep, royal blue and silver, the Tenwick family crest of a stag rearing on its hind legs. It was massive, easily six feet wide and ten feet tall. No wonder it had been so heavy. When it settled against the wall, it concealed the door perfectly. The light in the corridor threw her shadow across the fabric.

She turned. Down the narrow corridor, closed wooden doors punctuated the walls. Between them were costly paintings and tables with statuettes or vases of flowers. Freddie counted ten doors. Which belonged to Lord Graylocke?

She started on the right. The first door, unlocked, swung inward to display a monstrously large room. Bed, settee, wardrobe, and various other pieces of furniture didn’t seem to make a dent in the space. A fire burned in the grate, casting warmth and orange light across the room. Since the room was empty, Freddie slipped inside. Over the bed hung a large, detailed portrait of the current duke. She made a face. What kind of man wanted to sleep beneath his own portrait? This must be the Duke of Tenwick’s room, for she couldn’t imagine Lord Graylocke sleeping in the shadow of his brother’s painted gaze.

She was about to leave when she recalled that Harker had named the duke a French spy as well. Could he have possession of the code book? Freddie may not get the opportunity to search unhindered again.

The room was neat, tidy. Everything had its place, which made her search both easier and more difficult. She removed items with precision and replaced them with care not to mix up the order. She started at the stand beside the bed, searching along its bottom for a hidden drawer or latch. Then she searched beneath the bed, ran her hands across the mattress, fluffed every pillow, checked his wardrobe, felt along the other furniture in the room, and approached the two closed doors. One led into a dressing room that was utterly plain. She couldn’t have found a place to hide a book in there. The other door was locked. She searched, but couldn’t find the key. When she turned, her heartbeat quickened as she stared into the benevolent painted gaze of the Duke of Tenwick. He couldn’t have hidden the book behind the painting…could he have?

She had to check. With trepidation, she approached the bed and climbed atop it. The mattress was soft and gave easily beneath her slippers. Her knees wobbled as she tried to find her balance. She used the wall next to the painting as an anchor. When she found her footing, she hooked her fingers along the bottom of the portrait’s gilt frame and pried it from the wall.

Her fingers screamed at the effort. Blast, but this thing was heavy! It must have taken four men just to mount it on the wall. She hissed in pain as the frame dug into her flesh. She used her other hand to stick her fist beneath, holding it away from the wall. The throbbing in her fingers dulled. She couldn’t stand like this forever. The pressure soon mounted near to unbearable.

“He’d have to be mad to hide it behind this dratted thing.” She peeked beneath, trying to discern any kind of shape. Of course, the light from the hearth didn’t illuminate this far, and she saw nothing. She would have to feel her way along the edge, to see if it was mounted behind. The frame cut off her circulation as she felt. The tips of her fingers started to tingle. She moved quicker.

Nothing. Not a book, not even a mysterious letter from a paramour. She yanked her hands free. The motion sent her off-balance. She bit her lower lip as she careened back onto the bed. Pain jarred her mouth as she impacted and bounced. She breathed hard and pressed her glove to her mouth. No blood, but it stung.

She hurled herself off the bed and noticed that her impact had mussed the pristine coverlet. Drat! She hurried to right it. No sooner did she finish than she stepped back, noticing that the duke’s portrait was crooked. Her fingers smarted, recalling the weight of the painting. She gritted her teeth.
Too damn bad.
With luck, he wouldn’t notice. She was not fixing it. In fact, she was leaving this room posthaste.

She opened the door. Voices and figures from down the hall made her shut it reflexively. At the last moment, she pulled back and eased the door into its frame soundlessly.

Her heart pounded like a drum. What if it was the duke?

A woman’s voice pierced the air. “Goodnight, my dear. Are you off to bed?”

That was the Dowager Duchess. Freddie’s knees weakened with relief.

Until a man’s voice answered. “Not quite yet. I must check on my night-blooming flowers in the orangery. I’ve only come to change out of my evening clothes.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” the dowager chastened. “I have plenty of games planned for the morrow.”

“Of course.” The man sounded resigned. “Sleep well, Mama.”

“You, too, dear.”

A door opened and shut, far too close for Freddie’s comfort. She backed away from the door. Where could she hide?

She heard a second door shut, farther down the hall. Her knees weakened in relief. She sat on the edge of the settee as she waited for her heart to calm. It hadn’t been the duke, after all.

She shook her head.
What am I doing?
She was no spy. She wasn’t prepared for this sort of thing. Maybe she should leave, ensconce herself in her room and stay there for the remainder of the party.

You’re so close. Are you a coward?

She didn’t have to be a coward to be afraid of what the French spies would do to her if they found her. But she’d left them in the library, and she’d taken a shortcut through the passageway to get here. She still had time to search Lord Graylocke’s room, if she hurried.

She slipped into the hall. Muffled voices emanated from the room directly across from the duke’s. She slipped past. The room next to the one with voices opened to reveal an empty adjoining bedchamber. The locked door in the duke’s room must lead to one, as well. She continued down the line. The next door she opened led to Lucy’s room, judging by the feminine décor. The one next to hers also contained muttering. It must be Lord Gideon. Freddie slipped across the hall and tried the next door.

It opened to reveal a room that was clearly in use. The hearth was cold, but there was a candle on a table by the door, burned halfway to the holder. Clearly, it had been left so far from the rest of the room in order to prevent anything from catching fire.

Nothing in the room was neat. Didn’t Lord Graylocke have a valet? Even if he didn’t keep one—the man was absent, after all—one of the other servants should have tidied his room. The room was smaller than the duke’s, made to seem even more so from the clutter. The bed was made neatly, though a man’s banyan had been carelessly tossed across the foot. On a low table beside the armchair facing the hearth were piles of books. Some had pieces of paper sticking out of them, marking the place where he’d left off. Lord Graylocke’s house slippers had been abandoned at the foot of the armchair, though they had been arranged neatly. Spare coin littered the top of the sideboard, along with scraps of paper and other trinkets. Was that a rabbit’s foot? How bizarre. Freddie’s head reeled as she tried to take in the full breadth of the chaos.

She didn’t have time to linger. She had to search. At least, unlike with the duke’s room, she didn’t have to worry about putting things back in their place. There didn’t seem to be any sort of order to the mess whatsoever.

At least this room didn’t contain a larger-than-life portrait of Lord Graylocke. If Freddie had had to be subjected to his shrewd gaze while she searched his room, she might have swooned.

She began with the books beside the armchair. The plush, oriental-patterned rug muffled her footsteps. She sank to her knees as she rifled through the books, even flipping through them to ensure that no secret correspondence was hidden between the pages. She found no red book with a gold-embossed seal on the front. She ran her hands over and beneath the armchair. Nothing.

Why was the fire in Lord Graylocke’s room out, whereas the hearth in the duke’s bedchamber was lit? Curious, Freddie crouched in front of the hearth and explored the neatly-swept fireplace. She found no loose bricks, even when she reached as far up the chimney as she dared. The only thing it earned her was soot-blackened sleeves and gloves. She turned her gloves inside out and stuffed them in her reticule along with her detachable sleeves. The small bag bulged with the contents and she couldn’t draw it all the way closed.

Irritable, she moved along the room as quickly as she dared. She found no secret compartments, no books hidden behind paintings, no lumps or hard items in the pillowcases or mattress. When she reached the table next to the bed, she paused. She perched on the edge of the mattress as she picked up one of six miniatures collected on the bedside table. Lord Graylocke’s parents and siblings. He kept portraits of them next to where he slept? She traced the frame with reverent fingers. He loved his family.