Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) (17 page)

Heaven help her, but she craved his good opinion. She liked the amiable truce they’d formed. She didn’t want to bloody well do this spying business anymore.

She had no choice. But it was obvious from his tone that he wasn’t about to tell her the location of the code book. She would have to find out on her own, when she could rid herself of his company.

Not now.

She cleared her throat. “I did borrow a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe that I hadn’t read yet.”

Some of the tension in the air eased with this neutral topic. “Oh? And how did you find it?”

She countered his move and took one of his pawns. He frowned. She grinned. She wasn’t going to let him win, either.

“Actually, I was a bit disappointed in it. I like her later novels better.”

He leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and propped up his chin as he mulled over his next move. Freddie counted only three viable options to put him in a favorable position, and she’d already lined up her pieces to counter the one she thought him most likely to choose.

He surprised her, proving himself a worthier opponent than she’d earlier assessed. She might have to take more time to think over her moves going forward.

He said, “And what sort of book impresses you?”

“I prefer not to see women painted as weak and malleable. Men can be just as weak.”

His eyebrow twitched as she made her move. At her play or at her words? She kept her finger on the top of her bishop, holding it in place as she reconsidered the move. No, she liked it. She let it stand.

“Are you referring to
The Monk
?”

She smirked. “You’ve read it too, have you?”

“I have, though I have to say, I don’t know how well I’d like to be cast in Ambrosio’s role.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

He gave a rueful shake of the head as he met her gaze. “You’re something of a feminist, aren’t you?”

She bristled. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” He offered the word with a shrug of his shoulders. It was a casual statement, a fact.

She’d half-expected him to belittle her.

He added, “There are weak and malleable women in this world—men, too, I’m sure. But you, Freddie Vale, are not in danger of becoming one of them.”

His adamant tone teased a smile from her lips. “You aren’t one, either.”

That seemed to please him. The grin that curved his mouth was nothing less than radiant. Her heart lurched as he asked after other books she liked, leaning closer to her as if the answer was vital to him. As if he cherished her opinions.

Was there any way that Harker could be wrong about Tristan being a French spy? Maybe he was a double agent. Anything would be better than him being her enemy.

Because, deep down, a small part of her feared that it would be very easy to fall in love with him. And that was the one thing she couldn’t afford to do.

T
ristan put
out his cheroot and drained his tumbler as the other gentlemen got to their feet. Some groaned at the thought of rejoining the ladies—those who were unlucky in love or, worse, had a matchmaking mama on their heels. Frankly, Tristan was surprised that his brother, Morgan, wasn’t among their number. Every lady in attendance had set their cap for him, barring perhaps the Vale sisters.

The thought of Freddie flirting with his brother set jealousy simmering in his stomach. She might only be spending time with him because they were swept up in a battle of wits, but if she set her cap for Morgan, it might ruin him.

Did Freddie think of marriage? She must. All young ladies considered it, even those who fancied themselves feminists. Until the day they could hold fortunes of their own, they were dependent on the men in their lives to care for them.

The man in Freddie’s life was Harker. That man never adjourned with them to the library, and with good reason. He would receive hostile treatment even from those who had no notion of his spying allegiances. It was no secret that he was rotten to the core.

With a sigh, Tristan got to his feet. The other men slapped each other on the back and ribbed each other as they filed through the library door. As Tristan moved to follow, his brother called his name.

He held back, gritting his teeth as he sought to find composure. If this was about Freddie… He turned to face Morgan.

For once, Morgan didn’t look disapproving. He looked weary and worried. A furrow formed between his eyebrows. If he wasn’t careful, the white streak near his temple would engulf the rest of his black hair.

Morgan eyed the doorway, waiting for the last man to vacate the library before he spoke. Tristan braced himself for a reprimand.

Instead, Morgan spoke through clenched teeth. “I haven’t been approached by our contact. Have you?”

Tristan shook his head. “I’ve installed myself at Miss Vale’s side, to keep her from ferreting out the book. No one has approached us.”

Morgan hung his head. He covered the small, defeated motion by running his hand through his hair. It didn’t fool Tristan. His brother was distraught.

“I’ve had my aide investigate the luggage of every servant and guest, to no avail. The party won’t last for much longer. If we don’t pass along the book here…”

“Then we’ll do it in London. Damn what anyone thinks. They shouldn’t have changed our contact at the last minute.”

Morgan rubbed his forehead. “Our contact might not be from London.”

“Didn’t Mother choose all the guests from those who came down for the Season?”

“Not all.”

Tristan pressed his lips together. “Then perhaps focus on the ones we won’t be able to reach in London.”

“And if our contact is a temporary servant?”

Tristan wasn’t used to seeing his brother so out of his element. Usually Morgan was calm, composed, the voice of reason. He gave the assurances, he didn’t need them. Tristan often chafed beneath his brother’s direction, but now that the tables were turned, he felt queasy. Gingerly, he reached out to clasp his brother’s arm and offer comfort.

“It sounds to me like you’re doing all you can. We don’t know who the replacement is. We have to await the signal. If they don’t give it, then the fault is theirs, not ours.”

Morgan didn’t leave things undone. For that matter, Tristan didn’t, either. He caught his brother’s gaze. “We have a few days, yet. We’ll see this through.”

Morgan accepted Tristan’s platitude without argument. That, more than anything else, worried Tristan. Why was this mission so important to him? The code book was important—it would give their operatives a new method of communication unknown to the enemy—but in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t end the war. Their lives would continue as usual.

Wrapped in thought, Tristan traversed Tenwick Abbey at his brother’s side. When they reached the parlor where the ladies were gathered, Tristan paused in the threshold, searching for the one woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his thoughts.

He found Freddie, dressed in a muted blue evening dress tonight that scooped just beneath her collarbone, next to the notorious gossips, Mrs. Biddleford and Miss Maize. Freddie’s stance was hostile, her expression was livid. Color flushed her cheeks. A few strands of her hair escaped their pins, forming an angry halo around her face. She looked ready to do violence.

Lud, what was she about to do? He had to stop her before this went too far.

* * *

I
f the disparaging
comment had been about Freddie, she might have been able to walk past with her head held high. She’d faced censure before, after all, when Papa had died, leaving such a weight of debt on their shoulders. She’d survived that, shielding her mother and sister from the worst of it.

But Mrs. Biddleford and Miss Maize weren’t talking about Freddie, or her no doubt suspicious attachment to Tristan of late. They spoke about her sister.

“Look at the way she bats her eyelashes. That Miss Charlotte doesn’t seem to care how many fall under her spell.”

Freddie stiffened. Outrage beat at her breast. She struggled to subdue it, but she could not walk away. She turned to the two busybodies. Tonight they were dressed in eye-searing colors—fuchsia for Mrs. Biddleford, with her sheer fichu tucked into her bodice, and leaf-green for Miss Maize. Miss Maize wore a necklace of fat peridots following the lower cut of her dress. Both ladies shut their mouths as Freddie turned.

She glared down her nose at them. Harder to do with Mrs. Biddleford, considering she was of a similar height, but Freddie managed all the same. She clasped her hands in front of her stomach, fighting the urge to do violence.

No one said a word against Charlie.
No one.

“Perhaps I should caution you not to repeat untruths about people whose characters you don’t know.”

Her voice was clipped, but even.
Well done.
She held herself stiffly. As the gossips’ gazes turned predatory, she realized this battle was far from over.

Mrs. Biddleford narrowed her eyes. “To the contrary, Miss Vale. I believe the young lady in question has made her character quite clear.”

Freddie’s jaw slackened. Her ears rang as if she’d been slapped. Pain radiated from the fingers of her right hand, clenched so tightly in the left.

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe I heard correctly.”

Freddie thought the words so vehemently, they spouted in the air—from a different mouth. She turned as Tristan stepped smoothly to her right, installing himself at her elbow. His expression was tight, his gaze unforgiving. He rested his hand on Freddie’s back and turned his gaze down to her. His eyes softened.

The tension in her posture eased, as though some leached into his body. Was this what it was like to have a partner, someone to face the evils of the world alongside? Freddie had always shunned the notion of marriage, but she’d never felt supported like this. If this was what marriage felt like, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

She hardened herself to the thought. She had no fortune, no prospects, and no beauty. Charlie would do well for herself, that Freddie vowed, but she knew better than to hope for the same luck.

To Tristan, she said in a cool voice, “I believe they were insinuating that my sister’s reputation is less than pure.”

“Oh?”

Freddie didn’t know how the raise of an eyebrow could appear dangerous, but Tristan made it so.

He turned to the two busybodies. “Then my sister must be in danger as well, for the two have been inseparable from the moment the party began.” His tone deepened, lethal. “You would never dream of speaking out against my dear sister, would you?”

Mrs. Biddleford’s eyes widened until she resembled more owl than chicken. Miss Maize’s mouth dropped open. They clamored atop one another to reassure Tristan that they would never do any such thing.

He smiled, a mirthless expression that bared his teeth. “Then it is settled. Whatever you heard about Miss Charlotte must be false as well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Of course.”

The pair made a hasty excuse and left. Tristan stared them down until they reached the other side of the room. When they were a safe distance away, he dropped his hand from Freddie’s back. She felt the loss of the touch deeply.

He turned to her, a smug glint in his eye. “That ought to silence them, wouldn’t you say?”

Yes.
She opened her mouth to say something—maybe to thank him—but the words that tumbled out were not the ones she intended.

“Why did you do that?”

His face fell. His eyebrows knit together in a frown. “I beg your pardon?”

She wiped her clammy hands on her dress. “Why did you defend my sister? Please don’t misunderstand me—I am grateful—”
Grateful
didn’t begin to describe the snarl of emotions knotted in her chest. “—but you can’t possibly know for sure that she’s been with Lucy the entire time. The pair have a tendency to escape their chaperones, as you well know.”

Tristan’s tongue teased his lower lip. He didn’t appear to notice, deep in thought as he searched for an appropriate response. Freddie noticed. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. Her lips started to throb with the memory of his kiss.

She forced herself to meet his gaze once more. Not a trace of his usual humor lingered in his eyes.

“You looked as though you were about to exacerbate the situation. With vultures like these, you must retain a cool head.”

He sounded as though he had experience. What kind of condemnation did a man like Tristan ever have to face?

She crossed her arms. “Being the son of a duke doesn’t hurt.”

A teasing grin swept across his face. Her heart flipped at the sight of it. He had no right to be so devilishly handsome. Or to come to her rescue like some knight in shining armor. She could take care of herself—and her family—on her own. She always had before.

His gaze twinkled with good humor. “Exactly. It was my duty and my birthright to help you.”

She tightened her arms across her chest, half-hugging herself. “You still didn’t have to defend me. What do you care about my family’s reputation?”

That serious look re-entered his gaze. “It’s important to you.”

She threw her hands in the air. “You don’t even like me!”

Gravity befell him. “To the contrary. I like you a great deal.” His voice was soft. It carried no farther than her ears.

Her arms dropped limp to her sides. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak.

She liked him too, a great deal. More than she had any other man. And certainly much more than she ought to.

When had she stopped hating him?