I Spy a Duke (5 page)

“I was just—” No, that wasn’t right. Nothing was right when he stood here like this. It was all highly improper.
 

She stepped back from him, willing her capricious heart to stop pounding so swiftly. She should say something. Break the tension. Last night, she’d had a clear objective. Bandage his hand. Get information. He’d seemed to respond to the woman who knew how to take charge of a situation. The same woman she’d been when Evan was alive. Competent. Capable. Fierce.

Blast it all, she could be that woman again.
 

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” There. She’d managed to keep her voice level. That was something, at least.

“I saw you outside from the window in my office. I wanted to thank you for bandaging my hand last night.” He held up his hand, showing her that the wound was but a scratch now.
 

“It was no trouble at all.” Her brows wrinkled as she examined his hand. “Just as I thought. The cut wasn’t deep, so it should heal up nicely.”

“Thanks to your expert bandaging. Shall we take a walk?” He extended his arm to her, motioning to the path in front of them.

Her uncle had always said not to refuse dukes, but Uncle Timothy had spent a large part of his adult life thoroughly foxed, so Vivian didn’t trust his opinion. How could she possibly focus when she was touching Abermont? When he stared at her so, as though his attention was completely upon her—as though they were the only two people in this garden, in this house, in this world.
 

But it was not as if they were truly alone. The estate buzzed with activity. A few paces to the right, a gardener tended to the rose bushes, while another pruned the trees. Everywhere she turned, someone else was near. Those were fears for nonsensical gels, not ape leaders like her.

She accepted his arm, her gloved fingertips barely brushing against the sleeve of his coat. A minimal touch that should not have resonated through her body as it did. Dash him and his infuriatingly good looks, the likes of which could make a woman on the cusp of spinsterhood believe in flights of fancy again.

Abermont slowed his ground-devouring strides to match hers. “I trust you are well today, Miss Loren?”
 

The duke had asked her this very same question at least twenty times in the past, whenever she saw him in the nursery. Before, she’d wondered if he really cared about her response.
 

This time, however, was different. His head tilted toward hers. His tone lacked distance; he spoke to her as though she were his peer. Maybe last night had begun a new bond between them, one forged in the sad kinship of mutual grief. Fitting, when the loss of Evan was one of the few things she’d been honest about in the last six months.

“I am well enough,” she said. Though the emotional quality of her life left something to be desired, she had ample shelter and food. She lived.

He caught her distinction, arching a brow at her. “Just
enough
?”
 

“As you said, sometimes the days are long and terrible. It becomes hard to see past the memories.” She focused on the path ahead, one foot in front of the other in a defined route. Certainty, when the rest of her life mired in shadows. “But sometimes, I remember what it was like before his passing, and I pretend that I feel like myself again. It’s easier on days like this, when the sun is bright and the heat leaves no room for the cold hand of death.”

She didn’t know why she spoke so freely around him, when she never talked about what had happened with anyone else. He, of all people, was the last person she should have confided in—yet the words spilled out before she could stop them.

He nodded, this time in solemn understanding. “On most days, I consider well enough an accomplishment.”

She bit her bottom lip, frowning. “I must believe that it will someday get easier.” When she finally looked Evan’s killer in the eye and exacted sweet vengeance, she’d begin again, her duty fulfilled.
 

Revenge was the most important thing. Perhaps the
only
important thing.
 

They’d reached a fork in the path. Would Abermont choose the sunny road to the left ending at the gazebo, or the more secluded stroll through the orchard? When he hesitated, Vivian took the decision from him. She started down the path most traveled. The safest path. Because this pull to him was dangerous, and she had enough danger in her life.

What she needed was stability. Answers. Neither were things the Duke of Abermont could provide for her.

Something new flickered across his face as he registered her choice. Perhaps disappointment that she’d chosen a path less secluded; perhaps her eyes deceived her entirely. She could not be sure, and she did not want to examine it. She’d made her decision.
 

She walked with purpose, quickening her stride. He fell into step with her, never missing a beat, in tune to every change.

“Perhaps all we can hope is for a new normal,” he ventured. “It’s never going to be the same as it was. But I think, eventually, you’ll achieve peace of mind. You’ve much to accomplish still.”

She managed a small smile. How she wanted him to be right, but she doubted it. “Your optimism is reassuring.”
 

“It ought to be, as I am right about nearly everything,” he teased.

She grinned for real now. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid it’s a family trait,” he pronounced, as they strolled down the rhododendron-lined path. “While I am right a solid eighty-five percent of the time, my sister is right an absolute ninety-five percent of the time. If you find me an officious bore, I challenge you to engage in conversation with Elinor for more than two hours and not wish to club her over the head with the nearest vase.”

She laughed. “‘Officious bore’ is the last phrase I’d use to describe you.”

He led her through a section filled with poppies, roses, and lupins, the juxtaposition of the colors reminding her of one of Thomas’s kaleidoscope toys. “Oh, really? I’ll admit, the scandal sheets have described me as ‘infuriatingly handsome’ and ‘deliberately standoffish.’ Which one is closest to your thoughts?”

She did not confess that the former was the most apt description she’d ever heard of him. Nor did she tell him how much walking with him made her forget the chasm between them. Her father had been the second son of a viscount—even before she’d accepted Sauveterre’s mission and became a governess, they wouldn’t have been on equal footing.

 
“Neither,” she replied, careful to keep her voice as light as his. Lying had apparently become second nature. “I would say that while the Duke of Abermont thinks a bit too highly of himself, he is startlingly easy to talk to, and he has excellent taste in brandy.”

He stopped in the middle of the path. “Ah, you reveal too much, miss. It’s my brandy you want, not my company.” His grin never faltered as he started walking again.

She swallowed the sigh of relief before it escaped her throat. Of course, the brandy. The drink that had seemed so scandalous last night had barely crossed her mind today.

“You’ve caught me, I fear.” She tilted her head toward his, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I might as well tell you now, but at night I sneak into your office and filch half a shot from that brandy decanter. Just a little nip, mind you, never enough that you’d notice it.”

He tipped his hat to her. “You clever little thief. ’Tis a brilliant plan, were it in any way factual.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. She spun around to face him. He couldn’t suspect her, could he? No, she’d been careful. She'd never mailed a report to Sauveterre from the house; she'd always gone down to the village. She kept his letters in the bottom tray of her jewelry box, which she wore the key to around her neck.

“That is the art of a good crime, is it not?” The merriment in her words did not reach her insides. She could not lie to herself, yet. She was a thief, not of physical objects but of information. She knew more about his family than any servant should. “It must be perpetuated in a way that no one ever suspects it’s occurred in the first place.”

 
“Why, little governess, I do think you are much more cunning than I’d originally suspected.” The amusement twinkling in his eyes, so different from the grief the night before, made her heart squeeze perilously.

She’d
made him laugh.
 

And she’d be the one to rip that joy from him and stomp upon it because she needed whatever dirty secret he hid so that she could convince Sauveterre to give up the name of Evan’s killer. Faced with the choice between revenge for her brother and guarding Abermont’s feelings, she’d choose Evan. Every time.

But she could at least make it hurt less. No more pretending they could be friends, no matter how easily her past sorrows spilled out when she was around him.

She drew to a stop in front of a thriving patch of narcissi, removing her hand from his arm. “Would you excuse me, Your Grace? I’ve just remembered that I promised Lord Thomas I’d help him with his arithmetic before dinner. He wants to impress his tutor, you see. Mr. Martin wagered one night free of lesson work if he solved every problem right on his exam tomorrow.”

Abermont’s eyes widened. He was likely surprised by her abrupt exit. She dropped a quick curtsy before scurrying away from him.

She was an explosion waiting to happen, and she needn’t make him be the one to trigger the tripwire.

CHAPTER THREE

The next day after dinner, James sat in the parlor with his best friend, Richard Denton, the Earl of Haley. The Haley estate bordered Abermont House, and the two boys had grown up together. James could not remember a single day of his childhood where Richard and their other neighbor, Deacon Drake, weren’t present.
 

Both Richard and Deacon now worked as agents for the Clocktower. In fact, Deacon was currently in London, overseeing operations while James was with his family.

“When you return to London this Season, your cover will need to be intact,” Richard declared between puffs on his cheroot, crossing one long leg over the other. “Sitting out one Season was acceptable when you were grieving your sister, but missing two is unconscionable. The
ton
is clamoring for the return of the new Duke of Abermont.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” James grumbled. “Elinor has already counted six mentions of our family in the scandal sheets.”

The upcoming Season would be an unmitigated disaster, as every old dragon with a marriageable age chit would corner him at balls and routs, as intent on making her daughter a duchess as Bonaparte was on reshaping the world in his vision.
 

Devil take him, he didn’t have
time
for distraction, and he certainly didn’t want to take a wife. England’s national security depended on him—even when all he wanted to do was run in the opposite direction.
 

“At least Korianna has already left for London.” Smoke wafted from Richard’s cheroot as he nodded. “With her in Town, it’ll give you time to plan ahead. The gossipmongers will be so focused on what Korianna’s doing that they won’t have time to look closely at you.”

James stifled a groan. He dreaded what the papers would write about his middle sister’s latest exploits. Korianna was too brash, too reckless. So far, she’d never come up across a situation she couldn’t lie or fight her way through, but every time she was in the field he worried.
 

She refused to take his direction. Just like Louisa had.
 

James ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t blow something up again.”
 

“
Again?
” Richard stopped mid-puff, the cheroot dangling limply from his fingers.

He raised his eyes meaningfully at his friend. “Hanover Square.” He’d had a devil of a time explaining that one to Wickham. His heart constricted. Of course, Louisa had thought it hilarious. That had been the end of Korianna and Louisa partnering on missions. They were too similar, spontaneous and forceful. They needed a tempering influence on them, like Arden or Richard.
 

But even that had not been enough to save Louisa.

“You’re quizzing me,” Richard said. “She blew up Hanover Square?”
 

“Swear to the Virgin Mary.”