Fluffy white clouds boiled across the sky like a pot about to froth over. Slivers of blue sky peeked between them. The sun’s rays battled with the clouds, occasionally shining through for a second before falling behind cover once more.

Freddie looped the hem of her faded beige skirt over her left arm. The embroidered roses marching crosswise down the skirt bunched—Charlie’s handiwork. Taking strength from her sister’s love even when she wasn’t near, Freddie raised her chin and picked her way across the tidy green lawn after Tristan.

He led her across the broad, sweeping yard toward a shed. In this isolated portion of the grounds, the abbey looked like a looming castle without a moat. Farther east, trees cropped up in groves, but the shed was isolated from them. The only landmark of note, topping a small rise fifty feet beyond the shed, was a tall, gnarled oak. Given the breadth and reach of its branches, it must have stood on the grounds as long as the abbey had, if not longer. Freddie craned her neck back as she examined the branches, so high overhead that the shadow nearly stretched all the way to the shed. This early in spring, tight green buds hadn’t yet unfurled into leaves.

Tristan followed her gaze. “That’s been there as long as I can remember. I think we have a portrait of one of the old dukes standing beneath it.”

Freddie smiled. “It’s like a family heirloom.” She had precious little of those, seeing as her father had gambled away anything of value.

Tristan barked a laugh. “The only thing of value I’ve ever gotten from that tree has been a broken bone or two when I fell out.”

“Why would you try to climb it? It’s gigantic!”

He shrugged. “I was a boy. I liked the lure of danger.”

“I’d say you still do.” He had become a spy for the enemy, after all. Every day he walked in the shadow of the hangman’s noose.

Gravity befell Tristan’s features. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Maybe I do,” he muttered under his breath.

He spun on his heel and approached the shed. Freddie stiffened at his abrupt change in demeanor. For the first time since they’d emerged from the abbey, she realized how far they’d ventured. Alone. No one, not even another servant waited nearby.

With trepidation, she approached the shed. She found Tristan collecting a dozen or more rackets. He seemed perfectly capable of completing the task on his own.

She placed her hands on her hips. “I thought you needed my help.”

He flashed a grin. Inside the shed, his face was bathed in shadow, but that smile still made her breath hitch. “When did I give you that impression?”

She scowled. “Hand me some of those rackets or I’ll return to the house.”

Although she expected him to protest and carry them all himself due to some misguided notion of the delicacy of her gender, he willingly divided the pile. If he carried a few more rackets than her, he evened it out by giving her three shuttlecocks to carry.

They left the shed and strode across the lawn. Freddie found it difficult to juggle her skirts and the load at the same time, but she pressed her lips together and made no complaint. When they reached the shadow of the abbey, they found Lady Graylocke waiting along with a half-dozen sleepy, disgruntled guests. Tristan deposited his rackets on the ground, and accepted Freddie’s and her burden of shuttlecocks. With relief, she dropped her skirts to cover her ankles once more. Showing her stockings to this mixed group made her uncomfortable.

Curiously, she hadn’t felt that way with Tristan. She pressed her lips together, purging the thought from her mind. If only she could rid herself of the awareness of his presence so easily. He stood next to her, his heat like a brand searing her even through her shawl and dress.

The hostess herded the sour-faced guests toward the pile of rackets, which Tristan handed to everyone. Following Lady Graylocke’s lead, they formed a ring a few yards away. “Bring only one of the shuttlecocks, Tristan. We’ll leave the others for when the rest of the guests awake.”

Tristan scooped up one of the shuttlecocks and two rackets. When Freddie reached for one, he held it out of her grasp. “Do I have something you want?”

Was he talking about the racket or the code book? Or, heaven forbid, his kiss. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She forced herself to look away.

Bending, she snatched a different racket out of the pile left over. “You’d best remember that I don’t need your cooperation to get what I want.” She turned, striding toward the group without a backward glance.

Tristan followed. As she took up her position in the ring, he claimed the spot next to her. The group shifted, moving farther apart to give them room.

Tristan began, bouncing the cone-shaped shuttlecock toward her. With the cage-like sides, it fluttered delicately. She whacked it out of the air, toward the gentleman on her right. Turning to Tristan, she rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to fall to pieces if you lob the shuttlecock toward me properly. I’m no delicate flower.”

His gaze darkened. “Made of more mettle than that, are you?”

“Certainly.”

“I should expect nothing less from a woman so eager to engage in…battledore.”

Freddie narrowed her eyes. Did he reference her spying abilities? If he did, none of the other guests appeared to attend the conversation.

As the shuttlecock circled back around, she caught it easily and continued it on its journey around the ring before she answered.

“You say that as if you disapprove, but it is the very sport you chose to engage in.”

The corners of his mouth turned down, though he battled to keep the scowl off his face. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you are a man and I’m a woman?”

Freddie’s voice carried. To Tristan’s left, a young woman snorted behind her hand. She pretended not to listen, but her eyes twinkled as she followed the path of the shuttlecock. On the other side of the ring, a young man missed the cone and it fell to the ground. He relinquished his racket with what looked like relief. Freddie suspected that he’d lost on purpose, for the excuse to return inside. The game resumed with one less player.

Tristan sidled closer, lowering his voice. “Far from it. I disapprove because you are innocent of the rules.”

Freddie tightened her grip on her racket. “I’m a quick study.”

“I don’t think you realize how hazardous the game can be.” As the shuttlecock reached him, he batted it with an elaborate flick of his wrist. The cone whizzed to the ground near Freddie. She lunged forward and barely managed to position her racket beneath it in time. Once the shuttlecock buoyed through the air on its way to the gentleman on her right, she glared at Tristan.

He shrugged.

“You weren’t born knowing the rules,” she said, her voice stiff.

He met her gaze, his eyes glittering and cold. “No, but I was a sight older than you are when I learned them.”

Across the ring, his mother exclaimed, “What lies are you telling? You’ve been playing battledore since you were a boy.”

His expression tightened.

We aren’t talking about battledore.

He didn’t admit as much, however. With a thin smile, he said, “Maybe so, but I didn’t fully comprehend the rules as a child.”

“What rules?” His mother laughed. “It’s a simple enough game. You must keep the shuttlecock in the air for as long as possible. If you drop it, you’ve lost and must forfeit your spot. The last person standing wins.”

Freddie fixed Tristan beneath a falsely sweet smile. “See? It sounds simple enough to me. If you can do it, so can I.”

A few chuckles emanated around the circle.

The game continued. More debutantes, chaperones, and gentlemen exited from the abbey to form rings of their own. Occasionally, those who had lost in Freddie’s ring but still cared to play went over to other groups. Their group shrank to only four members—Tristan, his mother, Freddie, and the gentleman to her right. Tristan’s hits grew steadily more challenging as he tried to trip Freddie up. When his toss combined with her clumsiness nearly earned her a mouthful of grass, she glared at him.

Tristan didn’t seem bothered by her animosity. “I don’t know what lured you to play battledore. You can barely keep your feet.”

Were they still talking of spying? As the shuttlecock swiftly came around again, Freddie lobbed it toward the gentleman next to her with a bit more force than necessary.

“Circumstance.” She bit off the word.

“I don’t know of any circumstance that could lure me to join.”

On his left, his mother frowned. “If you don’t like the game, Tristan, by all means, you don’t have to play. You can return to sleeping the day away whenever you’d like.”

Tristan rubbed at his temple. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Of course it wasn’t. They were speaking about the war again. At least they seemed to do it in such a way that no one else seemed to catch on.

“Then what do you mean?” Lady Graylocke’s voice was clipped.

“Nothing. Please, forget I said anything. I withdraw the comment.”

Freddie lifted her eyebrows. “Forfeiting to a woman?”

He made a face. “I have done it when my opponent is worthy.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I emerge the victor.”

He made another elaborate pass, which Freddie caught easily, for once. She was growing accustomed to the give and take of the game. She’d staked out a steady little square of even footing and had managed to work out a way to move about without stepping on her hem.

In a blasé tone, Tristan said, “I will never forfeit to you.”

“Tristan,” his mother exclaimed, aghast. “I didn’t raise you to insult my guests.”

She focused the full brunt of her attention on him and missed the shuttlecock. It fell to the ground by her feet. She made no move to pick it up. Although she was a small woman, her displeasure was like a sharp-edged weight on the air. Freddie was glad the hostess didn’t turn that look on her.

Tristan cringed. He bowed stiffly in Freddie’s direction. “Please forgive me. I meant no offense.”

Lady Graylocke harrumphed. “I should hope not. If you insult one of my guests again, you can hie yourself back to London and your whores.” She stormed away from the group. The air rang with her departure.

Freddie’s mouth fell open at his mother’s crude words. Her cheeks flushed, even though she wasn’t the person to whom the words were addressed. Freddie didn’t have any comparison, but the kiss he’d delivered her had felt masterful. Did Tristan pay for the privilege of enjoying a woman’s…company?

It isn’t any of your business if he does. Their kiss aside, she had no intention of surrender to him again. In passion or in any other way.

The conversation’s abrupt tone scared away their last competitor. With a muttered excuse, the man dropped his racket and left to join the line of those practicing archery. At some point during the morning, the servants must have set up the targets, two of them facing each other fifty yards apart.

His cheeks ruddy, Tristan bent to scoop up the shuttlecock. “I suppose the game has run its course.”

Freddie raised her chin. “Why? Because it’s only the two of us?”

His dark eyes glimmered with an unspoken emotion. “My dear, this game has been between the two of us from the beginning.”

“Then let’s play. I won’t forfeit to you.”

His chiseled features hardened. “Nor I to you.”

“Throw the shuttlecock.”

He did. The game rapidly devolved into a heated match between them as they each tried to force the other into submission. They were evenly matched. When Freddie grew hot, she doffed her shawl and removed her sleeves.

Tristan’s face was set with determination. He watched the shuttlecock, never faltering a step, but also kept Freddie pinned beneath his examining gaze. What was he thinking? Beneath that shrewd stare, she was much less graceful than she’d hoped, but she held her ground.

“What circumstance leads you to align with the wrong ally?” He still spoke in cryptic terms, in case the ladies and gentlemen strolling past listened in. Their match drew quite a few gazes.

Freddie wiped the sweat off her upper lip. “You’re the one who is allying themselves with the wrong side.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You can’t possibly seek to defend your relative.”

From his dark tone of voice, she gathered he meant Harker. She gave a one-shouldered shrug, but her next volley at the shuttlecock was weak. “You can’t choose your relatives.”

“No. But that doesn’t mean you have to follow them blindly.”

Freddie bit her lower lip. That was exactly what she suspected he’d done with his brother. He had no right to comment on her decisions, when he’d clearly chosen to do the same. At least she aligned herself with Britain instead of with the enemy.

“You don’t know the decisions I’ve made. I’ll thank you not to condemn me because of choices you don’t understand.”

He lobbed the cone back in her direction. She stumbled as she lunged to catch it in time.

“If you expect me to look the other way and let you win, you’re in for a disappointment.”

She scowled. “I don’t expect you to change your tune.” Even if it would make her life easier. “But don’t expect me to give up, either.”

He met her gaze for a moment as he bounced the shuttlecock lightly on his racket. “Then, Miss Vale, may the best man—or woman—win.”

* * *

The hour must have grown close to two of the afternoon by now. The guests had begun filtering off the lawn and into the house to change their clothes and search for vittles. Freddie’s arms ached from holding up the racket for so long. Given the beads of sweat on Tristan’s forehead, he was just as uncomfortable beneath the blazing sun, which had departed from its bed of clouds near to an hour ago.

Their tense battle of wits had grown quiet, though neither was willing to surrender. Freddie’s heart throbbed with the urgency to leave the match and make her way to the abandoned chapel in the north of the abbey. If she left soon, she still had a hope of reaching the location before the duke and his spy contact.

Unfortunately, Tristan seemed determined to stop her. His jaw was set, his eyes hard. He focused more on her than he did on the game, though he seemed to have more difficulty hitting the shuttlecock after so long. He was sluggish to respond, though her weaker hits didn’t give much of a challenge. Between volleys, he tugged at his cravat, as if he dearly wanted to remove it.

His single-minded focus on her convinced her that he wouldn’t let her out of his sight long enough to sneeze. She needed a distraction or an excuse even he couldn’t refute.

Arm in arm with Lucy, Charlie approached. Freddie watched her sister from the corner of her eye, but couldn’t greet her without forfeiting the match. She continued to play.

“I’m going to change and sit down to lunch. Will you two be joining us?”

A burst of relief radiated through Freddie as she grasped on the opportunity. She made a half-hearted attempt to catch the next throw, but purposefully let her racket fall short. The shuttlecock buried itself beneath the trampled grass.

“Oh, dear. It looks like I’ve lost.” Dropping her racket on the ground in defeat, she bit her lower lip to keep from smirking. “Charlie, I might as well accompany you.”

Tristan snatched the shuttlecock from the ground and held it aloft. “Wait. I call foul. You missed that on purpose.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Tristan, give the poor woman a break. You’ve been at it for hours.”

“But—”

Freddie linked arms with her sister. As the three women walked away, she wiggled her fingers over her shoulder at Tristan. He stood on the green, his hands clenched around his racket and the shuttlecock.

She expected to feel relieved to finally leave him behind. Instead, her shoulder blades tingled with the weight of his gaze.

And with the urgency of what she had to do next.