Tristan Graylocke flattened his palms on the smooth mahogany railing of the second floor balcony overlooking the front hall at Tenwick Abbey.

A sigh escaped his lips as his eyes grazed over the throng of people in the entryway below him. “I can’t think of a single thing I hate more than these parties.”

Next to him, his older brother smirked. “Prinny?”

Tristan grimaced. Heaven help Britain, because the indolent, self-indulgent heir to the throne, and his senile father certainly wouldn’t. It was a wonder the country hadn’t gone up in flames the moment Pitt had died three months ago.

Tristan ran a hand through the longer forelock of his hair. “Prinny has never tried to marry me off.”

Morgan’s chiseled face and square jaw, almost an exact replica of Tristan’s, hardened as he watched the crowd. His gray eyes showed no sign of emotion. The only indications of the pressures of being a duke were the slight tic in his cheek and the streak of silver in his hair.

Tristan shot his older brother a grin. “Luckily, I have you to distract Mother. She’ll likely try to marry you off to any lady healthy enough to produce an heir.” Tristan laughed. “Once again, I’m happy I didn’t inherit.”

It was Morgan’s turn to sigh. He had been only twenty when their father passed, leaving him with the title and responsibility of a duke. Early on, their mother and grandmother hadn’t pressured him about marrying, but now that he neared thirty years of age, that changed with remarkable quickness.

The only pressure Tristan received from Mother was to stop his carousing. Impossible. He couldn’t exactly say, I’m a spy, Mama. I get my best information that way. No, in the ton’s eyes, his gambling and carousing labeled him a degenerate. To the families with the bluest blood—in other words, almost everyone Mother had invited to this charade—it made him unmarriageable. A relief, to be honest. Tristan preferred to spend his money on investments of his choosing, not on feminine fripperies.

“If I’m lucky, she’ll focus her efforts on Lucy.” Morgan nodded toward the entry where their younger sister, Lucy, stood next to Mother as they greeted the new arrivals. Compared with mother’s steely gray and brown hair, Lucy’s jet black hair—the same color as all the Graylocke siblings—provided a stark contrast. Lucy wore her hair in an elaborate coil around her head, threaded through with creamy pearls that matched her dress. Though he was too far to see from his vantage point, Tristan imagined her dark brown eyes, the exact same color as his, sparkling with delight. This was Lucy’s first Season and she thrived beneath the attention heaped on her.

“Does she have that confounded journal sticking out of her dress again?” Morgan asked as he squinted across the room.

Yes, there it was. The brown leather corner of the journal his sister carried everywhere stuck out of the bulging reticule hanging from her wrist. Lucy fancied herself to be a novelist. The notebook, she insisted on keeping on hand to record various moments of inspiration as they came to her.

“She does,” Tristan confirmed.

“Well, at least she isn’t sequestering herself away from everyone like Gideon.”

Tristan scanned the room for their youngest brother. The tallest of the Graylockes, he should have been easy to pick out from the crowd. If he was there. Which he wasn’t.

“I suppose we’ll have to drag him out of the orangery again.”

Upon completing his education, Gideon had foregone his Grand Tour and shut himself in their orangery instead to put his extensive knowledge of botany to good use by inventing a new species of orchid. He barely thought of anything that didn’t have roots and the brothers often had to remind him to eat and bathe.

“Mother will be livid if he doesn’t make an appearance,” Morgan agreed.

Their mother, Evelyn Graylocke, hosted the annual house party at Tenwick Abbey for one reason: to show off her children to advantage. Along with the rest of his brothers, Tristan would rather have been in the middle of a battlefield between Napoleon and the Third Coalition. However, none of the Graylocke brothers had the heart to disappoint her. Since the death of their father, the party had been one of the few things that brought her joy.

Tristan’s heart warmed as he watched his mother greet the newly arrived guests, a wide smile of genuine happiness on her face. She chatted with each new arrival before sending them off to mingle with the other guests or turning them over to one of the many footmen who would lead them to their rooms.

The whole of Tenwick Abbey, the expansive, centuries-old monastery that the Graylockes had called home for nearly twelve generations, had been aired out for the party. The granite stones scrubbed, the carved mahogany polished, the twenty fireplaces cleaned and stocked with wood. The maids had laundered enough linens and towels to paper the walls of the abbey from floor to ceiling twice over. Under his mother’s supervision, the entire east wing had been reorganized into comfortable accommodations for the two-week-long affair.

“Operating with all these guests underfoot will be a nightmare.” Tristan gritted his teeth to keep from making a face at the thought.

Even if all parties in the war had entered into a shaky truce or fled home to lick their wounds, in the case of the Russians, the war was far from over. Britain and France had entered into an economic stalemate. Britain held command of the trade routes by sea; Napoleon held most of the continent. Times like these, in the lull between battles, was when Tristan’s job was most important.

Morgan’s, too, though Tristan was loathe to admit it. The one thing Tristan could do that Morgan couldn’t was enter the field to spy. Tristan could afford to take risks. Morgan, as Duke, could not. But, with so much information to comb through, his contribution to the spying network was invaluable. Without Morgan, Tristan wouldn’t be in possession of the book he was tasked with passing along.

Morgan ran his hand over the railing, his face impassive. “Mother will expect us to attend most of the activities.”

Games, contests, dinners, and balls. And all while under the scrutiny of vicious ton gossips and matchmaking mamas. Oh, joy.

“We can’t let that deter us.”

Morgan nodded, shifting his gaze to Tristan’s face.

“Where is the book now?” Although they stood alone on the balcony to the family’s private wing, he whispered.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Safe.”

“We must get it into the right hands before the war turns.” Morgan pressed his lips together.

“Passing it off beneath the noses of the most meddlesome matrons in the ton is a foolhardy plan.”

“To the contrary. This party provides us the perfect cover.” Morgan’s voice was hard, steely to match his eyes.

Tristan thrust his shoulders back. He met his brother’s gaze, unflinching. “If the wrong person happens across it…”

“It’s your duty to protect it.” Morgan spoke in his ducal voice, a voice sharp enough to chip ice.

“And I will.” Tristan bit off his words. He turned away. “But once I pass it off, it will be someone else’s responsibility.”

“Our agents are trained well.”

Morgan should know. He trained most of them.

A rotund gentleman in a brown redingote and topper swaggered into the foyer. Tristan swore.

“Harker!” Morgan clenched his fist as he turned. “Who invited him?”

“Mother must have.”

“Why?”

Tristan wondered the same thing. Even though Mother had no idea about the brothers’ spying efforts—and therefore no knowledge of the fact that Harker was an enemy spy, albeit one labeled untouchable by Tristan’s superiors—Harker was no better than swine. The mystery of his invitation dissolved as a joyous squeal lit the air. Lucy embraced one of the three women Harker escorted, a blond girl about her age.

Tristan sighed. “On a guess, I would say that Lucy begged her to.”

“Who is that with him?”

Tristan leaned forward on the balcony. Aside from the blond and a pale-haired older woman who must be her mother, Harker stood next to a plainly-dressed young woman. Her brown hair was coiled and pinned without flourish. She wore a brown spencer that rose to her chin, coupled with a faded blue dress. Her bonnet, which she held in her hand, was equally drab. She couldn’t possibly be related to the striking blond beauty. A companion, perhaps?

“That must be Miss Charlotte Vale, the beauty everyone is talking about.” Tristan nudged his brother. “Perhaps Mother thinks she’d make you a good wife.”

Morgan snorted. “I don’t think so. I usually find the beautiful ones to be rather dim-witted. Besides, I’m not ready to settle down yet.”

“What about your heir and a spare?”

Morgan’s gaze turned piercing. “I’m not dead yet. I have time.”

Tristan chuckled. “Less of it than you think, if this year’s guest list is any indication.” Almost every family invited included one or more unwed daughters. With the way Mother waged war, Morgan ought to recruit her into his spy network.

His smile fading, Tristan turned to study Harker and his companions once more. That scoundrel’s presence complicated his mission. He would have to be even more discreet than usual.

As for his companions… The blonde was pretty enough. In comparison, her companion should have faded into the background. Tristan found himself studying the curve of her cheek, the way she carried herself, and her protective manner toward the blonde. A beam of sunlight filtered in through the open door, highlighting rich chestnut hues in her hair.

“Sisters, do you think?” Morgan asked.

Tristan shook his head. “Too plain. My money is on companion.”

“Can the Vales afford to hire a companion?”

“Harker can.”

As if his name carried weight, Harker lifted his beady gaze to the balcony. He leaned close to whisper in the brunette’s ear. Slowly, like clouds parting after a rainstorm, she turned her face up. Toward Tristan.

Their eyes locked. A strange tightness clamped over Tristan’s chest. He couldn’t look away. From this distance, he couldn’t make out the color of her eyes. At that moment, he’d never wanted to know such a banal piece of information more.

“What are they whispering about, do you think?”

Morgan’s voice pierced Tristan’s strange daze, but he still couldn’t summon the will to look away. “I haven’t the faintest. Do you suppose Harker has put her in place to spy on us?” The vise around his chest tightened, rebelling at the notion.

“An interesting thought.” Morgan drew out the words, as though tasting them while he spoke. “Perhaps Harker has outfitted himself with reinforcements…I say we might be well served by keeping an eye on that one.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Tristan replied. He broke his gaze in order to follow his brother toward the stairs leading to the hall below.

* * *

Freddie’s heart skipped a beat as the cold, dark eyes pierced into hers. Traitor’s eyes. A tingle traversed her spine—a chill of foreboding. Strangely enough, it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation.

“Don’t stare at them,” Harker hissed, low enough so only she could hear. “You’ll give yourself away.”

Ripping her gaze away, she returned her attention to the people in front of her. Mama watched with narrowed eyes, her gaze flitting between Freddie and Harker.

“Do you two have a secret?” She smiled, but Freddie noticed the concern in her eyes.

Freddie laughed to lighten the moment. “Of course not, Mama. Lord Harker was just pointing out the architectural details on the banister above.”

When they glanced at the railing again, the balcony was empty. Freddie’s heartbeat quickened. Where had the brothers gone? She bit her lip. Hurry up, Charlie. Never before had Freddie felt such a keen urgency to retire to her room to freshen up.

Beside her, Lucy and Charlotte pulled away from their embrace in order to link arms. Both wore broad smiles. From the moment they’d been introduced earlier in the Season, they’d formed an instant friendship.

“I’m so happy you could come. We’ll have a smashing time!” Lucy leaned her head so close to Charlie’s that the curls at their temples brushed. She lowered her voice. “The other girls are so boring, only interested in sizing up the peers for marriage.”

Charlotte laughed. “I have no such aspirations for myself, though I will be looking for Freddie.”

Freddie found herself pinned beneath Lucy’s shrewd brown gaze. Lud, Charlie. Why did you have to say that? She forced a smile.

In answer, a sly look crossed Lucy’s face. “Between the two of us, I think we should be able to find someone who will suit her. Will the two of you join me later? I’ll give you a tour of the abbey and we can discuss our plan.”

A plan for marriage? Freddie’s cheeks heated. They spoke about her as if she wasn’t there! I don’t want your help. The last thing she wanted was a husband, a man who believed himself better than her.

She stiffened her back. “I hardly think—”

“Ladies.”

A frisson of awareness leaped up her spine at the deep, male baritone. Freddie spun. Her breath caught in her throat as she came face to face with the man responsible.

Tristan Graylocke.

Like most men, he ignored her. He peered straight over her shoulder as he addressed his sister. “It looks like you’re having a grand time.”

Did Lucy know her brother was a traitor? From her sunny smile, Freddie guessed not.

“I am. Have you met the Vales?” Lucy released Charlie’s arm in order to gesture at the group.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” The low, controlled voice drifted from Freddie’s left. A glance confirmed that the other Graylocke brother—the duke—stood on her other side. They’d cornered her.

Lucy glanced to each of them in turn, ignoring Harker, who had taken a healthy step back. “Mrs. Vale.” Mama inclined her head. “Miss Charlotte.”

Technically, Lucy should have introduced Freddie first, but she couldn’t begrudge Charlie the chance to shine.

“Miss Vale.”

Oh. That’s me. Gathering her skirts, Freddie dipped in a curtsey. Her toe slipped on the polished floor and she nearly introduced herself to the floor. She clenched her fists as she righted herself. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lord Graylocke raise his eyebrows as he exchanged a glance with the duke. Blast! He’d noticed her clumsiness.

Lucy, to her credit, pretended Freddie didn’t resemble a Fanny Royds doll. She nudged Freddie forward as she said, “May I introduce my brothers, the Duke of Tenwick and Lord Graylocke?”

A round of curtseys and a chorus of ‘Your Grace’ and ‘my lord’ ensued. This time, Freddie managed to do it without drawing attention to herself.

When she straightened, she found herself pinned beneath Lord Graylocke’s stare. His gaze flitted between herself and Charlie. “Sisters?”

She didn’t take offense at his incredulous tone. Most people were surprised to find that the plain Frederica Vale was related to the beautiful Charlotte.

Freddie raised her chin. “Indeed.” She took a small step to the right to shield Charlie from his interest. With any other man, she would have done the opposite, but she didn’t want that traitor to bat an eyelash in her sister’s direction.

Without Charlie to lavish with attention, Lord Graylocke caught Freddie’s gloved hand. He raised it between them. “It is my pleasure to welcome two such lovely sisters into our home.” He bent, ghosting his lips across Freddie’s knuckles. An antiquated gesture. One that made her hand tingle as if she’d stuck it in a bush full of nettles.

He lifted his gaze to find hers. His eyes weren’t black, as she’d originally thought, but a deep velvety brown. Her heartbeat stuttered. The world spun around them, Lord Graylocke—Tristan—her only anchor.

She had agreed to steal a book from him? Impossible. At the moment, she couldn’t even reclaim her hand. If she did, the spinning world might induce a swoon.

Every muscle in her body urged her to flee. At that moment, Tristan Graylocke wasn’t staring at her as if she were another debutante arriving to the house party. He stared at her as if he knew exactly what she meant to do—with a fierce determination to stop her.