“I don’t know why Lucy insists on showing the ancestors’ hall to everyone.” Morgan stretched his legs out in front of him, a half-empty glass of amontillado dangling loosely in his right hand.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Vale somehow finagled the tour,” Tristan said as he leaned against the mahogany sideboard in Morgan’s office and drained the remains of his own glass.

Turning, he grabbed the crystal decanter and poured another half-glass of the amber liquid. Pausing with the tumbler halfway to his mouth, he glanced at the painting of a centuries-old fox hunt on the wall above the sideboard. The hunt reminded him of the spy game in which he was currently entrenched. Was he the fox or the hunter? He didn’t know.

When he turned back, Morgan looked at him quizzically. “Why would Miss Vale do that?”

“I found her staring at the door to the private family quarters. If she is Harker’s spy—”

Morgan set his tumbler on the desk with an audible click. “We don’t know that she is.” He stood. Although Tristan was broader in the shoulders, his brother stood an inch taller. He used that height to his advantage as he stepped closer to Tristan. “You’re jumping to conclusions. I haven’t heard anything about her from our contacts and besides, she seems awfully young…and looks very innocent.”

Tristan stiffened. “We’ve seen younger and more innocent-looking spies. You’ve trained women to act that way to mislead people.” He set his glass on the sideboard and crossed his arms, refusing to move away from his brother and show that Morgan had the upper hand. Morgan might be a duke, but Tristan was the man out in the field. “Miss Vale may be slyer than she lets on. You, yourself said we should watch her.”

Morgan’s left eyebrow twitched, a sign of irritation. “I didn’t mean for you to harass Mother’s guests.”

“I wasn’t harassing her. I happened upon her and Lucy in the ancestors’ hall.”

“Precisely,” Morgan snapped. “It may be coincidence. You know how Lucy loves to dramatize, and she’s fixated on that old passage. Let’s not antagonize anyone until we’re certain of their allegiance.”

“You mean like Harker?”

Morgan made a face. “The decision not to touch him comes from a higher authority than me, you know that.”

“I don’t like sleeping under the same roof as him.”

Morgan sighed. He raised his hand to toy with the white streak of hair at his temple. “Neither do I, but I can’t very well lock him in the stables. My assistant is keeping an eye on him.”

Tristan’s boots thudded on the wooden floor as he paced the length of the room. “We have to rid ourselves of the book before Harker finds it. The sooner, the better.”

As he turned back, he found Morgan seated in his desk chair once again. His brother liberated the sherry from its nest of papers. Tristan couldn’t begin to guess which pile related to the various Tenwick estates and tenants, and their seat in Parliament, which Morgan sifted through as part of his contribution to the spy network, and which was correspondence. If Morgan died before he produced an heir, all that paperwork would fall into Tristan’s lap.

He suppressed a shudder. One more reason why he was glad he was the one doing the fieldwork, whereas Morgan decoded and compiled reports.

After sipping from his glass, Morgan raised his eyebrows. “I won’t argue with you.”

Tristan clenched his fists. With a sigh, he retrieved his sherry from the sideboard. “If Miss Vale is his spy…”

The eyebrow started twitching again. “We don’t know that she is a spy at all. Still, I do wonder about that business in the entry hall with Harker. They seemed…close.” Morgan narrowed his eyes and looked up at Tristan. “Perhaps she is his mistress.”

Tristan choked on his drink. The liquid stung as it shot up his nose. He sputtered as he cleared his airway. When his eyes stopped watering, he gasped, “Mistress to that old goat?” He made a face. “I can’t imagine why she would. Unless she was somehow coerced.”

Morgan’s left brow raised a hair. “I’ve never heard you defend a woman before. I hope she isn’t turning your head.”

Tristan managed a thin smile. “You know me better than that.”

Tristan’s head wasn’t turned easily by women. Not that he refused offers to warm his bed, but he always treated his bed partners kindly and never made any promises. His relationships were always short-lived. A long-term relationship meant he would be beholden to someone and that was something Tristan was definitely not interested in.

Finishing the last of his drink, Morgan stood. He grabbed his sapphire tailcoat from the back of his chair and slid it over his broad shoulders.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions about Miss Vale and I certainly don’t want to antagonize her. If you want to keep an eye on her, by all means do, but don’t make her feel unwelcome. Not until we know for sure what kind of woman she is.”

Tristan gritted his teeth, but didn’t want to get into another argument—even if he knew in his gut that his brother was wrong. He checked his pocket watch. “We’d best be getting down to dinner.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ll ask around discretely about Miss Vale. In the meantime, we’ll be careful around her. At least, until we discover the real reason she seems to be so friendly with Elias Harker.”

A strange pain squeezed Tristan’s chest at the thought of Miss Vale with the lecherous old Harker. His hand closed into a fist. Harker had no charm to offer a woman like her. Any liaison between them would have to be forced on his part.

Ignoring that strange protective feeling, Tristan muttered, “We will discover the reason for their friendliness.” And if the bounder was forcing himself on her, whether Tristan had orders not to lay a hand on the man or not, he was determined to stop it.

Oblivious to the dark turn of Tristan’s thoughts, his brother grinned. He clapped Tristan on the shoulder. “Of course we will. You can’t keep a secret from spies, can you?”

* * *

Freddie moved the boiled apple pudding around on her plate, willing her eyes to remain fixed on the dessert in front of her. She’d suffered through three torturous courses of dinner, each with over ten dishes served, but had hardly eaten a bite. She couldn’t wait for the evening to end.

“You will sit with us after dinner won’t you, Freddie?”

Charlie leaned forward, speaking around the uncomfortable young man seated between them. Throughout the course of the meal, he hadn’t said a word. Every time Charlie had so much as glanced his way, he’d turned red in the face. Freddie pitied the poor man. He was clearly out of his depth. She knew exactly how that felt.

When she glanced toward her sister, her eyes slid like magnets farther up the long, narrow table to the far end, where the brothers Graylocke sat. Tristan turned his head so fast, the forelock of his fashionable Brutus haircut bounced onto his forehead.

Was he looking at me just now? It had to be her imagination. Freddie was easily overlooked. Forgettable.

“Freddie?”

She forced a smile and met her sister’s insistent gaze. “Of course I will.” Inwardly, she kicked herself. She would have to find a way to sneak off later.

The tinkling of silver on porcelain signaled the end of the meal. The diners finished their dessert and pushed themselves away from the table. Seated on a diagonal from her, Harker took the opportunity to cast a pointed look. Pressing her lips together, she nodded. I didn’t forget, you dimwit. She hadn’t gotten a chance to search for the book yet. She’d been engaged from the moment they arrived.

As the guests milled, the men retiring to drink port and smoke cigars with the duke, Lucy navigated the chaos to reach Freddie and Charlie. As she did, she linked arms with Charlotte. She tilted her head toward the door, choked with female bodies as they retired to one of the salons as directed by Lucy’s mother.

Freddie followed Lucy as they crept along at a snail’s pace.

“Charlie’s shown me some of her embroidery. Beautiful detail work, better than I could ever do. Do you have a talent for embroidery too, Freddie?”

“I’m afraid not,” Freddie said as she followed the two younger women.

“Freddie is the smart one,” Charlotte said proudly. “She likes to read, and she’s always outdoors in fine weather.”

Lucy smiled. “Then you’ll delight in tomorrow’s events,” she exclaimed. “Mother has planned a variety of outdoor activities and games all week.”

They turned into a large room furnished in pale blue and gold. Above a dado, a panoramic Neoclassical scene was papered on the walls. It depicted a blue sky, greenery, the ocean, a mountain, and Greek men and women entwined in a dance. The detail work was exquisite. Tufted sofas and upholstered chairs ringed the room. Some of the ladies were already seated and starting to work on their embroidery, tatting or crochet. Freddie recognized Charlie’s embroidery hoop set in a plain basket. Lisane must have brought it down. In one corner of the room rested a vacant pianoforte. For the moment, the ladies ignored it.

Freddie felt as out of place as a circus bear. Her needlework was beyond abysmal. She shifted from foot to foot. “Maybe I ought to go to the library to fetch a book.”

“You can’t,” Lucy said, her eyes widening. “The men are in there with my brothers.”

Drat!

“It’s fine. We’ll sit over here in the corner. No one will notice you haven’t got any sewing.”

From the hawkish gazes of some of the women, including Mrs. Biddleford and Miss Maize, they had already noticed. Freddie stiffened her spine and followed as Lucy claimed a trio of chairs in the corner. With difficulty, she hauled one so the occupant’s back would be partially toward the group. Freddie gave in to the weakness flirting with her knees and dropped into that chair. A moment later, Charlie joined them with her basket of embroidery. Lucy plucked the notebook and a stubby graphite pencil from her reticule. At least Freddie wouldn’t be the only one without needlework.

Charlie hummed a cheery tune under her breath as she picked up exactly where she left off. Within moments, soft chatter filled the room.

Lucy tapped a page riddled with indecipherable scrawl with the butt of her pencil. Was Freddie certain that she wasn’t the one carrying the code book? It might as well be code, for all that Freddie could decipher it. After a moment, Lucy flipped the brown leather book shut. She held it on her lap.

Turning to Freddie, she asked, “Have you met all the guests?”

Freddie twisted in the armchair to scan the interior of the room. Most of the faces she recognized, though some were obscured by the angle. “I think so. I’m sure we’ve crossed paths once or twice in London.”

“What of the men?”

Freddie shrugged, helpless. “I can’t recall who is here.”

“My brothers, of course.”

When Lucy shot her an expectant look, Freddie nodded. “I’ve met the three in attendance, of course.” Her stomach shrank at the thought of seeing Tristan again. Somehow, she had to separate him from a book he would most likely be set upon keeping. Even when not in the room, he sent a shiver up her spine. She didn’t relish the thought of completing her task.

But she must, for Charlie’s sake. For Mama’s.

Lucy’s face fell. “Giddy’s friend Catt—Mr. Catterson—is also here. Have you met him?”

Freddie shook her head.

Encouraged, Lucy continued, “He doesn’t have any notable fortune, but he’s as smart as a steel trap.”

Freddie smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You will the moment you meet him,” she said, gushing. “He’s as intelligent as Giddy. A botanist, too, you know.”

What could Freddie say to that?

“That’s very impressive.”

Seated across from her, Charlie had her head cocked to the side. A smile played around her mouth as she exchanged a glance with Lucy. “Intelligence is a very good quality in a match. Wouldn’t you say, Freddie?”

Had she finally come to her senses? A weight melted off Freddie’s shoulders. “Indeed it is,” she said with an answering smile.

Lucy beamed. “If Catt doesn’t come to snuff, I daresay one of the other gentlemen will. We have more than one scholar in attendance.”

With that, Lucy launched into a dizzying list of titles, breeding, and intellectual pursuits. With each, Charlie praised the man’s good qualities with more enthusiasm than Freddie had ever heard from her, barring her embroidery. Had she only needed to present Charlie with a scholarly candidate for marriage? Freddie hadn’t expected Charlie to shine so much at the prospect of marrying a man whose interests deviated so far from her own. Freddie warmly encouraged the conversation, watching her sister’s face light up.

When Lucy had finished with her list, Charlie leaned forward. She even set aside her embroidery.

“So, Freddie, which do you like best?”

Freddie frowned. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Your happiness matters most to me.”

Charlie batted her hands. “Nonsense. I’ll be happy with whomever you choose. Though he should be good to Mama. I wouldn’t like you to marry a man who would turn her out.”

Me? Freddie’s voice caught in her throat. The twin eager gazes of her companions bored into her, awaiting her verdict. “I thought we were discussing your candidates for marriage, not mine.”

Charlie wrinkled her nose. “Why would I want a stuffy man who spends most of his time locked away with books? No offense meant.”

Lucy laid her hand on Charlie’s sleeve. “I don’t know any of the others personally, but Catty I can vouch for as a respectful young man of good manners and good humor. Shall I introduce you?”

If Britain had had two such tenacious generals on the front lines, Napoleon would have already surrendered. Freddie flapped her mouth as she stared from one woman to the other.

At that moment, movement in the doorway saved her the need to answer. Freddie stifled a sigh of relief. She never thought she’d be so glad to see the gentlemen return.