In the evening, Tenwick Abbey glittered like it was lit from within by a thousand stars. The effect was performed through lit candelabras perched on narrow, Neoclassical pedestals set at intervals throughout the hall. Behind each pedestal, a small round mirror in a gilt frame reflected the light down the hall onto various other mirrors, large and small, oval and square, all in equally ornate frames. A vibrant, ruby runner down the center of the hall provided purchase and muffled Freddie’s footsteps. The light shimmered across the marble floors on either side of the runner and illuminated paintings—old and contemporary, classical and romantic, long and rectangular murals and smaller portraits. Between the paintings stood other pieces of art—busts, statues of rearing horses and mythical figures—along with intricately-painted vases with fragrant cut flowers, likely from the orangery.

In short, the hallway was a nightmare to a lummox like her. It was a labyrinth of items waiting to be broken.

Holding her breath, she slipped among them, keeping to the center of the aisle. She pulled the train of her gown over one arm to keep her hands busy and well away from the priceless breakables.

As she navigated the manor, retracing the latter part of the tour Lucy had provided, she left the occupied portion of the manor behind. Chatter spilled out of a sitting room where someone had set up card tables, four guests to a table. The scattered servant passed her as she left the populated hall in her wake. Silence wrapped around her, a spell she was afraid to break. She tiptoed around the corner to the library.

This corridor was just as opulently decorated as the last. Flecks of gold in the paint of a vase reflected the light. The flowers smelled like the orangery—a thick, cheerful floral scent with a hint of citrus. The door to the library was shut, but light peeped through the crack between the door and the floor. Someone must have lit a fire inside.

When Freddie lifted her hand to the latch, she froze. Were those voices? The male baritones were muffled. She couldn’t hear the words. Holding her breath, she pulled back the latch and eased the door open a crack.

“How are we supposed to deliver the book if we don’t know who in bloody hell our contact is?”

Freddie’s breath caught. That was Lord Graylocke’s voice. Hadn’t she left him in the sitting room? Come to think of it, she hadn’t thought to double-check that he was there before she’d left.

His brother, the duke, answered him. “We pass it to whoever gives us the signal. Our contact must have been compromised. You know it happens.”

Who was their contact? Did this coincide with their spying efforts for the French? Freddie’s heartbeat drummed, but she leaned her ear closer to the door.

“I don’t have to like it,” Lord Graylocke groaned. “This makes our task more difficult. We’re under enough scrutiny during this party as it is.”

“I am,” the duke corrected. “You aren’t Duke. You can wander unimpeded.”

Lord Graylocke’s voice darkened. “Don’t remind me.”

The click of a booted footstep on the wood floor sounded overly loud and alarmingly close. Fiddlesticks! They were walking toward the door.

Freddie recoiled instinctively. Her hip banged the corner of the table. She hissed in a breath. The vase wobbled. She lunged for it, but the slick surface slipped out of her fingers and plummeted to the marble floor. It shattered, the sound ringing in the silence.

Lord Graylocke wrenched the door open. He’d removed his cravat and loosened the laces of his shirt, baring his throat. The buttons of his tailcoat were undone, displaying a waistcoat that molded to his lean abdomen. His gloves stuck out of his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” His dark eyebrows hooked over his eyes, menacing.

Freddie closed her gaping mouth. When she took a step back, he followed, advancing on her. She tripped over the train of her gown, nearly falling. He caught her by the arm above her gloves, holding her upright.

“I—I was looking for a book.” She tried to back away, only to press against the wall.

Lord Graylocke splayed his hand on the wall beside her head. He narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Of course. What else would I be doing?”

Freddie’s voice shrank the longer she spoke. Her pulse thumped like a scared rabbit. She was no short woman, but Lord Graylocke loomed around her. His broad shoulders cut off the reflected light along the hall, casting her in shadow. Warmth radiated from his frame. Her skin burned from his touch on her arm, which he still held. His touch was firm, but not painful.

He leaned even closer. He smelled of port with the smoky hint of cigars. When he tilted his head, light glinted off his irises.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, a tight, disapproving line. As she watched, the set of his mouth softened. How rough would his stubble feel?

She clenched her jaw. What was wrong with her? He was the enemy, a traitor. She loathed everything about him. She jerked her arm out of his hold. In the wake of his touch, her skin tingled.

“Haven’t you heard what happens to gently-bred young ladies when they meddle where they aren’t wanted?”

Was he threatening her? An icy feeling spread through her body like ripples on a pond. Hot on its heels, her anger unfurled. She ratcheted her chin higher.

“I hear it’s the same thing that happens to the sons of dukes who pretend to be gentlemen to hide their black hearts.”

When she turned to leave, he dropped his arm from the wall next to her head. A shiver crawled down her spine as she felt his gaze like a tangible touch. The itch to look back nearly overwhelmed her.

She ignored it, and the instinct that she run. As she strode away from him at a sedate pace, she pretended she wasn’t afraid of him.

Perhaps if she pretended long enough, the fantasy would replace her reality.

* * *

Tristan stared after Miss Vale. Her hips swayed in a decidedly feminine swagger. For a moment, he’d thought his warning would spook her away, but now, he didn’t know. She didn’t seem afraid of him. In fact, there had been venom in her voice. She hated him.

What had Harker told her about him? He shook his head. It didn’t matter.

“What was that?” Morgan leaned against the door frame of the library.

Tristan dropped his gaze to his hand. His fingers ached from the memory of touching Miss Vale’s soft, silky skin. Could she possibly be a threat to him? She hadn’t seemed particularly frightening. If anything, she seemed innocent.

Too innocent.

Tristan gritted his teeth. “Miss Vale. She knocked over the vase.” He clenched his fist. The door had been ajar when he’d reached it. She’d been spying on them. She had to have been.

The realization washed over him like an icy rain. How much had she heard?

Morgan didn’t seem as concerned. He shrugged. “Did she? I thought we left her in the sitting room.”

They had. When Tristan had slipped out, she’d been cornered by Theodosia Biddleford and Hester Maize, two old gossips with hawkish stares. Morgan, the more noticeable of the two of them, had escaped first. Tristan had waited to ensure his brother hadn’t aroused suspicion before he followed. He’d timed his exit perfectly, so Miss Vale wouldn’t be at liberty to follow.

He glanced down the hall, but she hadn’t lingered. “She claimed to have come searching for a book.” Despite her excuse, she hadn’t so much as entered the library.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “It is a library,” he pointed out. “Lucy showed her the way during their tour this afternoon.”

“Then why the secrecy? Why skulk about in the hall?”

Morgan’s gaze lingered on the shards of pottery from the vase. “Maybe she heard voices and didn’t want to interrupt.”

Tristan grimaced. “Maybe she heard every word of our conversation.”

Stepping forward, Morgan clapped his brother on the shoulder. Tristan twitched his shoulder, throwing off the touch. He didn’t need his brother to brush away his concerns as if they didn’t matter. Tristan was the one who went out into the field; a misstep would put his life in jeopardy, not his brother’s.

“Even if she did,” Morgan said, “we didn’t admit to anything incriminating. Let her believe she caught us in something. If she’s bumbling around shattering pottery, she isn’t a very good spy to begin with.”

That lightened Tristan’s mood somewhat. Morgan was right. Miss Vale acted far from a seasoned spy. So what was she doing at this party? Had Harker tasked her to spy on Tristan and his brother?

Maybe she’s been duped.

Tristan clenched his fist, trying to banish the memory of touching her. Maybe she was a very good actress, and he was the one being duped.