Tristan looked like he’d dragged himself through the grime of London’s underbelly. The scrape of the razor eliminated the dark stubble lining his cheeks, but after a night spent tossing and turning while thinking of Freddie—Miss Vale—his hair refused to be tamed. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, evidence of his sleepless night.

No woman had ever gotten under his skin this way. Then again, he’d never been pitted against a woman who seemed so innocent. Every bone in his body rebelled at the idea of her spying for Harker, even though he now had irrefutable proof. He did the dirty, dangerous spy work so that innocents like Freddie wouldn’t have to.

She’s the enemy. Even knowing that she worked for Harker didn’t ease the guilt roiling in his gut. Given the reflection staring back at him from the round handheld mirror, it showed in his appearance. At this rate, he would develop a white streak in his hair like his brother. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do without the help of his valet. Like with Morgan, Tristan’s valet was a spy in the network. With Harker in residence, he didn’t have the time to devote to traditional valet duties.

Tristan tried to tell himself that his appearance didn’t matter. The debutantes at this hellish party were here to ensnare the duke’s interest, not his. The knowledge didn’t ease the bitter feeling in his chest. With a sigh, he set aside the mirror, tied his cravat, and shrugged on his coat.

Instead of making his way to the breakfast room, he arrowed for Morgan’s door. Before he lifted his hand to knock, his brother emerged. He looked startled.

“You look like you just crawled out of Hell.”

Tristan grimaced. “I wasn’t able to sleep.”

“Women troubles?” Morgan quipped.

Tristan’s stomach tightened. More than you realize. “In a way.” When Morgan moved to step past him, Tristan blocked his path. “I found a spy in my room last night.”

The duke’s face hardened. “Why didn’t you send for me?”

“I let her go.”

At the disdain that crossed his brother’s face, Tristan curled his fists. He added, “I couldn’t very well lock up one of Mother’s esteemed guests.”

Morgan rubbed the furrow forming between his eyebrows. “Miss Vale, I take it?”

Tristan crossed his arms. “Indeed.”

“And she admitted to working for Harker?”

He gritted his teeth. Not in so many words. It had been implied, however. He’d seen the knowledge in her eyes. She’d known she’d been caught. She hadn’t even pretended to be on his side in the war, which he would have expected of a seasoned spy. Why would Harker choose a woman whose every emotion could be read on her face? As a distraction?

She had certainly been that. The feel of her soft curves against his body had driven him wild. The moment she’d surrendered to his kiss, he’d been lost. He’d been seconds away from drawing her toward the bed before he’d realized who she was.

An innocent. A virgin. For all his carousing, he didn’t defile young debutantes.

He scrubbed his hand over his mouth. “I couldn’t think straight with her in my room. She has nowhere to go while she’s here, so I didn’t see the harm in releasing her.”

The corner of Morgan’s mouth crooked up. “I didn’t know you were in danger from the plain ones.”

Plain? Was he blind? Tristan bit his tongue. It didn’t help. “She may dress as if she’s been put on the shelf, but beneath those dresses, she is anything but plain.”

The glint in the duke’s eye intensified. “If you insist.”

Tristan scowled. “What are we to do with her?”

The duke’s teasing air dissipated. In its place remained the calm, cool spymaster. Tristan could almost see the cogs in his head align as he thought through the situation. This intellect was why Morgan had always been a better chess player than Tristan. He could see five moves ahead in any calamity.

Thrusting his shoulders back, Morgan muttered, “We’ll treat her like any other spy we can’t touch. We’ll feed her the information we want her to know.”

“What about the book?” It hadn’t been in his room last night—nor had any other sensitive information. Freddie might have been clever enough to find her way into his rooms, but it had been a wasted effort. He didn’t leave things around where a curious servant might stumble across it.

Morgan turned down the corridor, leaving Tristan to match his long-legged stride. Tristan buried his annoyance as he caught up. The moment he stepped abreast, his brother spoke.

“If Miss Vale is so set on finding the book, that is precisely what we’ll give her.”

* * *

Freddie froze on the threshold of the breakfast room. Her recently-eaten eggs and bacon tumbled in her stomach. The voices mounted, growing distinct. When she peeked through the doorway, she spotted the two oldest Graylocke brothers arguing three doors down the corridor. Tristan had his back turned to her. The duke, gesturing jerkily in the air, didn’t appear to notice her. She shrunk back, but cocked her ear to the commotion. A quick glance behind her showed that the other early risers were still more interested in their breakfast than in her odd behavior. One young man even cracked a yawn. Most, like Charlie and Mama, still lay abed.

“Are you mad?”

That was Tristan’s voice, the most distinct sentence in the argument yet. Freddie leaned closer to the open door.

“I’m telling you, now isn’t the time. I found her out last night. If she discovers…”

Freddie held her breath. If she discovers what? They had to be speaking about her! Were they about to reveal the location of the book?

“We can’t afford to tarry.” The duke’s voice was colder, dispassionate. It sank into her skin like a winter chill.

Tristan, she found difficult to imagine as a French spy, considering his obvious love for his family. But the forbidding Duke of Tenwick… He might put on a good-natured mask in front of the ton, but what kind of man was he? When he let shine his true nature, such as that moment through his speech, she could all too easily imagine him a traitor.

The duke added, “We’ve been tasked to pass along the book, and that is precisely what we will do. Today.”

Freddie’s heart quickened. They must be speaking about the code book! If she didn’t discover to whom they hoped to pass off the book, it would be lost to her. Then what would Harker do?

Nothing good, given his wandering eye of late. A lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t let that happen. If she couldn’t lay her hands on the book herself, she could at least discover its recipient and remove it from their possession instead.

“If she finds out…”

“She won’t.” The duke’s clipped words cut off Tristan’s protest. “You’ll keep her busy today. Make sure Mother pairs you with her for whatever games she decides to conduct.”

I don’t think so. Somehow, Freddie would manage to escape. She and Tristan grated on each other’s nerves. He wouldn’t be able to remain by her side for long before their dislike for each other was apparent to the entire party.

Besides, he was on the wrong side. Freddie was clever, determined, and motivated. Not even Tristan Graylocke could stand between her and the object of her desire.

“And what will you be doing?”

“I’ll attend the meeting in the abandoned chapel in the north of the abbey. We’ve timed it to coincide with Mother’s games at two o’clock this afternoon. I trust you’ll be able to keep her attention tied?”

“Of course.”

Freddie clenched her hands at his smug tone of voice. His easy dismissal of her rankled. It made her even more determined to prove she could outwit him.

Just you wait, Tristan Graylocke. At two o’clock this afternoon, he would see exactly how formidable she could be.

* * *

“Miss Vale!”

No! Freddie clenched her fists. She’d almost reached the marble staircase leading to the guest quarters. How had Tristan spotted her? His back had been to the door of the breakfast room when she’d slipped out.

His footsteps quickened over the corridor, barely muffled by the runner underfoot. When she turned, irritability lacing every bone in her body, he had his mouth open to call for her again. With a gleam in his eye, he shut it. He stopped out of arm’s reach.

“Lord Graylocke.” Freddie emphasized the formal address.

His eyebrows raised by a hair. If she hadn’t been staring him in the eye, she might not have noticed.

“You look…hale this morning.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from snapping at him. Hale? She didn’t know whether to laugh or take the remark on her continued good health as a threat.

“I don’t know why you would possibly seek my company.”

She showed coarse manners by being so blunt but with him, but she didn’t give a fig’s end. He could think her the most impolite debutante north of the Channel for all she cared.

His hands, encased in tan leather gloves, curled into fists at his side. A moment later, he relaxed his grip. “Did you consider that I might want to apologize?”

For being a traitor? She bit her tongue.

He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “It was wrong of me to kiss you last night. Forgive me.”

Never. She stepped away from him. “Consider it forgotten.”

The corner of his mouth twitched before it resettled into that stark, serious line. “I doubt you’re able to forget the matter so easily.”

She crossed her arms, holding her ground. “And why not?”

“Because I haven’t.”

His low, intimate tone, coupled with the insistent look in his eye shocked her into silence. Was he trying to tell her that he’d enjoyed their kiss?

What was his game? He was a traitor, a spy. The enemy. She couldn’t allow herself to soften toward him for even a moment.

Even if she had relived his kiss last night while she’d lain in bed, awaiting sleep. After her father had cocked up his toes, she hadn’t thought much about romance or kisses. She’d been too busy keeping her family in one piece. For a moment with Tristan, she’d forgotten the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

She bit her inner cheek. She couldn’t let him know that. Undoubtedly, he sought to use the kiss against her.

As she studied him, she noticed the telltale signs of a restless night. The shadows around his eyes. The disarray of his hair, as if he’d run his fingers through it a dozen or more times this morning. Could he be telling the truth?

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change what he is.

Traitor, blackguard, spy. He wouldn’t deter her from her mission—that, she vowed.

Drawing herself up, she said, “I think it’s best if we forget everything that happened last night.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

He offered the statement with a neutral tone and expression, but there was a flash of emotion in his eyes that she couldn’t decipher. Did he mean it or was he merely trying to install himself by her side as long as possible?

The knowledge of what she’d overheard burned inside her like a hot coal. She needed to tell Harker about this exchange. If she did, maybe he would tell her that her task was complete.

No, she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that.

She lifted her chin, staring Tristan in the eye. “I’m going to my room.” She dared him to argue with her or try to follow.

A voice from behind washed over her like rainfall. “Oh, dear. I hope not.”

Freddie forced a smile as she turned to greet Tristan’s mother. She hadn’t had the pleasure of spending much time with the petite woman up close. She was shorter than Freddie, with a curved figure and an impish set to her mouth and chin. Her thickly-lashed eyes were surprisingly light compared to her coloring, blue-gray like storm clouds just beginning to build. Her hair was a deep, steely gray where it wasn’t threaded through with the brown of her youth. Despite the color, she didn’t appear to be that old. Not more than fifty, at Freddie’s guess.

Her smile, when she turned it on Freddie and Tristan, was so bright it nearly blinded. “I was just about to round up those out of bed to begin the first game.”

Freddie’s stomach dropped. She tried not to show it. “So soon? Most of the guests are still abed.”

A twinkle entered the dowager duchess’s eye as she folded her hands across her stomach. Her wrist-length, white gloves contrasted with the rich green color of the dress. “Why should we have to wait for those lay-abouts? Seize the day!”

“Carpe diem.” Tristan gave his mother a fond smile. “A fine idea, Mother. In fact, perhaps Miss Vale would care to partner me in the coming game?”

Freddie narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t even know if the game in question has partners.” She spoke in a low mutter. If he or his mother heard, they ignored her protest.

Lady Graylocke beamed. “What a wonderful idea! I don’t know if we have quite enough players for a game involving partners, but why don’t we start up a game of battledore? We don’t need an even number of players for that.”

“I haven’t played battledore in ages,” Tristan said. “It sounds like a delight.”

Freddie glared at him. He heaped on the praise too thickly to be genuine. His mother didn’t seem to notice. She patted him on the arm as she slipped past on her way to the breakfast room.

“Why don’t you fetch the shuttlecock and rackets while I round up a few more participants? I’ll meet you on the lawn.”

Freddie smirked. At last. She had a spare moment to slip away.

When she took a step, Tristan deftly stepped around her and into her path. “Miss Vale, may I beg your assistance with the rackets? There are a fair few and I could use an extra pair of arms.”

She chanced a glance down the corridor. Lady Graylocke had slowed her paces and seemed to be waiting to hear the answer. Fiddlesticks! Freddie couldn’t refuse without upsetting the host. She didn’t want to dream of how that would reflect on Charlie if she did.

She pressed her lips together, letting Tristan know with her glower that she was not amused. “I’d be delighted to help.” Her voice was tight.

“Wonderful!” He reached out, tucking her hand onto his sleeve and guiding her down the hall.

She glanced wistfully at the stairs as she passed.

With a sigh, she returned her attention to Tristan. The muscles in his forearm were stiff beneath her palm. Clearly, he took care to keep himself in fighting shape. As a spy, did he face physical danger often?

Would she? Her fingers curled on his sleeve, digging into the flesh beneath. Thus far, he hadn’t seemed as though he would grow violent with her. But if he aligned himself with the French, anything was possible.

Perhaps she could distract him—and herself—with conversation. “I know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice clipped.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re trying to rob me of a proper rest.”

He laughed. The rich, mellow sound warmed her from the inside out like a warm cup of chocolate. His grin transformed his face, turning his appearance from ragged to rakish.

He leaned his head closer to hers. “It seems only fair, seeing as you’ve robbed me of mine.”

“Sleeping with one eye open, are you?”

The sound that escaped his throat was a mixture of disbelief and mirth. “It wouldn’t help. Your wiles followed me into the dream realm last night.”

Was he flirting with her? She didn’t spend much time in the company of gentlemen, let alone those schooled in the art of flirtation. She nibbled on her lower lip as she considered her response. They turned down another corridor, aiming for a door at the end, before she answered.

“If you continue to keep me awake, you won’t have to worry about my wiles much longer. Without my beauty rest I’d have nothing with which to tempt you.”

She regretted the words the instant they left her lips. You aren’t Charlie. She knew she wasn’t a diamond of the first waters like her sister, but she was on Tristan’s arm and Charlotte was not. For a moment, Freddie wanted to forget about the gravity of her situation and enjoy the moment.

Tristan seemed more than willing to oblige her, judging by the upturn of his mouth and his mutter of, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” He spoke so low, she almost didn’t hear.

The moment dissipated along with the flattered flush of her cheeks as she recalled the person with whom she played this dangerous game. Tristan Graylocke wasn’t a man she could trust. She’d do best not to forget that.