He’d been inspecting Skerrit’s property, searching for evidence that the farmer was not what he seemed. Careful to keep out of sight, Ethan had rounded a corner of the stable and seen the girl climb on the rickety bucket to peek inside the barn. He should have retreated, but then she leaned forward and he caught the flash of her slender ankle. His gaze lingered, skimming her shapeless mantle and fastening on the thickness of her rich hair. He’d paused just long enough in his appreciation to see her wobble. He’d been in time to catch her, but his valiant efforts cost him his anonymity.
Ethan hoped the lie he’d told about Destrehan losing a shoe didn’t arouse the farmer’s suspicions. The excuse was weak at best. If Skerrit doubted it, weeks of surveillance and careful preparation were destroyed. Skerrit would undoubtedly disappear, and with him, Ethan’s best chance at uncovering the French government’s most successful arms smuggling operation.
Perhaps meddlesome women, not French spies, were the real threat to his mission. Spurring Destrehan forward, he tamped down his annoyance and covered the last few yards to the arched brick entry of Grayson Park.
A footman carrying a flambeaux materialized from the gloom and took the horse’s reins, while another appeared almost immediately to light the marquess’s way. Ethan dismounted and paused to run his hands along Destrehan’s fore and back legs, checking for any injury or strain.
He rested his hand on the horse’s warm chest. “Tell the grooms to cool him down before feeding and watering him.” Ethan gave Destrehan an affectionate pat. “Then he needs a good rub down. I want him ready at first light.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The grand foyer of Grayson Park was shadowed and drafty, and the flickering candles added a touch of the ethereal, but Ethan could just make out the solid form of his stodgy valet, Pocklington, standing ready at the foot of the stairs.
The elderly valet appeared as immobile as the marble statue on the table beside him. It was the end of a long day, but Pocklington—ever the “gentleman’s gentleman”—stood polished and poised. Not a wrinkle in his clothes nor a gray hair out of place on his head. Ethan caught the servant’s gaze, nodded to his man, and took the blood-red carpeted steps two at a time, Pocklington following. At the landing, Ethan turned right and strode down the long gallery.
The estate now belonged to his half brother. Alex had only acquired the house and accompanying title a few years before, when Alex’s father, their mother’s second husband and the Earl of Selbourne, died. Ethan knew Alex had found precious little time to think of improvements and redecoration. Still, Ethan would have made removing the dour portraits from the dark, wood-paneled walls a priority.
He knew their names and titles. And he’d passed them often enough that he was familiar with each ancestor’s variation on a reproving glower.
Stopping at the bedchamber he always occupied when visiting the Park, Ethan grasped the handle of the mahogany door and stepped inside. His eyes flicked to the walnut bedside cupboard and the full decanter of brandy squatting on top.
Pocklington shut the door behind him. “Would you care for a brandy, my lord?”
Before Ethan had time to answer, the valet had crossed to the table, unstopped the decanter, and begun pouring the amber liquid into one of the crystal glasses beside it.
“Thank you, Pocket.” It was a rare occasion when Ethan drank more than one glass of brandy or a few sips of wine. A man who lived on instinct and quick thinking, he’d been saved more than once by using his wits when other men were too inebriated to do so. But after the events of this evening, Ethan needed a drink—maybe two.
He shrugged off his coat, savoring the warmth of the fire roaring in the hearth. Slipping the knot of his cravat loose and unfastening the buttons of his collar and waistcoat, he noted that not only had the fire been stoked, but the heavy gold drapes of the bed had been neatly tied back, the bedclothes remade without so much as a crease.
Pocket handed him the brandy, tsking quietly as he bent to retrieve the discarded garments from the plush gold and burgundy Turkish carpet. Ethan settled into a Chippendale armchair while Pocket shook imaginary wrinkles from his tailcoat.
On nights like this, Ethan appreciated the luxury of a valet. Seventy if a day, Pocket had more energy than most men in their prime. Ethan smiled when the valet pulled open the marquetry-decorated doors of the walnut wardrobe. The garments Ethan had left strewn about the floor this morning were now spotless and impeccably arranged inside, tucked neatly into Holland covers. “I trust your afternoon went well, my lord.”
Ethan took another swallow of his brandy and was surprised to find it the last. “Not as well as I’d hoped, Pocket.” Irritation flashed through him as he thought of the girl again.
“Oh?” Pocket immediately retrieved the empty glass and poured him another. The man had eyes in the back of his head.
With a nod, Ethan accepted the glass, and Pocket returned to the open wardrobe. “I hope there was no trouble, my lord.”
“Hmm.” Ethan took another sip of the liquor, gilded by the light of the fire. “It depends how you define trouble.”
“And how do you define it, brother?”
Ethan turned to see his half brother, Alex, the Earl of Selbourne, standing in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light from the corridor outside.
Ethan arched an eyebrow. “The same way as any other man, I suppose.”
Alex’s gray eyes narrowed.
Pocket made a small sound of disapproval at the earl’s unexpected appearance, but Ethan merely raised his glass in greeting and motioned his brother inside. Alex closed the door and pulled a chair opposite Ethan. He dropped down, stretching his long legs toward the fire.
“Care for a drink?” Ethan asked.
“Will I need one?”
Ethan shrugged and motioned Pocket to pour another glass of brandy. The valet’s expression turned pained at having to serve the earl, but he complied without verbal protest. Ethan studied his brother. He and Alex bore more than a passing resemblance to one another. Both had strong features and dark hair curling about the collar, but Alex’s gray eyes were colder than Ethan’s.
Unlike Ethan, Alex hadn’t the advantage of being raised heir to the respected Winterbourne title. Consequently, his little brother had been unable to shrug off the scandals and rumors that plagued the Selbourne family as Ethan had. Alex had been young and impressionable when the late Earl of Selbourne began his descent into complete debauchery. Ethan had been angry, indignant at the man’s blatant and all-too-public humiliation of his mother, and he’d compensated by further disciplining his own life. Alex had reacted by turning cold and distant.
Still, in general temperament, the similarities between the half brothers were remarkable. Serious and guarded by nature, both tended to shun the frivolous pastimes of Society for more worthy—and often dangerous—pursuits in the service of their country. But of the two, Ethan knew he was the more patient, the more disciplined. And those were skills he intended to teach his brother.
Accepting a glass from Pocket, Alex said, “Your trouble can usually be traced to a woman.”
“Is that so?” Ethan gave a half smile, amused at his brother’s statement. After all, Alex had had his own share of problems with the fairer sex.