The Fashionable Spy Read Online Free Page A

battered beaver on his head, and dashed through the rain—an irregular gait-down the hill to where the two vehicles sat in forlorn dejection.
    Sable had slipped out the door after Hawkswood before she could stop him. He gamboled along beside the tall man, ignoring the wet. Her gaze narrowed as Sir Edward wrenched open the door to her coach, then pulled her two cases from the interior. He struggled back up the slope, dumped them inside the door, then took off again before she could say a word, his limp more pronounced this trip.
    She felt guilty for causing him to make two trips. She’d not remembered his injured leg, or considered the difficulty in bringing several cases. While he was yet gone, she hastily grabbed the case with her clothing and rushed into the pantry. Pulling out a warm gown, she hurriedly struggled into it, accustomed to doing for herself when on these special trips. Fortunately, it buttoned up the front, and she was completing that task when the door slammed once again. She heard him stamp his feet and she opened the pantry door, peering cautiously around the corner.
    “I shan’t bite you, especially when you wear such a depressingly respectable gown. Miss Dancy.”
    Those dark eyes of his seemed to tease her, even if his voice did not. Victoria took no notice, but walked over to place her case by the narrow bed where she slept. The bed was close to the door, a factor in the plans beginning to form in her mind.
    “How comforting. I’d not wish to think I cast out lures, Sir Edward.” She reluctantly smiled at the small joke she’d made.
    He tossed his hat on the deal table by the wall, then took his greatcoat and shook it well before hanging it up on a peg near the door. “I believe that if we are to spend another day in close company we could dispense with formalities, do you not?”
    He arched one of those dark brows and smiled. Victoria wished he hadn’t, for it gave him such an endearingly warm quality, dispelling that air of cool aristocratic aloofness she had first viewed. She had hoped to avoid any familiarity. Yet she supposed it made little difference at this point. “Granted. My given name is Victoria.”
    “Victoria Dancy?” He paused in the act of placing a log on the fire, staring at nothing for a moment. “I have heard that name before, but cannot recall just where. Why would I know of you and not your sisters? Elizabeth or Julia Dancy do not ring a bell in the least.”
    “Julia married Lord Winton several years ago. She is now widowed and paints miniatures.” Victoria waited, holding her breath.
    “Ah,” he said, “you are also an artist, a sculptress. I have heard something of your work.” The searching look he gave her made Victoria wonder precisely what he’d heard. By the expression on his face, it was not to her credit.
    She was most piqued. Why did he not say something? She watched and waited. His deep brown eyes gave nothing away, but his sensual mouth twisted into a grin, and she jumped as he spoke.
    “Perhaps we had best get something to eat.”
    “I spotted a tin of tea and there is still some bread. I shall tend to making tea while you change out of those wet garments.” Glad to have something to occupy her hands, she turned to get the tea and wavered a bit. She shook her head to clear it, annoyed at the momentary weakness.
    His hand at her elbow guided her to the chair by the fire. “I doubt if you are quite as stout after your injury as you may think. I shall bring you the tea and fetch the water in the kettle. I trust you can handle the rest.”
    Edward took the kettle and filled it from the pump, then hung the kettle over the fire. He wished he knew something of her parents. What had been the purpose of that supposedly innocent trip to France? With Napoleon’s blessing? His eyes narrowed with his conjectures. Then he took his portmanteau into the pantry and proceeded to make a change of clothing.
    She was full of contradictions. While she pretended to