Twelve
Ethan closed the doorof the chamber he’d been given the night before and allowed his gaze to rest on Francesca’s door, located in the opposite wing. He started down the corridor, hoping he remembered the location of the stairway. When he found it, he descended slowly, attempting to organize his thoughts. He had one task: find her attacker.
If, as he suspected, her attacker was one of the smugglers, catching the smuggler before uncovering the leader of the men might put his mission for the Foreign Office in jeopardy. That could not be helped. He’d have to rely on Alex to work quickly to uncover the leader’s identity.
He reached the foot of the stairs and headed for the entrance hall. He didn’t know why he felt this overwhelming responsibility for her protection. Why he felt her attack was his fault. But the new feeling of protectiveness wasn’t something he wanted to examine too closely. Her vulnerability struck a chord in him. That was all. He’d find her attacker and that would be the end of it.
That would have to be the end. She was, after all, the daughter of a viscount. He might not care for most of Society’s conventions, might test their limits, but even he knew what went too far. And a dalliance with Francesca Dashing would leap far over the line.
He passed several servants carrying trays or dusting furniture. Ahead, just past the main entrance, was the door to Brigham’s library. He intended to talk to the viscount, and that was as good a place as any to search for him.
After a brief knock, Ethan opened the library door.
“By God, Winterbourne!” Brigham’s head jerked up. “You startled me. I didn’t expect you.”
Norton, the majordomo, stood next to the viscount, pointing to a stack of papers spread over the gleaming desk. The look of disapproval the servant shot
him rivaled Pocket’s on mornings when Ethan had stumbled home, clothing soiled and disheveled, after a bad night.
“Shall I show Lord Winterbourne to the drawing room, my lord?” The majordomo’s voice had ice in it.
Brigham waved. “Not necessary, Norton. Might as well get this over with.”
Norton bobbed his head, cheeks flushing. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, you may go.”
The majordomo gathered up the papers and walked stiffly past Ethan. Ethan thought he heard a small, indignant huff when the servant shut the library door behind him. “I don’t think he likes me.”
Brigham gestured to a chair. “Shouldn’t be a surprise after the way you shouldered your way into my daughter’s room last night.”
The viscount folded his hands together, resting them on the massive mahogany desk. Outwardly, the older man appeared to have recovered from the shock of the night before. But Ethan noticed that his face was still haggard, the lines around his mouth deep set and his eyes red rimmed.
Brigham studied him for a long moment, but Ethan said nothing. He wouldn’t apologize and could offer no reason for his behavior the night before. Devil take him if he wasn’t still trying to figure it out himself.
Brigham made a small sound in the back of his throat. “My wife tells me she’s invited you to stay for a day—or so.”
“You don’t approve?”
Brigham sat back. “Even if I were inclined to allow an...extended visit, I hardly believe it necessary. I’ve contacted the magistrate—”
“Gravener?” Ethan snorted and looked out the windows facing the park. “The man couldn’t find his arse if he had both hands wrapped around it. He’ll never find the man who attacked your daughter.”
“And you will?”
Obviously Brigham knew something of his involvement in the Foreign Office or he would not still be under the man’s roof.
“Yes.”
