My Lady, My Spy (Secrets and Seduction Book 4) by Sheridan Jeane Page A
Authors: Sheridan Jeane
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with its far-reaching consequences.
And it wasn’t even his secret. It was his father’s.
Josephine didn’t know. No one knew, although a few might suspect.
Treason. His father had committed treason.
With his tragic and shortsighted decision, the late Lord Wentworth had launched his entire family on this fateful trajectory. Josephine was right about that. Our decisions shape our destinies. With every choice Frederick made since learning of his father’s secret, he’d always taken it into consideration.
Every decision but for one. Being with Josephine.
His one weakness.
His one mistake.
He never should have pursued her. Never should have slipped into her bed. Not with this secret looming over him. Not with his father’s treason casting a shadow over his future.
If he was lucky, no one would ever find out.
Unfortunately, he didn’t believe in luck. Luck was for fools. A man made his own luck through hard work and attention to detail.
Eventually his father’s secret would come to light. Someone would discover it. The only thing truly surprising was that it had remained hidden for so long.
Once that secret came out, Frederick’s carefully constructed life would come crashing down, and anyone close to him would be brought down as well.
He couldn’t do that to Josephine. He needed to keep her as far away from this as possible. He couldn’t bear to have her tainted by this.
He’d break things off with her. There was no other choice.
A moment later, the carriage pulled to a halt. It shifted as someone climbed down, and a moment later the carriage door opened. Turner slipped inside.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Woolsy. It appears we’ve lost Monsieur LeCompte.”
CHAPTER FIVE
After a long and disappointing day of trying to track down the thief, Frederick was no closer to finding that book than he’d been the previous night.
He tapped his foot against the leg of a small side table in his bedroom as his valet, Herbert, finished re-bandaging his more severely injured hand. “These burns are a blasted nuisance,” Frederick muttered. “It’s only been a day and I’m already thoroughly sick of them.” They’d caused him to sleep fitfully last night. Tonight probably wouldn’t be any better.
Herbert shook his head as he scowled at the burns. “They’re bad. Lord Percival owes you an apology.” He smoothed more of the poultice directly onto Frederick’s left hand, forgoing the bit of flannel. Fortunately, these burns were proving to be relatively insignificant. In fact, the blister along the outside of his littlest finger seemed to be smaller already. He’d only need a bit of poultice and a glove for his left hand.
Herbert held open an oversized glove and Frederick examined it, deciding the best angle at which to hold his hand while sliding it on.
“I doubt I’ll get one,” he said as he began slipping his hand inside. “In fact, he was so inebriated, I doubt he was aware he’d started the fire.” He winced and pulled back as the blister on his smallest finger grazed a seam inside the glove. He adjusted the angle of his hand and tried again, this time successfully managing to sheath it.
He lifted his left hand and turned it from side to side. No one would be able to tell it had been burned. He’d even be able to use it if he was careful.
Unfortunately, his right hand was a different matter. Herbert generously swathed it in strips of cotton, but it still hurt like the blazes— or at least it had until Herbert had applied a freshly mixed batch of Mrs. Drummer’s poultice to it. Frederick grimaced at the thick swaddling of bandages.
He viewed it as his own personal emblem of incompetence.
If not for the burns the bandages concealed, he wouldn’t have been obliged to ask Robert for help, he wouldn’t have been ambushed upstairs by Josephine, and the book wouldn’t have been seduced away from his brother by that silver-gowned thief.
They’d come so close to
And it wasn’t even his secret. It was his father’s.
Josephine didn’t know. No one knew, although a few might suspect.
Treason. His father had committed treason.
With his tragic and shortsighted decision, the late Lord Wentworth had launched his entire family on this fateful trajectory. Josephine was right about that. Our decisions shape our destinies. With every choice Frederick made since learning of his father’s secret, he’d always taken it into consideration.
Every decision but for one. Being with Josephine.
His one weakness.
His one mistake.
He never should have pursued her. Never should have slipped into her bed. Not with this secret looming over him. Not with his father’s treason casting a shadow over his future.
If he was lucky, no one would ever find out.
Unfortunately, he didn’t believe in luck. Luck was for fools. A man made his own luck through hard work and attention to detail.
Eventually his father’s secret would come to light. Someone would discover it. The only thing truly surprising was that it had remained hidden for so long.
Once that secret came out, Frederick’s carefully constructed life would come crashing down, and anyone close to him would be brought down as well.
He couldn’t do that to Josephine. He needed to keep her as far away from this as possible. He couldn’t bear to have her tainted by this.
He’d break things off with her. There was no other choice.
A moment later, the carriage pulled to a halt. It shifted as someone climbed down, and a moment later the carriage door opened. Turner slipped inside.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Woolsy. It appears we’ve lost Monsieur LeCompte.”
CHAPTER FIVE
After a long and disappointing day of trying to track down the thief, Frederick was no closer to finding that book than he’d been the previous night.
He tapped his foot against the leg of a small side table in his bedroom as his valet, Herbert, finished re-bandaging his more severely injured hand. “These burns are a blasted nuisance,” Frederick muttered. “It’s only been a day and I’m already thoroughly sick of them.” They’d caused him to sleep fitfully last night. Tonight probably wouldn’t be any better.
Herbert shook his head as he scowled at the burns. “They’re bad. Lord Percival owes you an apology.” He smoothed more of the poultice directly onto Frederick’s left hand, forgoing the bit of flannel. Fortunately, these burns were proving to be relatively insignificant. In fact, the blister along the outside of his littlest finger seemed to be smaller already. He’d only need a bit of poultice and a glove for his left hand.
Herbert held open an oversized glove and Frederick examined it, deciding the best angle at which to hold his hand while sliding it on.
“I doubt I’ll get one,” he said as he began slipping his hand inside. “In fact, he was so inebriated, I doubt he was aware he’d started the fire.” He winced and pulled back as the blister on his smallest finger grazed a seam inside the glove. He adjusted the angle of his hand and tried again, this time successfully managing to sheath it.
He lifted his left hand and turned it from side to side. No one would be able to tell it had been burned. He’d even be able to use it if he was careful.
Unfortunately, his right hand was a different matter. Herbert generously swathed it in strips of cotton, but it still hurt like the blazes— or at least it had until Herbert had applied a freshly mixed batch of Mrs. Drummer’s poultice to it. Frederick grimaced at the thick swaddling of bandages.
He viewed it as his own personal emblem of incompetence.
If not for the burns the bandages concealed, he wouldn’t have been obliged to ask Robert for help, he wouldn’t have been ambushed upstairs by Josephine, and the book wouldn’t have been seduced away from his brother by that silver-gowned thief.
They’d come so close to
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