Frenchwoman spy.
He turned his mind to Carstairs’s murder. Although he and the constable were convinced that the viscount had been in league with the French spies, they were not entirely sure what other Englishmen might be enjoying heavier pockets in exchange for military information. And then there was the matter of the countess’s cousin, Alain Sansouche.
In the past month, the Frenchman had acted extremely respectable, with not one whiff of any peculiar or suspicious actions.
Further contemplation was interrupted when, under half-closed lids, he watched Keegan, Isabella, and Sansouche stroll into the library. Isabella immediately disengaged herself from her cousin and glided across the room to sit by Bryce’s side, leaning very close to him, the deep cut of her ruby-red gown displaying her assets.
“Bryce, mon cher, you should have heard the charming story Alain told about his trip across the Channel. It was very dangerous. They nearly capsized twice and were shot at by the English! Is that not exciting?”
The subject of the countess’s discourse stood near the fireplace. “My cousin believes my journey more amusing than it truly was. Londringham, I have not had an opportunity to extend to you my appreciation that you permit me to stay here with my cousin.”
Bryce noticed the Frenchman’s smile did not reach all the corners of his face, but he acknowledged Sansouche with a slight nod.
Bloody hell, where is my port? He smiled grimly to himself—though his thirst was more for revenge, he’d have to settle for libation. Nothing would satisfy him but a Frenchwoman’s head on a plate or a pretty green-eyed vixen in his bed. No sense in letting that thought distract him. He was amazed how often he did think of Mrs. Grundy, even with Isabella practically sitting on his lap.
Thankfully, he noted the footman had arrived with the sought-after port.
“Shall we have a game of cards, anyone?” Isabella’s suggestion caused everyone to turn to her. “We need four players and there are exactly four people in the room. Whist? Bridge? Alain, yes?”
“Your servant, madam,” he responded.
The countess next turned to Bryce, who had stood and walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of port. “And you, my lord? Shall we count you in?”
Bryce stared into his port as if the opaque color could tell him something. When he realized they were waiting expectantly, he looked up and smiled apologetically. “Cards? I think not.” His response brooked no opposition.
“Captain, would you…?” Isabella looked across the room to Keegan, who studied several leather-bound books on the wall-length bookcases.
He took a long swallow before replying, “Not interested in games with any Frenchies.”
The countess raised her chin perceptibly. “You Irish are beneath the lowest servants. You are so vulgar and unimaginative, no culture, no fashion. Whatever do you have in your dreadful little country?” She shared a chuckle with her cousin.
The captain strode over to the settee. Bryce recognized his friend’s dark expression, which had frightened many a lazy sailor and loosened a few tongues. Keegan rested a hand on the arm of the settee and leaned down mere inches from her face. “The Irish, mum, enjoy the finest stout, the fastest horseflesh, and the rarest women, none of which I am sure the frog-eating Frenchmen have ever seen.”
Keegan’s insolent answer stunned the woman into what Bryce knew was a rare speechlessness. The captain sauntered back over to the bookcase and drained his glass with one swallow.
Bryce watched as Isabella’s face turned red with anger, her blue eyes small slits of spitting venom. He would have to remind his friend to curb his tongue around the countess. They mixed together like Whigs and Tories.
In obvious exasperation with the Irishman, Isabella spilled her drink on the front of her dress and jumped up, sputtering. Sansouche appeared at her side immediately.
“Ma chérie, it is
He turned his mind to Carstairs’s murder. Although he and the constable were convinced that the viscount had been in league with the French spies, they were not entirely sure what other Englishmen might be enjoying heavier pockets in exchange for military information. And then there was the matter of the countess’s cousin, Alain Sansouche.
In the past month, the Frenchman had acted extremely respectable, with not one whiff of any peculiar or suspicious actions.
Further contemplation was interrupted when, under half-closed lids, he watched Keegan, Isabella, and Sansouche stroll into the library. Isabella immediately disengaged herself from her cousin and glided across the room to sit by Bryce’s side, leaning very close to him, the deep cut of her ruby-red gown displaying her assets.
“Bryce, mon cher, you should have heard the charming story Alain told about his trip across the Channel. It was very dangerous. They nearly capsized twice and were shot at by the English! Is that not exciting?”
The subject of the countess’s discourse stood near the fireplace. “My cousin believes my journey more amusing than it truly was. Londringham, I have not had an opportunity to extend to you my appreciation that you permit me to stay here with my cousin.”
Bryce noticed the Frenchman’s smile did not reach all the corners of his face, but he acknowledged Sansouche with a slight nod.
Bloody hell, where is my port? He smiled grimly to himself—though his thirst was more for revenge, he’d have to settle for libation. Nothing would satisfy him but a Frenchwoman’s head on a plate or a pretty green-eyed vixen in his bed. No sense in letting that thought distract him. He was amazed how often he did think of Mrs. Grundy, even with Isabella practically sitting on his lap.
Thankfully, he noted the footman had arrived with the sought-after port.
“Shall we have a game of cards, anyone?” Isabella’s suggestion caused everyone to turn to her. “We need four players and there are exactly four people in the room. Whist? Bridge? Alain, yes?”
“Your servant, madam,” he responded.
The countess next turned to Bryce, who had stood and walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of port. “And you, my lord? Shall we count you in?”
Bryce stared into his port as if the opaque color could tell him something. When he realized they were waiting expectantly, he looked up and smiled apologetically. “Cards? I think not.” His response brooked no opposition.
“Captain, would you…?” Isabella looked across the room to Keegan, who studied several leather-bound books on the wall-length bookcases.
He took a long swallow before replying, “Not interested in games with any Frenchies.”
The countess raised her chin perceptibly. “You Irish are beneath the lowest servants. You are so vulgar and unimaginative, no culture, no fashion. Whatever do you have in your dreadful little country?” She shared a chuckle with her cousin.
The captain strode over to the settee. Bryce recognized his friend’s dark expression, which had frightened many a lazy sailor and loosened a few tongues. Keegan rested a hand on the arm of the settee and leaned down mere inches from her face. “The Irish, mum, enjoy the finest stout, the fastest horseflesh, and the rarest women, none of which I am sure the frog-eating Frenchmen have ever seen.”
Keegan’s insolent answer stunned the woman into what Bryce knew was a rare speechlessness. The captain sauntered back over to the bookcase and drained his glass with one swallow.
Bryce watched as Isabella’s face turned red with anger, her blue eyes small slits of spitting venom. He would have to remind his friend to curb his tongue around the countess. They mixed together like Whigs and Tories.
In obvious exasperation with the Irishman, Isabella spilled her drink on the front of her dress and jumped up, sputtering. Sansouche appeared at her side immediately.
“Ma chérie, it is
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