Page 33 of A Scoundrel in the Making

“It is of no matter. I think you underestimate his motivation.”

She frowned. “Motivation? What the devil are you talking about?”

“Viscount Chaluim. His motivation for catching you: You.”

The man was insufferable. “I care not. No further threats of duels, do you understand? Did no one teach you that spies do not duel?”

She lied, of course. She had, in fact, known two spies who had done just that. But she wasn’t about to let Lord Reade die on so simple a mission—especially not a mission she was in charge of.

He shrugged. “I was in no real danger. The man is a coward.”

“Very funny.” She released a breath. “I thought you’d retired for the night.”

“I did, then it occurred to me you might decide to do more sleuthing tonight. I should have realized the real danger would be another of your admirers showing up. They’re nipping at your heels like puppies.”

“I do not have admirers ‘nipping at my heels,’” she retorted.

“But you do.” He stared down at her. “And I suspect you’re quite accustomed to the attention.”

She was. Men had sought her out since she’d been sixteen.

“Of late, French men have done the nipping at my heels. They are more dramatic, but much less…antagonistic. “

“You find all Englishmen antagonistic?”

She studied him. “You are antagonistic only half the time.”

He laughed and her heart warmed at the genuine amusement in his eyes. “I pray I am antagonistic at the same time you are being antagonistic with me. I would hate to misinterpret your moods.”

She shook her head. “You can’t help yourself.”

He flashed white teeth. “I suppose not.”

“Would you like a brandy?” she asked.

He shuddered. “I would not chance you leaving this room to go in search of brandy. God only knows how many more of your admirers I would have to fend off just to get you safely back to your room.”

She tilted her head. “That would be interesting to watch.”

“Watch? Only a moment ago, you told me I wasn’t allowed to duel in defense of your honor.”

Abigail grimaced. “You go from one extreme to the other. A fistfight would do.”

His brows shot up. “I believe you have a perverse streak, my lady.”

She laughed and crossed to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room. “You are just now noticing?” She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a valise then withdrew the flask of brandy she’d packed.

“I see you come prepared,” he said.

She closed the doors and faced him. “Mr. Russell didn’t have the foresight to leave glasses in the guest room. If you’re willing, I will share the flask with you.”

“French brandy?”

Abigail smiled. “But of course.” She nodded to the chairs before the fire and caught sight of Lord Chaluim’s coat and cravat.

“I see the viscount left his coat and cravat.” Reade crossed to the chair and picked up the coat. He felt in the pockets, found nothing, then grabbed the cravat. Abigail frowned when he went to the door. She took a step toward him as he opened the door, then tossed coat and cravat into the hallway.

“Lord Reade,” she cried. “I planned to return those to Lord Chaluim.”