His black hair grew in heavy loose curls; presently neatly cropped, the thick locks framed his face. A harsh-featured, aristocratic face with dramatically arched black brows over large, deep-set eyes, strong, sculpted nose and jaw, and lips she didn’t need to dwell on.

For the space of ten heartbeats, his gaze rested on her; even through the dimness she could feel it. He’d always had better night vision than she; if she was to survive this interview with her secrets intact, she’d need every last ounce of her control.

Taking charge seemed wise.

“What are you doing home?” All her reasons for believing the Abbey empty, a safe haven, colored the words, transforming question into accusation.

“I live here, remember?” After an instant, he added, “Indeed, I now own the Abbey and all its lands.”

“Yes, but-” She wasn’t going to let him develop the theme of being her host, of being in any way responsible for her. “Marissa, Jacqueline, and Lydia, and Annabelle and Helen, went to London to help you find a wife. My stepmother-your godmother-and my sisters are there, too. They left here enthused, in full flight. There’s been talk of little else in the drawing rooms here and at Wallingham Hall since Waterloo. You’re supposed to be there, not here.” She paused, blinked, then asked, “Do they know you’re here?”

Knowing him, that was a pertinent question.

He didn’t frown, but she sensed his irritation, sensed, as he answered, that it wasn’t directed at her.

“They know I had to come down.”

Had to? She fought to cover her dismay. “Why?”

Surely, surely it couldn’t be…?

Charles wished the light were better or the chair closer to the bed; he couldn’t see Penny’s eyes and her expressions-the real ones-were too fleeting to read in the dimness. He’d chosen the safe distance of the chair to avoid aggravating their mutually twitching nerves. That moment in the corridor had been bad enough; the urge to seize her, to have his hands on her again, had been so strong, so unexpectedly intense, it had taken every ounce of his will to resist.

He still felt off-balance, just a touch insane. He’d stay put and make do.

She appeared as he remembered her, tall, lithe, and slender, a fair sylph who despite her outward delicacy had always had his measure. Little about her seemed to have changed, but he mistrusted that conclusion. As a gently bred nobleman’s daughter, the thirteen years between sixteen and twenty-nine had to have left their mark, but in what ways he had no clue, except in one respect. He would take his oath her quick wits hadn’t got any slower.

“I’m here on business.” True enough.

“What business?”

“This and that.”

“Estate business?”

“I’ll be attending to whatever’s on my study desk while I’m here.”

“But you’re here for some other reason?”

He could sense agitation building beneath her words; his instincts were awake, alert, and suspicious. His mission here was to be open, overt not covert. For once there was no reason he couldn’t cheerfully tell all, yet the very last person he’d expected to tell first-if at all-was her.

But if she was asking, then his most direct way forward was to tell her, and see how she reacted. Yet he wanted quid pro quo-what the devil was she doing traipsing about the countryside at midnight, let alone dressed as a male? And why the hell was she there and not at her home, Wallingham Hall, a mere four miles away? Come to that, why wasn’t she in London, or safely married and living with a husband? Oh, yes, he definitely wanted answers to all those questions, which meant the distance between them wasn’t going to work. If she lied…if he couldn’t see her face, her eyes, he might not pick it up.

Unhurriedly, he stood; his gaze on her, he walked, as unthreateningly as he could, to the bed and propped one shoulder against the post at its end. Her gaze hadn’t left him; he looked down into her eyes. “I’ll tell you why, exactly why I’m here, if in return you’ll explain to me why, exactly why you’ve arrived here at this hour, dressed like that.”

Her grip on the edge of the bed had tightened, but otherwise she hadn’t tensed. She stared up at him for a finite moment, then looked at the door. “I’m hungry.”

She rose, walked to the door, and without a backward glance went through it.

Lips lifting, he pushed away from the bedpost and followed, closing the door behind him.

He caught up with her on the stairs and followed her to the kitchen. She marched in and went straight to the kettle, left sitting to one side of the hob; taking it to the pump over the sink, she started filling it. Crossing to the stove, he hunkered down, opened the furnace door, and riddled the grate until the coals glowed red. He piled in kindling, then a few split logs, conscious of the sharp, assessing glances she threw him as she moved about the room.

Once the fire was blazing, he shut the furnace door and rose. Reaching across, she set the kettle to heat and placed a teapot into which she’d ladled leaves on the bench alongside. Glancing at the table, he noted the cups and saucers she’d set out, the plate of Mrs. Slattery’s almond biscuits she’d fetched from the pantry. Not once had she hesitated in assembling those things. She knew where everything in his kitchen was stored better than he did.

He studied her as she sank into the chair at one end of the table. Mrs. Slattery, the Abbey’s head cook and housekeeper, would never allow her to help herself, which meant she’d learned all she knew on forays like this, long after his staff were abed.

She’d set his cup and saucer halfway along the table, the plate of biscuits between them, beside a single candlestick. The plate was as far from her as she could reach, and equally far from his designated place. He drew up a chair to that spot without comment. The candle flame was steady in the well-sealed kitchen; he’d achieved what he’d wanted-he could see her face.

Picking up a biscuit, she nibbled, over it met his eyes. “So why are you here?”

Leaning back, resisting the lure of the biscuits for the moment, he studied her. If he answered simply, succinctly, what were his chances of getting anything out of her? “My erstwhile commander asked me to take a look around here.”

Where to go from there? He could see the question in her gray-blue eyes, could only wonder why she was being so very careful.

“Your commander…” She hesitated, then asked, “What arm of the services were you in, Charles?”

Very few people knew. “Neither the army nor the navy.”

“Which regiment?”

“Theoretically one of the Guards.”

“In reality?”

If he didn’t tell her, she wouldn’t understand the rest.

She frowned. “Where were you for all those years?”

“Toulouse.”

She blinked; her frown deepened. “With your mother’s relatives?”

He shook his head. “They’re from Landes. A similar distance south, so my coloring and accent were acceptable, but far enough away for me to be relatively safe from being recognized.”

She saw, bit by bit realized. Her gaze grew distant, her expression slowly blanked, then she snapped her gaze, now appalled, back on him. “You were a spy?”

He’d steeled himself, so didn’t flinch. “An unoffocial agent of His British Majesty’s government.”

The kettle chose that moment to shriek. His words had sounded sophisticated, dismissively cynical, but he suddenly wanted that tea.

She rose, still staring, lips slightly parted. Her eyes were round, but he couldn’t read the expression in them. Then she turned away, snagged the kettle, and poured the boiling water over the leaves. Setting the kettle down, she swirled the pot, then left it to steep.

She turned back to him. Her gaze searched his face; she rubbed her hands down her breeches and slowly sat again. This time she leaned forward; the candlelight reached her eyes.

“All those years?”

He hadn’t, until that moment, known how she’d react, whether she’d be horrified by the dishonor many considered spying to be, or whether she’d understand.

She understood. Her horror was for him, not over what he’d been doing. A massive weight lifted from his shoulders; he breathed in, lightly shrugged. “Someone had to do it.”

“But from when?”

“I was recruited as soon as I joined the Guards.”

“You were only twenty!” She sounded, and was, aghast.

“I was also half-French, looked completely French, spoke like a southern native-I could so easily pass for French.” He met her gaze. “And I was ripe for any madness.”

He would never tell her that part of that wildness had been because of her.

“But…” She was trying to work it out.

He sighed. “Back then, it was easy to slip into France. Within a few months I was established, just another French businessman in Toulouse.”

She viewed him critically. “You look-and act-too aristocratic. Your arrogance would always mark you.”

He smiled, all teeth. “I gave it out that I was a bastard of a by-then-extinct family on whose grave I would happily dance.”

She studied him, then nodded. “All right. And then you did what?”

“I wormed my way into the good graces of every military and civilian dignitary there, gathering whatever information I could.”

Exactly how he’d done that was one question he wasn’t prepared to answer, but she didn’t ask.

“So you sent the information back, but you stayed there-all that time?”

“Yes.”

She rose to fetch the tea, returning to the table to pour; he watched, soothed in some odd way by the simple domestic act. So distracted was she that when she came close to fill his cup, she didn’t seem to notice. As she leaned forward, his eyes traced the curve of her hip, plainly visible courtesy of her breeches. His palm tingled, but he ruthlessly kept both hands still until she straightened and moved away.

He nodded his thanks, picked up the cup, cradled it between his hands. He sipped, then went on, “Once it became clear how successfully I could penetrate the highest civil and military ranks, there was more at stake. Leaving became too risky. The French had to believe I was always there, always accounted for-not the slightest question over what I was doing at any time.”

Leaving the pot on the sink, she returned to her chair. “So that’s why you didn’t come back for James’s funeral.”

“I managed to get out for Papa’s and Frederick’s, but when James was lost, Wellington’s forces were closing on Toulouse. It was more vital than ever that I stay in place.” Frederick, his eldest brother, had broken his neck on the hunting field; James, the second eldest, had succeeded Frederick, only to drown in a freak boating accident. He, Charles, was the third son of the sixth earl, yet here he now was, proclaimed and established as the ninth earl. One of the vicissitudes of fortune that had overtaken him.

She nodded, her gaze far away; lifting her cup, she sipped.

Eventually, she refocused on him. “Where were you at Waterloo?”

He hesitated, but he wanted the truth-all of the truth-from her. “Behind French lines. I led a few others, half-French like me, to join a detachment from Toulouse. They were guarding artillery on a hill overlooking the field.”

“You stopped the cannons?”

“That’s why we were there.”

Her gaze remained steady on his face. “To reduce the slaughter of our troops.”

By slaughtering others. He left the words unsaid.

“But after Waterloo, you sold out.”

“There was no further need of us-agents like me. And I had other duties waiting.”

Her lips curved. “Duties you and everyone else had never imagined you’d have to take up.”

Indeed. The mantle of the earldom had fallen to him, the wildest, outwardly least suited, least trained to the challenge of his father’s three sons.

She continued to study him, after a moment asked, “How does it feel-being the earl?”

She’d always had an uncanny ability to probe where he was most sensitive. “Odd.” He shifted in his chair, stared into his half-empty cup.

Impossible to explain the feeling that had enveloped him when he’d walked up the front steps and through the massive front door earlier that day. The earldom and the Abbey were his. Not just them, but the lands and the responsibilities that came with both, and more-the Abbey was not just his childhood home but the home of his ancestors, the place in which his family had its deepest roots. This was home, and its protection and fostering had fallen to him; to him fell the challenge of seeing it and the estates pass to the next generation not just intact but improved.