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“Relax your grip on the reins,” Avery instructed.
Gwen did so, though it took a great deal of effort not to continue to cling in fear. It had been so long since she’d last ridden. From atop her uncle’s horse, she thought the ground beneath her looked frightfully far away. Gwen shifted on the side saddle, wishing her injured foot fit more securely in the stirrup. She hated teetering like this on such a narrow platform.
“You’re doing well.”
She appreciated Avery’s encouragement and patience, but she wondered if he secretly thought differently. “Are you sure you aren’t just saying that because you agreed to help me?”
“Not at all,” he said, smiling as he easily swung astride his horse. “I will even compliment you on how fetching you look in your riding habit.”
Gwen laughed, if only to hide her blush. She’d borrowed the tailored jacket and long skirt from her aunt. “Now I know you’re just flattering me.” He nudged his horse forward, and after a moment’s hesitation, she did the same. “You don’t have to pretend to be my suitor out of earshot of others.”
“Who says I’m pretending?” The low quality of his voice and the teasing light in his brown eyes made her feel as breathless as climbing onto her horse had. “We’ll take this first stretch as slowly as you’d like.” He nodded at the wide dirt thoroughfare ahead of them, which was thankfully not yet crowded with other equestrian riders.
“Thank you.”
They fell into companionable silence. Gwen studied him from the corner of her eye. He looked very dashing in his riding clothes. No one who saw him in this moment would suspect such a gentleman, the nephew of a duke, of being a spy. What had motivated him to take up such a dangerous profession?
“Why do you do what you do? It isn’t as if you have to in order to support yourself, right?”
Avery twisted to look at her. “You mean . . .”
She nodded without speaking, but his gaze lit with understanding anyway. They’d experienced this same sort of cryptic communication during their last visit to Dr. Smithfield. A fact that had her smiling. It felt akin to real friendship, another secret only the two of them shared.
“I don’t have to do this, no.” His brow furrowed as if he were thinking how best to explain. “I like the purpose it affords me, though, and the chance to apply all that I learned during my time at university. I studied very hard there, despite my father’s protests that knowledge of academia was of no use to a gentleman.”
Gwen could relate in a way. Her brother had been allowed to go to college, but her parents saw no benefit in their daughter doing the same. “What did you study?”
“Languages and history, mostly. I can speak fluent Italian, French, and German. Over the last year, I’ve been slowly learning Russian too.”
A recollection tugged at her memory. “Didn’t Bert study the same thing?”
“He did, along with me and Hanbury.”
“What does your father think of your profession?”
“He doesn’t know.” Avery’s posture went rigid. “He died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He offered her a tight smile. “I appreciate the sentiment. However, we were never close, especially after my mother’s death.”
Empathy welled inside her. She might not be close to either of her parents, but they’d always been around—providing for her and wanting, she supposed, what was best for her. “How old were you when you lost her?”
This time his shoulders sagged as though the weight of past memories was too much for them to bear. “Just a lad. I only have a few recollections of her being well and not sipping soup in bed. Unfortunately, she was never very strong in constitution.”
“Is that why you don’t like soup?” she asked, suddenly remembering that detail from one of their first conversations. Their initial meeting felt as if it had taken place months instead of weeks ago.
The rawness and surprise in his expression nearly had her reaching out to touch his sleeve. “Yes, I think my dislike for it began in those anxious days of boyhood, watching my mother grow weaker and weaker.”
Her heart sped up at the vulnerability behind his confession. This was the real Avery Winfield, or at least an important side to him. One she felt honored to have seen.
“Rather silly, isn’t it?” he said, interrupting Gwen’s thoughts and clearly trying to deflect his embarrassment at sharing something so personal. “To hate soup?”
Shaking her head, Gwen guided her horse a little closer to his. “It isn’t silly. After my accident, I refused to ride in a carriage for weeks.” She smiled self-consciously at him. “And one of the girls at the orphanage who burned her hand and arm told me she still gets nervous going anywhere near a hearth. I think wariness of situations or things or foods that spark painful memories is very normal.”
“You are very wise for one your age, Gwen Barton.”
If only her mother thought so. Then perhaps Cornelia would trust Gwen to make her own decisions when it came to love and marriage. “Wisdom is sometimes more about experience than age.”
“Too true.” His relaxed chuckle added to the camaraderie between them. “Perhaps that’s why my uncle would like me to have a bit more of both—experience and age—before I inherit the title.”
His teasing remark reminded her of something he’d mentioned the day before. About the duke wanting Avery to court a girl this season. “Is he hoping you’ll be married before you inherit?”
“He is,” Avery said, the merriment draining from his demeanor.
His flat response surprised and puzzled her. “You don’t want that?”
“I’m not sure that I will ever marry, this year or in the future.” He threw her a look, almost as if he was asking her to understand, but it only confused Gwen more. “If I continue in my current . . . profession . . . I believe remaining a bachelor is the wisest course.”
Something akin to disappointment stung Gwen and increased the thudding of her heart. Yet why should she care about Avery’s matrimonial opinions and aspirations or the lack thereof? “Are you saying a wife couldn’t handle your profession?”
“No,” he countered quickly, then he shook his head. “Well, possibly. Yes, I suppose so. My greater concern is that what I do can be dangerous at times, and I wouldn’t want to worry or endanger a wife.”
Irritation overcame her at his response. Gwen had to fight to keep it in check in order to reply. “While that may be true, isn’t that a choice a future spouse should be allowed to make for herself?”
“I don’t want to put anyone in jeopardy, Gwen.”
“And yet you assured me that if I helped you, I wouldn’t be in jeopardy.”
The hard line of his jaw appeared to ease slightly. “I believe that’s still true. However, it would be different with a spouse, where there is meant to be a sharing of hearts and lives. How could I ask someone to put all of that at risk by aligning with me?”
His words, though spoken in low tones, crashed over her with the force of a torrential wave, leaving the sands of regret behind it. But at least now she understood him.
Avery wouldn’t be courting her or any other woman for real—not now and likely never. It wasn’t simply because he was a spy, though. This brave, kind man with a devotion to serving his country feared something far greater than possibly endangering a spouse and family.
He feared endangering his heart.
“Shall we try cantering?” Avery suggested. He watched her carefully, but Gwen couldn’t tell if he was attempting to read her reaction about cantering or about what he’d just revealed of himself.
Gwen forced a smile. “I’d like to try.”
Avery guided his horse from a trot to a canter, and Gwen did the same. The breeze strengthened, tugging in vain at her hat, as she and her mount picked up speed. The thrill of it evaporated too soon, though, as her thoughts turned back to Avery’s confession.
The revelation that he had no intention of courting or marrying settled like heavy stones inside Gwen. But she wasn’t sure why she felt so disappointed. Avery had made no promises to her, nor had he confessed a hope that their faux courtship might turn into something real. Yet that was exactly what she herself had been hoping for, wasn’t it? She liked Avery very much and had felt a growing connection and attraction to him the more time they spent together. Did that mean a piece of her, however small, had wanted something more, something deeper between them?
Gwen resisted the urge to hang her head at her own foolishness. Avery’s genuine compliments or his occasional touch and tender look might have inspired emotions similar to those she’d felt after kissing the man at the opera. However, that didn’t mean Avery’s feelings matched her own. They had helped each other as friends, and would continue to do so, but that was clearly all that would ever come from her relationship with him. Any expectations for more were hers alone.
For one brief moment, she let herself experience the pain and grief at her unmet longings. Then she released her proverbial grip on them and let them go with a long exhale of breath. She’d agreed to help Avery and accept his help in return—and that was what she would focus on. Not on hopeless imaginings.
As if to solidify her decision to remain focused, Gwen lifted her head and saw Mr. Hanbury riding toward them. A prick of panic shot through her. How was she supposed to act around the other gentleman now that she knew he might be a spy?
“Avery?” He didn’t seem to hear her, so she spoke more loudly. “Avery!”
He glanced at her, his startled expression suggesting he’d also been immersed in his own thoughts. “What is it?”
“Mr. Hanbury is coming this way.” Gwen pulled back on the reins to stop her horse, causing the mount—agitated from carrying an unfamiliar rider—to dance to the side. The unexpected movement disrupted her balance and she began to slip. She leaned the opposite way, desperate to keep her seat, when Avery reached out and assisted her with a firm hand on her elbow.
Immediately ripples of feeling skittered up her arm. The delightful sensation belied her fresh resolve and tempted her to relish his touch once more. But Gwen knew better now. Making more of this attraction, this relationship, than the friendship it was would only lead to heartache.
She nudged her horse a few inches to the right, breaking Avery’s grip on her arm. “Th-thank you,” she said.
“Is everything all right?”
Tipping her head in a nod, she tried to indicate the other man’s approach without being too obvious. “Mr. Hanbury is here.” Avery followed her gaze. “What do I say?”
“You should greet him as you typically would.”
Of course, she thought with a wry shake her head. She needed to act as if nothing had changed with her suitor, as if she didn’t suspect him of possibly spying for Germany. “Right.”
“You can do this, Gwen.”
His confidence bolstered her own as Mr. Hanbury drew to a stop alongside her. “Good morning, Mr. Hanbury.” She managed to infuse her voice with a measure of casual cheer. “It’s a nice day for riding, isn’t it?”
“It is that, Miss Barton.” He tipped his hat to her, then looked toward Avery, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Winfield.”
“Hanbury,” Avery returned in nearly the same tone of annoyance.
Gwen pressed her lips over a laugh. If this type of greeting was typical fashion for the two men, there had to be more to the underlying tension between them than Avery’s suspicions.
“Enjoy your ride, Miss Barton.”
She and Mr. Hanbury exchanged polite nods. “Thank you. You too.”
Without acknowledging Avery again, Mr. Hanbury rode off. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” she asked as she and Avery guided their horses forward again.
“I don’t understand,” he said with a frown.
“Was that strained greeting how you normally address Mr. Hanbury?”
His frown increased. “I’d hardly say that was strained.”
Gwen let her laugh escape this time. “Whatever you call it, I think you made it fairly obvious you suspect him of something.”
It was another minute before Avery spoke again. “Very well. I’ll admit I don’t feel overly delighted in talking with that man. After all, he may be working for the people who tried to have me—”
He left off talking as he glanced her way. “Tried to have you what?” Gwen prompted.
“All I’m trying to say is that he may feel troubled by our brief interaction for the exact same reasons I do.”
“Because of what you suspect his profession to be?”
“Exactly.”
Gwen still sensed there was something more to the men’s uncomfortable exchange. Almost an air of competition between them, as though they’d been sizing each other up. Was that what spies did? She didn’t know, and clearly Avery didn’t wish to discuss it any more.
It seemed they needed a change of topic. “What sort of information or questions would you like me to ask him?”
“Anything about his family,” he answered, the tight line of his shoulders relaxing. “Or his pursuits and interests.”
“He owns quite a bit of land in Scotland.”
“I’ve heard the same. Does he talk much about it? Has he told you what purpose so much land serves in what I’ve heard is rather isolated country?”
She thought back over her largely one-sided conversations with Mr. Hanbury. “I think he told me he likes the solitude there. The property is on a loch, which joins the sea.”
“Gwen, that’s perfect. That’s precisely the sort of information we need.” His warm smile was another threat to the hastily formed boundaries around her heart. “A loch near the sea would allow access and communication by boat.”
“I’ll see what else I can learn.”
Avery met her eyes. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, blushing at his sincere gratitude. “Thank you for riding with me today. I feel much better now about my ride with Lord Whitson.”
He offered her a brief smile, then faced forward again. “You’ll likely impress the earl.” The words were teasing, but the way Avery voiced them wasn’t. “I’m impressed with how well you ride, even with your foot.” His glance strayed her way again. “You are rather remarkable, Gwen.”
The compliment set her pulse tripping and nearly had her believing it hinted at deeper feelings. But whether he meant more than friendship by expressing such praise no longer mattered. He wasn’t going to risk his heart, and that meant neither would Gwen.
“I’m grateful for the compliment, but you haven’t seen me gallop yet.”
His smile widened into a grin. “No, I haven’t. Is that something you’re game—”
Without waiting for him to finish, Gwen urged her horse faster. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Avery scrambling to follow. Another laugh escaped her lips. Only this time it was as full of pleasure as it was pain.
No matter how fast she rode, she couldn’t outride her growing awareness of Avery. She’d conquered her reluctance about riding today. But she wasn’t as confident that she could as quickly and effectively conquer her heart where Avery was concerned.
*
After seeing Gwen home at the conclusion of their ride, Avery returned to his own townhouse. He needed to head to the club in hopes of gathering more information for Captain Kell. But at present, he felt too agitated to listen to what typically amounted to rather tedious conversations with only hints of vital details now and again.
Not like his conversation with Gwen as they’d ridden. Conversing with her was never tedious. If anything, it had been downright dangerous to his peace of mind this morning. Avery had nearly slipped and told her about his injury at the opera. And that was after disclosing other vulnerable pieces about his childhood and why he couldn’t marry. Then she’d gone and correctly identified an unusual tension between him and Hanbury. At least on Avery’s part.
Try as he might, Avery hadn’t been able to fully control the spike of jealousy he’d felt when the other man had ridden up. Hanbury wasn’t just a possible spy; he was also Gwen’s suitor.
Avery ran his hand over his jaw in frustration and glanced around. He’d wandered unthinkingly into the study—his father’s study. When was the last time he’d ventured in here? He couldn’t recall. Normally he avoided this room, though he had replaced some of the furniture and paintings after his father’s death.
His gaze moved to the old cabinet, which still stood beneath the window. An empty decanter sat on top. It had never been empty when Avery’s father had been alive.
Crossing the room, he picked up the cut-glass bottle. He uncorked it, releasing the stale but unmistakable scent of brandy. At once Avery was a young boy again, though not in this house. In his mind’s eye, he was back at Beechwood, on summer holiday, waiting nervously in the doorway to ask his father a question. Avery could see the man’s bloodshot eyes as if his father actually stood before him now. He could smell the alcohol on Phillip Winfield’s breath.
“Don’t stand there like a dormouse,” his father had scoffed as he’d approached Avery. “Speak up, boy. What do you want?”
Young Avery had hazarded a single step forward, then another. “Would you like to go fishing in the pond with me, Father? As you promised?”
“As if I have time to go fishing.” His arm shot out and he clumsily waved at the desk behind him. “I have more important things to do.”
Something hot balled up inside Avery’s chest. “You mean like drinking?” His voice shook with as much bravado as fear. “That’s all you do anymore.”
“What did you say?” Phillip grabbed him by the collar, though his drunken grip only succeeded in moving Avery an inch or two from his rooted spot.
The tears in his eyes blurred his view of his father’s angry face, but Avery couldn’t seem to stop the words that poured from his mouth. “You don’t care about anything or anyone!”
“On the contrary . . .” Avery watched Phillip visibly swallow. “I care too much.” There was blatant anguish in his expression before it hardened once more. “Get out,” he snarled, pushing Avery toward the door. “Leave me be. I have things to do.”
After that, Avery had sought solitude beneath the large oak that had stood for more than three centuries beside the pond. His uncle had found him there. Moorleigh had come up from London on a visit. He took Avery fishing that day.
Why had that memory come to mind? Avery re-capped the decanter. Gwen was right—memories, pleasant or painful, were tucked away into so many of the objects and smells and situations of one’s life.
I care too much.
Phillip’s agonized sentiment repeated itself through Avery’s mind as he gazed, unseeing, out the window. What had his father meant by that? Everything in the man’s life, at least after his wife had taken ill, suggested he felt the opposite. The drinking had begun then and became excessive after Avery’s mother’s death.
How could his father care too much and still push away those who loved him? Who wanted to spend time with him? It made no sense to him. Unless . . . had his loss made him afraid of his own emotions?
Avery jerked upright. Could his father’s behavior, which Avery had viewed for so long as proof that the man didn’t care, actually be evidence Phillip cared too deeply? With caring deeply came the risk of losing and then hurting deeply too.
Isn’t that the real reason I haven’t seriously considered marriage?
The silent question shocked him enough that Avery stumbled to the desk and sank into the chair, emotion pushing painfully against his ribs. While his profession could mean possibly endangering a spouse and family, it also made for a convenient excuse not to marry. And if he were truly honest with himself, it wasn’t just being a spy that made him uneasy about marriage and a family.
Propping his elbows on the desk, he dropped his head into his hands. This revelation changed nothing. If he was afraid of the pain and hurt that love could bring, then he had good reason for his fears.
What if he married, then died soon afterward as his mother had, leaving a grieving spouse and children of his own behind? Or worse, what if he lost his wife as his father had? Avery knew how badly one’s heart could be broken by grief and loss—how it could change a person. What if, despite his best efforts, he became a husband and father exactly as Phillip Winfield had been? A shudder ran through him, and he pressed his palms against his smarting eyes.
No, he would never risk consigning a woman and children to what he himself had experienced in his relationship with his father. That was the real reason he couldn’t—wouldn’t—marry.
Avery stood and exited the room. Fresh determination swept through him and helped to quell the storm of other emotions. It was time to head to the club. He would continue to keep his focus on what he knew, on what he was good at doing. If that meant ignoring Gwen’s gentle knocks on the door of his heart, then so be it.
*
“The soiree was a rather exclusive affair,” Lord Whitson boasted as he patted the neck of his black mare. “I myself hadn’t counted on an invitation, but of course I was humbly honored to accept it when it did come.”
Gwen murmured agreement, then hid a yawn behind her gloved hand. Only politeness, Christian kindness, and acquiescence to her mother’s not-so subtle demands kept her from turning her horse around and riding in the opposite direction. But she’d committed to this outing with Lord Whitson, and she would see it through.
Unlike with Avery, the conversation between her and the earl never ran smoothly. Though one could say, the earl’s conversation with himself ran quite smoothly. Certainly he never seemed at a loss for words. When he wasn’t talking about which exclusive events he’d recently attended, Lord Whitson talked about what food he’d recently eaten, whom he’d seen, and what he planned to buy in the near future. But it never seemed to cross his mind that conversations were meant to be shared experiences. The man rarely asked questions of Gwen or seemed interested at all in her thoughts and opinions—not like Avery did. It was another trait in a growing mental list about Avery, one Gwen knew she shouldn’t be keeping track of anymore.
“What did you think of the concert last night?” she asked in an attempt to change the subject to something they could both converse on. “I thought it was very moving.”
Lord Whitson sniffed. “Moving? I owned a bird once who could sing better than that prima donna.”
Annoyance swelled inside Gwen at his rudeness, and she gripped the reins tighter than she should, causing the horse to toss its head. Avery’s patient counsel from the day before entered her mind, and she forced her gloved fingers to relax. Surely there was something she could talk about with the earl that wasn’t centered solely on him and his apparent indifference to her own preferences.
An idea had Gwen lifting her head with instant hope and relief. She might still be able to salvage this outing and fulfill her task from Avery at the same time. “Tell me, Lord Whitson. How long have you and my cousin and Mr. Hanbury been friends?”
“Since university,” he answered with a shrug. “Although Roddy and I first met back when we were boys at Eaton.”
“Mr. Hanbury didn’t attend Eaton with you?”
The earl shook his head. “He lived in Germany until he was sixteen.”
“Did his family come to England with him?”
“Only his mother and sister. His father died the year before they moved to Britain, but the man’s brother was already living here.”
Did Mr. Hanbury still have family members living in Germany? If not, did he feel enough affection for his mother country that he’d turn on England?
“Do his mother and sister live in London too?” Gwen couldn’t recall Mr. Hanbury mentioning any relatives living nearby. Then again, the man typically mentioned very little about himself—or about any subject, for that matter.
“They usually come to London for the season, though they didn’t this time. The rest of the year they reside at Hanbury’s estate in Scotland.” Lord Whitson nudged his mount closer to Gwen’s. “Why the sudden fascination with Hanbury, Miss Barton? Aren’t you interested in getting to know me better as well?”
Gwen didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or physically cringe at the man’s conceitedness. “I’d like to hear about your family too, Lord Whitson.” She had to push the words from her mouth.
“My father is a marquess and my mother is from an old royal line in Europe . . .”
The man arrogantly droned on and on. Gwen found her thoughts wandering before settling on what Lord Whitson had revealed about his friend. There certainly seemed to be great potential for continued ties with Germany for Mr. Hanbury. Were his mother and sister aware of his duplicitous activities? Or could they be involved as well?
Gwen couldn’t wait to relay to Avery all that she’d learned. She would see him soon, when he came to call upon her and her mother that afternoon during their at-home day, which Cornelia had pushed back by an hour to accommodate Gwen’s morning ride with Lord Whitson. But there would be no time to talk privately with Avery. His visit was solely to help establish his pseudo role as Gwen’s suitor.
The idea of sitting in the parlor, listening to her mother’s poorly disguised prying into Avery’s inheritance and his intentions, sounded painfully awkward. Still, the thought of seeing him so soon brought a traitorous leap to her pulse. Even though it shouldn’t. The doorway that led to more than friendship with Avery was shut and boarded up, if it had ever been open to begin with. If only Gwen could convince herself to believe that.
She needed to stay her current course of assisting Avery with his spying, seeing the doctor again about her foot, and learning the identity of the man from the opera. Hopefully Avery would have information on the latter soon.
The memory of that kiss prompted a smile from Gwen. It was difficult to be despondent whenever she remembered how she’d felt that night. Surely the stranger from the opera box, whoever he might be, would be the ideal suitor, one far more committed and willing to see and love her than any of the others, including Avery.
A surge of purpose had Gwen sitting up straighter in the side saddle and urging her horse faster. Lord Whitson broke off speaking for a moment in order to keep his mount in line with hers, but once that was accomplished, he began another monologue on the subject of his family’s various country estates.
This time Gwen didn’t feel so irritated. She’d discovered more information about Mr. Hanbury, and she hadn’t even questioned him herself yet. If she failed to marry this season or to think of some way to better help the orphanage, then maybe she could make a career out of spying instead.