
Wings ePress, Inc www.wings-press.com
Copyright ©2007 by Susanne McCaffery Saville
First published in 2007, 2007
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A cold unease crawled over her flesh as he approached. The urge to duck behind a tree to avoid him flashed through her mind. But that was ridiculous. He was a little uncouth, perhaps, but it was wrong of her to shun him. She was letting the prejudices of the aristocracy rub off on her.
He was within speaking distance now. She gave him her best smile. "The flowers are looking quite nice, are they not, sir?"
"Wot I'm lookin' at's sweeter by half." Costeroe leered at her. Even in the half-light, she could catch the boorish expression.
"I ... I beg your pardon?"
"Give over. You're as much a lady as that Hamilton trollop." He chuckled, but it was not a friendly sound. "Bet you'd ride me like a chamber-horse, given half a chance."
Gwenllian was staggered. While she did not quite understand his words, she certainly understood their meaning. Why would he say such things? Her bewilderment was too vast for outrage to find a way in. "You must be confusing me with another, sir."
"I've seen you lookin' at him." He grabbed her by the arm. "If he's had you first it don' bovver me none."
"Get off!" Gwenllian struggled, pulling away as he tried to pull her closer. "You odious ... Unhand me! Oliver! Oliver!"
But Oliver had either traipsed too far away to take note of the proceedings, or was too good-natured to realize he was being called upon to attack.
She changed tactics, allowing Costeroe to pull her nearer. This put her within handy reach of his feet, which she stomped upon with abandon.
All manner of foul exclamations spewed from his lips as he released her arm. She stepped away, but before she could turn to run for the door suddenly Mr. Wyckliff was standing between them.
A rough, physical confidence radiated from him, almost tangible in its impact. "Go inside, Princess."
She had heard that ominous tone before. Immediately she backed toward the door. Walking backward was slower, but she was not about to miss whatever would happen next.
In a burst of violence all the more frightening for the swiftness of it, Mr. Wyckliff shoved Costeroe. He used only one straight arm, a single, brutal motion, but Costeroe was knocked backwards several feet. His heels slipped on the loose gravel and he fell heavily upon the abrasive path. Mr. Wyckliff towered over him, the angle of his body stiff and menacing.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
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Bath, England 1804
Daniel Wyckliff could have sworn the pug was smiling. Its pink tongue lolling out of a mouth quirked in a wide grin, the dog careened across the strip of lawn and into the grove like a fat rabbit, forcing him to swivel on his good left leg to prevent the pug from running smack into his shins. He had a glimpse of a swiftly retreating curled tail before he turned and a body collided with his chest.
Already off balance, Daniel reeled back with the impact. His boot heels slipped on the grass still wet with morning dew, and he knew with dreadful certainty that both he and his assailant were going down. His weak right arm, hidden beneath his Carrick coat, was next to useless, but his reflexes raised his left, ready to repel his attacker.
As his hand clutched its shoulder, he felt soft flesh beneath thin muslin, and realized she was a woman. Pulling her toward him just before they hit the earth, he deftly managed to cushion her fall with his body.
His breath burst out in a painful rush as his back struck the ground hard and the weight of the girl thudded upon his chest. He blinked, tried to breathe. Then he felt her stir and he was looking up into pale gray eyes.
"Are you injured, sir? My deepest apologies, I was chasing---and I know I am far heavier than I appear. Oh, please be unharmed, sir." She spoke with a slight lilt. Welsh, perhaps?
A sudden wheezing and snuffling manifested at the right side of his face and Daniel felt a hairy muzzle inspecting his cheek.
"No, Oliver," the woman ordered. "The gentleman does not need any pug saliva." She reached out and gently pushed the dog away from him.
Still flat on his back, Daniel gingerly tested a deep breath and chuckled with his exhale. "Why not? I have heard that pug saliva can cure most anything."
Her eyes lit up. "Do you like pugs, sir? I find so few gentlemen truly appreciate what lovely, useful dogs they are."
He fleetingly admired the poetic license she took with her choice of adjectives. Either that or the definition of 'useful'---and 'lovely' for that matter---had changed this year.
"I like pugs," he answered.
She beamed. It was a smile he felt all the way to his toes, setting his mind racing almost as quickly as his heart. Had she noticed his impaired limbs? With a flash of uneasy self-consciousness, he realized it was exceedingly important to him that this woman think him a vigorous, able-bodied male.
Attempting nonchalance, he reached across with his left hand and fondled the dog's velvety, black ears. "I believe this is the first uncropped pug of my acquaintance. You have a penchant for the unorthodox, I take it?"
"Pardon?"
"I must admit that never before has a lady tackled me in Sydney Gardens. If this is a new fad come to Bath, then I am all for it."
"Oh goodness, what am I doing?" she gasped, seeming honestly appalled with herself. "I assure you I am not. I shall remove myself from you at once, of course."
She started to roll and he heard the distinct sound of tearing. She froze. "I believe my dress is caught, somewhere."
She tried to look about her, but her loosened bonnet kept blocking her view. With an impatient tug, she pulled it off and tossed it to the side, revealing dark locks cropped and curled in the short, tousled Titus style. Rather daringly short hair for a lady. When she glanced at him again, he was struck by how light her eyes were in contrast to her tanned complexion and black hair. She had a wild, gypsyish appearance, too dark for fashion to consider her beautiful and yet...
"I cannot find the catch." Her brows knit with concern.
"If you would permit me?"
His left hand explored her side with slow, deliberate movements, feeling for the elusive snagged fold of her dress. In so doing, he could not help noticing the ample curves of her body. He attempted to control his very improper response. Unorthodox she might be, but she was not a lightskirt, of that he was certain. Not only was her manner of speaking too cultured, but there was something naïve about her despite the fact that she had to be only a couple of years younger than his age of seven-and-twenty. She shifted on him again and he was graphically reminded that he had never been this close to a woman outside of a bedroom. She would slap him if she realized the extent of his licentious thoughts---and he would deserve it.
"If we are not disentangled quickly, some passerby will get a view of fauna to surpass the flora," the dark woman jested, her voice merry though her eyes betrayed her distress. She paused to once again dissuade the dog from a snuffling inspection of their faces. "Will fearsome thoughts of a forced marriage hurry you to greater speed, sir?"
No sooner had the words passed her lips than Daniel heard the crunch of feet---many feet---along the nearby gravel path and a gruff male voice grumbling about moral turpitude. These newcomers could not have seen them, not yet. But the grove would not protect them for long. The passersby would be upon them in moments.
The woman's eyes had blazed with panic at the sound of the oncoming man's voice. She hissed several words that, while not actually swearing, were not quite ladylike. A chorus of rips and rending accompanied her mad scramble to her feet.
Daniel propped himself up on his elbows. The woman's spotted muslin dress sported a gaping tear down the side. He could see glimpses of white stockings through a matching rip in her chemise. However, she seemed more concerned with collecting her pug than her dishabille.
"Did you see Mrs. Harris flaunting herself on the Ride?" A female voice interrupted the man's grumbles.
"Now, now, Mariah, be kind." Another female.
The dark woman had her pug in her arms. He could see her trying to decide if she had enough time to stoop for her bonnet.
"Where has your sister gone off to?" asked the man, very near now. "Gel's a little hoyden, if you ask me."
The woman met Daniel's eyes, her expression a strange mixture of fear and rueful amusement, and he guessed she was the hoyden in question. Abandoning the bonnet, she dashed away down the lawn as if Bonaparte's army were after her. Not an easy feat while carrying a cumbersome, two stone dog.
Daniel hoisted himself to his feet. A wave of impatience washed over him at the persistent awkwardness of his right limbs. While he had to admit the waters had done wonders, it was high time he was fully mended.
The three pedestrians rounded the corner into the grove. Daniel, brushing himself off, glanced after the woman, but her fleeing form had disappeared behind the far shrubbery. He turned his attention back to the newcomers.
The man, clad in the old-fashioned uniform of old money---complete with wig---waddled past looking neither right nor left, as if he had no time to waste on nature. He could have been walking with his daughters, for he was easily twice the girls' age, yet Daniel fancied that scenario did not fit this group. He wondered if the stunning blonde was in fact the gentleman's wife. She also possessed an air of wealth but, unlike him, she dressed in the current fashion: all white muslin, coquelicot ribbons on her bonnet, and a black gauze cloak. Quite the first-rate trophy to grace anyone's arm. A pace or two behind walked the other girl, her eyes bent to the path and her fingers flitting from her stylish sprigged gown to the toffee-colored ringlets peeping out from beneath her bonnet, as if her life depended upon nothing being creased or out of place. Nature was not cooperating, and it clearly irritated her.
The blonde's quick, light steps paused at the sight of the abandoned bonnet. "Wait, is that not Gwenllian's?"
The other girl trudged on without looking. "I am not leaving the path," she declared. "The grass is far too damp."
Daniel stepped forward and bowed. "Your servant, ladies." He bent, swooping up the bonnet with his left hand, and limped to the blonde's side.
"Do you perhaps know the owner?" he asked as he handed the item to her.
"Yes, sir, I believe I do." She smiled politely and started to turn away.
"Then might you return it for me, with my compliments?"
"Your compliments, sir?" The blonde glanced at the retreating back of the older gentleman, as if worried he might overhear.
Meanwhile, the other girl had turned her scrutiny from her dress to them, her avid eyes darting between him and the anxious blonde. Daniel decided she was the Mariah chastened for gossiping earlier. Remembering that he should be well-bred enough to know personal comments are considered rude, he cast about for something neutral to say. Something he could praise in safety.
"I simply mean to say that she has a fine dog."
The blonde grinned and a crafty sparkle lit her blue eyes. "Then you are much in sympathy with Miss Lloyd, for she proclaims that opinion to all close enough to hear."
Daniel made another bow and the ladies resumed their walk. As he limped away, Daniel could hear Mariah speaking, her voice gradually fading as the distance between them increased. "I, for one, do not think he was talking about her dog. Do you think so? Well, you would do. Oh, just wait until I tell Isabella. Who do you think he is? He is quite handsome. Do you think he might have money?"
A ridiculously delighted grin formed on his face, and he did not care. This was an auspicious morning. His right leg definitely seemed less of a hindrance and the kind blonde had deliberately provided him with the means by which to locate his dark lady.
Her name was Miss Gwenllian Lloyd.
Gwenllian Lloyd threw herself across her bed and mentally squirmed with shame. What had she been thinking? Running about with Oliver like they were their own little barbarian horde. But it had been such a lovely day, and it rained so often in Bath. Proper behavior cancelled due to lack of rain? No, the Baron would not countenance that. Not acceptable grounds. She sighed. Not at all.
Oliver landed on the bed with a solid thump and an accompanying chorus of creaks and snorts. The mattress bobbled as he trundled about, alternately snuffling her face and wagging off to attack her pillows. She ruffled his fur. Tufts of fawn hair shed off onto her hand and sheets. Ah, Spring.
She rolled onto her back. The stranger's hair had been fair like that. No, more the color of rich honey. And he had been a tall, handsome figure of a man. Sharp features, blonde hair, he put her in mind of a tall, golden fox. Why could she not have come across him while taking the water at the Pump Room? Or even dancing in the Lower Rooms? She was perfectly capable of doing plenty of things correctly. But no, for the handsomest man she had ever met she must behave like a hoyden.
Her only comfort was that she had not ruined her chances with him. She had never had a chance with him to begin with. No male ever noticed her, or at least no one whose notice she desired. So no harm was done.
Unless he told people about the encounter.
In all of Bath, she owned the only pug with his natural ears. Possibly in all of England. All the stranger had to say was 'uncropped pug' and people would name her. Everyone would know.
She bolted upright with a sudden intake of breath. What if he tells Mariah? She summoned the subtle northern cadence of his husky voice from her memory and her merciless imagination immediately conjured him talking to the Honorable Mariah Howard. She could picture the smirk on Mariah's fair, doll-like face. She would never be able to hold her head up in Bath again. The common knowledge that she had been out for seven seasons was ignominy enough, but Mariah would see to it that everyone thought impending spinsterhood had driven her peculiar.
Gwenllian slumped over. At least her folly could not expose her younger sisters to ridicule. Alice would not be out until next year, and Letticia's highly advantageous marriage could outweigh almost any behavior.
A light rap on her door brought her out of her grave contemplations. The door squeaked inward and Letticia's smiling face peered around the corner. "It has gone ten. Are you not coming down to breakfast?"
She sighed. "If I tell you I shall never leave my room again, will you say I am being over-dramatic?"
"So there's a story to go with this then?" Letticia stepped into the room and held out Gwenllian's bonnet which heretofore had been hidden behind her back.
"Not necessarily a story."
Letticia joined her on the bed, automatically petting Oliver, who had bounded over to greet her. Anticipation shone from Letticia's deep blue eyes. "Do tell."
Gwenllian hesitantly described the literal run-in and her fears of it becoming one of Bath society's juicy on-dits. "Though why I should care I do not know," she ended. "No one was in any great hurry to offer for me before, so I shall be in the same situation if no one will offer for me now."
"Oh, you shall get plenty of offers, my girl." Letticia chortled. The blonde ringlets framing her face danced. "But none shall be repeatable in polite company."
"You are not helping," she replied, very irked indeed.
"Sorry." Letticia patted Gwenllian's thigh. "I agree he might think you quite the saucy wench. But he might just as easily realize it was an accident and think you an estimable lady. He seemed a very proper gentleman to me."
Stroking Oliver, who had finally settled at her side, Gwenllian considered what she remembered of the man's utilitarian garb---the Carrick coat with its multiple capes swathed about him despite the mildness of the morning, the loosely knotted cravat at his throat, his shiny Hessian boots. There had not been an ounce of lace or a frill on him, funnily enough.
"Yes, he did seem ... Wait, you saw him?"
"I did. He fetched your bonnet for me and said to tell you he thought Oliver a fine dog. I think he wishes to be properly introduced."
Gwenllian was flustered by the fluttery happiness the words ignited within her. "Do you truly think so?"
"Well, my dear, we shall go to tonight's ball at the Lower Rooms and, if he is present, you shall find out soon enough."
"Oh, no, I could not possibly. Not tonight. What if..."
"Yes, tonight. If there has been gossip, your hiding will only confirm it. Hold your head high and make them think they are mistaken in you."
Gwenllian groaned.
"Oh, come along." Letticia playfully shoved her and then rose to her feet. "We have not been to the Lower Rooms in ages. You will enjoy seeing them again."
Letticia generally preferred attending the Upper Rooms. She found them more attractive, even though there was usually an atrocious crush inside, because the Upper Rooms were newer, situated closer, and had five chandeliers. The Lower Rooms were all the way down by the river and showed their age, Letticia always said, compared to the Upper Rooms' glittering glass and gilt.
Gwenllian did not share this opinion, however. The Lower Rooms were simply more comfortable, more friendly. At the Lower Rooms, one could dance without fear of being squashed and, since the Master of Ceremonies performed introductions, there were better odds of being asked to dance. Even less admired girls, like her, were in with a chance. A remote chance, but still, more of a chance than she ever had at the smug Upper Rooms. If she were forced to attend a ball, then the Lower Rooms were by far the lesser evil.
"Might you at least keep Mariah clear of me for a change?" Gwenllian demanded irritably as her sister glided to the door. "She will be insufferable if the tale reaches her ears, as well you know."
"I shall try, but once she latches on for an evening it is dreadful difficult to shed her." She smiled and gave Gwenllian a wink. "Besides, it is easier to keep track of a viper when she is close. Now come eat."
"You will not tell your husband?"
"Of course not." She poked Gwenllian teasingly when Gwenllian joined her at the door. "The Baron does not like to discuss loose women over breakfast."
Gwenllian sighed. She was still uncertain she could face a meal, but things might look brighter after a cup of chocolate and she knew one hairy entity that would be glad of a bit of sausage. She heard the thud of Oliver throwing himself off the bed and knew he was following behind her.
Lord Berwentford, occasionally called Edgar by his wife, was a stout man, easily thirty years older than Letticia. Gwenllian watched him polish off the last of his boiled eggs. He sweated at eating, using great deal of effort and butter. It was clear his title made him considerably more attractive than any of his natural attributes.
No one had particularly wondered at Letticia's preference for him over her non-titled suitors, nor had they wondered at his swift attachment to Letticia. His first wife had died childless and his younger brother had run up debts that he felt obligated to pay. Beautiful Letticia had brought vitally needed money to their marriage, and it was no secret that Lord Berwentford had hoped she would also provide him with an even more vitally needed son.
Unfortunately for Letticia, in two years of marriage not a peep had been heard of offspring. Gwenllian did not envy her sister's undertaking that duty. The Baron was not ... well, his gruff, contrary nature made Gwenllian nervous to be in the same room with him. She could not imagine what it must be like to be alone with him.
"Is that not wonderful, Gwenllian?" asked Letticia.
"Please pardon me, I was woolgathering." She smiled and helped herself to another slice of plum bread. "What is wonderful?"
"Mariah will be coming home to Primroselea with us," Letticia repeated.
Gwenllian almost forgot how to swallow. She choked, coughed, and recovered. "But I thought her visit was only for this month? Only in Bath?" She tried not to sound alarmed.
"It was. But she wishes to accompany us to the coast. She informed us of these new plans as she was parting from us in Sydney Gardens to attend the public breakfast." Her sister's arched eyebrows and the waggle of her head as she said this displayed her disapproval at such high-handed behavior.
"Good girl, Mariah," Lord Berwentford opined without looking up from his plate.
Letticia rolled her eyes. She and Gwenllian shared a commiserating grin. Mariah's parents had been particular friends of the Baron. Mariah seemed to think this gave her the right to avail herself of their company---or rather, their properties---whenever she wished to be fashionably in Bath or stylishly on the seacoast. Unfortunately, Lord Berwentford did not seem to mind her behavior.
Perhaps Mariah secretly desired to rendezvous with one of the officers on the seacoast. The militia was present in great numbers along the coastline these days, due to the threat of a French invasion. Gwenllian heartily wished for Mariah to have some sort of purpose in coming to Primroselea Park. Something which would keep her busy. Something which would keep her out of the house. Mariah had not attracted any serious suitors in her two years out, and as her disquiet at this situation increased so did her spiteful remarks about Gwenllian's hopeless situation, impossible coloring, and poor taste in clothes.
"That is wonderful," Gwenllian agreed, hoping Lord Berwentford did not hear the strain in her voice. She finished her breakfast in silence.
Gwenllian spent the rest of the day attempting to sew while Oliver, lying upside down beside her on the Grecian couch, snored contentedly. Then he got too hot, rolled over, and periodically one of his hard little feet would kick her as he stretched or pushed himself further along the couch. These interruptions kept reminding her of their morning adventures and, she ended up distracted by thoughts of her golden fox and undoing more stitches than she made.
The stranger had said he liked pugs. She truly believed the liking of pugs to be a certification of good character. Perhaps he would tell no one. Perhaps he would be at the Lower Rooms tonight. Perhaps he would ask her to dance. And perhaps the river Avon would run up the slopes of Lansdown. She sighed. It was not sensible to raise her hopes so.
A commotion in the hallway announced that Letticia and Mariah had returned from paying calls.
"Lovely weather outside," her sister announced as she entered the room. "You wouldn't believe the crowd walking our Crescent."
"It is so nice to reside at a fashionable address," Mariah affirmed. She gracefully seated herself at the little writing desk. Gwenllian guessed she was now going to honor people with her fashionable address in letter form.
Gwenllian rose and put her sewing away. "Oliver and I shall take advantage of the weather, then, if it is still so fine. Outside, Oliver?"
Oliver woke up with a snort, threw himself off the couch, and trotted to her side.
"You have calls to pay?" Mariah sounded like she could scarce believe it.
Gwenllian shook her head. "Oliver and I are going to walk the seven hills of Bath."
"Oh goodness me." Letticia laughed. "You'll kill yourself."
Gwenllian started for the door. "Some silver linings are easier to see than others."
"Well, don't be late returning," Letticia called after her. "You are going to the Lower Rooms even if I have to tie you up and drag you there myself."
She was here. Daniel could not believe his luck. His dark lady had come to the Lower Rooms. The fruitless nature of his day was forgotten in an instant. Miss Lloyd had reappeared, though without her faerie pug. The young, blonde woman who had given him Miss Lloyd's name stood beside her, opulently dressed in pink and white, and clearly aware that her gown's colors showed off her flawless complexion to great effect. Her eyes scanned the crowd and rewarded complimenting eyes with a graceful nod of her carefully curled tresses and feathered cap.
But Daniel much preferred his dark Miss Lloyd. He admired the way her lilac gown draped and clung to her curves. Her only jewelry was a brooch in the center of the matching silk band in her hair. Simple. Classical. She chatted and smiled at her blonde companion but, unlike her, she seemed interested in observing the room for its people rather than searching for her own reflection in their eyes. He wondered what she was talking about.
Just then the blonde's roving gaze caught his. He glanced away. Had she observed him staring? Surreptitiously he looked in their direction, to find she was whispering to Miss Lloyd. She started to raise her eyes to his. He turned abruptly and pressed through the crowd to join Nigel Adamstone along the back wall.
"Progress?"
Daniel shook his head. "Do you know who those ladies are?"
Nigel was not as tall as Daniel. He had to stretch to see the women Daniel indicated. At that moment, the blonde was being asked to dance by a young blade wearing far too much lace. She acquiesced, he led her away, and Miss Lloyd was left alone. She stiffened every time a gentleman drew near, but invariably they passed her without speaking and her shoulders slumped again.
"Well spotted." Nigel nodded approvingly. "The incomparable blonde is Lady Berwentford. The other is her sister. Why do you ask?"
"It was the sister's name I was looking up in the Book when you found me in the Pump Room this morning."
Nigel shook his head, his lips twisted in a remorseful grimace. "And I sent you on a wild goose chase when you could have been halfway to meeting the Baron. 'Pologies, old man. Well, well, you must scrape an acquaintance with the sister, by all means." Nigel glanced over at her and shuddered. "And rather you than me. I've heard she doesn't hide her intelligence like a decent girl should."
Daniel laughed. The prospect of meeting Miss Lloyd again sent a keen hum through his blood and more of his true accent slipped through when he replied. "Tha'rt no real man to be afeared of brains in a lass."
Nigel tilted his head, pursed his lips, and coolly appraised Daniel up and down. "I can sense the excitement in you, old man. Do be careful. You're a bit rough and ready for their crowd."
Daniel felt the old anger rise within him, but he suppressed his biting retort and restricted himself to merely glaring at Nigel. Then he asked, "Who can introduce me?"
"Try Penelope---Mrs. Meadpoole. She knows bags of people."
But Mrs. Meadpoole did not have the requisite connections either. She did, however, possess some interesting gossip.
"The Lloyds have money, right enough, but they are as close to mushrooms as makes no never-mind. You can still smell the shop on them." She was short and spoke so quietly that Daniel had to hunch over to hear. "Not that that stopped the Baron. Snapped up Miss Letticia Lloyd, he did, her first year out. And her sister out five years at the time." Mrs. Meadpoole made little clucking sounds of reproach. "It is seven years now, poor dear. No one will ever marry Miss Lloyd now."
"And why is that?"
"Well, they say Miss Letticia---Lady Berwentford now, you understand---her dowry was forty-thousand pounds."
Daniel shook his head in awe. It was a vast sum. But how else could a girl move from plebeian to Baroness?
"And I am reliably told that they spent more than they ought in that," Mrs. Meadpoole continued. "So with another daughter coming out soon---and she the very image of Lady Berwentford, they say and just as likely to make a fair marriage---the Lloyds simply have not funds to waste. Thus Miss Lloyd has only a thousand pounds to commend her."
"Only a thousand," Daniel muttered wryly. A poor man might live the rest of his life on that. But it was nowhere near enough to buy the sort of status her family was clearly after.
Daniel thanked Mrs. Meadpoole for her assistance and headed toward the Master of Ceremonies.
The tall, golden fox was approaching. He walked with a decided limp, which was somewhat surprising since his whole form seemed a tribute to athleticism. Gwenllian's heart hammered at her ribs. Letticia had noticed his gaze earlier and had pronounced his expression positively lecherous. Gwenllian was sorry she missed that. Now he was approaching with Mr. Knight, the Master of Ceremonies. Her stomach writhed as if it wished to escape her body. There was no doubt. They were going to be introduced.
"Miss Lloyd." Mr. Knight bowed. "May I present Mr. Wyckliff, who has expressed a wish to become acquainted with you."
The middle-aged Master of Ceremonies' rosy face seemed genuinely pleased that a gentleman had taken an interest in her.
Gwenllian curtseyed. "Mr. Wyckliff is too kind."
"The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Lloyd." Mr. Wyckliff bowed. She noticed that he held his right arm rather bent and stiff. He must have been extensively injured, yet he carried himself with such an indomitable air that one would think nothing could touch him.
Mr. Knight excused himself with a bow. Left alone with Mr. Wyckliff, she desperately racked her brain for something artful to say which would neither acknowledge their prior meeting nor seem to conspicuously avoid it. Unfortunately for her, Mr. Wyckliff spoke first.
"As you did the honors last time, this time I shall strangely harass you," he stated with a roguish grin.
"You astound me, sir." But she could not stop the amused smile forming on her lips.
Then, like a sudden cloud across the sun, she was aware of Letticia and Mariah Howard standing at her side. Mariah could not have looked more resplendent, swathed in butter yellow silk with exactly the correct amount of lace and pearls. Few girls in the room could compete with her. Gwenllian's spirits sank, but she tried to keep her countenance dignified.
"Letticia, Miss Howard, may I present Mr. Wyckliff? Mr. Wyckliff, this is my sister, Lady Berwentford, and---" with a sudden, sinking sense of horror, Gwenllian could not remember if one was supposed to announce Mariah's title or not. Society had so many rules. Like as not, they were specially intended to trip up those who had not been privileged to learn them from birth. Trying to disguise the pause with a tiny cough she hoped sounded at least vaguely genteel, Gwenllian decided Mariah would prefer a thick layer of obsequiousness over one thinly spread. "And the Honorable Miss Howard."
"My Lady. Miss Howard." Mr. Wyckliff bowed, although Gwenllian noted he gave them the same consequence that he had given her. An uncommon rush of pleasure infused her spirit at the gesture, but was instantly snuffed when Mariah asked the one question she had expressly hoped to avoid.
"I remember you from the Gardens, Mr. Wyckliff. I do believe you admired Miss Lloyd's dog. Did you meet Miss Lloyd there as well?"
Gwenllian shot Mr. Wyckliff a desperate glance. She need not have worried. His expression was the model of polite formality. "I did not have that honor, Miss Howard, so you might imagine how well pleased I am to discover that such a fine dog has such an exceptionally fine mistress." Mr. Wyckliff gazed at Gwenllian. His hazel eyes sparkled with conspiratorial mirth.
"I find many gentlemen are interested in dogs," Letticia interjected. "Do you hunt, Mr. Wyckliff?"
But Mariah was not about to let the subject change. "You might not think it, but Miss Lloyd lets her dog run loose quite regularly. It is a wonder she does not have fleas."
Gwenllian's cheeks burned. Mariah did not have to go so far. She had already won merely by showing up. Head bowed, she cast a mortified glance up at Mr. Wyckliff. She expected some sort of discomfort or disdain upon his features. He surprised her.
"Indeed. The dog could not bring them home to a more delicious mistress."
He smiled at her, a brilliant smile, made a polite bow, then moved away with more grace than she would have thought possible with his limp, leaving her bereft of words. What was that? Was that a compliment? If only he would come back so she could know for certain what he thought of her. An urgent tugging at her elbow interrupted her thoughts.
"Link arms and we shall stroll past him," Letticia urged. "If you are in his proximity when the current dance ends..."
Gwenllian ducked her head again. "I will not beg for a partner."
"You will not get the chance." Mariah sniffed. "He is one of the handsomest men here. And you really did not show to your best advantage."
"Well, shame on me." Gwenllian glared at Mariah. "And with you speaking so well of me to him."
If Mariah understood the barb meant for her, she ignored it. "Perhaps I shall take a turn around the room." Mariah was eyeing the direction in which Mr. Wyckliff had gone. "If only I knew..."
"His financial situation?" suggested Gwenllian.
"Precisely."
Letticia scanned the room. "Where is Mr. Faircross? He might know something of Mr. Wyckliff. Let us go and see what we can find out. Gwenllian, are you coming?"
Gwenllian shook her head. "I shall wait here. You two forage for gossip better without company."
Letticia and Mariah disappeared into the crush. Gwenllian was not entirely surprised when only Mariah returned. Mr. Faircross danced two dances with Letticia every chance he got, and tonight he'd only had the one. Unhappily for Gwenllian, this left Mariah as the only source of information about Mr. Wyckliff.
She plucked at the skirts of her gown. She was not going to ask. Mariah was standing there so smug. She knew she was curious. But she was determined not to ask. It was none of her business, really, what Mr. Wyckliff got up to. He would probably never speak to her again. There was no reason to ask Mariah anything.
"So what did you find out, Miss Howard?" She was weak. She knew it.
"Mr. Wyckliff has ten thousand a year and survived a terrible carriage accident that mangled his whole right side." Mariah's tone made it sound as if she had long been privileged with this information, when Gwenllian knew right well she had only just acquired it. "Mr. Wyckliff also has the reputation of being a tremendous rake."
"And consequently all the girls wish to dance with him," Gwenllian finished. "I understand completely. But what of his injuries?"
"Bath has done wonders for him, though you can tell his leg is still troublesome. And he refuses to use a cane, simply refuses. What virility." Mariah simpered.
Gwenllian snorted. "Often do I think there must be quite a fine line between virility and stupidity."
"Often you would be right," said a husky voice behind her.
Gwenllian stiffened. Mr. Wyckliff. He was standing behind her and he had heard. No wonder Mariah had been smiling so self-consciously. She had seen him approach. And the little she-viper had not warned her. Gwenllian's heart was a maelstrom of emotion as she turned to face him with as much dignity as she could scrape together.
"Mr. Wyckliff." Gwenllian curtseyed.
"Shall you dance, Miss Lloyd?" He gazed directly into her eyes. There was such an extraordinary intensity to his look. Her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl's.
"Miss Lloyd rarely dances." Mariah moved forward and deliberately stepped in front of her. Then, arm already lifted and waiting, Mariah posed in clear expectation of being led onto the dance floor.
Gwenllian clenched her jaw but politely drew back. Mariah had beauty, breeding and an impressive dowry waiting. No man would resist such a triumvirate.
"Your pardon, Miss Howard." Mr. Wyckliff stepped around Mariah.
Gwenllian could not believe it. He was again standing in front of her, looking only at her. She found herself mesmerized by his intense hazel eyes.
"Shall you dance or shall I fetch you some white soup?" he asked with a kind smile.
"Dance," she whispered, trying to remember how to breathe.
Mariah was glaring daggers at her but Gwenllian did not care. One of the most handsome men in the room had asked her to dance. She could feel envious eyes boring holes in her from all sides. This must be what it is like to have rank or be beautiful.
"You will accept my apologies in advance if I am not the best partner?" Mr. Wyckliff asked.
"I expect you will put me to shame, sir. When she said 'I rarely dance', Mariah was being quite truthful." Gwenllian barely managed to stop herself from adding 'for once'.
"Not to worry. I made certain this would be a triple minor before I asked you for the dance. If we can manage to position ourselves as one of the third couples, we shall dance very little."
She grinned. "An excellent stratagem."
"Am I as useful as your pug, then?" His eyes sparkled.
She ducked her head. He was referring to something she had said this morning. Was he encouraging her to acknowledge their meeting? She should ignore the comment, and yet ... She inhaled deeply and decided to be daring.
"I could not say, sir, until I have seen you put to more uses."
He raised an eyebrow. "Suggest something."
She swallowed. Her heart pounded in her ears. But she was still going to say it. After all, if he were truly a rake, he would appreciate the jest.
"Pugs make unparalleled bed warmers."
He gave her a wide grin. "Minx," he whispered. His eyes flashed, but the emotion within was unfamiliar to her and thus unreadable.
The dance began, and they had been successful in their positioning. While the first couples progressed down the room, Gwenllian and Mr. Wyckliff were left to chat. It was the perfect moment to build on her audacious insinuation. They were as far away from Letticia or Mariah or any chaperoning presence as they were likely to get. But Gwenllian could think of nothing but the most dull and obvious question. Deciding it were better to be trite than silent, she asked it anyway. "Have you been in Bath long?"
"About a month."
"Truly? I wonder how it is we have not met before?"
He smiled. "I fear I came to Bath unfashionably, for my health rather than society. My injuries did not permit me..."
"Oh, of course, pray forgive me," she interrupted. How could she have been so thoughtless? "That was a silly question. I do beg your pardon."
"But I have gradually expanded to the Pump Room and the Lower Rooms," he continued amiably. "I suppose you spend most of your time in the Upper Rooms?"
She nodded. "I can be found there. Mostly I walk with Oliver, or when it rains I read indoors."
The second couples began their progress up the room.
"I imagine you also practice your piano forte and your singing, as any accomplished young lady does?"
She grinned wryly. "No, my main accomplishment is that I can pass for a lady."
A quizzical spark lit his eyes.
"My family is in trade," she explained. "You might as well know now. Though I am quite surprised no one warned you."
"I believe I was warned. I saw no reason for it."
It came their turn to enter the dance before she could reply and she had to wait for them to cross before she could answer.
"Pretentious lower classes do not displease you?" she asked as he went by.
"You do not seem pretentious," he answered on his return pass.
She had to wait until it was her turn to loop about him before she could respond. "I am named for a Welsh princess. So you see, I have been steeped in pretensions."
She waited on tenterhooks for him to promenade past her. Would he compliment her again or issue a subtle set down which, according to his class, her upstart background no doubt deserved?
"It does no harm to have a goal," he stated, his equable attitude unchanged.
"A singular opinion," she interjected before he was away again.
Upon his return, he would finish his remarks with the expected set down. She was certain of that. She hardened her heart against the upcoming slight. But again he surprised her.
"I am a singular gentleman." Mr. Wyckliff grinned. He was laughing at some inner joke, but it was not aimed at her.
Indeed, his grin and the glint in his eyes as he gazed at her elicited the strangest warm feeling within her. It tingled in her limbs and flooded her chest. Her pulse quickened as she realized his earlier words might have been sincere.
"It is an opinion I wish more people shared," she acknowledged, suddenly shy. If he insulted her now she would not be able to bear it.
The dance ended. The couples bowed and curtseyed each to the other. Gwenllian was afraid to look up, afraid that she had imagined the warmth and that his eyes would contain that same disinterested boredom she had seen time and again in the eyes of men who beheld her. She forced herself to look up into Mr. Wyckliff's face.
"Might I have a second dance?" he asked.
She nodded. Hazel eyes were lovely. This was the best ball she had ever attended by a clear mile. She was going to record this in her journal. Not that she had a journal. But she would start one immediately.
A hand caught her elbow. "Beg pardon, Mr. Wyckliff. So sorry, Gwenllian dear, but we must be going," Letticia began. "Mariah has a headache and we must take her home."
Gwenllian frowned. She would be starting that journal a little bit later. Directly after killing Mariah.
Letticia hastened away toward the door where Mariah waited looking sallow and sour.
Gwenllian curtseyed to Mr. Wyckliff with far more grace than she felt. "Good night, Mr. Wyckliff. I am sorry."
"No more than I. Might I escort you to the door?"
"Thank you."
The vicinity of the doorway was fair deserted compared to the press of people deeper within the room. It was the perfect situation for quiet confidences, but Gwenllian's wits once more chose to abandon her. She could think of nothing clever to say.
Mariah and Letticia had already left. She was going to have to hurry. The pressure did not help matters. She gave up. "Good night, then, Mr. Wyckliff," she said as they reached the door. "Thank you for the dance." The words sounded terribly lame.
Mr. Wyckliff bowed. Before he moved away he spoke, his husky voice low and his northern---perhaps Yorkshire---accent more pronounced. Only Gwenllian was close enough to hear. "Good night, Princess."
Sun-filled as the following morning was, its luster was now lost on Gwenllian as she and Letticia completed their third circuit around the Pump Room's highly polished wood floor. Letticia had acknowledged and spoken with several ladies and gentlemen during the course of each circle, the resultant chatter and compliments echoing up and up to the ceiling high above. Then they had walked on, an appreciative flutter of excitement following in their wake. Gwenllian would normally have taken a vicarious enjoyment in the admiration surrounding her sister, sycophantic as it might be. Instead, her earlier good spirits waned. Here they had finished three circuits, and Gwenllian had yet to see the one person she was hoping might be present.
When her sister had proposed they visit the Pump Room this morning, she could scarcely continue eating breakfast. She had spent an inordinate amount of time choosing her attire, and then removing, with great care, all the loose pug hairs from her lavender muslin dress and purple velvet spencer. She had even left Oliver at home, much to his dismay.
Anticipation had surged into expectancy and she felt weak in the knees as she entered the Pump Room, yet telling herself all the while that Mr. Wyckliff probably would not be there. And unfortunately that proved to be true.
He was not among the milling crowd. He was not sitting in one of the elegant wooden chairs lining the white upon white plaster-worked walls. He was not being served at the Pump. This third circuit had proven to her beyond doubt that he was not in the room. Gwenllian had never felt so disappointed.
"There he is!" Letticia whispered. "Look, look!"
Gwenllian raised her head. Mr. Wyckliff had just entered the room. Her heart pounded at the sight of him. Handsome as ever, he limped toward the Pump. Many pairs of female eyes, not as hidden behind their fans as they supposed, followed his progress. But clearly none of them had been introduced, else they would have acknowledged him in hope of initiating a conversation. She was rather pleased to be one of the few women in the room able to speak to him.
"We shall acknowledge him," Letticia announced. She began to glide majestically across the floor towards Mr. Wyckliff, but Gwenllian caught her arm.
"No, no, wait." Gwenllian's empty stomach churned in a most peculiar fashion.
Letticia turned, her confusion evident in her expression. "But you came here in hopes of meeting him."
Gwenllian twisted her hands in an agony of indecision. He had called her 'Princess' last night. Nothing could surpass that. But amongst this exalted society with which her family was so desperate to align themselves, marriages---like her sister's---were based not on emotions, but on the acquisition of wealth or rank. And she had neither to offer him. "What if he has thought better of ... I mean, what if he does not wish to speak to me?"
"Of course he wants to speak to you. He will hardly snub you. Not in front of me," Letticia declared. "No one cuts a Baroness. Let's go."
Mr. Wyckliff saw them approaching and his eyes brightened. Gwenllian felt her heart skip at the candid pleasure evident in his wide grin. She wished he would smile at her like that forever.
After dispensing with the usual pleasantries, Letticia suggested they all improve their health by imbibing the water. Soon they were lined up at the wooden bar that cordoned the front of the Pump's bright alcove.
Gwenllian watched Mrs. Coral, the official Pumper, fill their cups one by one. Each pewter goblet interrupted the arc of clear water shimmering in the sunlight that streamed from the tall windows. Then the interfering vessel was removed and the ribbon of water burbled on.
Letticia sipped her water and made a face. "I much prefer to bathe in this than drink it."
"The secret, my Lady, is to drink faster." Mr. Wyckliff tossed his back with a practiced hand.
Gwenllian raised her goblet to her lips. The water was very warm and slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.
"Things which are good for us are often not as tasty as those that are not," she observed.
"I cannot agree, Miss Lloyd." Mr. Wyckliff reached to replace his goblet on the bar, leaning very close to Gwenllian as he did so. She felt the light puff of his warm breath caress her cheek. Tingles raced up her spine. "I am certain both of your goodness and your good ... taste," he added in a whisper.
Gwenllian had to consciously remember to close her mouth.
Letticia could not possibly have heard him, and yet she was stifling laughter. Gwenllian guessed her expression had given something away and she was too embarrassed for words.
"Well," Letticia began, setting her goblet down on the bar. "I must get to my shopping."
Gwenllian's heart skipped. Letticia was not leaving her alone with him, was she? "Shopping? Oh, but I thought we---"
"No, no, I must shop and shop now. Perhaps, Mr. Wyckliff, you would do me the favor of escorting my sister home?"
He bowed. "It would be an honor."
Gwenllian glared at her sister but she was already sailing away, the crowd parting before her.
Gwenllian shook her head. "Would it surprise you to know that Letticia is not famous for her subtlety?" Then she glanced up at Mr. Wyckliff and grinned. "Not that you would recognize subtlety, sir, even if it painted itself poppy red."
"I am certain I don't know what you mean, Princess." His chuckle belied his words. "Shall we walk?"
She set down her goblet and allowed him to steer her by the elbow through the crowded room toward the door.
"Might I inquire after your friend's health this morning?"
"You mean Miss Howard?" Gwenllian resisted answering No, you may not. Mariah was the last person she wished to discuss---especially with this man. She wanted him all to herself for as long as possible. "She remains a trifle unwell."
They stepped outside into the busy paved plaza of the Abbey Church Yard.
"And what of your pug?"
Now that was a topic she was thrilled to discuss. She began to gush about Oliver but suddenly Mr. Wyckliff was no longer listening. His posture became ever so slightly more rigid and his eyes narrowed. He seemed for all the world like a hunting dog that had spotted its prey. Gwenllian turned to see what he was looking at, but nothing in the throng behind her appeared worthy of such notice.
Her gaze returned to Mr. Wyckliff. The kind, boyish good-humor was gone from his face, and in its place was the ruthless sort of expression she imagined banditti in gothic novels wore.
"Mr. Wyckliff? Is ought the matter?"
As if the sound of Gwenllian's voice spurred him to action, Mr. Wyckliff strode over to a parked sedan chair waiting for hire beneath the colonnade and poured several coins into the front bearer's palm. "Take Miss Lloyd wherever she wishes," he ordered. He swung the black, carriage-like door and held it open for Gwenllian before the man could react.
"What is it? What have you seen?" she whispered. She attempted to scan the crowd again, but he moved to obstruct her view.
"You do not want to know." There was a dangerous edge to his voice that she had never heard before.
"But..."
"Go home." The command was urgent and forbid questions.
She felt as if he had not so much spoken the words as pelted her with them. Her eyes prickled in the back but she was not about to let tears form. Not in public. She was no silly, irrational chit.
For a moment she thought she saw compassion glimmer in his eyes, as if he felt her distress, but she must have imagined it for in the next moment his eyes were as cold as polished stones. He abruptly bowed. She watched him limp away. As he disappeared into the crowd, with him went all her joy.
She gave the sedan chair bearers her address and climbed into the compartment. The two men lifted their poles and then she was jostling down the bustling street. What had Mr. Wyckliff seen? She continued to scan the crowd but could not distinguish anyone who would merit such interest: simply the standard collection of fashionable persons, some quite startling bonnets, and perhaps a French émigré or two. One would think that at the very least Mr. Wyckliff had spotted the green gig of the Bath Bugabo. With a heavy sigh, she leaned back in the chair and tried to convince herself that she was angry and that if she ever saw Mr. Wyckliff again it would be too soon.
Curled up in the window seat clutching her pug, Gwenllian watched Letticia hurrying along the Crescent. She moved like a woman on a mission, and Gwenllian could guess that at least part of that mission entailed throwing her at Mr. Wyckliff. Letticia would be most disheartened to learn that he was well able to duck.
Silently she measured Letticia's arrival time; she would be in the entrance hall now, then a minute to divest herself of her outer garments, now she would be working her way upstairs.
Letticia's eyes were burning with excitement as she burst into the drawing room, her sheer muslin matron's cap slightly askew. "That Mr. Wyckliff seemed quite taken with you."
Remembering his sudden departure, Gwenllian shook her head. "He was merely being polite."
But Letticia was not listening. "I have decided we shall have a small house party at Primroselea and invite him."
Gwenllian's stomach twisted and her hands flew up in protest. "Oh, do not go to the trouble."
But even as the words left her lips, hope irrepressibly bubbled within her. Why did thoughts of seeing him again make her feel this way? Where were her delicate, ladylike sensibilities? She must be an appalling person. And she would taste delicious. Stop it!
Letticia continued her jolly chatter. "What trouble? Mariah is already coming with us, so we are well on our way. Oh, I do love a house party. Who shall we ask to attend? It cannot be solely Mr. Wyckliff. That would be too obvious."
"Agreed," Gwenllian muttered. "Besides which Mariah would simply keep him all to herself."
"Hugh Faircross can partner Mariah. He is charm personified. He shall keep her busy for you. So that is three couples."
"Three?"
"The Baron and myself, you and Mr. Wyckliff, and Mariah and Mr. Faircross. But that is much too small. Three couples do not bear thinking about. We must have four at least."
"You have forgotten Geoffrey," Gwenllian stated. "Is he not still at Primroselea Park?"
"Oh, yes, of course he is. Then we simply need a lady. Mariah can ask that old school friend of hers: Isabella something. There! We have four couples. It is all planned."
Gwenllian folded her arms. "And planned with suspicious alacrity, I might add. I believe you were scheming before you came in. Who is Isabella?"
Letticia was moving away, crossing to the far side of the room, her head clearly buzzing with plans. "A young widow," she called back.
Gwenllian laughed. "Cannot we invite an elderly widow?"
"Certainly not. Geoffrey will need to dance with her." Letticia rifled through her writing desk. "I must order invitations."
"It is still rather small numbers for a house party."
Letticia glanced up at Gwenllian. "Not small. Intimate. All sorts of things could happen at an intimate house party." She winked.
Gwenllian rolled her eyes.
"Never fear, I'm not going to lock you two in the library together." Letticia's attention returned to the writing desk. "For one thing, it would be a waste of my effort for all you'd do is read."
Even though sunset was at least an hour away, the low, stone bench upon which Gwenllian sat was becoming decidedly chilly. She was trying to determine if she could sit on her paisley shawl and still have it cozily covering her shoulders, when her sister's voice startled her.
"Finally! Mr. Faircross is cutting it a bit fine. The concert starts in twenty minutes."
Letticia stood on tiptoe and waved across the lawn at Mr. Faircross. Despite the crowded conditions of Sydney Gardens, or this portion of it anyway, Mr. Faircross saw her. He started over.
"I am certain Baronesses are not supposed to wave like that." Gwenllian scowled.
Letticia ignored the comment. She smoothed her skirts, fiddled with a couple of her blonde ringlets, and grinned with a nervous energy Gwenllian had rarely seen her display before.
Mr. Faircross punctuated his salutatory bow with a flourish of lace. To Gwenllian, he always seemed the epitome of the word neat---meticulously neat in his fashion with small, neat features to his face.
"I feared you would miss the concert, Mr. Faircross," Letticia exclaimed.
"Perish the thought." Mr. Faircross waved his hand dismissively. "I could no more miss this concert than my own head."
Gwenllian had the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Faircross could miss his own head quite easily if it were not required to top off his elaborate cravat. Underneath those curly auburn locks was very little of substance. But he was certainly a handsome gentleman there was no doubt about that.
Letticia glanced about in a desultory sweep of the area. "My husband seems to have wandered off. I wonder---would you care to escort me, Mr. Faircross?"
"Of course. Music is so much sweeter in your presence, my Lady."
Gwenllian watched them go. True, Letticia did not know precisely where the Baron was. But Mariah had only asked him to accompany her on a short stroll around the grounds and they should be returning to this bench at any moment. Gwenllian was not about to be the only person here when they got back. She stood, wrapped her shawl tightly about herself, and wandered off down the nearest gravel path. Before she had gone far, she heard the uneven tramp of someone walking behind her.
Not walking.
Limping.
Her breath caught in her throat. She chastised herself for unrealistically assuming it was Mr. Wyckliff when there were many sick and injured people in Bath, but she slowed her steps nevertheless. While there were many convalescents in Bath, few if any of them would have reason to hurry after her, except for...
"Greetings, Princess, your most loyal subject has arrived." Mr. Wyckliff's voice, husky and affable, sent thrills up her spine. But she resisted looking at him. It would destroy her resolve.
"You have more interesting things than me to attend to, I am sure." She sounded petulant and she knew it.
He fell into step beside her. "I did wonder if there had been a mistake when I received the invitation. I reckoned you would never wish to see me again."
"Invitation?"
"To Lady Berwentford's house party."
Gwenllian turned to him with a gasp. "But you can't have done. She only told me of the party this afternoon." She frowned. "I am convinced this has been in the planning for longer than she let on."
He nodded. "That is certainly possible. Lady Berwentford is a determined woman in the pursuit of what she desires."
"Well, I can be just as determined," she muttered as she walked off.
Mr. Wyckliff kept pace at her side. "I hope so."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"Nothing untoward, I assure you. Do you wish me to return the invitation? For I shall not foist my company upon you. Though, if I may be so bold, you are wrong."
She stalked on for several paces before she surrendered to her curiosity. "Wrong about what, sir?"
"That there is anything in all of England more interesting than you."
She snorted.
"It may be a clumsy gallantry," he responded, sounding as if he suddenly found words unwieldy. "But it is heartfelt, just the same. Believe me, I would never have bundled you off so unceremoniously without good reason."
She stopped and looked up into his face. His fair hair was slightly disheveled, perhaps from rushing after her, and his forelock fell over his right eye, but that only seemed to heighten his painfully sincere expression.
She sighed. "I had resolved to be angry with you, but I am finding that next to impossible. I suppose women never stay angry with you for long."
His sandy eyebrows crooked in consternation. Then his brow cleared as he replied, "I have no memory of other women since I met you."
Her jaw dropped in amused surprise. "You are destined to be a poet, sir, for you have an uncanny way of knowing what women wish to hear."
He returned her smile. "I would rather be your knight-errant, Princess. Set me a task." He leaned over and theatrically whispered, "I noticed sundry refreshments back at the pavilion."
"I see. And might one of those famous Bath buns be lurking there, Sir Knight?"
He raised his hand to his ear. "Hark, I hear the herald announcing my quest. Wish me luck against any bun-dragons, Princess. I shall meet you at the umbrella." He pointed at the thatched roof peeping over the other side of the hedge bordering the path. Then he left, moving swiftly even with the hitch in his stride.
She clasped her hands together. An assignation! A gentleman had asked---would this count as a tryst? Never mind. Joy and anxiety pelted about inside her. What if the umbrella were empty? No chaperoning presence of the public? What if they dallied there, and in the lengthening shadows. Too many novels! She most definitely had been reading too many novels. What did she think he meant to do, seduce her with bread products?
Of course, one could always hope.
She had no difficulty finding her way to the outsized, thatched umbrella where the public could shelter from unexpected rain. Unfortunately, it was not unoccupied. Even more unfortunately, she knew the occupants.
Mariah and the Baron were taking a turn around the shelter. They were engrossed in conversation with a woman Gwenllian had never met. She was rather like a classical statue come to life, with a complexion like pale marble and sleek chestnut hair pinned up in a Greek knot.
The woman walked with a loose ease that Gwenllian had only ever witnessed before in France, when she had accompanied Letticia and the Baron on their bridal tour during the short-lived Peace. Or perhaps it was simply the style of her gown that reminded Gwenllian of France. Slim French dresses were worn with fewer undergarments beneath so they conformed quite immodestly to one's body. Much like this woman's dress was affixed now.
Her revealing gown was not the only eye-catching article she wore. Suspended from a golden chain around her neck was a substantial ruby in an ornate setting of wide, looping bands of gold. The pendant was of such size and splendor that it positively screamed affluence. In that, it was no more subtle than its owner's attire.
Gwenllian was reluctant to join the picturesque threesome. If she stood on the other side of the break in the hedge, she could probably catch Mr. Wyckliff before he rounded the corner for the umbrella. Speedily she retraced her steps. They had not seen her yet. She reached the hedge. She was going to make it. But the ground was uneven near the verge and her darting feet faltered. She just managed to stay upright.
"Miss Lloyd! Scampering like that is not very ladylike---are you doing it on purpose?"
Apparently Mariah's mission on Earth was to be the bane of Gwenllian's existence.
Gwenllian steadied herself on a bush. Then she turned around with stiff dignity. Three faces gazed at her in varied states of bewilderment. She forced a polite smile upon her lips.
"I was, it was just ... a bee! It was a bee." She ended her statement with a determined bob of her head. There, that was believable. "Are you not missing the concert, Lord Berwentford?"
Mariah's eyes widened. "Are we late? Why did no one say? Hurry, we cannot walk in late."
Mariah's gloved hand rested on the Baron's arm, but she appeared to be pulling him along more than he was escorting her. The Baron grumbled about 'silly, musical nonsense' but he was moving. If she could just get the other girl to leave, Gwenllian would have the umbrella to herself until Mr. Wyckliff arrived.
But the other girl did not go.
"Mariah," she called. "Pray introduce me to your charming friend."
Mariah looked back over her shoulder. "That's just Miss Lloyd."
The girl continued to look at Mariah expectantly. Mariah rolled her eyes. "Isabella, I present to you Miss Lloyd. Miss Lloyd, Mrs. Wood." Mariah gestured at the corresponding persons with two broad waves of her arm. "May we go now?"
Mariah did not await an answer. She and the Baron were already marching toward the pavilion and had soon disappeared behind the hedge.
Gwenllian politely curtseyed. "Mrs. Wood."
"Do call me Isabella, my dear. I feel our sensibilities are so much in accord that any formality between us would be hateful."
Gwenllian was astounded that any friend of Mariah's would wish to first-name her, and on no acquaintance at all. She was not even on first-name terms with Mariah herself.
Blinking, lips moving without words to match, she attempted to reconnect with her brain. "Wh-why? I mean ... why, thank you. I am honored." She swallowed. "My name---"
"Is simply adorable," Isabella cooed. "We were talking about it before you came. Gwenllian. However did your parents think that up?"
Gwenllian felt her jaw tightening. Did no one learn Welsh history these days? She debated whether Isabella truly wished to be enlightened or if she really did not care a jot, but was interrupted before she could come to any conclusion.
"'Tis a royal name for a royal beauty," asserted Mr. Wyckliff.
Gwenllian jumped a little as she had not heard him return. Mr. Wyckliff bowed to the company and then turned to Gwenllian, brandishing a Sally Lunn bun. "I have returned with spoils."
"My favorite!" As Mr. Wyckliff attempted to give her the bun, she noticed it was the only item in his hands. "Did you not bring one for yourself?"
"It was the last one, and I was not interested in what else they had."
Although he did not sound disappointed in the least, she stepped back, gloved palms up to refuse the gift. "I could not possibly take it and leave you with nothing."
His long, elegant fingers tore off a section of the soft bread roll and handed the larger portion to her. "Is etiquette satisfied?"
She accepted it with a smile. "It will have to be, sir, for I am not giving this treat back." She pulled off a chunk of bun and popped it in her mouth.
Isabella had been silent during this exchange and Gwenllian suddenly realized that in her joy at Mr. Wyckliff's return she had forgotten to introduce them. So much for comporting oneself in accordance with the rules of etiquette. Swallowing quickly, she glanced apologetically at Isabella, and saw that while Isabella had been silent, she had not been idle. She was inspecting Mr. Wyckliff. He was certainly worth inspection.
Mr. Wyckliff's clothes were impeccably cut. His emerald green frock coat, buff waistcoat, and his nankeen breeches were all snugly tailored to form a flattering line for the eye to survey, from the white cravat at his throat to his shiny, black boots.
Isabella's appraising eyes scanned the lean, fine length of him. He did not notice. But Gwenllian did.
Greetings, Jealousy.
Gwenllian took a deep breath and tried to rise above it. Isabella had been nice to her. And Mr. Wyckliff was hardly hers to be jealous over. She hastily made the introductions.
Isabella smiled and subtly touched her hair with one hand. "You have come for the concert, Mr. Wyckliff?"
"I have come to wander in the gardens," he answered with a grin. "Not necessarily within earshot of the singers."
"But you must cultivate an ear for a concert, Mr. Wyckliff. Do you not agree, Gwenllian? Such a refinement of mind coupled with his physical charms would make him a paragon among men."
He looked more bemused than flattered. "I am grateful for your advice, madam."
Isabella coyly tilted her head. "There are more pleasurable things, sir, for which I would rather receive your gratitude."
Whatever he was thinking would remain unsaid, for Mariah's return prevented any response. "Hurry along, Isabella, the concert is starting."
Isabella took her leave, aiming a particularly revealing curtsey at Mr. Wyckliff before joining Mariah.
"Mrs. Wood is very ... friendly, is she not?" he observed as Isabella and Mariah hastened away.
"Friendly. Undoubtedly that is the word for it," Gwenllian muttered.
He continued to gaze in the direction of Isabella's departure. "Have you been acquainted long?"
"Truly we have only just met."
With an almost imperceptible nod, he turned his attention back to Gwenllian. "Now then, Princess, shall we refine ourselves with musicians? Or would you be willing to explore the groves, or even the labyrinth, in my company?"
She had to glance away from the intoxicating temptation evident in his eyes. "I had better choose refinement, sir."
Mr. Wyckliff said nothing.
"After all ... I mean, we would not want to miss the fireworks display after the concert, would we? I am exceedingly fond of fireworks."
Despite the awkwardness of his right arm, he took her hand in his. His grip was firm, and she was slightly surprised for she knew it was his injured side.
"I enjoy fireworks, as well," he declared. With his left hand, he gradually began to peel back the fabric of her short, cream-colored glove, revealing the smooth skin of the back of her hand.
What was he going to do? And why was she just waiting for him to do it? She should utter some sort of protest. She should take her hand back. She should certainly not be watching his actions and feeling such yearning.
He bowed his head and deliberately raised her exposed skin to his lips. Then he glanced up at her from under his golden brows and she was transfixed by his direct gaze as he kissed the back of her hand. In that instant the world seemed to shrink away and become simply the two of them.
A fleeting kiss, it lasted but a moment before Mr. Wyckliff raised his head. "You are as delectable as I supposed."
A tiny sigh involuntarily escaped her lips. He was no knight, he was a wizard. He had turned her brain to custard.
Mr. Wyckliff, still holding her hand, straightened her disarrayed glove and then gave the back of her hand a sociable pat. "Let us stroll out amongst the multitudes or you shall be my composure's undoing."
She took his offered arm, all sorts of pleasurable sensations brimming within the confines of her racing heart. She could have been floating and would not have noticed. But self-reproach soon began to seep in. For her to have allowed such personal contact---and out-of-doors, where any member of the public might have wandered past---was a dangerous indulgence. Perhaps Letticia's idea had not been so ridiculous after all.
Anything could happen at an intimate house party.
Daniel dropped onto Nigel's sofa with all the dead weight of a felled ox. Legs straight, boot heels digging into the Axminster carpet, he lay back with a groan and closed his eyes. If only the evening had ended with the fireworks. If only he could have retired to a cozy home like Miss Lloyd had done. But no, he had had an appointment to keep.
"I say, you are getting mud on the carpet," Nigel commented.
Daniel did not open his eyes. "Why do you care? You'll not be cleaning it."
"Well, well, ain't this a fine mood."
Daniel sighed. It was not Nigel's fault the night had turned so bloody. His eyelids felt as if they were made of lead, but he forced them to open and sat upright.
Nigel still sat at his mahogany secretaire, but the papers he had been working on were now carefully folded away in one of the desk's little cubbyholes. He gazed expectantly at Daniel, his expression half excitement and half trepidation.
Daniel paused. There was really no good way of saying this. He tried to sound as offhand as possible. "There's a body in the High Common."
"What? Out behind the Royal Crescent?" Nigel sounded more scandalized by the dead body's location than its existence.
"No, farther up the hill. Mid-way to Somerset Place, but out to the west, away from town."
"Waste no further time speaking it to me, write it down." Nigel rose from the secretaire and crossed the narrow, red-toned study to hand him the pen-and-ink set and writing-paper.
Daniel leaned upon the sofa table and scrawled out directions to the body while Nigel's fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the back of a nearby chair.
"You haven't asked whose body or how I know."
Nigel sucked in his breath. "Trifle difficult to know what's considered indelicate in these matters."
Daniel snorted. "Indelicate." He did not bother to disguise his disdain.
"You cannot understand." Nigel's hand did a little twist as if he were searching for words in the air. "A gentleman has certain standards."
Daniel calmly interrupted with a colorful string of Yorkshire-accented invectives in which he adequately described, to his own satisfaction, what he thought of gentlemen and their standards, including where they could go and what they could do to each other.
Nigel rang for tea.
Daniel returned to his writing.
"So whose body was it? Wait---I hazard it was that émigré Thiervet. Am I correct?"
Daniel nodded and kept writing. He heard the smack of Nigel triumphantly pounding his fist into his other hand.
"I knew he was not to be trusted. Something about the eyes. Those French are a perfidious lot of devils." Soft footsteps of Nigel pacing the carpet. Then Nigel came to hover at his shoulder. "You killed him, did you?"
Daniel shrugged, still writing. "He attempted to kill me."
"More the fool him." Nigel laughed. "Still, if you had been able to take him alive..."
Daniel glanced up at Nigel. "Bit gruesome to keep a man alive simply so you could hang him."
Nigel raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Daniel finished his directions and handed the page to him.
Nigel scanned it. "I will get this seen to." The tea arrived as Nigel was leaving the room. "Do help yourself," he added, waving his arm at the silver tray.
Daniel fixed himself a cup of the aromatic tea, adding plenty of sugar from the silver sugar urn. The tea was warm. It was sweet. It was not brandy. But for now it would have to do.
Having finished, Daniel replaced the cup on the tray and lay back on the sofa again. The backs of his eyelids used to offer nothing but darkness, but now when he closed them he could visualize Miss Lloyd. It was unexpectedly comforting.
"Wyckliff." Nigel had returned, and was trying to get his attention.
"What?"
"You seem, bothered."
Daniel opened his eyes. "Not especially," he lied.
Nigel frowned. He reached for a teacup. "When you received those wounds," he indicated Daniel's recuperating arm and leg with a flourish of the empty cup. "How many of those men did you kill?"
Daniel smiled bitterly. "All of them."
Nigel chuckled as he poured his tea. "But it was quite a crowd."
On a contrary whim, he pretended not to realize Nigel wished for a numerical reckoning. His answer was a simple, "Indeed."
"So..." Nigel took a swig of tea. "With the 'mount of killing you've done, I would have thought you'd enjoy it."
"You thought wrong."
"Fair 'nough." Nigel sipped tea. "Did you get anything out of Thiervet?"
"Yes. No names, but what we want will definitely be at Primroselea Park this weekend."
Nigel brightened considerably. "I say, that narrows the field a bit."
"Not necessarily. Lady Berwentford is holding a house party. Even I shall be at Primroselea Park this weekend."
"Oh? Well, if this were easy, any fool could do it. Well done on the invite, old man. When does the party start?"
"I am to arrive there on Thursday."
Nigel placed his empty teacup back on the tray. He did not raise his eyes when he spoke. "You know what to do?"
"Let me alone for that, I shall manage." Daniel closed his eyes. Nigel had some nice furniture. This was quite a comfortable sofa. He could easily nap here for an hour or two.
He could hear Nigel moving about the room. "Would you not prefer your own bed?" Nigel sounded uneasy.
Daniel did not open his eyes. "Do you mean to throw me out?"
"No, of course not, old man." Nigel chuckled nervously. "After all, a fellow like you prob'ly has a weapon of some sort concealed about your person."
"A knife," Daniel threw in helpfully, eyes still closed.
"Good God, really?" Then Nigel coughed, trying to recover his poise. "I was joking, you realize."
"I was not."
Daniel heard Nigel start toward the door.
"I will let you sleep," Nigel said. The door clicked shut.
Daniel smiled to himself. Nigel would never fear another gentleman, but he believed Daniel capable of anything. Vexatious as Nigel's prejudices were, in this case they were a boon. Now he could get a proper bit of rest.
Someone was shaking Gwenllian. It was most irritating. She had been having a lovely dream and now her cozy cocoon was shattered.
"Up, up, up!" urged Letticia's voice.
Gwenllian groaned, rolled over, and opened her eyes. Candlelight. She raised her head and squinted toward the windows. The curtains had been pulled back, but the feeble, gray sky lent no light to the room.
"Is it not daybreak yet?" She fell back against the pillows, her every muscle sorely protesting the early hour.
Awakened by the commotion, Oliver trundled up from the foot of the bed and snuffled her face. Then he wandered about the mattress, snorting and wagging and trying to greet both Gwenllian and Letticia at the same time.
Gwenllian attempted to hide her face in the pillows, hoping she could return to sleep. Letticia shook her again.
"Hurry, he is already there."
"Who is where?" Gwenllian spoke into the pillow.
"Mr. Wyckliff. He is at the Cross Bath."
Achy and tired as she was, Gwenllian's heart skipped at the sound of his name. She raised her head. "How do you know this?"
"I sent our footman to speak with his footman."
"Oh, Letticia, one just does not do that." She moaned and buried her face in her pillow again. "It is not done."
"Well, it is done now, so make the most of it and get up."
Gwenllian's covers were suddenly absent and she was at the mercy of the brisk air. She jerked upright and wrapped her arms around her knees. "That was unfair."
Letticia, having pulled the covers all the way to the floor, stood with Oliver in her arms. "Get dressed and come downstairs. I'll have a sedan chair waiting."
Letticia turned and marched to the door, still carrying Oliver.
"But I thought we were leaving today," Gwenllian called after her.
"We are not leaving until after breakfast; you have bags of time."
"Wait, wait! I barely know the man," Gwenllian protested. "How can I bathe with him?"
Letticia laughed. "What a goose you are. There'll be other people there."
"That is supposed to make me feel better, is it?"
"'Twill all be most diverting, you'll see. Now get yourself ready."
Gwenllian arrived at the Cross Bath with her brain still hazy, as if enmeshed in the webbing of a dream. Only the pounding of her heart as the attendant helped her into her voluminous bathing dress warned her that this was all happening for real.
Passing between two of the decorative columns encircling the stately bathing area, she eased her way down the steps into the pool. The eerie blue-green water felt hot upon her skin, but not uncomfortably so. She was more disconcerted by how deep it was. The water lapped at the top of her breasts before her feet touched the slippery floor. For a moment, the panicky fear crossed her mind that if she fell and went under, her waterlogged dress might prevent her from ever reaching the surface. Her loose sleeves had filled with water and now floated out. In fact, the whole dress seemed to wish to drift away from her body. It was like wearing a tent---but it effectively disguised her shape.
Steadying herself against the side, she raised her eyes for the first time to peer through the steamy atmosphere at the other bathers. Where was Mr. Wyckliff? A stab of shame pierced her at the thought. She could not believe she was doing this. And yet, if Mr. Wyckliff were not present, she was going to be seriously disappointed.
Brown hair. Female. Another female. A bald gentleman. Another brunette. But not him. More females. Another balding gentleman. Another blonde! Gwenllian's stomach flopped about like a fish out of water. It was him, her golden fox.
He was conversing with two gentlemen---at least, she assumed they were gentlemen. With all the men clad in their bathing canvas drawers and waistcoats, class was difficult to discern. Gwenllian carefully made her way closer to the trio, eager to catch Mr. Wyckliff's eye through the wisps of white mist drifting off the water.
Success! She gave him a nod of acknowledgement which she hoped did not come across as too desperate. He was coming over now. He moved through the water quite easily. How did he do that?
"My compliments, Princess." Mr. Wyckliff stood close to her side so she could hear his whispered words. Then, louder, "Is it not a fine morning, Miss?"
He smiled down at her. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Such a bright, toothy smile. He could light up a room with that smile.
"I, too, find 'tis best to get here early and thus avoid the crowds," he added, and she abruptly realized that she had failed to respond about the weather. He must think her woolgathering.
"Yes, yes, precisely," she hastily replied. "Bathing is much more enjoyable when one has space."
She glanced around the pool as she spoke and noticed that the couple at the side directly opposite to them had no space between them at all. It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on, but there was giggling, and the man's hands were entirely too near the woman's breasts.
"Their motive for avoiding the crowd is completely different," Mr. Wyckliff whispered.
What shame the couple did not seem to possess, Gwenllian felt on their behalf. She pivoted so that her back was toward them, and concentrated on Mr. Wyckliff.
His eyebrows knit in concern. "Have they offended you?"
"No, no, I am quite content. I ... does that sort of thing happen here often?"
"It depends upon your definition of often," he said lightly. "But if you remember that people used to bathe here nude, I should think it happens far less often now than it did then."
Scandalous! Why, whatever would he say next? Thoughts of mixed nude bathing flew through her mind, though she had to admit they were accompanied more by curiosity than shock. The only unclad parts of Mr. Wyckliff's body she could currently see were his arms. He had handsome arms, wiry yet sculptured. Even the wicked scars twisting along his right arm could not mar his appeal. They made him seem rather, dangerous. Piratical. But in the nicest, most romantic sort of way.
"Not an attractive sight, is it?" Mr. Wyckliff said grimly. He had obviously noticed the direction of her gaze.
"Actually, I was thinking quite the opposite. I mean..." There was no way to make that sentence sound less forward than it was. She gave up. Besides, he was a rake. He probably liked forward women. "Do they still pain you, those scars?"
"Not as such."
She felt a sudden, mischievous desire to touch him, to trace the scars on his arm. Should she? It would be quite improper. But no one here was likely to mind. No one would probably even notice---that other couple was drawing far more attention with their carryings-on.
Mentally urging herself to be daring, she reached out. Her forefinger gingerly followed one of his furrowed scars on its angled way up his arm from his wrist to his elbow. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. For some reason the contact made her feel a sweltering heat inside her own skin, far hotter than the water embracing her body. She allowed herself a quick glance up at his face. He was watching her with a strange intensity to his eyes.
Forcing her attention back to his scars, her fingers stroked the sensitive skin on the inside of his forearm. He gasped.
She immediately withdrew. "Oh dear, I am so sorry. I thought you said they did not hurt."
A sort of breathy chuckle escaped his lips. "That was not exactly pain, lass."
He inched closer to her. They were almost touching. His eyes still burned with that peculiar vitality. He raised his hand from the edge of the pool and for a moment she thought he was going to stroke her cheek. Then his hand froze in mid-air and quickly returned to grip the edge. He glanced around but none of the other bathers were taking the slightest bit of notice of them.
She inched forward. "I am relieved to hear I did not cause you pain."
Then she heard some splashing behind her and suddenly his hands were on her shoulders. He pulled her to him as if moving her protectively out of the way of some overly energetic bather. But then he did not let her go.
Her heart pounded. She was in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, surrounded by wafting steam and enveloped by hot water. She must be dreaming. Yet he seemed solid enough. Very solid. She was excessively aware of each point where their bodies touched; his strong arms about her shoulders, the hard muscles of his chest pressed against her breasts, the---oh, my goodness what is that?
She splashed backward with all the startled violence of a bolting horse. Suddenly her feet did not seem to be under her any more and her face was plunging into the pool. Bitter water filled her mouth, her nose. Hands grabbed her before she could go completely under, pulled her through the water like a doll, and then she was at the side, grasping the edge, sputtering and gulping air.
"My deepest apologies, Miss Lloyd," Mr. Wyckliff murmured. He stood close. He had plainly been the one to rescue her, but now his hands gripped the edge of the pool instead of her shoulders. "I would not ... you must understand..." He ducked his head briefly before raising his eyes to hers again. "Fashion does not allow much freedom for a man's private thoughts."
He was as embarrassed as she. Why had she caused such a scene? Where was her tact? Where were her manners? The other bathers must be staring now. She had to get out of here.
"It is nothing, it is forgotten." She held on to the side as she half paddled, half trudged toward the attendant who waited to help the bathers exit the Bath.
But the pool did not wish to give her up. She felt so heavy. Water streamed off her dress. The humid air was no match for the comfort of the Bath. But she was out now. She had to leave.
Why, oh why had she panicked? Isabella would not have panicked. Isabella would have said something sly and witty. Or even, or even touched him. Well, it was no matter. She would have another chance at the party. If he still came. What if he did not?
Instead of following the attendant into the slips where she could change into dry clothes, she padded across to the edge of the pool nearest Mr. Wyckliff, her feet wetly slapping upon the damp stone floor. She crouched down.
"You will still attend the party, will you not?" she whispered, trying to ignore the other bathers' stares. "Please say you will still come."
He did not look at her. "Only if you wish it."
"I do."
He nodded slowly, but still did not favor her with a glance. "Then it is my pleasure to obey."
She padded away toward the slips. She would have her second chance. He might be disappointed in her now, but just wait. She would make it up to him at the party.
Somehow.
The coach jingled and crunched up the gravel carriage sweep. Gwenllian tilted her head and leaned against the side of the gently rocking carriage so she could observe Primroselea out the window as they approached. The Jacobean mansion was an angular, gothic fantasy of red brick and stone. One wing was decoratively entwined in vines that almost reached the pitched roof. The roof itself peaked in a profusion of triangles, each of which seemed to sprout its own chimneystack. Gwenllian liked the romantic façade. One would never guess the interior was all modern elegance.
The horses slowed to a halt at the foot of the wide stone steps leading to the imposing front door. Handsomely liveried servants rushed to help the ladies from the coach. Gwenllian had to hand Oliver out before she could descend. Even with help, she stumbled as she stepped down, her legs stiff from the long ride.
She smoothed her skirts, brushing away what pug hair she could, then took Oliver back in her arms and followed Letticia and the Baron up the grand stone stairs and inside. Geoffrey met them in the marble entrance hall.
"This is a dashed imposition, Edgar. Servants opening rooms, flapping about like wild chickens, and for what?" Geoffrey threw up his arms as if he considered himself the lone sane person in Dorsetshire. "An impromptu house party? Ain't I to be consulted first? My solitude has been completely violated."
"Not your house, Geoffrey," Lord Berwentford answered. He kept walking.
Gwenllian decided to make herself scarce. Head down, still carrying Oliver, she darted up the grand circular staircase as quietly as possible and headed toward the Wedgwood Bedroom, which was customarily given to her.
The bright, airy chamber was indeed awaiting her occupation. Its curtains had been opened, the bed-hangings drawn back, and the china figurines on the dressing table had been arranged just so. She deposited her dog on the carpet and he trundled off to reacquaint himself with the best places to nap.
Gwenllian untied her bonnet. Then she headed toward the windows, tossing her bonnet on the blue damask bedcover as she strode past the bed. The prospect from this wing of the mansion was her favorite. The view encompassed almost the entire rear grounds, from the impressive pinery, its glass glinting in the sun, to the classically arranged flowerbeds and manicured shrubbery walk, to the sweeping grass lawn that stretched all the way out to the cliff beyond which the water of the English Channel met the horizon.
"Geoffrey is being very unpleasant about my house party."
She turned to see Letticia collapsing into one of the bedchamber's sinuous chairs. The wood creaked in protest at the sudden subsidence.
"One would think he didn't want any company," her sister continued, her hand absently petting the pug. Eager Oliver greeted Letticia as if he had not just spent six hours enclosed in a carriage with her.
"Perhaps he does not. Not everyone is a pug," Gwenllian commented.
Letticia shook her blonde curls. "Oh, no, he's just being bitter."
Gwenllian walked over and kindly patted her shoulder. "I should think being a second son would be trying for the best of us. And Geoffrey is a second son in embarrassed circumstances, obliged to live off of his brother's generosity in his brother's house. I think we can see past a little bitterness."
"Well, I'd prefer him to be grateful," Letticia huffed.
The word flashed Gwenllian back to Sydney Gardens and Isabella's worldly smile.
"Maybe that Isabella will give him something to be grateful about," she muttered.
Letticia perked up, her eyes alight with curiosity. "You do not like Mrs. Wood, do you?"
"No, I do not." Gwenllian smiled. "But I am a bitter, bitter woman."
Laughing, Letticia sprang to her feet. "You have nothing to be bitter about. Mr. Wyckliff should be arriving soon."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
But Letticia was not listening. "I'll have Patsy prepare a bath for you. We want you to look your best for dinner."
"Oh, Subtlety, thy name is not Letticia."
"I don't know what you're on about. I'm having a bath, too," Letticia protested with a laugh. She stood and clapped her palms together. "Look lively now, before Mariah and Mrs. Wood arrive."
Mariah had decided to come down in Isabella's surprisingly fine carriage. The two carriages had traveled in concert and had broken their journey together at the same inn. But Mariah and Isabella had been late in waking---unfortunately for them---as Letticia had insisted there was too much to prepare to wait. Thus the Baron's carriage had continued ahead alone. Mariah and Isabella could not be that far behind, though. Gwenllian supposed they should be arriving in an hour or two.
One refreshing bath later, Gwenllian slipped into her white muslin dress with the plum embroidery. Oliver attempted to make off with one of her matching plum shoes, shaking it as if he were killing a rat as he chugged gleefully around the room. It took her several turns of chasing him before she was able to rescue it.
Mariah's voice was echoing around the entrance hall as Gwenllian reached the top of the grand stairs. Her spirits sank at the sound. Making a deft turn away from the staircase, she kept walking. She was now entering the family's wing of the house. She would hide out in her sister's bedroom until Mariah and Isabella were safely installed in their chambers. That way her respite from them would last a bit longer.
Oliver had started to trundle down the stairs before he realized Gwenllian was no longer behind him. He whirled about, bounded back up the steps and came barreling down the hallway until he caught up to her. She heard him coming---short but solid, for a small dog he quite thundered down the halls. Apparently believing that she had deliberately feigned her descent as part of some Confuse-the-Pug game, Oliver trotted beside her, wagging his tail and looking up expectantly at her, waiting for a re-match.
"We are just going to Letticia's room," she stated, looking down into Oliver's big brown eyes.
"Watcher!" exclaimed an unfamiliar male voice.
Gwenllian's head jerked up and she stopped short, barely in time to avoid the man standing in the hallway outside Geoffrey's room. Expensively yet not tastefully dressed, he was neither a servant nor one of Letticia's guests. Gwenllian had never seen him before. His gaze swept her from head to toe, his expression a disturbing mix of disdain and lechery. With a creeping sense of unease, she knew he did not belong in the family's wing of Primroselea.
She scooped Oliver up in her arms before coolly addressing the stranger. "Have you lost your way, sir?"
Geoffrey popped out of his bedroom. "Miss Lloyd, pleasure to see you again."
"And you, Mr. Berwentford." She smiled. She had always liked Geoffrey. He was significantly younger than the Baron and he spoke to her like an equal---not just in age but in rank.
"I see my butler is in your way," he continued.
"Your butler?" She glanced at the unpleasant man. He continued to look at her as if her clothing had turned invisible.
"Yes, from my---well, Edgar's place in London. So difficult to find good help, isn't it? Thought he might profit from a bit of training here so I brought him along. Out of the lady's way, Costeroe." Geoffrey slapped the man on the back while steering him into his room. "He is frightfully new," Geoffrey added apologetically. His door swung shut.
Gwenllian continued on to Letticia's room, feeling slightly unsettled. Geoffrey had as much to do with the hiring and training Lord Berwentford's staff as she did, which was to say nothing at all. And however new he was, and however difficult it was to find good servants, that Mr. Costeroe was no butler. The Baron would never have permitted the hiring of such a man.
Letticia was not in her bed chamber, which was much as Gwenllian expected. She closed the door with her hip and walked over to her sister's heavily draped, four-poster bed, Oliver still in her arms. She plopped him down on the bedcovers and hopped up beside him.
"Well, I suspect we've uncovered Geoffrey's true reason for resenting the house party," she commented to Oliver as he wandered away to spread pug hair over the mattress.
Mr. Costeroe must be one of Geoffrey's more unsavory friends from the unspeakable gaming establishments he frequented in London. Because of Letticia's house party, Geoffrey was being forced to pass him off as a new butler instead of doing whatever they would have done had they had the house to themselves. Of course, as that undoubtedly would have involved gambling, it was far better for Geoffrey that they had been stymied. Geoffrey really did not have money to lose.
Did the Baron or Letticia know of Mr. Costeroe's presence? They would not necessarily see him if he were masquerading as a butler. For one thing, he would eat below stairs with the actual servants. And Geoffrey most likely intended to restrict him to the less frequented areas of the house. Should she tell Letticia about him?
Poor Geoffrey. The Baron would have a fit if he knew Geoffrey had hoped to host a gaming weekend in his house. But since his plans had been foiled, as long as they behaved themselves, it would do no harm to leave Lord Berwentford in ignorance. And why distract Letticia from her party?
The party.
"Do you think they're settled in by now?" she asked Oliver.
The pug snorted from the far side of the bed.
With a deep breath to steady herself, she rose. She had decided two things. First, that it was time to chance descending into possibly Mariah-occupied territory. Second, that she would not inform anyone about Mr. Costeroe. For him, a quiet week was probably punishment enough.
"Why, I believe this is Mr. Wyckliff arriving." Letticia was peering out one of the front windows. "My, but those horses must have cost a packet."
Gwenllian crossed the library floor to join her, Oliver trotting along behind. Two dapple-gray horses were prancing up the carriage sweep pulling a smart curricle. The man driving wore a Carrick coat, its capes flapping back from his shoulders, but he was still too distant to discern his face. Gwenllian fancied she could see blonde hair shining in the sun despite the brim of his hat.
Letticia had been right about the horses. Their glossy coats were both dark, pewter gray mottled with bright white spots as large around as a copper twopence. A matched pair of such striking animals must have been expensive indeed.
The curricle frisked closer to reveal that Mr. Wyckliff was indeed the driver. He pulled up at the stairs with a practiced hand.
Gwenllian picked up Oliver and, while awkwardly supporting him by a combination of her arm and hip, attempted to use her other hand to point at Mr. Wyckliff without her finger making a mark on the windowpane.
"That is Mr. Wyckliff," Gwenllian informed Oliver. "Wyckliff."
Letticia clicked her tongue in mock pity. "You can't believe he understands you, dear."
"Whyever not? He knows you are Letticia."
"I cannot believe I am on first-name terms with a dog." Letticia sniffed, and feigned haughtiness. "How common."
"Mr. Wyckliff," Gwenllian said to her pug. "Shall we go greet Mr. Wyckliff?"
Oliver wriggled with excitement. But he was keen on greeting pretty much anyone.
Mr. Wyckliff was already in the entrance hall when Gwenllian got there, being welcomed by the Baron while servants carried his baggage up the grand staircase. As Gwenllian put Oliver down, his feet were already flailing. Briefly he scrabbled for purchase on the smooth marble and then careened off toward Mr. Wyckliff, squeaking in jubilation and wagging his curly tail.
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes widened slightly as the dog bore down on him, showing every intention of crashing straight into his shins. But this time Mr. Wyckliff smoothly bent on one knee and caught Oliver, one hand on each side of his chunky body.
"Who let that dog in here?" Lord Berwentford roared, just before he turned and saw Gwenllian approaching them. He grunted and then turned back to Mr. Wyckliff. "Wife's sister, you understand," the Baron said with a despairing shake of his head, as if this explained everything. "Dinner will be in an hour. James there will show you to your room."
"I can do that," volunteered Gwenllian as she picked Oliver up.
For a moment she thought the Baron was going to forbid it. His lips were pursed together so tightly it looked like he might pop his rapidly blinking eyeballs right out. But in the end he said nothing to her, only took his leave of Mr. Wyckliff. She waited until the Baron had exited the hall before she spoke.
"I..."
"Miss," Mr. Wyckliff began at precisely the same time.
"Oh, I beg your pardon." Nervously she ducked her head. "Do continue."
But he seemed as bashful as she was. "No, no, go on, Miss Lloyd."
When still she hesitated, he stepped forward one pace. He looked down at his boots, then up at her, his expression painfully self-conscious and yet there was a hopeful glint in his eyes.
Encouraged, she launched into the statement she had prepared for their meeting. "I hope your journey was pleasant, sir."
He grinned. She fancied there was some relief to his expression.
"Thank you, Miss Lloyd, it was. Tell me, does your pug normally do that? Run into people?"
"Oh yes," she replied with mock gravity. "When he likes you, that is."
"I see. And might one ask what it is you do when you like a person?" His eyes sparkled.
"What a question. Why, I set my pug upon their shins, of course."
"Of course."
They shared a grin. Talking with Mr. Wyckliff gave her such a rush of pleasure. Never before had she considered how seductive a conversation could be. This man was dangerous indeed.
Gwenllian led him upstairs to the Chintz Bedroom, which Letticia had assigned to him because of its proximity to Gwenllian's chamber. This fact was not, however, one of the pleasantries Gwenllian spouted before she turned to quickly take her leave. The Baron would strongly disapprove of her staying too long alone in a bedroom with a man, even a gentleman.
"Miss Lloyd."
She paused at the doorway. Mr. Wyckliff was rummaging inside one of his cases. He found what he was looking for and quickly hid it behind his back as he approached her.
"At our last meeting I was unpardonably---"
"It is forgotten," she interrupted.
"Not by me. But I am hoping that another bold move will make amends for the previous one."
What was this? What was he going to do now? She stepped back, momentarily afraid he might try to take her and Oliver bodily into his arms. However would she explain that to Letticia?
Instead, Mr. Wyckliff held out a little box. "I have brought a gift for your dog."
She placed Oliver on the floor, then took the shagreen box in her hands. Inside lay a wide, leather dog collar, from which dangled five shiny, spherical bells. Gwenllian picked up the collar, and her shaky fingers caused the silvery bells to jingle pleasantly. It was a beautiful piece of work.
She glanced up at Mr. Wyckliff, too moved to speak.
He grinned. "I once saw its like on a fashionable pug in Portman Square."
No one outside her family had ever given her a gift. And here this unrelated gentleman had gone and bought such a lovely thing for her Oliver. Tears sprang to her eyes. It was so lovely. And she was so maudlin. She inwardly groaned. What was it about this man that stirred her emotions so? Impatient with her silly sensibilities, she crouched down beside her pug.
"Look, Oliver, is it not beautiful?"
As the collar was inedible, Oliver was less than impressed.
Gwenllian buckled the collar around Oliver's neck. At first he objected, scratching at it with a hind leg and next shaking his whole body as if wet, releasing a cascade of jangles instead of a spray of water droplets. But with the patience and aplomb of many of his breed, Oliver soon accepted his fate. He spent the next few minutes waddling about his mistress and Mr. Wyckliff in wide figures of eight, a chunky, cheery jingle pug.
"It is the best present Oliver has ever had. Thank you, sir. But perhaps I should not have accepted it---for now Oliver is deeply in your debt."
"I seek no return, never fear."
"It is lovely. Thank you, Mr. Wyckliff."
He smiled at her and looked away, the broad grin still on his face, almost bashful in his pleasure at her delight. Then his gaze returned to her, his smile still present. She wished this moment would never end.
"Found the bedroom, did we?" Letticia stated from the doorway.
Dinner was a splendid affair, the table artfully arranged in a symmetrical pattern of china tureens and silver platters. Gwenllian headed for her customary position to the left of the Baron at the foot of the table. She noticed Mariah seating herself to Letticia's right at the top of the table, as expected, and Geoffrey taking the other seat of honor to Letticia's left---rather unexpectedly since he was not really a guest. But he was tipsy and it would have been improper for anyone to argue the point. Geoffrey glanced at Gwenllian several times as he sat there, always a strange expression in his eye, and she wondered if he had started drinking because he feared she had informed on him.
One chair separated her from Mariah, shortly to be filled by Isabella, Gwenllian assumed. But Isabella did not sit by her friend. She chose instead to sit across from Gwenllian, to the right of the Baron. That was a bit of unforeseen modesty. She would not have thought Isabella the sort to volunteer for the low end of the table. From the corner of her eye, Gwenllian caught sight of Mr. Wyckliff moving toward the empty chair at her left. Her heart skipped a beat. He was going to choose to sit beside her. Not that there was much choice, being only two seats left, but he was choosing the one next to her. That had to be good.
Just then the seat was drawn back and Mr. Faircross appeared in her line of view. He had been coming from the other direction, behind her, and he dropped into the seat as if oblivious to the fact that it had been someone else's target. Perhaps he was truly oblivious. But Gwenllian thought him the cruelest man in Christendom as Mr. Wyckliff turned and took the remaining seat to the right of Isabella.
Isabella's chestnut mane was swept up into an intricate knot wrapped with garlands of braids. As the meal progressed, Geoffrey repeatedly referred to Isabella's hair as a 'crown of glory,' which was fine with Gwenllian as long as Mr. Wyckliff did not say anything similar, until the repetition itself became irritating. She heartily wished Geoffrey would partake more of the food and thus give his mouth something worthwhile to do instead of pandering to his soggy brain.
Despite Geoffrey's effusive compliments, Isabella kept her most gracious attentions for Mr. Wyckliff. She laughed prettily and leaned in to him as if sharing intimate confidences during which she seemed able to blush at will, tinting her ivory cheeks a delicate color that practically matched the pale pink silk of her gown.
Mr. Wyckliff returned her smiles, chatting and listening attentively to her answers, seeming interested in learning all there was to know about her. Gwenllian struggled with her envy throughout the first course. She reminded herself that such feelings were petty, and that Isabella was quite a nice person while the second course was laid out and admired. But by the time the second course was underway, she admitted defeat and had a good seethe. Isabella was beautiful, charming, and attractive to men, and she was jealous. Gwenllian decided to console herself with pudding.
"Mrs. Wood, might you please pass the bread pudding?"
Isabella acted as if she had not heard. And Gwenllian was fairly certain it was an act. This was not the first time Isabella had ignored her request to pass one of the dishes stationed on that side of the table. Earlier, she had been forced to send for the china tureen of fricasseed turnips from the other end of the table as the matching one at her end was held hostage at Isabella's elbow.
The tight rein Gwenllian had been keeping on her temper began to slip. She could feel it go. She was going to say something she would regret later. But right at this moment the temptation was too great to resist.
"Mrs. Wood---"
Mr. Wyckliff interrupted her. "Mrs. Wood, might I have the bread pudding?"
Gwenllian's mouth dropped open. Of all the nerve!
"Of course, Mr. Wyckliff." Isabella simpered.
Gwenllian's eyes narrowed as Isabella passed the silver bowl to Mr. Wyckliff. But the expression was hastily replaced by astonishment as Mr. Wyckliff stood and carried the bread pudding around the table to her side. He held the silver bowl out so that Gwenllian would easily be able to serve herself. A scandalized hush fell over the diners.
"I believe you might enjoy this, Miss Lloyd." Mr. Wyckliff's eyes sparkled with conspiratorial humor.
"Why, whatever gave you that impression?" She scooped a substantial portion onto her plate, attempting to be as nonchalant as he.
"I do not recall." He grinned. "Perhaps because it is an unassuming, sweet-natured pudding, rather like yourself."
He returned to his seat with the silver bowl. She watched him, admiring the rough dexterity of his movement. Sort of a lopsided lope, with no dragging of his leg. As if in another room, she could hear Letticia, discomfiture making her voice over-loud in the silent room, managing to quickly start up simultaneous conversations with both Geoffrey and Mariah. Letticia was an incomparable sister.
Gwenllian waited until several conversations were established and an appropriate noise level had been reached before she attempted to catch Mr. Wyckliff's eye. It proved to be more difficult than expected. He seemed to pause and look about him before choosing his cutlery. Only momentarily. Any sane person able to keep their eyes off him for more than a minute at a time would never have noticed it. It was almost as if he were waiting for one of the company to pick up their utensil in order to be certain which he should be using for which dish. Though it mostly occurred with the more exotic dishes, so perhaps unfamiliarity with their protocol was not surprising.
Suddenly she was rewarded by a glance in her direction and she jumped at her chance. "Mr. Wyckliff?"
His attention focused on her, his eyebrows raised in silent inquiry.
"I am afraid you do not know me as you suppose. I should make a rather bitter pudding."
He smiled. "Your strong nature is more in the line of a curried sauce?"
"Perhaps." She tossed her head with more bravado than she actually felt. "I do not object to being a dish not to everyone's taste."
"It is a taste I should very much like to acquire."
His husky voice pulled at her insides. Her chest tightened and she realized she had stopped breathing. She inhaled and tried to present a semblance of calm indifference while spooning up a bite of pudding. Her hand shook. So much for calm. But Mr. Wyckliff was not looking at her anyway.
"And what sort of dish am I, Mr. Wyckliff?" Isabella had asked.
The conversation descended into a frenzy of accolades, with Mr. Wyckliff, Geoffrey, and Lord Berwentford all vying to pronounce Isabella the sweetest and most superb of comestibles. When the tablecloth was removed and the table relaid for dessert, Gwenllian welcomed the interruption.
Soon a fine array of desserts had been assembled upon the tabletop like a grand parade. Gwenllian, still compulsively observing Mr. Wyckliff, noticed more utensil hesitations as he ate. He was clearly a gentleman. How could he be uncertain of his etiquette? Perhaps it was a game. She wondered if she could catch him out.
Gwenllian served herself trifle, then passed it on to Lord Berwentford. She waited until it arrived at Mr. Wyckliff. He served himself and passed the trifle on.
Then Gwenllian slowly reached for her pistol-handled knife and watched Mr. Wyckliff out of the corner of her eye. He reached for his knife in time with her. She quickly put the knife down, picked up her rat-tailed spoon and glanced across the table at him.
Their eyes locked.
The full force of Mr. Wyckliff's hazel eyes blistered her soul. Never had she seen anything like the dangerous intensity in his gaze. It was only there for a second, then it was gone and his eyes were as affable as any gentleman could be. But her body involuntarily recoiled as if from a blow. He knew she knew. Mr. Wyckliff picked up his rat-tailed spoon and turned away to continue his conversation with the unaware Isabella. But Gwenllian found she could not swallow.
What had she done?
"What with the Terror and all, I was ever so surprised to be invited to the coast." Isabella took a dainty sip of her tea. "How can you bear the suspense, Lady Berwentford?"
Letticia raised her eyebrows. "I am sure I don't know what you mean. Now, have you seen the new---"
"She means the imminent French invasion," Mariah interjected. "We could all be slaughtered in our beds."
Gwenllian smiled into her teacup. Letticia was perfectly aware of those rumors---she simply did not consider them to be appropriate after-dinner conversation. Ladies retired to the drawing room to discuss fabrics and fashions, not war.
The men were discussing the war, Gwenllian wagered. If only they would hurry it up a bit. Her nerves thrummed with frustrated excitement. When would Mr. Wyckliff quit the company of the men and join them? Her apology was becoming stale with the delay. And why did she feel the need to apologize to him?
Oliver's leg twitched impatiently in her lap and she resumed petting him. She had done nothing wrong. 'Twas Mr. Wyckliff's table manners that were ... yes, what were they? If she could just manage to corner him. Surreptitiously, of course. Be very proper, and force him to explain himself. No, no, not proper at all, that. Cajole him into explaining himself.
Gwenllian glanced at the door but it provided her with no hint as to when it might furnish her expected company. Why were they taking so long? Men could be so irritating.
"Not that anyone would want to invade Dorsetshire," Mariah continued with a sniff. "We are quite safe---I asked Lord Berwentford."
"And with his French connections, he would know," Gwenllian sarcastically mumbled to Oliver.
In the sudden hush that shrouded the room she had more than enough proof that her unfortunate muttering had been loud enough for the others to hear. She forced herself to raise her eyes. A burning flush rose within her cheeks in response to the congregation of horrified stares that bored into her.
"What is that supposed to mean?" snapped Mariah.
Gwenllian swallowed. "I ... nothing, nothing. I meant nothing. How can he know? 'Tis not as if he has a direct line to Napoleon."
"He does have connections in France, though," Isabella remarked, turning to Letticia. "Was not your bridal tour through France?"
"That was during the Peace. Everyone who was anyone was going," Letticia answered haughtily. "You're not suggesting..."
"Never!" Isabella placed her teacup on the nearest table with a decided clink. "Please do not think such a thing of me. I could not bear it if you thought I meant to sully your ever so respectable name."
"Of course no one thought you meant that," Mariah reassured Isabella. "We all know an Englishman would have nothing to do with those beastly French."
A general murmuring of agreement ensued. Mariah sipped her tea. "Mind you, the French do have a way with fashion," she added.
Letticia grabbed that opening to launch into an admirable soliloquy on French fashion. She soon had both Mariah and Isabella participating in a meticulous, and interminable, discussion of ribbons. Gwenllian continued to pet Oliver and watch the door.
And time seemed to just about grind to a halt.
Gwenllian thought she must have grown roots five times before finally she heard the click of the doorknob being turned. The door opened to reveal Mr. Wyckliff.
And suddenly he was the darling of the room. Every eye turned to him, every voice had some bright greeting for him. Gwenllian never had a chance to corner him before he was swept into the center of the company.
Mr. Wyckliff spent a painfully vast amount of time listening to Isabella describe her house in London. Gwenllian waited. He encouraged Mariah to recount her travels to Ireland. And Gwenllian waited. He ingeniously wove the conversations together through interspersing numerous questions to Letticia about the Baron's family and the estate. Still Gwenllian waited.
He did not address Gwenllian at all.
When the rest of the gentlemen joined them, Mr. Wyckliff complimented Geoffrey on his splendid gold pocket watch, an item which, Gwenllian sourly noted to herself, proved Geoffrey was still living beyond his means. Now he was listening to Mr. Faircross boast about his stables. And Gwenllian was still waiting.
Mr. Wyckliff was conversing with everyone---except her.
Gwenllian attempted to distract herself with more tea. Blast the man, why would he not speak to her? She did not dare speak to him first. Not now. He seemed so detached from her, so aloof. What if he cut her in front of everyone?
No, she was being a goose. He would not do that. No gentleman would do. Especially not a guest. But what if he responded impersonally to her? What if he showed less interest in her than he showed in Mariah or Isabella? She could not bear that. It was safer to remain silent, with his indifference unconfirmed and her pride intact.
She sighed to herself. The only happy thought in this situation was that it gave her a chance to observe him unawares. And yet even that turned out more difficult than it should have been.
An intent vigilance dwelt in Mr. Wyckliff's eyes and never left. It made trying to examine him without his noticing exceedingly difficult. She glanced away as once more he caught her gaze upon him.
It only made her more determined not to be foiled. He might be vigilant but she would outfox him. She hoisted herself to her feet, not exactly a graceful undertaking with stout Oliver in her arms, and wandered across to the windows. The growing darkness outside made the window-glass more of a looking-glass. If she stood at a certain angle, she could catch a blurred but unaware Mr. Wyckliff in the reflection.
She smiled. It was an inconsequential victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.
Suddenly Letticia was at her side, smiling brightly and jiggling Gwenllian's elbow. "Rejoicing already?"
She took a moment to gather her thoughts before responding. "What do you mean?"
"Mr. Wyckliff said his favorite color is purple," her sister stated as if such a sentence merited a fanfare of trumpets.
"He did not."
"He did."
"When?"
"When he was speaking with me, of course."
Gwenllian frowned. "Fine, but I do not see how---"
Letticia interrupted with an exasperated groan. "Purple is your theme. Do you ever wear anything without purple in it? He must have meant you. You are being deliberately obtuse."
She looked away. "He cannot have meant me."
"Whyever not?"
"Now you are being obtuse. Mr. Wyckliff has not spoken to me at all since dinner. I fear I vexed him."
Letticia waved her hand dismissively. "He will have long forgotten anything that happened at dinner once Edgar gets through with him. Look." With a toss of her head, Letticia indicated the other side of the room where, like an enthusiastic schoolboy, the Baron was escorting Mr. Wyckliff to the wall of weapons. "Mr. Wyckliff must have asked about the Collection. He is in for it now."
Lord Berwentford possessed an impressive collection of weapons. Gwenllian had browsed the baffling wall before. Sabres, broadswords, cutlasses, rapiers, daggers---who knew there were so many different ways of making a pointy piece of metal? She preferred the smattering of elegantly engraved pistols which sat so unassumingly amongst the swords. The Baron had shown her how one worked once. But she had not been allowed to touch it herself. Gwenllian noticed that he was allowing Mr. Wyckliff to handle the precious items. Not quite fair, that.
Lord Berwentford handed Mr. Wyckliff one of the gently curving sabres. The length of the blade alone looked to be almost three feet. At first, Mr. Wyckliff took the hilt with his right hand to perform a few swirling moves, but he soon switched to his more fluid left.
"He knows a thing or two about that, I reckon." Mr. Faircross had joined Gwenllian and Letticia at the window. "Mind you, I could still thrash him soundly in a duel."
Letticia smiled at Mr. Faircross. "That is because you would cheat and use a pistol, sir."
Far from being insulted, Mr. Faircross chuckled. "Perhaps I should instead use your sharp tongue, my Lady."
Letticia joined him in quiet laughter.
Mr. Faircross would have made a far better husband for Letticia, Gwenllian suspected. The Baron never made Letticia laugh---never even attempted it. Mr. Faircross's interest in Letticia also seemed more sincere. Although he was being decidedly inaccurate about his dueling ability. Even with the little Gwenllian knew about pointy weapons, it was clear Mr. Wyckliff handled a sword with a talent found in no one else in the room.
Soon after Mr. Wyckliff returned the sabre, Gwenllian returned to her chair. Oliver was too heavy to hold for long. She watched as Isabella drifted to the Baron's side. Mr. Wyckliff seemed to be excusing himself. Perhaps he wanted more tea? Then she caught him gazing in her direction.
Her whole body jumped to the alert. Yes, he was definitely looking at her. And now he was moving, moving with that hitching stride that was actually becoming more of a striking asset than a disadvantage to his long, fine legs. She glanced away. Would he come to her? She tried to remain calm. A quick peek in his direction confirmed her hopes. He was definitely coming toward her. She mustn't look too eager.
Oliver snorted. She was petting too fast. She attempted to slow her hand and feign composure.
"You are quiet this evening, Miss Lloyd."
Clearly he could not hear her wildly pounding heart.
"I am quiet most evenings," she replied, attempting to sound demure.
He nodded. "I, too, prefer to observe."
"A nice thought, but do not ask me for the validation of it."
"You disbelieve me?" He raised an amused eyebrow.
"Well, sir, plainly you like conversing. You have spoken with everyone in the room this evening. Except for me."
"Ah, but I observed you," he solemnly replied, "And preferred the view above all my conversations."
"Then you should have spoken with me sooner. Truly, I converse rather better than I view."
He chuckled. "I fear you are mistaken, Miss Lloyd. All your charms are so incomparable as to make it impossible for one to outshine another."
He crouched down at her side. The position seemed slightly awkward for him, probably due to his stiff leg. Yet he remained there, reaching across the low arm of the chair to pet snoring Oliver sprawled upon her lap.
She held her breath, terribly aware of his proximity. He was so near that her exhalation might shuffle his honey locks. So near she could note his fair eyelashes. The space between them seemed as nothing.
In this position, he was as close as he could be without touching her. A thrilling speculation raced through her mind that perhaps he had done it on purpose to be nearer to her. She dismissed the notion immediately. It was too much to hope for.
Then he glanced up. Her stomach flopped over and headed for her knees. Never had anyone gazed at her with such an expression. Such a burning, longing expression. In that moment, the room seemed empty except for them.
Did he feel it, too? His arm had frozen in the middle of stroking Oliver. She thought she could feel the gentle pressure of his palm through Oliver's body. Discontented by the petting stoppage, the pug snorted and rolled away. Mr. Wyckliff's hand slid from Oliver's back onto Gwenllian's now vacant lap.
And she definitely felt that.
The thin fabric of her gown was no barrier to the warmth of his hand as his palm pressed the top of her thigh. A wave of awareness gushed through her, while simultaneously lifting all the hairs on the back of her neck.
He removed his hand as if she had been made from hot coals and clambered to his feet.
She ducked her head, surreptitiously glancing around to see if anyone had noticed their proscribed contact. No one seemed to be looking in their direction. Slowly she straightened her spine.
"There is a prodigious amount of silver in here." Mr. Wyckliff gestured at the assembled silver candlesticks and elaborate silver candelabra.
It would have been just as accurate to say there was a prodigious amount of candles. Gwenllian appreciated that Letticia's wealth---or rather, the Baron's wealth now---provided the wherewithal to burn so many, many candles. They bathed the room in a bright, warm glow that was not a strain upon the eyes at all. But neither topic was well chosen to begin a new, innocent conversation.
"Funds are not a difficulty here, I take it," he continued.
"I would not expect to know."
Such speculation was not a proper topic of conversation for Mr. Wyckliff to engage in regarding his host. And he should know that. She was reminded of his behavior at dinner.
"Mr. Wyckliff, might I ask..."
"Pray pardon me, Miss Lloyd. Miss Howard seeks my attention."
He limped away to join Mariah and Geoffrey near the fireplace. Gwenllian leaned back in her chair. She had been rebuffed. Unmistakably rebuffed. She watched Mariah parade her most winning ways at Mr. Wyckliff and soured even more when Geoffrey moved off and the conversation became a jovial tête-à-tête. If only she could hear them. No, she did not want to hear. They were too jolly by half.
In a loud voice aimed at no one in particular, Geoffrey announced his desire to play a game of cards. The Baron was clearly bothered by his suggestion, but Isabella and Mariah simultaneously seconded the idea with too many enthusiastic squeals to be easily deterred. They had not yet decided upon which card game to play when, using the excuse that her dog required walking, Gwenllian exited the drawing room. She found little enjoyment in games when Geoffrey was playing. He was so dreadfully competitive when it came to cards.
Oliver stayed by her side while they descended the back stairs, but he took a detour upon crossing the kitchen, taking it upon himself to help dispose of the dinner leftovers by gobbling up the bits which had fallen to the floor. He was completely uninterested in leaving until Gwenllian opened the back door. Then suddenly the pug wanted to go out---first, of course. He dashed over to beat her outside.
The sun had set, leaving the sky streaked with pinks and purples and shadows lengthening upon the ground. Still, there was light enough that she saw no need for a lamp.
Together, she and Oliver wandered the gravel path through the classically arranged flowerbeds. And then she spotted Geoffrey's friend Costeroe. She would not have assumed he was one for admiring flowers---Geoffrey certainly had no time for them---yet here he was marching up from the lawn. He must have walked the whole circuit.
A cold unease crawled over her flesh as he approached. The urge to duck behind a tree to avoid him flashed through her mind. But that was ridiculous. He was a little uncouth, perhaps, but it was wrong of her to shun him. She was letting the prejudices of the aristocracy rub off on her.
He was within speaking distance now. She gave him her best smile. "The flowers are looking quite nice, are they not, sir?"
"Wot I'm lookin' at's sweeter by half." Costeroe leered at her. Even in the half-light, she could catch the boorish expression.
"I ... I beg your pardon?"
"Give over. You're as much a lady as that Hamilton trollop." He chuckled, but it was not a friendly sound. "Bet you'd ride me like a chamber-horse, given half a chance."
Gwenllian was staggered. While she did not quite understand his words, she certainly understood their meaning. Why would he say such things? Her bewilderment was too vast for outrage to find a way in. "You must be confusing me with another, sir."
"I've seen you lookin' at him." He grabbed her by the arm. "If he's had you first it don' bovver me none."
"Get off!" Gwenllian struggled, pulling away as he tried to pull her closer. "You odious ... Unhand me! Oliver! Oliver!"
But Oliver had either traipsed too far away to take note of the proceedings, or was too good-natured to realize he was being called upon to attack.
She changed tactics, allowing Costeroe to pull her nearer. This put her within handy reach of his feet, which she stomped upon with abandon.
All manner of foul exclamations spewed from his lips as he released her arm. She stepped away, but before she could turn to run for the door suddenly Mr. Wyckliff was standing between them.
A rough, physical confidence radiated from him, almost tangible in its impact. "Go inside, Princess."
She had heard that ominous tone before. Immediately she backed toward the door. Walking backward was slower, but she was not about to miss whatever would happen next.
In a burst of violence all the more frightening for the swiftness of it, Mr. Wyckliff shoved Costeroe. He used only one straight arm, a single, brutal motion, but Costeroe was knocked backwards several feet. His heels slipped on the loose gravel and he fell heavily upon the abrasive path. Mr. Wyckliff towered over him, the angle of his body stiff and menacing.
She could not hear what Mr. Wyckliff said, but Costeroe nodded frantically. Mr. Wyckliff stepped back and he scrambled to his feet, bowed deeply, and scurried away.
Mr. Wyckliff returned to her side. "He will not bother you again. Are you harmed at all?"
"No, thank you, I am quite well, sir."
"Then I bid you good evening." He inclined his head and turned to leave.
"You are not displeased with me?" She blurted to his departing back.
He stopped walking.
She felt like hitting herself upon the forehead. What had possessed her to say such a thing? Why did she have no dignity where this man was concerned?
Slowly he rotated on his booted heels to face her. She was surprised to find that he was smiling. He shook his head. "You shall be the death of me, unless I am much mistaken. No, lass, I am not displeased. Now fetch your Oliver and I shall escort you indoors."
Gwenllian knew what he had to be.
The realization had come to her while she prepared for bed. How had the truth not occurred to her earlier? Now it buzzed about inside her head with such vigor that sleep stood no chance in coming.
There was nothing for it. Letticia would have to be told.
She abandoned her bed. Leaving a protesting pug shut inside her bedchamber, she tiptoed down the hall and scratched on her sister's closed bedroom door.
"Are you awake?" she whispered.
She could hear several soft thumps. "Gwenllian?" Letticia's voice was muffled through the door.
"Yes, may I come in?"
"La! What a time for visiting."
Gwenllian quickly let herself into the chamber and skipped across the carpeted floor to join bright-eyed Letticia standing in front of her tall four-poster bed with its heavy, old-fashioned curtains that hung all the way to the floor.
"I have news."
Letticia smiled. "Of that I had no doubt. What could not wait until morning?"
"'Tis Mr. Wyckliff." She hesitated. How was she to impart the information? Now that she was here, facing Letticia, it all seemed so silly. So fanciful.
"What about Mr. Wyckliff?" Letticia prompted.
Gwenllian inhaled deeply before plunging ahead. "I believe he is a highwayman."
"You think Mr. Daniel Wyckliff is a highwayman?" Letticia dissolved into peals of laughter. "Go shoe the goose!"
"I do not see why my idea is so nonsensical." Gwenllian frowned, trying not to show how hurt she felt by her sister's amusement.
"Well, honestly," Letticia chided between fits of giggles. "You sounded so theatrical. His means are two pops and a galloper." Letticia delivered the last bit in a deep, quaky voice with her hands clasped histrionically to her breast.
Gwenllian grimaced at her. "He has two fast horses, actually."
"But no pistols. Seems your highwayman doesn't know the proper equipment of his trade."
"Yes, well, you did not see what he did at dinner."
"He has ten thousand pounds a year. He can do what he likes at dinner."
"Ah," Gwenllian exclaimed. "But how do we know that?"
"Know what?"
"How do we know he has ten thousand a year?"
Letticia rolled her eyes. "Because everyone in Bath says so."
Gwenllian decided not to argue the point of whether her sister had truly spoken with everyone in Bath. "And how do they know?"
"The same way Society always knows." Letticia was getting impatient. "If they let just anybody in, our family would not have spent years suffering under the appellation of mushroom, now would we?" She snorted. "You saw his clothes, his curricle. Clearly he has wealth. What precisely do you think such a man resorts to robbery for? Pin money?"
She sighed at Letticia's gently sarcastic tone. Those were valid points. "But I still think something is not quite right."
"Look, dearest, things like that do not happen in England. You have been reading too many novels." Letticia giggled again. "You wish Mr. Wyckliff to be a romantic foreign bandit who will carry you off."
Gwenllian's jaw dropped. "I do not." Her voice sounded properly appalled, but she felt the burning flush creeping up her cheeks. She had thought him romantically dangerous back in Bath. How did Letticia know? Perhaps she truly was being silly, allowing furtive desires to muddle her brain.
"Let me tell you, foreign bandits do not have half the wherewithal needed to keep you in style," her sister added.
Letticia's teasing was only making her hot discomfiture worse. "I see you are unable to carry on a serious conversation. I am going back to my room now."
"Pleasant dreams," Letticia called after her, an unambiguously suggestive tone to her voice.
Gwenllian ignored her. She tried to exit the room with dignity but one question plagued her, begging to be asked. She paused at the door, her hand resting on the porcelain doorknob. "Letticia."
"Yes?"
"What did you say his first name was?" She glanced back over her shoulder.
Letticia was smiling. "Daniel."
"How did you..."
"When I obtained his address for the invitation."
"I see." She opened the door.
"I was hoping you would have learned it for yourself by now."
Before she closed the door, Gwenllian leaned back in.
"I am not a galloper," she replied solemnly.
Oliver never slept in. Having popped out into the garden with him in the cool, grey light of dawn, Gwenllian trudged back to her room. Perky Oliver trotted by her side. He seemed completely unaffected by the noises of the last night, but all that creaking and squeaking had startled Gwenllian from sleep several times. It did not make for peaceful slumber, and she was not best pleased. The old mansion had never creaked so during her previous visits. Was it possible Primroselea was becoming more haunted? Did ghosts have house parties?
She dressed in lilac muslin while her pug sat in the nearest chair. It was a favorite of his, and the velvet upholstery was strewn with fawn-color hairs.
"Letticia is going to have to purchase some pug-colored furniture. Then your hair will not show so much. Remind me when I have a house to match my décor to you."
Oliver just stared at her with his big, brown eyes.
Finished readying herself for the day, she petted Oliver for a few moments before buckling his new bell collar around his neck.
"Shall we go read in the library?"
Oliver cocked his head, alert with word recognition. He liked the word library, although he preferred kitchen.
"Let's go to the library."
The pug jumped down from the chair with a clash of bells and headed toward the stairs. She followed. On the way down the hall they passed the Yellow Bedroom, one of the many guest bedrooms in Primroselea. Passing this chamber was normally routine, but this morning Gwenllian had special cause to note it.
The chamber-horse was kept in there.
She stopped at the door. Mr. Costeroe had said such strange things last night, especially regarding chamber-horses. She entered the room, Oliver jingling in after her.
With tentative steps, she approached the wooden box. It looked innocent as always, simply a sort of chair with a thick box for a seat instead of a cushion. The box contained tier upon tier of springs so that when one sat upon it, one could bounce up and down as if on horseback. It was supposed to be excellent exercise.
Gingerly she sat upon the box. There was a brief whoosh of air and a faint squeak from the springs. She made a few cautious bounces. The chamber-horse softly creaked and jostled in response. How on earth could Costeroe be comparing this to...? That had been what he meant, was it not? She bounced a little more energetically. The chamber-horse jounced and joggled her. It was most agreeable---a light, free feeling, like riding a horse only without the sensations of progress and speed.
"Exercise at this early hour, Princess?"
Daniel watched as Miss Lloyd used her accumulated impetus to bounce to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing rapid, but as her eyes darted about the room looking everywhere except at him, he wondered if her flustered condition was less about invigorating exercise and more due to embarrassment.
"I was just..."
He stepped back. "You were busy. I apologize for disturbing you."
"Mr. Wyckliff."
"Yes, Miss Lloyd?"
She stood mute, her fingers clasped tightly together.
"Is something amiss?"
"No. No."
Her pug jingled over, curled tail wagging, and stood at his side, presenting his back to be stroked. Daniel bent to pet him. "I see you are wearing my gift."
He heard Miss Lloyd's quick step and then she was kneeling beside her dog. "I think he enjoys being fashionable."
She smiled up at Daniel, her eyes bright and her short hair even more tousled than usual. There was no artifice in her expression, no calculation of how she appeared to best advantage, no narrow speculations on the size of his purse. She was unlike any female he had experienced. An impulsive urge to kiss her raced through him. He struggled to suppress it.
"He needs no ornamentation to be beautiful." His lowered voice sounded husky to his own ears, and lent the words a consequence which he had intended to be more subtle. Then he realized the last word had slipped. "Fashionable," he corrected.
Her smile faltered and her eyes betrayed a bashful uncertainty. "That is most kind of you to say." She quickly lowered her gaze to concentrate on stroking the pug's back. Tufts of pug hair shed off with her motions. "Oh dear."
She leaned forward, brushing the dog hairs away from his boots with her hand.
"Don't trouble thee, lass."
"No, no, if I do not ward them off you shall never see the last of them. You would be surprised at how tenacious pug hair is in sticking to clothing."
He chuckled. "I am going to tour the countryside, I will only get dirtier."
But she kept brushing. He caught her moving hand and held it captive in his. Her head jerked up. Her eyes were wide with surprise, or fear.
With stiff movements, he crouched beside her kneeling form, still holding her imprisoned hand. His heart pounded as if he were awaiting the order to charge. She was so close. He could be upon her lightly lavender-scented body in seconds, like a wolf upon a lamb. What was he doing? She could never be his, and yet he was risking compromising her. He should stand and withdraw. But he could not. It was all he could do to maintain his composure. He was no gentleman. He was leaving it up to her to move away.
Miss Lloyd's breath was coming fast between her parted lips but she did not struggle to free herself. Instead, she almost seemed to be leaning closer to him. Her expression no longer held any alarm. Her direct gaze warmed his blood and enthralled his mind. He brought her hand to his cheek. Her skin was so smooth. He wondered if all her skin felt so silky. It was not a line of thought that promoted composure.
"'Appen ye go with me?"
"Sir?" It was more air than word.
Suddenly the pug's head intruded between them. Body wriggling, velvet muzzle snuffling, and pink tongue licking, he was delighted at the luck of having two faces so near to his own. Daniel immediately released Miss Lloyd and they both scrambled to their feet to escape the affectionate onslaught.
He cleared his throat. "Would you like to accompany me, Miss Lloyd? We can ride in my curricle. And you need not worry, we shall stay in the lanes."
He was afraid the moment had passed, but Miss Lloyd still looked thoughtful. "Mr. Wyckliff, might I ask you a question?"
"Anything, Miss Lloyd."
She inhaled deeply. "Would you consider there to be a relation between chamber-horses and anything unmentionable?"
This could be a sticky conversation. "How, unmentionable?"
Her eyes widened, as if she had just realized she had actually spoken her thoughts aloud, and to him. But she answered. "Bedroom unmentionable."
"I see. No, I should not think so."
She visibly relaxed. "I am glad to hear it. The bouncing was so enjoyable, I should have been sorry to hear it was improper."
"Far from it. I think you bounce most charmingly. If you would care to come out in my curricle, I shall drive you over bumpy roads a-purpose."
Miss Lloyd blushed quite adorably.
"I shall order my curricle and meet you out front," he continued as he moved away. "Bring your pug, if you would like."
"But of course. We are inseparable."
"Lucky dog." Daniel muttered under his breath. Miss Lloyd did not hear him.
Gwenllian paced along the carriage sweep, gradually moving farther and farther away from the grand stone steps. Oliver also paced, but he traveled in sweeping circles, first to a bush then to her side. It was a lovely spring morning. Primroselea had never looked greener. It was the perfect morning for a ride in a carriage or a walk in the grounds. Perhaps, after the drive, Mr. Wyckliff would agree to a walk in the gardens with her.
She glanced toward the garden side of the house and her eye caught upon Isabella turning the corner and strolling directly toward her. She was accompanied by, of all people, Mr. Costeroe. He was scuttling sideways, talking to her. A tiny smile quirked the corners of her lips but she never so much as looked at him. They parted company at the edge of the carriage sweep, though not before Mr. Costeroe had made a deliberate grab for her hand. Isabella smoothly extricated herself and walked on across the gravel alone while Mr. Costeroe retreated in the direction from whence they came.
"Is it not a fine morning, Gwenllian? Why are you standing out in the drive?"
"I await Mr. Wyckliff's curricle." She waited for Isabella to draw quite near before she added, "How do you come to be acquainted with Mr. Costeroe?"
"Is that his name? We are hardly acquainted. He just spoke to me in the garden." Isabella sighed. "Do you find male admiration growing less and less imaginative? I am sure I do. They used to couch their compliments in cryptic metaphors but now everyone is so blatant. Bad manners are everywhere."
Gwenllian smiled, nodding her accord. Having rarely received any sort of compliment from anyone, she had no observations to make on the condition of male adoration. But Mr. Wyckliff was taking her out in his carriage so she felt particularly agreeable.
"Did you say Mr. Wyckliff's curricle?"
She nodded again and glanced toward the stables. "He should be along soon."
"My dear, you cannot possibly mean to go out with him alone." Isabella gasped, and one hand fluttered dramatically at her throat.
Gwenllian felt her mouth opening, but could not think how to respond. She had been so pleased at being singled out for Mr. Wyckliff's offer of a ride that it had never crossed her mind to question the propriety of accepting it.
Isabella pursed her lips in a pitying frown before she continued, "Unless you are quite comfortable with exposing yourself."
"Exposing? There will be no exposing. Unless you mean to refer to the curricle itself being an open carriage, which then yes, it is."
Isabella firmly shook her head. "You need a chaperone."
"The whole world will be our chaperone," Gwenllian exclaimed. She winced inside at the sound of her own voice, too shrill with exasperation to be ladylike, but she could not stop herself. "It is an open carriage."
"Never fear, I will accompany you." Isabella patted her shoulder. "Your reputation will be preserved."
The very last thing Gwenllian wanted was for Isabella to come with her, for so many reasons. Not the least of which being that she could hardly question Mr. Wyckliff about his suspicious---well, slightly suspicious, anyway---behavior with Isabella present. It would be too awkward and embarrassing. Besides, whatever secret Mr. Wyckliff might be keeping should be solely for her ears. She was the only one who had noticed anything amiss, after all. She alone deserved to know.
"No, no, do not put yourself out on my account. I could not possibly take you away from Primroselea's many divertissements." Gwenllian desperately attempted to name one of them. Her brain seemed to empty of words when she needed them most.
A pleasant, familiar jingling and clopping announced the arrival of the curricle behind her. She turned. The handsome sight of Mr. Wyckliff and his matching dapple-grays was enough to make anyone's heart skip a beat.
"A prime bit of weather for driving, Miss Lloyd." Mr. Wyckliff drove up as close to Gwenllian as possible.
"Most excellent," Isabella agreed.
Gwenllian smiled at him and silently wished Isabella would go away.
Instead she moved to hover nearer. "I am lucky indeed to be able to perform my duty in such enjoyable weather."
Mr. Wyckliff leapt from the curricle. He cast a quizzical glance at Isabella before handing Gwenllian in.
"Your duty, Mrs. Wood?" He scooped up Oliver and placed him upon Gwenllian's lap.
"Why, to chaperone, of course. Bunch up, bunch up," Isabella gaily instructed Gwenllian.
"It will be quite a crush," Gwenllian warned.
"Nonsense." Isabella patted what she could reach of Gwenllian's side. "Inhale a tad more, my dear, and I'm sure there will be room enough for a tiny thing like me. Do you not think so, Mr. Wyckliff?"
Mr. Wyckliff said nothing, but he handed Isabella in. It was inevitable, really. There was no way to refuse a chaperone without sounding incredibly scandalous.
"Gwenllian, must you bring your dog?" Isabella asked as Mr. Wyckliff climbed into the curricle himself and the crush was complete.
Scrunched into the corner, partially obscured beneath solid Oliver, Gwenllian had barely breath to answer. "Perhaps I should remain behind."
"And leave my reputation unprotected?" Isabella laughed prettily. "A clever plan---I dare say you are at the heart of this Mr. Wyckliff---well, I will not hear of it. There! We all fit quite snugly. Shall we start?"
The curricle ride did not last long. Mr. Wyckliff found a green meadow into which they might all disembark. A ramble proved far more comfortable, and Oliver found the cows much more interesting, than the cramped curricle had been. The same could not be said on behalf of the cows, however, who were somewhat bemused by the jingling dog.
Gwenllian looked out at the water of the English Channel glimmering in the distance. "It is so peaceful here. One would never think..."
"I hate France," Isabella interrupted. It was an odd statement, her being so much in the French fashion, but Gwenllian did not challenge it.
"Some parts are quite pretty," she replied.
"You have been to France?" asked Mr. Wyckliff.
Gwenllian nodded. "With Letticia on her bridal tour. I obtained Oliver there. Pugs are quite popular. Bonaparte's wife Josephine has one."
Isabella, meanwhile, had been trying to distract Mr. Wyckliff's attention by bending over every few seconds to declare a cluster of weeds 'picturesque,' a task which seemed to require a certain amount of jigging and hip waggling.
Gwenllian decided that two could play that game. "In fact, there is an indelicate story attached to Josephine's pug."
"Oh? Do tell," Isabella exclaimed.
"Well." She paused, trying to think of the correct words to describe the story she had overheard in France---supposedly told by Napoleon himself. It was not the sort of story a well-bred girl should repeat. She felt her cheeks grow warm. What had she gotten herself into now?
"Well," she began again. "On her wedding night, ummm, when the couple began to be---familiar---Josephine's pug thought Napoleon was attacking her. So he jumped on Napoleon and bit him upon the leg."
"Hey-dey!" Isabella gasped between peals of giggles. "It must have seemed a terrible commotion of bouncing to the poor dog."
Bouncing. Gwenllian inwardly cringed at the word. She hoped Mr. Wyckliff was not looking at her. Whatever possessed her to ask him about Mr. Costeroe's insinuation? No, that was a false question. She knew exactly why she had asked, because he was a rake and he would know the answer. She simply had to admit she lacked the composure to play such racy games.
Her attention was drawn back to the group as Isabella was finishing a soliloquy on the evils of Bonaparte in particular by summarily dismissing France in general.
"And their appalling Revolution! France has been topsy-turvy ever since, so I hear, and that is exactly what comes of rising up against their rightful King and Queen. Those people deserve no better. You are frowning, Gwenllian."
"I was thinking that, for some, life in France was topsy-turvy before the Revolution. A hierarchical social order that abuses its power."
"You sound decidedly radical," Isabella interrupted.
Gwenllian took a deep breath. "I simply acknowledge that the people were sore oppressed."
"They were not, they had lovely lives."
"If I may, I meant the people. Not the aristocracy. The peasants."
Isabella sniffed. "Oh, well, they always have rotten lives."
"And if you kick a dog, you ought not be surprised if it bites. That is all I am saying. I think it tragic for them that so many, many people died and in the end France but traded one despot for another."
"You consider a King a despot?" Mr. Wyckliff asked.
His voice seemed completely neutral, but it was the first time Mr. Wyckliff had entered this conversation and Gwenllian was taken aback. Had she said that? Yes, indeed, she had. Her heart skipped a beat. This was dangerous ground.
"I speak only of the French King, of course," Gwenllian answered with due circumspection.
Mr. Wyckliff shot her a piercing glance. She was reminded of how dangerous he could look. Of how dangerous he might be.
Isabella smiled at him. "You must not mind the untutored chatterings of women, Mr. Wyckliff. Our minds are just not formed to correctly understand these philosophical subjects."
Gwenllian forced herself to nod in agreement. Not guilty by reason of stupidity. The move grated against every cell in her brain. She had read many books on these philosophical subjects. She understood right well. She had simply formed her sentence in an unfortunate manner. Maybe she was an idiot. It certainly was not a good way to impress Mr. Wyckliff. She would do better next time.
But next time never came. Shrouded in thought, Mr. Wyckliff escorted them to his curricle and was silent for much of the ride back to Primroselea. Not even playful Isabella could extract more than monosyllables from him. Gwenllian met his gaze several times, but in each instance his expression was unfamiliar to her. She could not help but think that he was finding her as suspicious as she had once found him.
Breakfast was waiting for Oliver when Gwenllian dropped him off in the kitchen. She could hear Mr. Wyckliff and Isabella talking in the garden. Isabella had managed to spark a conversation with him after all. Gwenllian felt heavy, as if she had swallowed stones. She forced her feet to dash upstairs, hoping to keep well ahead of them. She had been growing steadily more discomfited ever since her unfortunate sentence and now desired to be as far away from her witnesses as possible. Breakfast was out of the question. She would grab a book, freshen up and retire to her room for the rest of the morning.
She entered the library with the mildly diverting hope of finding a book filled with forgetting spells. Instead she found Mariah hunched over Letticia's writing desk, one arm moving furiously to the accompaniment of scraping noises. At first Gwenllian was too shocked to speak, but anger quickly replaced her surprise.
"What are you doing there?" she snapped.
Mariah whirled. In her hand she clenched a paper knife. "I was ... looking, for writing-paper."
"I would not have thought that enough of an emergency to ruin the finish on Letticia's desk."
Mariah glanced down at the scratches surrounding the drawer's lock where the knife had slipped. "She could use a new piece in any case. Rosewood would be far more fashionable than this."
"That is not quite the point."
Mariah waved her hand dismissively. "I have important letters to write so I will detain you no longer, Miss Lloyd."
"You do not detain me, Miss Howard, I have come to read." She walked to the nearest chair and promptly sat.
Mariah glared, distilling into her eyes a level of rage that her good breeding made otherwise impossible for her to show.
She smiled and tried to maintain what she hoped was an innocent expression.
Mariah slammed the paper knife down on the desktop. "Then I shall not disturb you." She strode out of the library.
Gwenllian waited until she could no longer hear Mariah's footsteps before crossing to Letticia's desk. Why would Mariah wish to break into Letticia's writing desk drawer? Such behavior was diametrically opposed to Mariah's breeding. She had a cruel tongue, but she was not a criminal. Something terribly important had to be inside this desk for Mariah, a guest in this house, to transgress in such a manner. She tried the drawer. Still locked. Since she did not possess the key any more than Mariah did, there was no way of knowing the contents without questioning her sister.
Gwenllian had to ask four different maids before she could find an answer to Letticia's location and by then she was already returning from her reported stroll with Mr. Faircross. Relieved that Isabella and Mr. Wyckliff were no longer in the garden, Gwenllian stepped outside and waited impatiently beside Primroselea's back door. Letticia and Mr. Faircross must part ways soon. Mr. Faircross bowed over Letticia's hand. But he did not leave. Would they never stop talking? At last Letticia turned, headed for the door, and saw her. Gwenllian made hushing motions as she skipped forward to intercept her sister.
"We must speak." She took Letticia by the elbow and steered her toward the shrubbery walk.
"What is this in aid of?" Letticia's voice held an air of amused surprise.
Gwenllian glanced in all directions to make certain they could not be overheard. She said nothing until she was convinced of their privacy.
"Your desk in the library, what do you keep in there?"
Letticia raised her eyebrows. "Why?"
"I came across Mariah attempting to break the lock."
"She will find nothing to blacken my eye there. Now, let us dress for dinner."
"You are not concerned about Mariah?"
"Not in the least."
"Despite the evidence that she clearly has some sort of nefarious agenda?"
"Nefarious. I like that word. I shall endeavor to use it in conversation."
"Try, 'Mariah, what is your nefarious agenda?' and see where it gets you."
Her sister ignored her. "Something resplendent in purple sarcenet for you tonight, I think. Or would you prefer muslin? The one with the purple sprigging is most fetching on you."
Gwenllian gave up. "Is it not a trifle early to dress?"
"How can you hope to outshine the competition if you don't put in some effort?"
"This is not a competition."
"La! For a bit of common sense! This is a veritable war, my dearest, and if you don't catch on quick someone else will make off with your catch."
The drawing room was filled with cozy chatter and the clink of china. The ladies had been pleased that the gentlemen had not tarried long after dinner before joining them and the gentlemen seemed pleased with their company and their tea. Gwenllian was feeling most becoming. Her gown, sprigged muslin trimmed with lace, was everything it should be and her hair was behaving nicely. If Mr. Wyckliff would stop talking to Mariah, she was prepared to stun him with her wit and beauty.
"We had the most diverting conversation this morning, did we not, Gwenllian?" Isabella chirped.
Her heart stopped. Isabella could not be doing this to her. This would stun people, certainly, but not the way she wished.
"'Twas all about France," Isabella continued loudly, bringing her words to the attention of the rest of the room. "Gwenllian is quite the mademoiselle."
Gwenllian wished she could stun Isabella with a cudgel. She made do with glaring as fiercely as she could at her. "You twist my words. I said no such thing."
"La!" Letticia shook her head and rolled her eyes. "A mademoiselle, I don't think. Gwenllian is as English as---"
"As a Welsh woman," Gwenllian interrupted. "But I'm absolutely loyal as well you know, Isabella."
"But you said you had sympathy for the French." Isabella fluttered her eyelashes and looked wide-eyed and innocent.
"Persist with this and I swear I'll fetch one of those pistols off the Baron's wall."
There was a general chorus of surprised gasps and disapproving grunts in response to her only partially humorous threat.
"Steady on, my gel," Mr. Faircross exclaimed with a laugh. "Such behavior does have a Continental flare."
"The French are a distressing topic." Mariah sighed, sounding more bored than distressed. "I do wish the militia were near by."
"Ah yes, the officers look terribly nice in their uniforms." Letticia winked.
"I meant for safety's sake." Mariah languidly flipped her hand at the wrist. "The militia is out beyond Eyrecombe Abbas, simply miles and miles away. Primroselea would be razed before they even heard news of an attack."
"There's not going to be any attack," Geoffrey chided, a patronizing amusement to his tone. "Dorsetshire's hardly worth invading at the best of times. Sussex, on the other hand..."
"The French will come through Kent." The Baron's gruff voice brooked no argument.
"I've heard tell they're building a tunnel," volunteered Mr. Faircross. This information was met with gasps of horror from the ladies and mutterings of assent from the men.
"Under the Channel, directly into Kent," the Baron proclaimed.
"I heard they have balloons." Isabella illustrated her words with expansive arm gestures. "Giant balloons that can carry thousands of men."
"Why do we not have giant balloons?" Mariah pouted.
"Mayhap we do, and they could be inflated by all the hot air spoken here tonight," Letticia remarked dryly. "Now I beg you, gentlemen, stop scaring us ladies."
"I return the charge. Mrs. Wood's balloons are quite scaring me," Mr. Faircross playfully responded, pointing an accusing finger at Isabella.
Isabella laughed. "And I know more. Have you heard about the windmills?"
"Windmills?" asked Geoffrey.
Isabella turned to him excitedly. "Yes, the French have giant landing crafts powered by windmills."
Gwenllian idly wondered if all the French inventions truly were giant, or if Isabella simply liked the word because her accompanying arm gestures made her breasts jiggle provocatively.
"Well, they will not be landing here," Letticia countered. "Our coast is unfortified because there is no threat."
"Kent is being fortified," the Baron stated.
"Especially Romney Marsh," added Geoffrey.
Mr. Faircross rolled his eyes. "The French can have Romney Marsh."
Mariah frowned at him. "You make too light of a serious situation."
Mr. Faircross shrugged. "Why not? My brother fought and died in India. Think my family's done seriously enough, thank you."
"Ain't the same as fighting in Europe, though, is it," commented Geoffrey.
"Why not? Blood is always red." Mr. Wyckliff set his teacup down with a restrained deliberateness. "And men die just as hard."
Mr. Wyckliff had not spoken in quite some time. Geoffrey was somewhat nonplussed by his unexpected words.
"Oh, I do not doubt it, I meant the glory. There is more glory in going up against France, do you not think?"
"For one thing, people know where it is," Mr. Faircross interjected. "How many can place India on the globe?"
Letticia laughed. "That is unfair. I am certain many of us are fascinated by places even if we cannot identify them by their land mass."
Mr. Faircross inclined his head gallantly in her direction. "Your fascination, my Lady, is enough to render any endeavors glorious."
Letticia turned to the Baron. "Perhaps we should invite some of these glory-laden men over to dine with us."
The Baron snorted. "Don't want a bunch of mongrels tramping around the grounds."
Mariah laughed. "She was talking about the officers, of course. Gentlemen. Everyone knows the common soldier's common as dirt and twice as nasty."
"I think you'll find genteel blood spills as easy as most, if the French do come crawling up from the coast. On that day, the common men who fight dirty and die hard might be your only hope." Mr. Wyckliff's voice sounded jovial enough, yet there lurked a chilling edge to his tone that apparently only Gwenllian caught.
Meanwhile, the butler was speaking quietly to Letticia. She clapped her hands together.
"The lanternist has arrived! This shall be fun. Have him set up in the saloon."
"Lanternist?" asked Mr. Faircross as the butler discreetly exited the room.
"Just one of my surprises," Letticia replied with a grin.
"We are to have a Magic Lantern show?" Mariah sounded gleeful as a child. "Will it have gruesome phantoms and skeletons?"
Isabella laughed. "You were ever a blood-thirsty one, even at school."
"It is very macabre indeed, or so I am told," answered Letticia. She continued in mock seriousness, "The gentlemen should stand ready to catch their favorite maiden should we be overcome and swoon."
It was not too long before the butler returned with news of the show's readiness. At Letticia's impetuous urging, the guests did not wait on ceremony but exited as a loose group. Nonetheless, Gwenllian waited for the others to go ahead so she would be in the back as her lack of precedence required. Geoffrey had cornered the Baron as he rose from his chair. They were still engaged in whispered conversation when almost everyone else had left the room. Gwenllian could wait for them no longer. She headed for the door and was surprised that the Baron and Geoffrey fell into step behind her.
"No," whispered the Baron. "And there's an end to it."
"T'aint right," Geoffrey began to protest as they entered the saloon behind her.
"No more money." The Baron's quiet words were slow, measured, and sounded forced through gritted teeth.
The formal gold and marble saloon had been transformed into a Gothic showpiece. Only a very few candles had been lit, barely illuminating the room and its new contents---the dark swathes of cloth hanging like viscous blood upon the walls, the thick links of chain and scattered bones, and the draped sheet of waxed muslin upon which the Magic Lantern images would appear. Two short rows of chairs had been placed in front of the sheet.
"No chairs, no chairs. Let us all stand together," Letticia said, waving the footmen to remove the offending seats. "Standing will be much more congenial to a group such as ours."
The chairs were removed and the lanternist began his show. Gwenllian had hoped to stand near her sister but she soon found Letticia inching away. Geoffrey moved to take her place, it being closer to the screen than he had been. Gwenllian edged to the back. Though she liked him, she did not know Geoffrey well enough to find standing next to him in the near dark a comfortable experience. She got clear of Geoffrey, backed up a few more steps for good measure, and her heel came up against a booted toe.
"You are not enjoying the performance?" murmured Mr. Wyckliff.
"Pray excuse me," she whispered, hoping she had not banged his injured foot. She moved to his side. "And I am enjoying the show immensely."
"You aren't watching it."
Which was true. She had been too preoccupied with maneuvering around the floor to actually watch the performance. She made a point of raising her eyes. "Yes, I am."
Skeletons with blood red eyes cavorted across the waxed muslin screen. Suddenly a disembodied voice cried "Blood!" and warm liquid splattered on the back of her neck. Gwenllian jumped sideways, practically colliding with Mr. Wyckliff, while feminine squeals and giggles filled in the darkened room in reaction to the clever lanternist's routine. Mr. Wyckliff's arms closed around her, ostensibly steadying her, but he held her just a bit too tightly and a tad too long.
Mr. Wyckliff bent his head and spoke softly, his breath puffing lightly against the sensitive skin of her ear. "'Tis only water."
"I know," she replied. She jerked away from his possessive embrace, irritated that he had witnessed her jump so.
Turning from him, she noticed Mariah cozied up against the Baron. The light was dim, but it certainly looked like she was whispering in his ear. Well, she was doing something with his ear. Gwenllian glanced away, feeling terribly uncomfortable. Who would have thought Mariah such a sauce-box? What had come over her to behave so peculiarly today?
Malevolent ghosts floated above shackled ghouls to the accompaniment of rattling chains. Then the supernatural foes were replaced by deranged-looking men clearly intended to be Bonapartists who started to decay right before their eyes. The playful shrieks from the ladies in response to this ghastly sight were intensified by the strings that at this point sailed through the air from the back of the saloon and wriggled down arms or necks, or landed in hair.
Gwenllian ducked her head, but not before she had seen giggling Letticia attempting to take cover within her husband's embrace. The Baron reacted awkwardly. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about his earlier familiarity with Mariah. Or perhaps he simply did not deem it dark enough to engage in such intimate behavior. Gwenllian felt a presence at her side and realized Mr. Wyckliff had sidled up to her.
"Shall I protect thee from the worms?" He plucked one of the damp strings from where it had landed in her hair.
"Yes, please." She shied away from another clammy string that slithered down her arm.
Mr. Wyckliff took her by the shoulders, moved her in front of him, and put his arms over hers such that her bare skin was sheltered by his sleeves just as her body was shielded by his taller frame. Gwenllian's heart thudded in her chest. To be so near to him---and in such weak light. Thrills scampered up and down her spine.
He had to feel some partiality toward her. Despite her treasonous sentence structure. Despite her lack of beauty. He could have been enjoying such intimacy with Isabella or Mariah but instead he had chosen her. He must have some tender interest in her still. He must have. Her elated brain could hardly give credence to the thought.
"'Twould be preferable if these 'worms' were bees, do you not think?" Mr. Wyckliff whispered into her ear. His breath tickled pleasantly.
"Certainly not. They'd probably chuck needles at us and say they were the bees' stingers."
He did not respond. Gwenllian gingerly craned around to see his face. Even in the poor light, she was sure he was looking at her strangely. A sort of hostile uncertainty as he waited, expecting something from her, some sort of response. What did he want? She thought she had voiced a proper answer. Gwenllian racked her mind. What else could he want? Unfortunately she could not produce wit upon command.
Her continued lack of reaction did not seem to bring disappointment, however. Instead, the minutest ghost of a grin flitted across Mr. Wyckliff's lips. It was gone in an instant, but it belied his fierce countenance.
"No man's easier to fool than he who wants to believe," he mumbled as if to himself.
Gwenllian bit her lip. Was this another philosophical discussion? Was she truly supposed to reply? She swallowed. She would answer. She could trade cryptic comments with the best of them. She had opinions. If he could not accept that then it was best she know now.
"Well, sir, if the belief is true then a man is a fool not to believe."
Mr. Wyckliff subtly glanced about. He seemed to be surreptitiously ascertaining whether anyone was listening to them. Gwenllian found herself glancing around, too. The rapt attention of the room was clearly upon the grisly images of walking skeletons that had returned to the screen.
"And how will I recognize truth?" Mr. Wyckliff murmured.
She smiled. "And if I knew the answer to that, I shouldn't be here, I assure you." He cocked his head quizzically so she continued, "I should be the Oracle at Delphi or a queen in some distant land. If still you press for an answer, then, I think truth is something that cannot be explained, categorized, or qualified. It exists. And if you do not recognize it with your heart, then no words can tell it to you."
For many long seconds he did not reply. She could feel the soft huff of his warm breath upon her ear. She waited. Still he did not reply. Anxiety churned in her stomach. The Magic Lantern show was coming to a close. Gwenllian was beginning to think he might never respond.
And then Mr. Wyckliff finally whispered, "You shall be the death of me. Tha really shall."
It was a sustained creak this time. The sort of creak a virtuoso on the rusty hinge would have admired. The ghosts were certainly active tonight. But Gwenllian was safe, cocooned in her warm, comfortable bed. She pulled the feather quilt up to her chin. The motion disturbed Oliver, and he awoke with a snort. The mattress wobbled as he trundled up to her pillow. Then the silhouette of his head appeared inches from her nose. After a moment of snuffling, during which he presumably ascertained he had her attention, he turned and jumped off the bed. She heard him hit the floor with a thud.
"Do not tell me you have to go out," she protested.
Claws scraped the wood of the closed door.
"Oliver, can you not wait until morning?"
More scrabbling at the wooden door.
She groaned, but threw back the bedclothes and stood with a shiver in the brisk air. By the silver glow of moonlight through the gaps in her imperfectly closed curtains, she could see Oliver poking the door impatiently.
"Yes, yes, yes." She slipped on her nearest pair of shoes, grabbed her paisley shawl, and tried to open the door with quiet care, but Oliver was squeezing his chunky body through the moment a gap appeared, forcing the hinges to pop open with a squeak. Gwenllian held her breath, hoping the noise had not disturbed anyone. The house slumbered on.
Cautious in the dimly moonlit halls, she followed Oliver down the grand staircase and down the narrow back stairs, across the kitchen, to the door which opened onto the garden. A lit Argand lamp sat on the floor at the end of the short stone vestibule, just as it always did in case she had to take her dog outside in the night, its flame glowing bright and safe inside its glass globe. She picked up the lamp and then slid the door's chunky bolts open, wincing at the unnaturally loud grating sound that accompanied their movement.
The pug was first out the door. But once outside, he seemed to have forgotten his urgency. He trotted about the flowerbeds as if on tour.
"Hurry it along, puglet." She set the lamp down upon the grass and clasped her shawl close against the breeze that carried cool air and the scent of salt from the Channel. It was not a night for loitering.
She shivered as she surveyed the daunting, unfriendly darkness. Odd little sounds scurried about. Clicks. The crack of a twig snapping beneath more weight than Oliver possessed. And perhaps there flitted a wisp of white?
Be sensible. She tried to maintain breathing in a calm, regular rhythm. This was nothing more than a mood, instilled by the Magic Lantern show. There were no walking skeletons here.
A cloud scuttled in front of the moon, plunging the garden outside the radius of her lamp into temporary oblivion. Nervous giggles accompanied her thought that nature was not making this wait easy on her. She peered into the dark and thought she could just make out Oliver marking a plant.
"Are we done now?"
The moon emerged, but her pug did not. He continued to trundle amongst the flowers like an outsized, hairy pixie frolicking in the moonbeams.
"Oh, really, Oliver, do come along. Please."
Oliver decided to claim some more greenery as his own. With a frustrated moan, Gwenllian turned and ambled a few steps in the direction of the door.
Far on the periphery, at the very corner of her eye, a shadow pounced.
That was not her dog.
No walking skeletons.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore her prickling skin. So she and Oliver were not alone. That signified nothing. It could be just one of the house guests. What was she thinking? Of course it was one of the house guests. Or one of the servants. There were many people at Primroselea. It was a person.
Not a ghoul.
And not a walking skeleton.
She opened her eyes. She should just look over there and see what it was. Turn and look. Gwenllian's heart pounded as if it would break her ribs. Why was her body not obeying her brain? Just turn and look.
She turned her head ever so slightly. The moon-washed grounds were a muddle of shadows. Shadows thrown from tall, leafy bushes. Shadows tossed from the gently swaying branches of trees. It had been one of those shadows most likely.
A gray wraith seeped from one puddle of shade to another.
Her hands ached from clutching her shawl. That had not happened. That absolutely had not just happened. She narrowed her eyes, desperately trying to make out something of substance among the shifting shadows in the night.
And it moved again.
Gwenllian recoiled. The shadow kept moving---not just moving---progressing. The phantom was progressing along the far wall of the house.
It was coming ever closer to her.
"Oliver! Come!" Gwenllian did not bother to hide the anxiety in her voice.
The pug blithely ignored her. He clearly did not understand their peril. The black specter slid closer. She had to do something.
The lamp!
Gwenllian scrambled back to the little Argand lamp sitting on the grass. Clutching it in fingers stiff from being clenched, she held the lamp up to the full extent of her outstretched arm, trying to throw its radiance upon the approaching shape.
"I see you!" she lied.
Like ice in front of a blazing fire, the phantom melted down the wall and merged into the shadows.
It was not necessarily a retreat, but it was respite. Heart hammering, she dashed to the door and yanked it open. This time when she called, Oliver came. She slammed the door shut the second his curled tail cleared the threshold and with shaking fingers banged the bolts locked.
Oliver was completely unperturbed by the incident, but Gwenllian brought the bright Argand lamp up to her room with them. And she left it lit all night.
The far wall of the house was solid. Gwenllian ran her fingers over the rough bricks, periodically thumping her fist against sections that contained hairline cracks or anything that might be considered remotely suspicious. But the sunlight shone upon no secret entrances, no long forgotten doors. Just a solid, brick wall.
It was most disappointing.
She stepped back, held out her arms, and tried to recreate the shadow on the wall. Unfortunately, the morning sun was in the wrong position for such work.
"Could it have been a ghost? How think you?" She turned to look down at Oliver.
Eyes closed and his head tilted back, her pug sat next to a pink blossom, his collar of bells shining in the sun. He did not respond. She shut her eyes and tried to picture last night's scene. Assuming it was no ghost but a solid object whose shadow the moon had caused to be thrown upon the wall, and assuming that it was incapable of disappearing into the wall through any secret passageway, the only way for the shadow to melt like that, would be for the object to have changed its position. Perhaps it removed itself far enough from the wall that its shadow could no longer stretch there.
Opening her eyes, she turned around. With her back to the wall, the only things in front of her were three flower beds and the pinery.
"Let us go look at the pinery, Oliver."
At the sound of his name, the dog lurched to his feet with a snort and a jingle and followed her.
The near wall of the pinery seemed to be completely intact. None of its panes of glass were broken. Gwenllian could hear Oliver snuffling around the corner. She walked over to see what he was so interested in. He was inspecting the pinery door.
The slightly open pinery door.
It was not ajar, but the slender, wooden door frame did not meet its jamb. She scooted Oliver over and crouched down to see why. The door should have closed, but several slivers of wood had gotten in the way. Slivers that had peeled back from the now ragged space in the jamb where the locked latch should rest. Someone had forced the door open, but they had hacked at the wood rather than simply breaking the square pane of glass nearest to the scrolled door handle.
"Quite a substantial ghost." She stood, shoved the door shut so that the heat inside would not seep out, and then wiped her palms on her skirts. The pinery's assailant must be someone from Primroselea. Someone who tried to use the door because they cared that the pineapples and other forced plants continue to grow unstunted. A thief or any other sort of intruder would not have cared about the ongoing health of the plants. They would have just broken the pane. She shook her head. "What are we going to do about this, Oliver?"
"Remarkable talent you have for hiding." Daniel's boot heels rang against the flagstone floor of the stillroom. "I was about to start peering under rocks."
Costeroe stepped out of the shadowed rear corner to stand warily in one of the two beams of morning sunlight streaming in from the stillroom's windows---two small rectangular panes positioned high on the wall, near the ceiling. He slowly shook his head with something akin to admiration.
"Wyckliff. Still can't believe you're here. Thought they'd done for you months ago."
Unbidden images flashed in Daniel's mind, blurry and disconnected as always. Mostly he remembered the blood. And the screams. And the overpowering smells of gunpowder and gore and death. He pushed the memories away and shrugged.
"Killing me was more difficult than they expected. You'd be surprised."
Costeroe's eyes narrowed. He had understood the implied warning in Daniel's words. "You lookin' t' talk with me?"
"Oddly enough, yes. You have yet to explain your being here."
Costeroe smiled and crossed his arms. "Sent by Adamstone I was, same as you."
"I find it difficult to believe he would not have warned me of your presence."
"Don' mean what I'm saying's not true."
Daniel pivoted on his heels to inspect the tidy wooden shelf nearest him. It was populated by an eclectic mix of jars, pots and bottles, each with its own handwritten label: Syrupy orange peel, gooseberry vinegar, black butter. He read the labels and waited. He could hear Costeroe fidgeting behind him.
"Adamstone didn't say nothin' as regards you neither. Probably sent me out after you'd gone already," Costeroe volunteered.
Daniel continued to scan the shelves in silence.
"Is this a way t' treat a fellow agent, on orders same as you an' just as good as you are?" Costeroe sounded appropriately cross. "When d'ya take on such airs? I reckon ya owe me an apology."
He turned to face Costeroe. "What are your orders?"
"Why, t' watch the Baron. Has all sorts of ties with the Frenchies, he has. An' his wife's no better than she should be. Fact is, all these high-bred strumpets' skirts are so light they float off the ground 'less ya forcibly hold 'em down."
"I'll thank you not to speak that way about the ladies of this house."
"You're partial t' that dark one. She's a frost-piece, she is."
Daniel could feel his jaw tightening. But he controlled his temper. Costeroe was manifestly attempting to distract him from the question at hand.
"You realize I shall be writing to Mr. Adamstone to confirm your story."
Costeroe shrugged. "Write and be damned. He'll tell ya same as me. An' then you'll really have t' apologize. You'll have t' apologize or I'll be giving you a duel."
"Gentlemen do not duel with sewer rats."
"Oh, I'll duel you," Costeroe maintained.
This was just another try at irritating him. Daniel shook his head. He would learn nothing more from this man.
"Then we shall duel," he replied with a cheerfulness he did not feel. "My choice of weapons shall be grammar."
"Grammar's no weapon."
Daniel had already started for the door. He didn't turn around.
"You bastard, don' leave when ya don' make no sense," Costeroe called after him.
Daniel looked back from the doorway and grinned. "I win."
He was a fool. Daniel watched the deep black ink drip off the nib of his pen back into the little glass bottle from whence it came. The quiet plop of each slow droplet was complemented by the quicker ticking of the ostentatious clock perched in front of him upon the fine walnut desk. He had been well-pleased to discover this unused bedroom, its quiet solitude presenting the perfect setting for his letter-writing. And yet he had only scrawled two lines.
He was clearly a fool. The fact that he had actually completed two lines before the realization had hit him confirmed this status. He returned the pen to its place.
Costeroe had not feared his writing.
He had assumed Costeroe meant him to construe this confidence as innocence, to make him believe he expected Nigel's answer to support his claims. But such confidence might signify something even more devious. If Nigel's response could not threaten, and Daniel was certain this was not because it would be supportive, then it must be, irrelevant.
So why might it be irrelevant? Daniel carefully began to rip the unfinished letter into long, slender strips. The heavy white paper tore with a dignified splitting sound. There was no question of Nigel's answer being incorrect, so it was not an issue of quality. When else might intelligence be useless?
When its timeliness had passed.
This was all about distance. He finished tearing the letter and gathered the strips into a single pile. Though Nigel Adamstone might yet be in Bath, he had most likely removed to London. But even if Daniel correctly guessed his direction, even if the letter traveled continuously at top speed, he could not expect to receive a reply until at least two nights had passed. Costeroe knew that. So whatever Costeroe was arranging must come to fruition within the next two nights---making any letter from Nigel too late and its information irrelevant.
Daniel stood. He needed to find a servant and have a fire made up in here. Precious as paper was, there was a good chance his strips of scrawl would be made into fireplace spills unless he destroyed them utterly. A fire should not be too suspicious, just an attempt to make an unused room more comfortable. Even with the fine weather, a room could still plausibly need a fire.
Who was using the Rose Bedroom? Gwenllian peered inside. Her attention had been caught by the merry crackling and popping of the fire as she passed the doorway, but now she could see that the fireplace contained the only activity in the room. Odd for an empty room to have a fire going.
Oliver pushed past her leg and trotted up to the hearth. He looked back quizzically when she did not follow him.
"Yes, yes, I'm stopping," Gwenllian told the pug. She approached the hearth.
The fire blazed away brightly, but the remains of the paper spills that had been used to kindle it could still be seen. Quite a number of spills, in fact. Far too many for a simple lighting. Someone was burning something.
She crouched down as close as she could to the fire. Uncomfortably close. Waves of heat pounded the skin of her face and arms. But the strips of paper were all too deep within the fire. She could not reach any of them.
There might have been handwriting on the closest strip. It was too scorched to read or even to recognize the writer's hand. Handwriting would generally indicate a letter.
She sat back on the floor beside Oliver. He immediately put his near front leg up on her thigh and leaned against her. Pugs. She stroked Oliver's back. His main goal in life was making himself comfortable. Unhappily, her thoughts were making her very uncomfortable.
Why would someone burn a letter in an unused room? Had Mariah found what she was looking for in Letticia's writing desk and come up here to burn it?
"What are you doing there?"
Gwenllian's entire body jerked in surprise at the sound of Mr. Wyckliff's voice. She looked up and watched him cross from the doorway to her side. "I ... I..."
Oliver had jumped with her. Now he waddled to Mr. Wyckliff, tail wagging. Her mind raced as he paused to pet Oliver. What should she say? She could not be certain that the paper was not her sister's. If Letticia were burning something, it was not for anyone in the house to know about. But if he came any closer, he would see all the spills and know that something was being destroyed.
She swallowed. "I am burning a letter of mine."
"Of yours?" Mr. Wyckliff was looking down at her too strangely.
"Yes, of mine." She frowned. He could not possibly know the letter wasn't hers. Unless he had burned it. What would he be doing with a letter of Letticia's? Unless it wasn't Letticia's. Too late now, if that were the right of it.
"Why are you burning a letter?" asked Mariah's voice.
Gwenllian pivoted to face the doorway where the unwelcome newcomer stood. For such a vast mansion, people were certainly in each other's pockets.
"I am burning my letter for my own reasons, thank you." Gwenllian heaved herself to her feet. "Now if you will please excuse me, I must walk my dog. Come, Oliver."
Miss Howard moved aside and Miss Lloyd exited the room with her head high, her pug trotting behind her.
Daniel shook his head. One could not leave things alone for a moment in this place. And what was Miss Lloyd doing claiming his letter as hers?
"Such a cozy room," Miss Howard commented, her voice breaking across his thoughts.
Though she sounded properly demure, her words sent a cold tingle up the back of Daniel's neck. He was suddenly very aware that he was standing with an unchaperoned woman in a bed chamber. An unmarried, unchaperoned woman who had moved to block the doorway again and gazed up at him with confident expectation, as if she believed he might wish to amend her unattached state.
"So it is." He approached the doorway, which meant approaching her as well. "You must be wishing for my absence so you might enjoy the room the better. I shall not disturb you."
"No, no, I am quite content." She stepped toward him. "Your company is most agreeable, Mr. Wyckliff."
He repressed the mirthless chuckle that simmered within him. High-born women had never found his company agreeable before this assignment. And he would never have presumed to imagine they might do. In fact, when Nigel had originally imparted his scheme, Daniel had laughed. He could not possibly fly such false flag without detection.
Yet the longer he walked among them, the less he perceived the distinction of their rank. These people were materially well-off, but not materially better. The same sins, the same greed, the same lust still moved through their flesh as it in any other person.
Miss Howard was still gazing at him as if she anticipated protestations of his affection at any moment. She was an excellent catch, and she knew it. She had clearly indicated she was receptive. She was quite right to expect such a response. Her only mistake was to expect it from him.
He had more fascinating affairs to occupy his mind. Such as the question of why that beguiling Miss Lloyd would lie about his letter.
"You must forgive me, Miss Howard." He mentally cast about for an excuse and opted for the truth. "I am engaged to go riding."
Her smile wavered. She was obviously unused to gentlemen declining her in favor of prior engagements.
"But I would be glad of the honor of escorting you back to the ladies or wherever else you wish to go," he added in what he hoped was a gallant tone.
Her smile returned. His deception continued.
Daniel reined in his horse at the top of the little hill. Mr. Faircross and Mr. Berwentford pulled up beside him. Mr. Berwentford had been showing them Primroselea's grounds, revealing only a modicum of bitterness that it all belonged to his brother the Baron.
From the advantage of this rise, they could easily look across the grassy fields to admire the architecture of Primroselea's less seen side view. As it happened, there was an even better view to be witnessed. Not far from the house, the ladies were practicing archery. They were too distant for one to determine which of them had the better aim, but not too distant to be worth watching.
"Quite a collection of ladies." Mr. Faircross emitted a low whistle of approval. "In the best of all possible worlds, which would you tup, Geoffrey?"
Mr. Berwentford shrugged. "All cats are grey in the dark."
Mr. Faircross snickered. "What about you then, Wyckliff?"
Daniel allowed himself a rakish grin. "Don't think any of them would accept my coin."
Mr. Faircross laughed. "I say, you are too hard!"
"You would be surprised what money can do," Mr. Berwentford remarked. He sounded grim. Resigned.
"Come, sirs, an answer." Mr. Faircross clapped his hands peremptorily. "One would think your rhubarb's never up."
"Mariah then, if I must choose." Mr. Berwentford turned his steed. "I must take my leave of you, gentlemen. I have affairs which need my attention."
"Might they need Mariah's attention as well?" Mr. Faircross called after him.
Mr. Berwentford temporarily reined in his trotting horse and looked back at them with a grin. "They might do at that."
As Mr. Berwentford continued on down the hill, Mr. Faircross gave Daniel a conspiratorial wink. "Mariah is pleasant on the eye but too haughty by half." He glanced over at Mrs. Wood. "But that Isabella now, she seems game for anything. Would you have a go at her?"
Daniel shrugged. "She has the customary bits and pieces and they're all in the right place."
There was nothing wrong with any of the ladies cavorting about below. They were all admirable creatures, and yet his eyes continually sought out Miss Lloyd. Mysterious, letter-claiming Miss Lloyd. Miss Lloyd the bluestocking. The possible Francophile. Is that why her doings were of so much more interest to him? Why he could not release her from his gaze? Had it been his hunting instincts all along which drew him to her?
"Have you tumbled her yet?"
"What?" Daniel growled, his stomach tightening along with his fists.
"Yon gypsy gel. Lady Berwentford's sister."
Mr. Faircross had evidently been following his line of sight. Daniel sidled his horse closer to him. If she were a spy, that was his problem and he would deal with it. No one would disparage her in his hearing.
"Bit daring of you to be lifting her skirts---compromising a maiden and all that. Not that I'm against a taste of danger myself," Mr. Faircross continued. "But how you've got the touch! Looks like she's half mad for it."
With the speed of a striking cobra, Daniel's left hand seized Mr. Faircross by the throat. Already unnerved by the proximity of Daniel's mount, Mr. Faircross' horse felt its rider's fear and stepped about agitatedly. It took all of Daniel's riding expertise to keep alongside.
"Have a care," Mr. Faircross squeaked.
"Shut it!" Daniel snarled. "And ne'er speak so of Miss Lloyd again."
"I meant nothing." Mr. Faircross was struggling for breath, his voice feeble and constrained. "Gad, sir. I meant nothing."
Daniel released his hold of Mr. Faircross's throat and wheeled his horse away, allowing the gasping man to get his mount under control.
"Your behavior rightly does inspire thoughts of highwaymen." Mr. Faircross muttered between gulps of air.
"Who spoke of highwaymen?"
Mr. Faircross fumbled with the disarrayed fabric at his neck. "No one. Nothing. I say, I do believe the ladies wish me to join them." He cantered off before Daniel could question him further.
"Walk on," Daniel urged his horse to follow Mr. Faircross' retreat. Anger still boiled within him, but now it was mostly directed at himself. What was he doing? He should go inside. Perhaps a stiff drink would banish those distracting thoughts of Miss Lloyd and help him to regain that icy, single-minded detachment which had saved his neck many a time in the past.
Or perhaps he'd just get drunk.
Isabella let her arrow fly. "I think Mr. Wyckliff is the handsomest man here."
The arrow thwapped into the target. Gwenllian wondered if she could get her arrow to split Isabella's. Probably not. She opted for a direct center hit. Oliver continued to snore several feet behind her, but Letticia was impressed.
"Well done!" Letticia clapped her hands. "I wish I had your aim, Gwenllian. Now if only Mr. Wyckliff had seen that---he would be much impressed."
"Oh, is he interested in Gwenllian?" asked Isabella.
Letticia winked playfully at her sister. "I cannot say, I am sure. But there may be prospects."
"We are all allowed to have false hopes," Mariah commented.
Gwenllian pondered the one disadvantage of having good aim: Were she to run Mariah through with an arrow, she would never be able to convince anyone it was an accident.
Letticia, meanwhile, had retrieved her bow. She took aim, but ended up missing the target entirely.
Mariah laughed. "You shall never impress anyone like that."
"I don't have to impress anyone---I'm married," Letticia replied cheerfully. "But if I weren't, I would say Mr. Faircross is the handsomest man at this party."
Isabella nodded. "Oh, yes, Mr. Faircross is quite handsome."
"Mr. Faircross is handsome, I will give you that." Mariah sniffed. She released her arrow. "But I fear his consequence is somewhat beneath ours. Would you not agree, Letticia?"
Letticia smiled. She looked agreeable, but Gwenllian could tell she was gritting her teeth.
"I think he would make a marvelous partner," Isabella said lightly.
Mariah scowled. "I was not speaking of dancing."
Gwenllian would have bet Isabella was not speaking of dancing either.
"I meant," Mariah continued, "That he is not as choice a conquest as, say, a baron. What say you, Letticia?"
"I am sure I have nothing to say," Letticia replied. She picked up her bow and then put it down again.
Mariah's lips curled in that superior smirk she was always using against Gwenllian. Gwenllian had grown accustomed to it aimed against herself, but no one treated her sister that way.
"Why, have you been conquering barons lately, Miss Howard?" she asked.
Mariah's smirk vanished. "What?"
Gwenllian widened her eyes innocently. "Did you not imply you had experience in the conquest of barons?"
Mariah had gone bright pink. "I most certainly did not. No, I did not."
"I heard nothing of the sort," Isabella stated.
"I would never," Mariah continued to sputter.
Isabella moved to pat her hand. "No, of course not."
"Pray excuse me." Letticia stood and walked quickly, but with dignity, toward the house.
Abandoning her archery accoutrements as well, Gwenllian took her leave of Isabella and Mariah and, with Oliver jingling after her, followed her sister inside. Letticia had attained the sanctity of her bed chamber before she and Oliver caught up with her.
"Why did you leave?" Gwenllian asked from the doorway. "If anyone, it should have been Miss Howard who withdrew."
Letticia collapsed onto one of her elegant, silk-upholstered chairs. "Mariah can be very tiring."
"Tiring, I don't think. Irksome, no, vexatious is more apt."
"Her assessment of Mr. Faircross was quite undeserved."
Although Gwenllian felt that was the least of Mariah's affronts, she nodded in agreement.
Her sister rose and moved to stand at the closest window. "Do you have an understanding with Mr. Wyckliff?"
It was such an unexpected question that Gwenllian was too shocked to answer at first. How had they gotten to this topic? "No, of course not. Why should you think such a thing?"
"Last night I saw him looking up at your room."
"Wh---what do you mean?"
"I..." Letticia fiddled with the draperies. "I had difficulty sleeping last night and was up at the break of dawn. When I drew back the curtains to admire our shrubbery walk, I saw Mr. Wyckliff gazing up at the house." She glanced at Gwenllian. "But not at me, you understand. He was farther along to the side. It was then I realized he was looking up at your room. How he knew it was your room is anybody's guess. But he was standing, staring up at your windows, like a wolf looking up to the moon."
Gwenllian's heart was thumping as if she had run a mile. "You are teasing me."
Letticia laughed and turned to gaze through the glass. "As if I would. I tell you, it was enough to make one think all sorts of things."
"Well, just you banish those thoughts. We have no understanding. As far as I know, Mr. Wyckliff possesses equal interest in Mariah and Isabella."
"You cannot think that," her sister replied, still looking out the window.
"Whyever not? He has long conversations with them."
"He converses with them, certainly. But I have taken pains to observe him."
"You have not!" Gwenllian gasped, surprised and not a little embarrassed at such overly inquisitive behavior.
"I vow I have, even at the first instance in Bath. And my conclusion is that you are his favorite." She briefly turned her head and gave Gwenllian a wink. "That lawless smile of his he gives to none but you."
A pleasurable glow lit Gwenllian's heart at her words. She was smitten. She could not deny it. Utterly smitten with the first gentleman to show any interest in her. It was pathetic. She must guard against these feelings. Restrain herself. Where was her pride? Although, no one could say he was a poor catch, what with his money. Her family would certainly be proud of her.
From her post at the window, Letticia made a sound of chagrin. "If only I could retire for a few hours. I'm afraid my head will start aching something fierce at any moment."
"Let us get you to bed. And worry not, I can distract your company."
Letticia smiled weakly. "Oh yes?"
"Yes. I think we shall begin with Oliver getting pug hair on Mariah."
A pair of liveried footmen opened the grand doors as Daniel limped toward them up the wide stone steps. People in this house couldn't be bothered to open their own doors? He passed through into the marble entrance hall. Were these poor starched bastards forced to wait all day for someone to approach? A woman hove into his path almost before he had finished the thought.
Someone had certainly been awaiting him.
He sidestepped deeper into the otherwise empty hall. "Mrs. Wood?"
The imposing doors shut with a resonate boom. She waited for quiet before she answered.
"Call me Isabella." She gave him a dazzling smile, clearly calculated to warm him through.
He returned her smile. "Isabella, then."
"I heard the gentlemen had gone riding. I was intending to join you, or have you tired of such sport?"
"Not at all." He swept his arm gallantly in the direction of the door. "I would gladly accompany you. Do you do much riding?"
"Oh, yes," she replied, her voice breathy. "I ride very well indeed."
She sounded as if she meant something other than horseback riding. Even before Daniel could finish that conjecture, she had sidled up to him. Her fingertips deliberately brushed his thigh. She absolutely did not mean horseback riding.
Daniel did not move away. His quarry could just as easily be Isabella as anyone else in the house. It would behoove him to continue their conversation.
"It is an exhilarating sport, is it not?" he replied.
She gazed up at him, her eyelids half lowered over dreamy eyes. "Some sports are even more exhilarating performed indoors." Her fingers drifted up his leg.
"Exhilarating but not exclusive. I have seen you walking with Mr. Costeroe."
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "A trifle. He is continually pressing his attentions upon me. But he does not interest me."
"And I do?"
"Indubitably."
"Would that interest, perchance, involve my money?"
She pouted playfully. "You have not done this before, to talk of money at such a time."
"I like to know the price of goods before I buy."
The tip of her tongue darted out to lick her lips. "Perhaps you would like to experience a sample of what I can provide as proof of value?"
"What would you say if I told you I already have a woman?"
Innocently she looked around the empty entrance hall. "She is not here."
"She is here. She is present in my heart."
Isabella laughed. "You are too romantic for words. But I do not switch horses unless I am certain of my success."
She pressed herself full length against him. Her hands slid down his body with licentious purpose. She knew how to expertly manipulate his nerves. But the sensations which he might otherwise have found pleasurable now only irritated him. They interfered with his detached analysis of her words.
As his flesh mindlessly reacted to her, a bold and knowing light twinkled in Isabella's eyes. "You are interested, admit it."
He gazed down at her upturned face. She was a beautiful woman, it was true. And it might further his cause to bed her.
But she was not the woman he wished were in his arms.
Try as Isabella might, there was no magic in her touch, and he did not desire to know the person behind her glittering eyes. Before Miss Lloyd he would not have been so discriminating. He would have been grateful for a tumble with a woman of her class. It seemed like another lifetime.
Now his thoughts only ran to Miss Lloyd. Quiet, kind Miss Lloyd, who could ignite his blood with a smile, who was too good for him, and who just might be his enemy. Yet he yearned for her and only her.
"I can do things for you," Isabella was whispering. "Things other women could never conceive of, things you've never even dreamed. Men have dueled for me. I've been paid in rubies and gold. But I'm offering my services to you for free. You might have for free what others have paid for so dearly. Aren't you curious? Don't you long to know, to experience me?"
Daniel was surprised to find that he did not. Tupping her might be easier, but there were other ways to investigate Isabella.
"Madam," he began with cold formality. "There is only one woman I want, and she is not you."
Isabella shook her head. "You cannot mean that."
Gwenllian peered around the marble column behind which she hid, Oliver clasped in her arms, his collar silenced, clutched inside her fist. She had managed to slip off Oliver's collar, descend the final flight of stairs and conceal herself behind the column without Isabella and Mr. Wyckliff noticing. Not that that was such a feat. They were very engrossed in their conversation.
Now Isabella was sidling up to Mr. Wyckliff in a most immodest manner. He did not back away, but he seemed to stand straighter, although his fists remained at his sides. Isabella's hand languorously stroked up and down his thigh while she spoke, whispered, and gazed up into his face. Gwenllian wished she could hear what Isabella was saying. Then Isabella pressed herself up against Mr. Wyckliff. Where were her hands going now? Gwenllian gasped.
That was quite enough of that.
Time to send in the pug.
She bent down, put Oliver on the floor and gently held him in place with one hand on either side of the barrel of his body.
"Where's Mr. Wyckliff? Where's Mr. Wyckliff?" she whispered excitedly to the dog. "Find Mr. Wyckliff."
Oliver was looking straight across the room at his target. His body shivered with enthusiasm and his curly tail whipped back and forth so that the force practically straightened it.
"Go greet Mr. Wyckliff. Go greet him!" She released Oliver. He launched himself across the room, the clacking of his nails on the marble making him sound more like a stampede of pugs than merely one lone dog.
Mr. Wyckliff obviously heard him and looked over. He saw Oliver coming and stepped away from Isabella, but beyond that he did not move.
"Oliver?" Gwenllian heard him say. Just before Oliver careened into Mr. Wyckliff's legs.
He absorbed the crash with little more than a totter. Then he asked after Oliver's health, and crouched down to pet the snuffling, wriggling pug.
"Where is your mistress?"
She stepped forward and started across the room. "Why, there you are, Oliver."
Isabella was frowning. Apparently Gwenllian's innocent act was not well-acted enough.
"And where are you two off to?" Mr. Wyckliff asked.
She thought fast as she re-buckled Oliver's collar around his neck. "We thought a walk might do us good."
"What an excellent idea." Isabella smiled up at Mr. Wyckliff. "Others might think it an exhibition to be out dirtying her skirts, but Gwenllian thinks only of exercise."
"It is a fine day for exercise," he replied. "Might I escort you, Miss Lloyd?"
She felt an irrational rush of pride. He was choosing her over Isabella. "Certainly."
He turned to Isabella. "Would you like to accompany us, Mrs. Wood?"
Gwenllian's pride faltered.
"No, thank you." Isabella looked at her as she tried to hide her relief. "I'm afraid I am too tired for scampering around the countryside." Isabella looked up at Mr. Wyckliff again and smiled her beckoning smile. "I will retire to my bedroom. Perhaps I shall see you anon, Mr. Wyckliff."
He raised an amused eyebrow, but he did not reply to Isabella. Instead he looked down at Oliver. "Come, Oliver, let us take your mistress for a walk."
It was lovely outdoors. Everything was terribly green and the bright sunlight felt more like summer than spring. Jangling and panting, Oliver led them across the grass. Gwenllian noted happily that Mr. Wyckliff continued to heal well. He loped along with only a trifling hitch to his stride. She felt that deserved some sort of positive comment, but could not think of a polite way to introduce the topic. In fact, she could not think of a polite way to introduce any topic.
As Mr. Wyckliff seemed unable to introduce a topic either, they walked in silence. A silence that became more and more uncomfortable. Or at least Gwenllian felt it uncomfortable. Finally she decided she might as well plunge in with what was uppermost on her mind.
"Isabella is very beautiful."
Mr. Wyckliff gave a noncommittal grunt.
Her heart sank. "You agree, then? That she has many charms?"
"Perhaps, but they are not very unique charms."
"What do you mean? Do you mean that all women possess the same attractions?" This was not good news either.
"No, that was not what I meant to imply, but that will work just as well. All women are the same, but you might find one who is special."
As he did not elaborate, she decided to press him.
"Special how?"
He stopped practically in mid-stride. She halted beside him. At first he stared at the ground. Then he turned to gaze directly into her eyes.
"Special in that all your thoughts turn to her. You miss her when she is not present and count the hours until you can see her again. Life is more agreeable in her presence. And if you must go into battle, she represents all you are fighting for."
The sincerity in his husky voice was overwhelming. Her heart felt like it was too full for her chest. She lowered her eyes. He could not possibly be speaking about her. It was too good to be true. He would say something now, something to identify this paragon as Isabella. Or Mariah. She waited tensely for disappointment.
"And she looks quite enchanting in purple."
Her head snapped up. She was staring into his mesmerizing hazel eyes once again.
"I wear purple," she whispered.
"I know."
The distance between them seemed to be closing as if the air itself were congealing and drawing them in. He was going to touch her. He was definitely going to touch her. Heart pounding, she waited to be ruined. No one wanted to marry her anyway. If this splendid man wished to kiss her, she was more than willing to be kissed.
The moment shattered when Oliver, who had fallen a bit behind as they walked, suddenly dropped to the grass with a distressing clash of bells.
"Oliver!" She turned to run to him.
Mr. Wyckliff waved her back. "Don't fret, I shall save your pug."
He strode over to Oliver and scooped him off the ground. "Quite a forced march for a poor little dog."
He brought him to Gwenllian. She examined Oliver as Mr. Wyckliff held him snug in his arms. He seemed to be healthy, but he was panting heavily and looked very tired.
"He doesn't do well in such unseasonably warm weather," she explained as she fussed over her pug.
Mr. Wyckliff nodded. A merry light danced in his eyes, contrasting with his solemn countenance. "Indeed, that strange, orange object in the sky generates a most peculiar heat. I shall be relieved when our familiar rain returns."
"As will I," Gwenllian agreed. "Too many peculiar things have happened recently." Her breath caught in her throat. That was another matter. She must ask. "Speaking of peculiar, Mr. Wyckliff."
He raised his eyebrows. "You find me peculiar?"
"Perhaps some of your actions."
He smiled. "Are you the one saying I'm a highwayman?"
Gwenllian was aghast. How could he know? "I told only Letticia of my suspicions. Do not tell me she told you."
"No, 'twas not her."
"Then who?"
"Mr. Faircross."
"I positively never spoke my thoughts to him." How could he have known? Had they come to the same conclusion independently? She sighed. "I meant no disparagement, you realize."
"Of course not."
"But the question stands. Are you a highwayman?"
He looked away from her for a moment, then turned back with a roguish grin. "If I were, would I tell you?"
"Yes."
He raised his eyebrows. "You seem terribly sure."
"It would be dishonorable to lie to a direct question and you would be foolish not to trust me. You are neither dishonorable nor a fool."
"And why should I trust you?"
Because I am besotted with you. No, that was too revealing an answer. Nor was it logical. He would want logic.
"Well, clearly I am not going to betray you. I have not gone for the militia, have I?"
"Anything else?"
This was more difficult than she thought. "My vow that I am trustworthy depends upon you already believing I am trustworthy in order to accept my vow as genuine. So ... I guess, no, I cannot offer anything else other than that my actions have never harmed you."
He nodded once and, Oliver in his arms, circled her at a slow walk, as if appraising a horse. She stood still, hands clasped politely together, back straight.
"Sir, may I ask what you hope to accomplish?"
He did not answer. Instead he completed the circuit and stood in front of her again, gazing directly into her eyes.
"I am not a highwayman. Are you a French spy?"
Her jaw dropped. "Certainly not."
"And you would answer me truthfully?"
"Of course. This is some sort of jape on your part, is it not?"
He looked astoundingly serious.
"I vow I am not a French spy," she continued, uncertain if she were more offended or amused. "And no one could possibly suspect such a thing of me. For one thing, I own a pug."
He raised a bemused eyebrow. "And that guarantees respectability?"
"If nothing else, it guarantees I am too busy taking care of my needful, problematic pet to indulge in treachery."
"That sounds eminently reasonable." He smiled.
The return walk to Primroselea was an exceedingly pleasant affair. Oliver rode happily in Mr. Wyckliff's arms while he and Gwenllian traded insights on the geography and history of Dorsetshire. It was not until they came nearer the house that Mr. Wyckliff grew reserved again.
"Miss Lloyd."
"Yes?"
"Much as I do enjoy your company. Despite what I may have led you to believe."
She could feel her happiness draining away while an ice cold lump formed in the pit of her stomach. "Yes?"
"You should not think too often of me." He paused, his lips pressed tightly together. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then he continued, "I find when ladies think too much upon a man, they inevitably contemplate marriage."
She swallowed. "And you do not intend to marry?" Her voice sounded weak, almost hoarse.
"I do not. And a decent lady would not partake of the sort of arrangements I make with women."
Her hands clenched into fists. "I am not so green as I'm cabbage-looking. I know what rakes get up to."
Mr. Wyckliff lowered Oliver to the ground. When he stood up, his eyes were surprisingly empty and when he spoke his voice was very dark. "Do not think of me."
Then he turned on his heel and walked away from her down the shrubbery walk.
Gwenllian trudged across the lawn toward Primroselea, Oliver trotting with a merry jingle at her side. The back door did not seem to be getting any closer. Why did Mr. Wyckliff want her to stay away from him? He had some tender regard for her. She knew he did. So why would he reject her?
"The least he could do is give us a proper reason," she complained to her pug.
Oliver panted loudly and kept trotting.
Gwenllian glanced up and saw Mr. Costeroe walk out from behind the shelter of one of the hedges. Dread twisted her stomach. Mr. Costeroe was the last person she wished to speak to right now. She straightened her spine, quickened her step, and nodded acknowledgement to him. Maybe if she kept walking he would not harass her.
He nodded to her in return, his lewd expression making warning prickles dart up the back of her neck. Immediately she looked away and kept walking, head held high. But she could still feel his eyes upon her. It was a disturbing, repulsive feeling. Just her luck, to be rejected by the gentleman she desired and ogled by a man she could not stand.
As she opened the back door for Oliver, she surreptitiously glanced back. Mr. Costeroe had not moved. He was not following. Relieved, she trailed Oliver inside. The magnitude of her relief led to a growing sense of anger. She could do nothing about Mr. Wyckliff's affections, but she did not have to tolerate Mr. Costeroe's impertinence. She was Lady Berwentford's sister, after all. She should simply tell Letticia. Letticia would see to it that Geoffrey told Mr. Costeroe to behave.
"You stay here, I'll return directly," she told her pug as he drank from his kitchen water bowl with gusto.
Gwenllian climbed the multiple flights of stairs. It was not until she reached Letticia's bedroom that she paused, her hand inches away from the doorknob, to quickly run through what she would say.
"Don't believe the Baroness is in there. Can I help at all?" It was Geoffrey's voice.
Slowly she turned to face him. Mr. Costeroe was Geoffrey's responsibility, whether he was his guest or his servant. He certainly was the one to speak to, but she fervently wished she could have conversed with her sister first. As lady of the house, Letticia had better grounds to confront Geoffrey. Still, as long as she was already speaking with him.
"Your Mr. Costeroe makes me feel very uncomfortable." That sounded childish. She tried again. "Have you noticed..."
"Noticed what?" Geoffrey's blank expression was making this all the harder.
"Mr. Costeroe often, looks, at me."
"Well of course he looks at you, he's got eyes."
"No, no, I mean h-he looks ... it is not the way a man should look at a respectable woman."
"What, you think he means to ravish you?" Geoffrey laughed. "Ain't that a fancy!"
The bedroom door opened and Letticia stepped out. She had been in there after all. "What's so funny? I can hear you laughing through the wall."
"Miss Lloyd believes Mr. Costeroe has designs on her body." Geoffrey's comic delivery along with the waggling of his eyebrows made the concept sound all the more preposterous.
Letticia giggled. "Oh, dear, you are full of fancies lately." She hooked her arm around Gwenllian's waist and led her into the bedroom. "Honestly, that sort of thing does not happen here."
Gwenllian glanced back at Geoffrey. He shook his head at her in mock pity. Gwenllian started to protest but he turned his back on her and strutted away.
"I am no longer wasting my sympathy on that horrible man," Gwenllian grumbled. "As far as I am concerned, Geoffrey deserves to be a second son." She flopped onto Letticia's bed. "No, he deserves to be a fifth son."
"Surely someone as imaginative as you can come up with a fate worse than that," teased Letticia.
Gwenllian made a face at her sister. "You can laugh, but just you wait. Something is rotten in the state of Primroselea and I'm going to prove it."
If only Oliver did not snore so loudly. Gwenllian leaned her head back against her bedroom door. She had been sitting here on the hard floor for what felt like hours, waiting to hear something, anything from the corridor. So far all she heard was Oliver. He had gotten too hot curled up in her lap and abandoned her for the bed. Yes, her dog was sleeping in her bed and she was sitting on the floor. She smiled at her own folly. Another contented snore issued from the bed above.
Then a quick, light pattering sounded from the corridor. She pressed her ear to the door. Footsteps. She waited as the sound faded, gave it a few seconds just in case the person had merely paused, and then started to open the door.
More pattering.
She froze. Footsteps padded up the hall past her room. Not as quick. A solid stride. A door creaked open, and then closed. That was certainly no ghost.
After waiting for a moment in case any more hallway wanderers appeared, she inched open her door just enough to peek into the corridor.
Empty.
Gwenllian scooted out on her haunches and closed the door behind her. With any luck, Oliver would never know she was gone.
Hiking her chemise up so her knees would not catch on it, she crawled down the corridor to the grand staircase and peeped through the twisting spindles of the carved banister.
Nothing.
She stood with the caution of a hunted doe and crept down the stairs. Her satin shoes made no sound. She had not brought her shawl, but she did not reckon on needing it. Last night the ghost had broken into the pinery, the warmest place in Primroselea. She'd hazard all Lombard Street to an egg-shell the ghost was going there again.
The glowing Argand lamp sat at the back door as usual, but Gwenllian left it on the floor. There was enough moonlight by which to find her way and she did not want the ghost to see her coming.
She was across the gray lawn, past the shadowed flowerbeds and blackened hedges, and up to the silvery glass hothouse almost before she knew it. Panting more from apprehension than exertion, she peered through one of the panes. A silhouette stirred amongst the plants.
The ghost was inside.
She had guessed correctly. The ghost had come again, and it was in the pinery. She must fetch some of the servants. The footmen or ... were any of the Baron's pistols already loaded?
The silhouette approached. Gwenllian started to turn, intent on dashing back to raise the alarm, when the silhouette stepped into a shaft of moonlight and his visage was bathed in silver.
Mr. Wyckliff.
Gwenllian wrenched open the pinery door. "How dare you!"
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes widened in shock. "Miss Lloyd?"
"Isabella!" Gwenllian shouted. Her voice sounded threatening even to her own ears. She stalked down the aisle. "Isabella!"
"Mrs. Wood is not here." Mr. Wyckliff seemed to have recovered from his initial surprise. He seemed genuinely amused.
"Oh yes? Pray tell, why else does a notorious rake loiter in a pinery in the wee hours of the night?" She stood on tiptoe, straining to see into the distant dark of the far end of the vast hothouse. "Isabella!"
He chuckled. "Are you going to challenge her to a duel?"
She whirled on him. "What?"
"I'm just wondering what you intend to do with her once you find her."
"So she is here!" Gwenllian snapped. She marched part way down the aisle again, stopping to part the leaves of some of the exotic plants in case Isabella was hiding among them.
"No, Mrs. Wood is not here." Mr. Wyckliff sighed. "Nor is she under that bush. She is not here, Miss Lloyd."
Gwenllian was rapidly coming to the same conclusion. For the sake of heat preservation, the pinery had just the one door---the door by which she had entered---and she knew no one had left through it. Which meant that if Isabella had been here, she would still be here. And she was not. Gwenllian and Mr. Wyckliff were the only people in the building.
She shuffled a circuitous path back to his side. "So Isabella was never here?"
"Never. Mrs. Wood does not interest me," he stated. "You, on the other hand."
Her heart skipped a beat. She waited for him to continue, but he just gazed at her. The light was too dim to determine his exact expression. Still he said nothing. The anticipation was excruciating.
"What about me, sir?" The words tottered forth hesitantly.
He did not answer.
Instead, he stepped forward so that his body was only inches from hers, his left hand smoothly seizing her elbow so she could not back away. Not that backing away was even an option in her mind. She had hoped for, waited for, this moment practically since she met him. Her breath escaped in little, shallow puffs. For just this instant, she wished she could shed being a virtuous lady. If only she were a hussy like that Isabella---because then she would know what to do.
Mr. Wyckliff bent to kiss her forehead. The touch of his lips was feather-light, as if he feared her made of brittle china. He kissed her temple, then her cheek. His lips lingered. His breath felt warm against her skin. Anticipation prickled up her spine. What would he do next?
She shouldn't give him a chance. She should struggle and free herself. Maybe even slap him. But excitement writhed in her belly and she could not have moved for all the tea in London. He must have interpreted her immobility for acquiescence. He kissed her cheek again.
While his touch remained tender, the pressure was not so light as before. Once more he lingered, his lips hovering just above her cheek. She listened to his breathing, as shallow and ragged as her own. It was now or never.
She shifted, trying to move her lips to converge with his. Suddenly, he pulled her against his chest. The buttons of his coat felt hard and cold through her thin chemise but she did not care. The warmth of his hands caressing her back erased all such concerns. He hugged her tightly, so tightly it seemed difficult to breathe, and then just as suddenly he released her and stepped back.
"My deepest apologies, Princess." His voice was thick and the words seemed forced.
She folded her arms, hugging herself against the emotional chill. It was as if he had tempted her with syllabub and then jerked it away from her outstretched hand. How could he do such a thing? Did he not realize what she was offering? Here she was, willing to ruin her reputation for him, and he had the impudence to turn her down.
"Of all the ... What sort of rake are you?"
"Pardon me?" He sounded genuinely surprised.
"You heard. Here am I, ready, and there you are, and ... and nothing!" she yelled. "You are a poor excuse for a rake, sir."
"You are offended that I did not ravish you?" He chuckled. "I think you will find you are supposed to be offended if I do."
"Certainly I am offended. You can barely see me and yet still you cannot stand to touch me. Am I as disagreeable as all that? No one wants to marry me, but you'd think a man would take what's on offer."
She whirled, storming for the door, but he grabbed her arm.
"That isn't the way of it at all."
"Unhand me!"
"I'll not unhand thee, lass." If a voice could blaze, Mr. Wyckliff's managed it. She tried to twist away but he swept her into his arms and held her snug against his chest. "'Appen tha'll listen to me now."
He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled, once, twice. Gwenllian felt him rest his chin on the top of her head. When he spoke his Yorkshire cadence had disappeared.
"All I have that is truly mine is my honor as a gentleman. And at this moment I would throw it to the wind for one night with you. Believe me, this restraint is tearing at my soul like a whip shreds flesh. You are so far from disagreeable. Can you not tell I ache for you with every inch of my body? I would take you directly even if I were to die for it. But I cannot forget. I cannot forget. I will not besmirch your honor." His head lifted and she felt him muzzle her hair. "Tha'rt too precious," he began, his voice husky again.
"I do not want to be precious," she interrupted, her eyes watery with frustrated tears. "I want to be yours."
He swore and suddenly his lips were on hers, forcing hers open, and the fierce intimacy of his mouth swept all thought from her mind. She returned his kiss, hoping her fervor would compensate for her inexperience, and was rewarded by his groan of animal satisfaction. The sound set off a sympathetic vibration within her own frame, as if a jolt of lightning had leapt from him and crackled deep into her core.
Her hands gripped the fabric of his coat, trying to feel the muscles of his strong back, trying to pull herself even closer against his body. He was covering her face in kisses, along her jaw, down her throat. He was like the orange wine when she had drunk too much and she was dizzy and breathless and warmed through. She ached in places she had never known felt pain. It was an insistent, desperate ache and she urgently needed him to touch her. She wanted ... she was uncertain what she wanted but she knew with certainty that she could only find it with him.
Mr. Wyckliff broke off his wild kisses with another low groan. She could feel the full-length of his body protesting the interruption.
As he fought for control, he whispered against her ear, "Tha hast broken open my heart."
She was beyond words. As his smoldering lips returned to her throat, she arced into him, letting her head fall back even more, trying to give him as much access as he could desire. His head dipped lower. He was going to ... She felt his hot mouth plant kiss after searing kiss upon the sheer fabric covering her breasts. Little encouraging mews escaped her lips. She had never felt anything like this before---so delightful, so exhilarating. Her body was reacting of its own accord and every twitch and quiver built upon itself towards some new, delectable pleasure. She did not want it to stop.
His hands roamed her body, their agitated movements becoming more driven. She could feel the tension in him, in the tautness of his muscles and in the jagged chuffing of his breath. His left hand was caressing her throat, stroking downward. Then he gripped the neckline of her chemise and roughly tugged. He was going to rip the fine batiste.
And she willed him to do it.
At this moment she did not care if they collapsed into the dirt beside the pineapple plants. She wanted to be his as much as he wanted to take her.
"You might leave the pineapples their peace."
Gwenllian jerked out of Mr. Wyckliff's arms like a scalded cat and twisted around in time to see Letticia stepping inside the pinery, holding a silver candelabrum aloft. As the glowing candlelight overran them, Letticia's eyes widened. She stared at Gwenllian, then up at Mr. Wyckliff, then back to Gwenllian with an expression more of shock than outrage. Gwenllian had the distinct impression that they were not the people whom her sister expected her light to reveal. But she would have to ask Letticia about that later, for the anticipated outrage was not long in filling Letticia's cold eyes.
"Mr. Wyckliff! How dare you assault my sister in my own home!" Letticia's voice was rising into a screech.
Gwenllian rushed forward, waving her arms in panicked, imploring attempts to hush her. "Please, please, not so loud, I am fine, I am fine."
"I shall have the dogs set upon him!"
Mr. Wyckliff laughed with the tone of one who always laughs at misfortune. "I shall leave your house at once, my Lady. This was entirely my own fault. The virtuous Miss Lloyd resisted me, as I am certain you witnessed. Her reputation is spotless. I shall call out anyone who says otherwise." He bowed, first to Letticia and then to Gwenllian. "Miss Lloyd. Please forgive me. My only excuse---"
"You have no need of excuses," Gwenllian interrupted. "Nothing untoward happened." She turned to Letticia and grasped her arm. "You saw nothing worth making such a scene."
Her sister pulled away. "Do not protect such a scoundrel."
"If you make him leave, people will talk," Gwenllian warned. Then she smiled. "And, even worse, your house party will be uneven."
"Oh, do not jest. Not at a time like this."
"I do not jest." But Gwenllian's giggle belied her words. "Your party will be uneven. And you well know that three couples does not bear thinking about."
Letticia recognized her own words and glared at her. She stepped to her sister's side and gave her a hug. "Please," she whispered. "I am not compromised if you say nothing."
Letticia yielded. "Mr. Wyckliff may stay, for the moment. But you, my girl, you are coming with me." Letticia grabbed her wrist and dragged her away like a naughty child, leaving Mr. Wyckliff standing alone in the pinery.
Letticia sat sipping chocolate at the sparsely laden breakfast table as Gwenllian entered the room.
"Where is Oliver? Where is everyone?"
"They have all gone to church," her sister replied. "Knowing what a late hour you kept, I let you sleep. I took your dog out and everything. Of course, knowing how you spent such late hours, you are lucky I did not send you to church regardless."
She ignored the jibe. "And Oliver?"
"Down in the kitchen. He's happy, leave him be and come sit. Chocolate?"
"I am exceedingly in need of chocolate, yes, please." She sat beside her sister and watched her sure hands pour out the delectable elixir. Everything was so normal. After the excitement of last night, normality seemed strange.
"Speaking of late hours, what were you doing outside?" Gwenllian inhaled deeply and savored the unmistakable aroma before taking a sip of her chocolate.
Letticia picked up a slice of dry toast. "Hmmm?" She was pretending disinterest, and not very convincingly.
"How did you come to be outside last night? Do not tell me you haven't an explanation," Gwenllian teased. "You've had all night to think of one."
Letticia put down the piece of toast without having taken a bite. "You should have seen your Mr. Wyckliff and Geoffrey this morning," she declared. "I caught them circling each other like two tomcats before I sent them off to church. Never have I..."
"Letticia!"
"Yes?"
"Why were you outside?"
Letticia stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, then at her. "Let me fetch something from my bedchamber."
When Letticia returned, she walked straight to Gwenllian's side and held up a slip of paper. Written upon it were the details of a jewelry purchase. An expensive jewelry purchase.
"When I was in London, a few months back, I went to Endicott's to have a necklace fixed. The amber one, remember? When I gave my name, the assistant apparently remembered it from a previous transaction because he asked me if I had liked the work they did for my ruby."
"Ruby?" Gwenllian was puzzled. Her sister did not care for rubies.
"That is precisely what I thought to myself. I have pearls and sapphires and many other gems, but not a ruby. I gave no sign of that, though, and instead I thanked them. Then I pretended to remember that I had lost the details of the sale and, as I prefer to retain those sorts of records, could they write it out again for me? Which they did. And here it is." She handed the page to Gwenllian and sat. "It isn't mine."
Gwenllian stared at the dignified handwriting in shocked silence. It clearly delineated the sale several months earlier of a ruby pendant to Lord Berwentford. She placed the paper on the table as if it were made of glass. Normality had clearly left Primroselea.
"Perhaps it is a surprise," she ventured.
"Edgar has never bought me a 'surprise' in his life."
"A mistake, then?"
"If it were a mistake, Edgar would not have paid it---and he has paid. In fact, he has paid for many things which I have never seen."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the mysterious ruby having understandably put me in a curious mood."
"Understandably," Gwenllian affirmed.
"I systematically went through his papers when he was not at home."
"You never!" she gasped, proud of her sister's daring.
"I did. On the whole he had been very discreet. But I found evidence of certain expenditures: jewelry, horses, gowns and other lovely things bought over the past year, none of which were bought for me. Unfortunately, neither was there a name identifying for whom they were bought. But I think you will agree this can lead only to one, indisputable conclusion."
"Mistress." Gwenllian said the word as if it represented an infestation of vermin.
Her sister nodded. "And I have already done something about it."
She leaned forward. "Do tell."
"I have busied myself making delicate inquiries, mostly in London, through servants and the like; yes, I know you disapprove of such measures but it had to be done. I have thus been able to narrow the field to two---"
"Oh, no, do not tell me," Gwenllian interrupted with a groan. "Isabella and Mariah. It is no wonder. You already had this party planned, even before I met Mr. Wyckliff."
"Yes, he was a definite stroke of luck, that one."
She sighed. "Then it was never about me."
"Of course it was, dearest. I would have held a party to promote your interests even if you had met him in the dead of winter. It ... just ... was also about finding out which of those two hussies carries the broom."
"I would nominate Isabella." Gwenllian frowned. "Excepting that she constantly looks at Mr. Wyckliff as if she could eat him without salt."
"Yes, if she already had a baron it would be unlikely for her to trade down. Though Mariah is not much better. One of them is hoping for a busy nocturnal schedule."
"I caught Mariah looking through your things in the library, remember?"
"Yes, I am uncertain how to take that."
"Does the Baron know you are aware of his transgressions?"
"No. He doesn't know and I intend to keep it that way."
"Why?"
Her sister shrugged. "Knowledge is power."
"Would it not be more advantageous to confront him?"
"And what good would come of that? I have no intention of relinquishing my position as his wife, and baroness."
"Perhaps he would stop."
"What society do you live in? Why should he stop when so many of his fellow Englishmen do not?"
"You could still try," she began, knowing she sounded naïve and foolish.
"I am not going to chance his throwing my failure to produce an heir in my face. I won't be put aside in favor of some smug slut. I have worked too hard to go back."
Gwenllian scooted her chair over so she could put her arm around her sister's shoulders. "This must have been so difficult for you. You should have told me sooner."
"La, I do not mind so much," Letticia said, making a fair attempt at nonchalance. "It is only that he thinks he is fooling me. I want to know that he has not. He will not have won anything I did not let him win. But I must know the game in order to play it, do you see?"
Gwenllian nodded. "Pride is at stake here, then. Not love."
Her sister's eyes brightened. "Precisely."
Gwenllian nodded again. She had always known Letticia's marriage was not a love match. More a fair exchange of goods and services. But she had thought, she had hoped.
She was a romantic ninny.
Marriage was a serious business. Not something people entered into because of love or ... Her thoughts flashed to the pinery. Simply disgraceful behavior. No, she refused to regret it. It had been so delightfully lovely. But it had certainly not been respectable, marriageable behavior. Here they were discussing wicked mistresses and she was mistress material. Mr. Wyckliff had treated her like a mistress. Mr. Wyckliff would never marry her.
What was she thinking? Certainly he would never marry her. She had few goods and no services. What need would he have of her? She would remain on the shelf and collect a thick layer of dust.
She shook her head. "So you were outside last night because you were following one of them?"
"Actually, I think I was following you. I heard first one set of noises in the hall, then another, but though I patrolled the house I found no one. Then I saw a figure go into the pinery. So I sneaked out to catch them."
Gwenllian took a sip of her chocolate. "Your plan to determine which is the mistress is to catch them at it?"
"You have a better idea?"
"Let me think." She extricated her arm to finish her chocolate and asked for more. She was halfway through her second cup before she spoke again.
"Everyone is out at church, correct?"
Letticia nodded.
"Let us search Isabella and Mariah's rooms."
"You don't think one would have brought letters from Edgar?"
"No, not letters. But maybe jewelry. Both Isabella and Mariah have the sort of temperament which would find delight in wearing gifts from the husband in front of the unknowing wife." Gwenllian took another sip of chocolate. "Or perhaps one of the jewels bears an inscription which makes leaving it outside her own keeping a risk, so the guilty party was compelled to bring it." She shrugged. "Could be there is nothing to any of this, but we might as well chance looking. Of course, it is a violation of all the laws of hospitality to search a guest's room."
Letticia was already heading out the door. "I'm searching Isabella's room," she called. "You do Mariah's."
At first Gwenllian had been distinctly uncomfortable, but now she gently rifled through Mariah's belongings with a sense of fascination. Looking at Mariah's belongings was rather like stealing a peek behind the scenes at a theater. One believed the performance completely natural until one witnessed just how much artifice was in fact involved.
Face creams, skin pastes, rouges, lip salves and even several patented soaps were lined in rows in front of the dressing table mirror like soldiers awaiting battle. On top of one of the chamber's little round tables were grouped such a collection of bottles and jars that she thought Mariah had purchased every powder, tincture and lotion ever produced. Poor Mariah. Gwenllian momentarily felt sorry for the desperation represented by all those little bottles.
Searching through the dressers and high chest proved fruitless, other than exposing Gwenllian to the expensive beauty of Mariah's apparel. Soon the only hiding place left in the room was a black and gold japanned cabinet. Its small drawers were empty, but the large drawer contained several reticules, all different shapes and colors, designed to complement Mariah's dresses. Gwenllian opened each one and inspected its contents. She found nothing extraordinary, in fact most were empty. But when she picked up the final reticule, she felt something small and hard inside it. Pulse quickening, she dumped the contents on the bed. Out plopped a ring.
Just a simple silver band, but quite large, although perhaps its width made it seem bigger than it was. She picked it up and, impressed by its weight, slipped it on her middle finger. The ring was wearable, even though it looked exceedingly wide on her hand. Width meant the opportunity for engraving.
Gwenllian took the ring off and peered at the inside. There was an inscription. The style of the engraving was ornate, however, with many interconnecting loops which made it difficult to read. She took it over to the window, shoving the curtain further back to let in more light.
The inscription inside the band was comprised of only two words: 'Rose Marie.'
Mariah was definitely beautiful, but she would not have reminded Gwenllian of a rose. Rose, rose, rose. Red roses symbolized love. Had someone given Mariah this as a declaration of love?
It was a cheap declaration if it were from the Baron. But if it were a love token, the value would be in the sentiment, not in the price. This could be what they were looking for. There was certainly nothing else of interest in Mariah's room.
Gwenllian made certain she had restored the room to its previous condition. Then, clutching the ring in her fist, she slipped out of Mariah's room, turned and nearly ran into her sister.
"Look what I found." Letticia held out a familiar, substantial ruby pendant with its wide gold bands.
"I saw Isabella wearing that ruby when first we met," Gwenllian declared.
"You can see the bands of the setting are wide enough for an inscription."
"And has it one?"
"It has." Letticia glanced impatiently around the hallway. "But it is too dim in here to show you."
"The windows in Mariah's room."
"No, not back in Mariah's room. Somewhere without risk."
Gwenllian thought for a second. "We will find quite enough light by the library windows."
It was but a short dash down the stairs. Letticia and Gwenllian raced each other to the door and were giggling between puffs of breath as they entered the library.
They were confronted by the sight of Mr. Wyckliff standing in front of the wall of books on the opposite side of the room. In one hand he held a knife. Its sharp edge glinted in the sunlight pouring from the great windows. On the oak table in front of him lay a gold pocket watch.
"That's Geoffrey's watch," Letticia exclaimed. "I am certain of it. Thief! He is a highwayman!"
Mr. Wyckliff looked as surprised to see them as they were to have found him. But he did not hesitate. Like a marauding pirate, Mr. Wyckliff leapt onto the tabletop. He scooped up the watch in his free hand as he crossed to the other side, then jumped down with a feral grace. The moment his feet hit the floor, he lurched toward Gwenllian and Letticia. The knife he held pointed toward them. It was not directly threatening, however. More like it was his natural way to hold a weapon, and he had rather forgotten about it.
"What are you doing here?"
Letticia was outraged. "This is my house."
"Has everyone returned?" He was looking at Gwenllian. His eyes were wary, but not unfriendly.
She swallowed. "No, we never left."
"Thief! I demand that you hand over Geoffrey's watch," her sister ordered.
Mr. Wyckliff turned his attention to Letticia. He grinned. "And if I refuse?"
"I shall scream and at least twelve footmen will come running."
His eyes narrowed. Gwenllian could tell he was calculating his options. It did not take long. He chuckled. "Fair enough." He turned and placed the watch on the oak table behind him. When he turned back, he gazed directly at Gwenllian. "It is an enlightening mechanism."
"And the knife, too," Letticia demanded.
He placed the knife on the table as well. "I am at your mercy, ladies." His genial demeanor was completely at odds with what was happening.
"We need some rope. Gwenllian, fetch some footmen and tell them to bring rope."
Gwenllian stood frozen, sick to her stomach. "Perhaps he only wished to borrow the watch. You do not know of a certainty that he was stealing."
"We should tie him to a chair," her sister continued, oblivious to all but the task at hand. "Or perhaps the sofa."
He raised an eyebrow. "You have practice in taking prisoners?"
"How dare you! We have never, never had a criminal in our midst," she fumed. "Oh, the scandal. To think I invited him! This will be the ruin of my house party. Gwenllian, why aren't you leaving?"
Gwenllian could not move. She should help her sister. She knew that. Letticia was behaving correctly, and with more courage than she would have expected. They had apprehended a criminal and criminals deserved to be punished. But every instinct Gwenllian possessed told her that while Mr. Wyckliff might be mysterious and unusual, he was not a criminal. In fact, ever since they had met, he had been kinder to her than anyone outside her immediate family. He deserved someone to take his part.
"I do not think we need detain him," she said quietly.
"What?"
"He has not injured anyone and it was only one item. If we do not mention it, no one will know. No one need know. We could forget the entire occurrence." Gwenllian's voice grew in strength as her sentences progressed. "Let him leave freely tomorrow morning. I am certain Mr. Wyckliff can think of a proper excuse. Your guests will never know the difference. Gossip will have been precluded and harmony will reign. There is no reason to spoil your house party, after all."
Mr. Wyckliff folded his arms. "Might I have a say in this?"
"Absolutely not," Letticia snapped. She frowned and glared at him. At length she looked at Gwenllian and sighed. "For you Gwenllian, for you he can leave at first light. We'll say he was called away on urgent business or something, we'll think that bit up later." Letticia was warming to her topic. "He can stay locked in his room until then. We shall say he is ill. Watch him."
Letticia dashed out of the room.
He chuckled. "Lady Berwentford seems to have an inordinate amount of faith in your defensive capabilities. She has just left you unarmed and alone in a room with a desperate man who is not an arm's reach away from a knife."
Gwenllian folded her arms. "Perhaps she thinks it would be irrational of you to attempt to flee and she has an uncommon belief in humanity's capacity for rational behavior."
Mr. Wyckliff raised his eyebrows.
"No, I do not believe that either." She shook her head, sadly amused. "Letticia is not one for thinking out consequences. You may go, if you wish. I'm not stopping you."
"If it is all the same to you, I think I shall stay. Never have I enjoyed such agreeable company." He flashed that brilliant smile at her.
At that moment Letticia returned with three footmen. "Please escort Mr. Wyckliff to his room. He is feeling unwell. And to protect the health of my other guests, see to it that he does not leave."
The footmen failed to hide their surprise.
Letticia rolled her eyes. "Just lock his door."
"The things a baroness can get away with," Mr. Wyckliff commented as the three footmen escorted him out the door.
"And to think you might have married him." Letticia shook her head. Then her eyes brightened. "Speaking of marriage, let me show you the pendant." She shut the library door, then skipped over to the nearest window.
Gwenllian had quite forgotten about Isabella's ruby pendant, not to mention Mariah's ring clenched in her fist. "You do realize someone might mistake what we are doing for thievery."
"Nonsense. We're investigating." Letticia held the back of the pendant up to the light. "There is definitely an inscription. It's in French. I'll translate." Letticia thought for a moment. "It says, 'For my Beautiful'. In this case I think the French 'belle,' meaning 'beautiful,' is a poor attempt at wit, playing off of Isabella's name---'Your Edgar.'"
Gwenllian shook her head in dismay. "I am astonished he used his own name."
"True, but as he did not name her, there is nothing in this to say he did not have it made for me. It is no wonder the shop assistant thought it was created for his wife."
"I don't suppose she might know two Edgars?"
"Where is the bill of sale, still on the table? Let's go compare the two. Endicott's won't have made two identical pieces of custom jewelry. And I can tell you now, it's going to match."
Letticia flounced over to the door.
"Wait, before we leave, look at this." Gwenllian held out her palm upon which sat Mariah's ring. "I found it in one of Mariah's reticules."
Her sister dashed back and snatched the ring from her hand. "It won't be anything. Let's go compare, so I can return these items. Oh, fetch Geoffrey's watch."
"But you can't return the ring, you don't know where I found it."
"You said in a reticule," Letticia answered hurriedly. "Now fetch Geoffrey's watch and let us finish this sordid business."
Her sister was getting terribly dismissive lately. She strode to the oak table, snatched up the watch, and swung around to start for the door. Then it happened.
Geoffrey's gold pocket watch slipped out of her hand. The pit of Gwenllian's stomach fell away as the watch tumbled toward the carpet. She snatched at it but her desperate fingers only succeeded in knocking it in mid-air and sending it faster to the floor. The watch landed with a small thump.
Gwenllian and Letticia froze.
"Have you broken it?" Letticia whispered.
Gwenllian knelt by the watch. The latch for the case's back must have taken the brunt of the impact, for the solid gold shell had popped open, but the watch's gold face twinkled back at her from behind its cover of uncracked glass.
"The glass is not broken." Gwenllian carefully picked up the pocket watch. The open back revealed all sorts of ticking, little gears moving in circles. "It is still working." She raised the watch to her ear and was rewarded to hear a steady, metallic click, click, click. "Yes, definitely still working."
She inspected the gears again. As she turned it to the light, a glint of etching in the interior of the cover caught her eye.
"Are you certain? It looks broken."
"The back cover has come open only. 'Tis meant to do so. I can snap it closed," she replied. She twisted her wrist this way and that, trying to reveal the esoteric etching.
"Then snap it closed and quick! We must get this all put back before anyone returns," her sister urged.
"Wait, there is something here." She took the watch to the window and slowly shifted it to catch the best light.
"Wait? We cannot wait," Letticia huffed. "What is so unusual?"
"For one thing, the engraved figure is on the inside, where no one can appreciate it."
Suddenly the etched lines caught a beam of sunlight and the complete engraving flashed out at Gwenllian like lightning across an evening sky. Then it just as abruptly disappeared as Letticia appeared at her side, blocking the light. But that did not matter. Gwenllian had seen it, and she knew what it was.
"What are you on about?"
Gwenllian offered the open watch to Letticia. "Look. There is a bee engraved in Geoffrey's watch."
Letticia tossed her curls, not bothering to take the proffered watch. "Probably for Berwentford."
"No, not the letter, the insect."
"Oh. Well, probably still for Berwentford. Geoffrey is clever like that, with symbols and emblems and what-not."
Gwenllian snapped the cover back in place. "He would not be the first."
"This incident is becoming too vexing for words," her sister began, but she interrupted her.
"Where exactly was Mr. Wyckliff standing when we entered?"
"You saw as well as I. Somewhere around there." Letticia indicated the wall of books behind the oak table with a toss of her chin.
"Precisely what I thought." Gwenllian walked over to the wall of books. She crouched beside the bottom shelf and ran her fingers along the book spines, moving up to the next shelf, and so on up.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for books that have been disturbed."
"Look at me if you wish to see disturbed."
"You are not a book. Now, these are all perfectly aligned, as are these." Gwenllian inspected another shelf. "But these have been perused recently. See how they have been replaced all higgledy-piggledy."
"Oh, hardly that, they are but a little askew."
"They have been read and put back. That is my point. Will you not grant me my point?"
"I will grant you the point. Now that you have your point, may we go?"
Gwenllian pulled the perused books off the shelf and placed them on the oak table. "They are all French history."
"They were also all bought simply to look nice upon the shelf. I doubt the pages have been cut on most of them."
"They have on this one." She nodded her head triumphantly. "That is what he was doing with the knife. I told you there was an innocent explanation."
Letticia rolled her eyes. "One is supposed to use a dull knife to cut book pages, everyone knows that."
"I am certain he was more concerned with speed than propriety."
"So, besides gaining you another point, what does this mean to the price of tea?"
"Wait and see." Gwenllian let the book fall open. "If these books truly have so little usage, then this could be the section the book was opened to..." She scanned the pages.
Letticia paced back and forth. "But why do we care if Mr. Wyckliff was looking at that page?"
Gwenllian continued to read.
"Isn't it terribly old? How could that have any consequence for today? Gwenllian? Gwenllian? What is it about?"
"It is a history of the Merovingians." She read further. "I knew bees were familiar."
"You are most infuriating."
She glanced up and smiled. "My apologies. Golden bees were found in Clovis' grave." She went back to scanning the densely worded page.
Her sister sighed impatiently. "Who is Clovis to me?"
"...or he to Hecuba," Gwenllian finished merrily.
"What?"
"Hamlet."
"One foreigner at a time, if you please. I care about this Clovis because...?"
"In short," Gwenllian raised her head and uttered her next words with quiet gravity. "The bee is the oldest emblem of the sovereigns of France."
Gwenllian and collarless Oliver silently stalked the halls, looking for Geoffrey. Almost silently. The pug still snuffled and snorted and his nails clacked whenever he was not trotting on carpeting.
In her hand she held Geoffrey's watch. She had volunteered to restore it to him, since Letticia had been responsible for seeing Isabella's and Mariah's jewelry safely home. Gwenllian had hoped to corner him alone, but Geoffrey was being difficult. He had returned late from Church and now he was nowhere to be found.
"Well, let us go back to the kitchen," she told Oliver. "Perhaps he is outside."
Oliver perked up at the word 'outside.'
Gwenllian perked up once they were outside as well. Finally she had found him. He was admiring the flowers around the pinery.
"I think I came across something of yours, sir."
Geoffrey jumped at the sound of her voice. "Ain't you the quiet mouse."
She held out the watch. "I believe this is yours?"
"Why, yes." His eyes narrowed. "Where did you find it?"
"In the drawing room," she cheerfully lied. "You must have left it behind by accident."
"I must have done." The words agreed with her, but Geoffrey's tone of voice said quite the opposite. She had the strong feeling that he did not believe her. But he did not challenge her story.
Geoffrey pocketed his watch. "Thank you for returning it."
Her heart fluttered but she kept her voice calm. "The engraving inside it is very well executed."
His eyes narrowed again. "What engraving?"
"You are unaware of the decoration?"
"The watch is new to my possession, though not new to the world. I haven't the blunt to purchase custom items. So what did the previous owner have engraved?"
Such frank comments on his monetary situation were unexpected, to say the least. Gentlemen did not normally consider such topics appropriate to discuss.
She shifted uncomfortably. "It matters not."
He stepped a pace closer to her. "What did the others think of it?"
"Others, sir?" She backed an equal step away. "I did not show it to anyone else."
"What fine weather we are having," declared Mr. Faircross' voice.
She turned. Mr. Faircross and Mariah were approaching.
"Fine weather indeed," agreed Geoffrey as they passed Gwenllian and stopped beside him.
"Why are you talking to Miss Lloyd?" Mariah sounded as if she were astounded that anyone would do such a thing of their own free will.
"She returned a watch I had lost," Geoffrey explained.
"Was it stolen? I had something stolen," declared Mariah, as if oblivious to the affront her words conveyed against Primroselea.
"Come, come, do not say such a thing," chided Mr. Faircross. "It is probably mislaid. I have mislaid many a thing only to discover it later."
"What did you lose, Miss Howard?" Gwenllian asked, making a point of keeping her voice level and impassive.
Mariah looked at her for several seconds before answering. Just stared at her. She stared directly back.
"Perhaps I did lose it," Mariah replied, her voice just as impassive. "It was not important. I shall look for it again, later."
"That is for the best," Mr. Faircross said amiably.
Gwenllian excused herself on the pretext that her dog needed more exercise and walked him around to the opposite side of the house.
She glanced about to make certain they were alone. "Well, what did you think of that, Oliver? I wager 'twas that silver ring Mariah lost---so why did she not specify? And why was it lost? Letticia should have returned it."
Oliver had nothing to say on the matter and instead claimed part of a large hedge on behalf of pugs.
The after dinner entertainment tonight was to be a concert on the glass armonica. Chairs had been set up in the saloon, the musician was prepared and everything was in readiness. Gwenllian loved the haunting, chime-like sound of the armonica. But, unfortunately, she had a task to complete.
She held to the back of the room so that she could sneak out before the concert began. The guests filed past her. They had been surprisingly accepting of Letticia's explanation at dinner that Mr. Wyckliff was indisposed. But then, most of them had their own problems to attend to. Which reminded her, she needed to speak to her sister.
As Letticia passed, Gwenllian swiftly pulled her aside. "Mariah can't find her ring. Where did you---"
"Shh." Letticia jerked away, scowling, and made little shushing movements with her hands. Before Gwenllian could say more, her sister had moved away down the room.
Mariah's ring would have to be rectified later. Gwenllian waited until everyone was settled in front of the armonica. As their seat backs were toward the door, it was simple to slip out of the room unobserved. She thought briefly of fetching Oliver from the kitchen but then decided he was best deployed where he was.
Daniel heard a light scratching at his closed and locked bedchamber door.
"Mr. Wyckliff?" The soft voice belonged to Miss Lloyd. "Mr. Wyckliff?"
Rising from his bed in one fluid movement, Daniel strode across the room and leaned against the wooden door. "I am here, Miss Lloyd. Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"Where is my guard?"
"I sent him down to the kitchen to fetch Oliver for me. I could not ask for the key to your room, that would not be proper and he isn't my footman, after all. But he is giving us some time to talk. I think he is sympathetic to star-crossed lovers."
An unexpected surge of excitement pulsed through Daniel's stomach. "You told him we were lovers?"
"No, no, no." Her fingers tapped upon the door. "Well, I might have implied it," she admitted. "It was the easiest explanation for why I would need a private conversation with you. Do you mind awfully?"
He did not mind at all. He wanted to kick down this door, sweep her into his arms and tell her so. But for her sake, that must not be. He swallowed. Levity was probably his best defense.
"I despair of you, Miss."
She laughed. "I despair of us both. Now listen, I found the 'enlightening' bit in Geoffrey's watch mechanism. The bee. The symbol of France."
He smiled. "Clever lass."
"Not so clever. I have yet to reckon what you are."
Daniel inhaled. His mission had not been compromised yet. He knew whom he had to seek out tonight. There was no logical reason to let Miss Lloyd in on even part of his secret. He should tell her to stay away, to leave him alone. Better her feelings be hurt than her person. To divulge his mission would mean to share its danger. There were so many things he would like to share with her. Danger was not one of them. It was not fair to her. But it was so tempting, that idea of sharing.
"Mr. Wyckliff, are you still there?"
He should not give in to temptation. He did not need an ally.
"Mr. Wyckliff?"
Temptation triumphed. "I have been sent here to locate a French spy."
She did not miss a beat. "That could be anyone in this house."
"Including you?"
Miss Lloyd chuckled. "I suppose I should be flattered you think me capable of such cunning. Let us see, I have been to France with Letticia on her bridal tour, so I suppose I could have made a connection then. The same could be said of the Baron and Letticia. Then there is Geoffrey and his engraved bee---which he says is not his. And Isabella has a pendant with French engraving. Which I think is another matter entirely. Although it might show that the Baron has a preference for French. Miss Howard has a mysterious ring. I think that leaves only Mr. Faircross with no suspicious connection. Which most likely means it is him and he is just too wily for us." There was a pause. "It is not me, by the by."
"I did not think so. For one thing, you own a pug."
She laughed. Her laughter was such a pleasant sound. "And I should be too busy with my high-maintenance dog to have time for spying."
He smiled. "I was considering more the kindness of heart it must require to look after the animal, but have it your way."
She giggled.
"To return to our suspects, Mr. Faircross is not free from suspicion as you suppose," he continued. "He does not sleep in his room at night. Neither does the Baron."
"I think I know where the Baron sleeps." Her voice seeped with disapproval.
Daniel felt relieved. He had wrestled with the knowledge of the Baron's nightly pilgrimages to Isabella's bed. He should not get personally involved, and he knew it. But the man had cost him time---time that could have been better spent following his true prey---and it irritated him. The man should be, if not punished, then inconvenienced. Especially since his behavior was an insult to a sister of Miss Lloyd's.
"He might not be there much longer," Daniel volunteered. "Judging from the way she throws herself at me, Mrs. Wood is tiring of him."
"So ... oh, wait, I see the footman at the end of the hall." Miss Lloyd's voice trailed off into mumbling.
Instinctively Daniel's body tensed. "Something's amiss?"
"I think he is returning without Oliver." She sounded concerned.
Apparently her pug was not in the kitchen. With modest graciousness, Miss Lloyd asked the footman if he might possibly search the house for her dog. No man could refuse such an appealing request. Daniel heard footsteps receding into the distance.
"The footman has gone, but I am uncertain how much time we have. I hope he finds Oliver presently."
Daniel felt her worry. He tried to sound reassuring. "He can't have gone far."
"Yes, that is true." He heard her sigh deeply as if trying to calm herself. "So it is Isabella for certain? The Baron's mistress, I mean."
"Yes. Why?"
"I found a ring in Mariah's room. A plain, silver ring with an inscription. It's not in French, but it is still highly suspicious for an unengaged girl to have a love token."
"How do you know it is a love token?"
"It has 'Rose Marie' engraved inside it. Roses are generally symbolic of love, are they not?"
Daniel frowned. "It is rather an awkward endearment." Silently, he ran through the horticultural names that he knew. It was a short list. "Isn't there some sort of Rose-marie plant?"
"Rosemary," Miss Lloyd corrected him. There was a pause. "Rosemary for remembrance," she whispered. Then, louder, "I cannot believe I did not think of that."
"Does it signify the giver?"
"Not necessarily. It could still be considered a play on Mariah's name, and the Baron likes such diversions. But it might have nothing to do with Mariah. I am thinking that, it being such a plain ring, it might not belong to a woman."
"It would be better suited to a man, you mean. For wearing on his smallest finger."
"Precisely. In which case, the mystery would be, why does Mariah have it in her possession? Wait, the footman is returning."
Returning with unsettling news. Oliver was not in the house.
Someone had taken Oliver for a walk. That was all. That had to be the answer. Gwenllian rushed down the stairs. On the way, she met Letticia coming up. The concert must be over.
"We need to speak," her sister whispered.
"Not now, I must find Oliver."
"Yes, now." Letticia grabbed Gwenllian by the arm and marched her up the stairs and into the closest unused bedroom. She shut the door. "You cannot bring up the existence of that ring again."
"Why, have you found out to whom it belongs?"
Letticia's hands twisted together. "It belongs to me."
"Is it not a gentleman's ring?"
Her sister's eyes widened in surprise.
She pressed ahead. "Mariah was searching your things. Is that what she hoped to find?"
Letticia's hands clenched together. She stared down at her feet. "Not precisely."
"We shall be here all night unless you tell me what you mean."
"Mariah was trying to find proof, but of course I left none. So she ended up stealing this ring from Mr. Faircross."
"Mr. Faircross?" Gwenllian's mind raced. "But why ... why?"
"Because I gave it to him. Out of my pin money. To wear when we are together, to remember. Mariah probably hoped to blackmail me, or denounce me to Edgar. Which she cannot do now that it is no longer in her possession," Letticia finished happily.
"You have been seeing Mr. Faircross?" The concept was so unwelcome that the words dragged across Gwenllian's lips.
Her sister winked. "I've been doing a great deal more than seeing him, dearest."
Gwenllian felt like she had been knocked sideways. The Baron was being betrayed. She had been betrayed. "Mr. Faircross was in your bedchamber the night I spoke of Mr. Wyckliff being a highwayman. That was how he knew," she mumbled. "Why did you let me rattle on, thinking we were private, when you knew that we were not?"
"I could hardly say, 'Excuse me, my lover is hiding under the bed.'"
"And that is why you have been having 'difficulty sleeping!' Between Mr. Faircross and prowling around after the Baron's mistress, I wonder you get any sleep at all." Gwenllian shook her head. "I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it."
"What, that I did not tell you? I did not want to burden you with the knowledge."
"No, I cannot believe you would do such an immoral thing." Her shock was giving way to anger. "How could you behave that way, like a, like a ... How could you? Have you thought about the consequences?"
No, of course she had not. When did she ever?
Letticia shrugged. "What does it matter? My husband is unfaithful."
Gwenllian had to restrain herself from yelling. "Yes, and he is in the wrong. Now you are in the wrong as well." She began to pace back and forth across the room, unable to keep still. "You are risking everything---your marriage, your position, your reputation. And ... and ... you not only risk yourself. You risk opening up our entire family to derision. Do you not think Society insults us enough?"
"Oh, I remember those insults. I remember how it was, caught between classes. Too rich so the neighborhood children despised us, too ill-bred for Society to have anything to do with us. It was a lonely, miserable existence and I am not going back. I shall have a son and remain in this house and be a darling of Society. And I am not risking my marriage. I am solidifying it."
"How do you reckon that?" Gwenllian growled.
"It's my duty to give Edgar an heir, and he's going to get one."
"Whether the boy is his or not?"
"Precisely. He will never know. Where is the harm in that?"
Gwenllian threw her arms in the air with a short, guttural shriek of frustration. "I cannot believe my own sister would say such a thing. It is dishonest, that is the harm. Your soul is in peril."
Letticia ducked her head. "I do love Hugh---Mr. Faircross," she said quietly. "But what can I do? Even if I desired a divorce, we all know divorce is essentially a male prerogative. A proper one requires bags of money and an Act of Parliament, I believe. You hear of rural men, who can't afford to pay, divorcing their wives by selling them---but you never hear it the other way 'round, do you? What wife gets to sell off her deceitful husband? A wife belongs to her husband. I have rather the same prospects of divorcing Edgar as a horse does in renouncing his master."
Gwenllian sighed. "What you say is true, and if you were looking for a way out I would aid you. But you aren't. You are deliberately deceiving. How can I condone deliberate deceit?"
"If he can find happiness with others, then why cannot I?" Her sister's ire was rising now. "By what right do you lecture me? You are not so pure, little miss pinery."
She winced, but ignored the taunt. "What if the Baron finds out? You realize he could use your own dowry money to divorce you."
"He will never find out," Letticia answered, her head high.
Gwenllian swore mildly under her breath. "I cannot reason with you. I must go find Oliver." Her hand closed around the doorknob. "You can give my excuses to everyone. I am retiring to bed and I won't be coming down until morning."
"Yes, go, go," her sister snapped. "At least I am not panting after some vulgar scoundrel. He's as common as you are."
Gwenllian leaned back in from the doorway. "Apparently as we all are. Perhaps Society was right about us after all."
Then she slammed the door.
Oliver was nowhere to be found. Gwenllian had been around the gardens and down the shrubbery walk at least five times. Although her Argand lamp illuminated quite well, darkness hampered her search, making her fear that her pug was still out there but that her restricted pool of light had missed him.
Perhaps he had wandered off and was lost along the cliffs? She started down the lawn towards the Channel, her lungs tight and stomach knotted with worry. About halfway to the cliff a shape moved toward her out of the darkness and stepped into her circle of lamplight. It was Mr. Costeroe. Gwenllian had forgotten about him. But at this moment she welcomed an extra pair of eyes.
"Might you help me? Have you seen my pug dog?"
Mr. Costeroe shook his head and looked concerned. "Not seen him all day. P'rhaps you should check the cliff, in case he fell over."
"Yes, I thought of that." She could not keep the distress out of her voice. "Of course, he does not normally waddle that far."
"But he must have done if he's not here."
That certainly sounded logical.
"We had better check, dontcha think?" He rather resembled an undertaker, what with his somber voice, morose expression and mostly dark clothes.
She fought the panic rising in her chest. "Yes, certainly, we must inspect the cliff area at once." Her poor Oliver could be suffering and in need of help this very moment.
Mostly dark.
Wait, why were Mr. Costeroe's clothes only mostly dark? What was that on his clothes? Her eyes narrowed and she raised the lantern toward him.
Although he had clearly attempted to brush his garments clean, Mr. Costeroe's waistcoat still bore some short fawn hairs which had eluded him. Short fawn hairs.
Mr. Costeroe had been shed upon by a pug.
She glanced up at his face.
His eyes were no longer sympathetic. When he spoke, his voice had a maliciously harsh tone. "Insufferable dog's hair gets ever'where."
Gwenllian spun on her heel and ran for the house. Brutal arms encircled her waist, throwing her back. She lashed out, swinging the Argand lamp at Mr. Costeroe's head. The glass globe made contact and shattered. He filled the night with profanities as darkness enveloped them both. But he had let go of her.
She stumbled forward, her hands on the ground, half running, half crawling. It was too dark. The moon must be hidden behind clouds. She fixed her gaze on the yellow-lit windows of Primroselea, hoping she did not trip as she ran.
Hands were on her again. That man had the eyes of a cat. He wrenched her arm, pulling her up short. She kicked at him. He knocked her to the ground. She heard her muslin dress rip as she fell. At least it freed her legs. She kicked wildly at him, momentarily keeping him at bay. But when she rolled over to regain her feet, he grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers hurt as they dug into her flesh.
She screamed. There was nothing left to do but scream. Then he had her, one hand clamped over her mouth and the other wrapped around her torso. He was dragging her toward the cliff. She continued trying to scream even though she had already known they were too far away from the house for anyone to hear her.
Mr. Costeroe swore at her and ordered her to be quiet. Gwenllian flailed her legs. She attempted to dig her heels into the earth but her thin leather boots were too delicate to do much more than make an impression. He hauled her across the grass. The moon peeped out from between the clouds. She could tell by the silver light that they were inexorably approaching closer and closer to the cliff.
Suddenly he flung her around. She fell toward a ramshackle, wooden structure resembling a shed. The makeshift shelter had been assembled in such a way that it was partially hidden by a natural cleft in the land. She recognized the location. It was from this fold in the cliffs that an obscure path had been cut down the inside cliff face all the way to the narrow strip of pebbly coastline below.
She leapt to her feet but he shoved her inside the shed before she could run. It was lit by several half-burned, guttering candles. And they were not the only things the shed contained.
Five men stood around a barrel upon which a small collation of bread and cheese was spread. Each one carried a sword at their side. When she had been pushed inside, their hands had gone to their swords as if expecting a fight. Having seen who the newcomers were, they relaxed.
A few of them watched her curiously as Mr. Costeroe spoke French to them. Those did look like French uniforms. Was this some sort of sheltered staging area? Was the invasion under way?
She had to warn the others. Gwenllian whirled away from Mr. Costeroe, dodged around him, and rushed for the entrance. She almost made it. He grabbed her arm and yanked her about to face him. She only got a glimpse of his infuriated eyes before he backhanded her across the face so hard he knocked her to the dirt floor.
She crawled over to the corner farthest from Mr. Costeroe. Her eyes were watering madly and her face ached beyond reason. She curled up and hugged her knees. Her clothes were torn and even her boots were irrevocably ruined. Perhaps if she stayed quiet for a bit he would forget about her and she could escape.
Mr. Costeroe was watching her. "Nice bit o' muslin, y'are. Feisty. I fancy a bit o' that."
She ignored him. If only she had her bow and arrows.
He chuckled. "He won't have nothin' t' do with ya when I'm done."
She tried to remain calm despite the icy terror constricting her belly. She was uncertain exactly what he meant, but those words could only signify unpleasantness.
The longer she sat, the harder and colder the floor felt. She would have liked to stretch her legs but feared drawing attention to herself. If only the entrance were closer. She glanced at the only gate to freedom.
Suddenly Geoffrey appeared at the entryway. Gwenllian's hope surged. She clambered to her feet, ready to flee to his side. He stepped fully into the room.
"I see you did not need this, then." Geoffrey held Oliver in his arms.
"Oliver!" Gwenllian gasped.
The pug raised his head at the sound of her voice and upon seeing Gwenllian began to squirm and wriggle excitedly, trying to get down to go to her. Geoffrey dropped the dog. Oliver careened over to Gwenllian's side. She knelt and hugged his warm, wiggling body. He seemed to be unhurt. The end of a rope collar dangled from his neck. He had apparently been tethered someplace.
They had used him as bait to lure her away from the house. Mr. Costeroe and Geoffrey. Geoffrey with the French bee in his watch.
"Why?" Gwenllian could barely manage to say the word.
Geoffrey raised a disdainful eyebrow and gave her no answer. Instead he spoke to Mr. Costeroe.
"Everything going to plan?"
"The second boat will be here soon, sir." The way Mr. Costeroe said it, 'sir' was not a mark of respect. "There's only twenty men but they're a fearsome bunch---all battle-hardened veterans. Butchering and burning one house will seem like nothin' to 'em."
"No, no burning," Geoffrey said quickly. "Primroselea's an acceptable inheritance and I will have better things than furniture to spend my lovely new money on."
"No burning then. Just the butchering."
Geoffrey nodded. "Fine. Do make certain they understand that I am to be the only survivor."
"They know, sir. Ya wear your tricolor ribbons and y'll be safe."
"And tell them to leave it to me to acquire a flesh wound," Geoffrey added. "Wouldn't want one of them to be accidentally accurate at my expense."
"Get back afore yer missed."
As Geoffrey turned to go, his eyes met Gwenllian's.
"It won't be worth it," she said coldly.
Geoffrey hesitated. "What won't?"
"You want to be Baron Berwentford." It was the only reason she could think of for such a massacre. He had to kill both his brother and his brother's wife---in case she were pregnant---to assure himself of the title. The rest were incidental. No, wait, Geoffrey had not known about the house party. The rest were more of a happy accident for him. A pile of murders in which to hide the true targets.
"Bluestocking hoyden," Geoffrey sneered. "If that sister of yours wasn't such a slut I would not have had to resort to this. In a few years, Edgar would've died childless and I would have inherited. With Faircross ploughing her, she's probably well on her way to bearing fruit. Why are you laughing?"
Gwenllian could not contain her hysterical giggles. So this was a consequence of her sister's immoral behavior. Of all the consequences which Letticia had not thought about, this one had to be ranked first as being completely beyond consideration. It simply could not be happening.
"A pathetic, little weasel, that's what you are, Mr. Berwentford," Gwenllian managed to declare between giggles. "And you will be an atrocious baron."
Geoffrey scowled at her. He glanced over at Mr. Costeroe. "When you kill her, drag the body closer to the house. No, make it look like they took her from the house and ruined and murdered her here. Oh, do what you want." He made a dismissive motion with his wrist. "Just make certain she's dead. She's the only one who might trace this back to me."
Gwenllian pressed her lips together. He was unaware that Mr. Wyckliff knew about the bee. Letticia knew about the bee, as well, though Mr. Wyckliff was far more capable of seeing to it that Geoffrey met with some sort of justice---assuming Mr. Wyckliff survived the night.
Two of the French soldiers were arguing with Geoffrey. French words were flying thick and fast, but from their faces and gestures Gwenllian had the strong impression that the two Frenchmen were repudiating Geoffrey's suggestion of rape.
Geoffrey threw up his arms and turned to Mr. Costeroe. "They're killing everybody in Primroselea, you wouldn't think a little ravaging would be so objectionable."
"Soldiers have peculiar morals, sir," Mr. Costeroe agreed. "Get back t' the house so the raid can get on as planned."
Geoffrey left, muttering to himself. Gwenllian subsided to the floor and Oliver climbed onto her lap. She stroked his hairy back, the familiar, rhythmic movements helping to calm her nerves. Somehow she had to warn Primroselea. Somehow she had to warn Mr. Wyckliff.
The lock on his bedchamber door had been fairly simple to defeat. Daniel waited, making certain the house was still sleeping. Then he crept down the silent hallway, down the circular stairs, to Lord Berwentford's collection of swords. He chose one modeled on the familiar dragoon sword with its long, gently arcing blade. It was a fine weapon, nicely balanced, a privilege to carry. Not standard issue by any means.
Daniel headed downstairs for the back door. Whatever Mr. Berwentford was smuggling into the country was arriving tonight. In a way, he was glad he had been forced to spend the day resting in his room. It might have been simpler to apprehend Mr. Berwentford during daylight, but without the actual smuggled loot it would have been near impossible to prove that the brother of a baron was cooperating with the French. Best to catch him at it. Better still if he resisted. Daniel could execute him in self-defense and save a bit of hassle all around. The same went for that vile traitor Costeroe.
He crossed the darkened kitchen and paused at the unlit back door. Didn't they usually leave a lamp here for Miss Lloyd? He glanced outside. No one was standing out there, not even a pug. So the lamp was not in use. He squeaked the back door open and was out into the cool night air. The moonlight was weak and intermittent, but it was enough for him. Perhaps they reckoned it was enough for Miss Lloyd, too.
Miss Lloyd. He felt himself spontaneously smile at the thought of her. It was too bad he could not have had more time with Miss Lloyd. She was the finest thing about this assignment. Hell, she was the finest thing in his life for many a long year.
Halfway down the lawn toward the cliff path, he stumbled. Odd. This lawn was normally so smooth it was unnatural. He crouched down and felt about in the darkness. Fresh clots of dirt. Torn up grass. Small, dug out depressions that could have been heel marks. A struggle had occurred at this spot. Recently. His pulse quickened.
The hunt was on.
Daniel covered the remaining distance to the rickety shed at a swift lope, his nerves thrumming with excitement. As he approached, he could discern multiple shadows crossing through the pool of candlelight that spilled out the shed's open entrance. It would seem there were more people inside than he had expected. Not that that was too much of a problem. He was used to the unexpected.
He positioned himself flat against one side of the entrance and took a chance, sneaking a glance inside the shed. Speak of the unexpected.
Miss Lloyd.
She sat in a corner, her pug on her lap. She looked much the worse for wear. Her clothes were ripped. Her hair was wild. But she glared balefully at the other occupants of the shed, so plainly her spirit was untouched.
He turned his eye to the shed's other occupants, who were just as unexpected in their own way. Five French soldiers. Of all the things Mr. Berwentford could have chosen to help Costeroe smuggle in from France. The man was seven types of fool. And a treasonous fool at that.
Daniel stepped back around the corner where there was less risk of being seen. Not much room in there to fight five men with a sword. Though he would have the element of surprise. Wait, where were Costeroe and Berwentford?
He leaned around the corner of the shed to peer inside again. They definitely were not present.
Suddenly the back of Daniel's skull exploded in a crescendo of pain. He fell to his knees. Another blow cracked into his side, then his sword hilt was wrenched from his fingers. There was shouting in French. Hands grabbed his shoulders, his arms. He was being dragged across the threshold, across the dirt floor of the shed. Daniel struggled to get his feet under him, trying to clear his head. He had to resist.
Miss Lloyd depended upon him.
One of the Frenchmen was trying to pin Daniel's arms behind his back. Disregarding the pain, Daniel lunged sideways, toppling them both over. The French soldier released him as he reflexively tried to catch his own fall. Daniel rolled away, lunged to his feet, and came up fighting.
His punches took down the first Frenchman who swung at him. The next he dispatched with a violent forward move of his head, using his own forehead to break the man's nose with a single, satisfying whack.
"Wyckliff." It was Costeroe's voice.
He glanced up in Costeroe's general direction. And froze.
Costeroe stood holding Miss Lloyd in front of him, one arm wrapped around her waist. His other hand held a knife at Miss Lloyd's throat.
The moment Mr. Wyckliff checked his swing the French swarmed him. He disappeared under the assaulting bodies. Gwenllian tried to call out to him, and felt the knife edge bite her throat.
Using very foul language, Mr. Costeroe told her to be quiet. Then he yelled something at the French soldiers. They piled off Mr. Wyckliff and hoisted him to his feet.
"This isn't yer lucky day." Mr. Costeroe was gloating. "I'm doubly relieved. I come back from a slash t' find you hangin' 'round our doorway. Now we don' have nothin' t' worry us."
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes burned fiercely. His fists were clenched at his sides. But he said nothing.
Gwenllian was just happy he seemed to be only minimally harmed. She felt Oliver press up against her shin. He was confused by all the commotion and hovered around her feet nervously. She watched as Mr. Wyckliff's eyes went down to Oliver and then back up to her face. He gave her a small but reassuring grin.
She flinched as the knife nicked at her throat again.
"Look at him." Mr. Costeroe chuckled. "He aches for ya, I can tell. But he thinks he's a gentleman, so he does, so I'll bet he's never touched ya. Have ya, sir? Well, has he, swee'heart?" Mr. Costeroe's fetid breath was hot on her cheek. Arms straight at her sides, she clutched the fabric of her gown with both hands.
Mr. Costeroe was still talking to her, goading Mr. Wyckliff. "What was he like? Was he violent? Or appreciative? Or a bit hasty like? No, he's never had ya. An' he's never gon' t', neither. Show him wot he's missin', swee'heart. G'wan! Show him wot you've got, ya lil' doxy."
Mr. Costeroe grabbed at the neckline of Gwenllian's dress.
"Do not touch me," she growled. She heard her words almost as if another person spoke them. But she was proud that her voice did not betray the horror thrashing through her frame.
Mr. Costeroe paused, as if her absence of hysterics made him uncertain how to proceed. Then he barked out an order in French. One of the Frenchmen stepped forward and thrust his sword along Mr. Wyckliff's neck, forcing his head up. The tip grazed Mr. Wyckliff and blood trickled down his throat.
"She has t' look ravaged. You do it, Wyckliff," Mr. Costeroe ordered.
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes blazed. The Frenchman prodded him with the sword. In a moment Gwenllian feared Mr. Wyckliff would impale himself on the blade trying to fight back.
"I can do this myself," she quickly said. Anything to save Mr. Wyckliff from injury. "Lower your knife."
Mr. Costeroe surprised her by obeying. He stepped a pace away as well, obviously in order to obtain a better view.
The front panel of her dress buttoned at the left and right corners of the low neckline. Gwenllian unbuttoned it and the front panel fell away, dangling from the juncture with the gown's high waist, exposing the internal, laced white bodice. She tried to unlace her bodice. Her shaking fingers only made the knot at the top more entwined. She had to stop, take a deep breath, and start again.
The knot finally gave way. She pulled the bodice halves apart to loosen the laces. Her eyes darted around the room before she could control herself. If only she had kept staring at the ceiling, she would not have seen the gross desires on Mr. Costeroe and the Frenchmen's faces. She glanced at Mr. Wyckliff. His head was lowered. He was attempting to give her what privacy was within his power.
"That won't do!" Mr. Costeroe had noticed Mr. Wyckliff's averted gaze. "Ya must watch." He gestured to the Frenchman holding the sword on Mr. Wyckliff's neck.
The French soldier forced Mr. Wyckliff forward to stand directly in front of Gwenllian. His eyes locked with hers. She was certain there was admiration in his gaze. He had such lovely hazel eyes.
Her bodice was loose enough to slip down from her breasts now. She let it go.
Mr. Wyckliff gazed directly into her eyes and never once glanced down.
Then he gave her a tender smile as if they were the only two people in the room. In defiance of the blade at his throat, Mr. Wyckliff's hands slowly came up and with deliberate precision restored the two halves of her bodice to their rightful place. She felt the warm, slightly rough skin of his fingers brush against her breasts as he did so. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes, still steadily gazing into hers, seemed to grow dark as their black center dilated but his unfaltering fingers continued to tighten her bodice laces.
"Shall I kill him for thee?" Mr. Wyckliff asked coolly as he finished lacing her up. It was the only acknowledgment he made that anyone else was in the room.
Gwenllian could feel a pall of uneasiness settle over the others following his words. The French did not know what to make of him. He stood there so tall and calm, never looking at anyone but her, and yet one could almost feel upon the air the intensity of his anger, burning so brightly inside him. The Frenchman holding the sword upon him involuntarily drew back.
Mr. Wyckliff seemed to sense more than see the tiny movement, and he took full advantage of it. She could hardly credit her own eyes at his speed and dexterity as he ducked away, lashed out, and slammed the Frenchman to the floor. Mr. Wyckliff's boot heel crushed the man's wrist. He wrenched the sword from the soldier's broken hand and came up slicing toward Mr. Costeroe.
Mr. Costeroe pounced at her, undoubtedly hoping to hide again behind his hostage, but his motion spurred Gwenllian's wits into action. What was she doing standing here? Run!
She dodged Mr. Costeroe and ran for the entryway. No, wait, where was Oliver? She spun back. Mr. Costeroe was coming for her, his face frighteningly twisted with malice.
Then Mr. Wyckliff leapt between them.
But Gwenllian had no respite, as harsh hands grabbed her shoulders from behind, pulling her back. She twisted and kicked, all the while attempting to keep her anxious gaze upon Mr. Wyckliff.
Mr. Wyckliff lunged. He killed Mr. Costeroe with one thrust of his sword.
Mr. Costeroe was decidedly dead.
Gwenllian had inadvertently stopped fighting, covering her horrified eyes with her hands. The hands on her shoulders shoved her to the ground. She struggled to roll free, then suddenly Mr. Wyckliff hauled the Frenchman off her.
She scrambled away. Where was Oliver? She found him standing where the bread and cheese had once been. She scooped him up in her arms and made her way toward the entrance in fits and starts, trying to avoid the frenzied fist fight careening around the room.
Almost there. Almost there.
Carrying her pug, Gwenllian ran outside. She got far enough from the shed that Oliver would not be distracted by the goings-on inside it, then put him down on the grass.
"Where's Letticia?" she asked him.
Oliver cocked his head. He looked at her inquisitively. He recognized that name.
"Where's Letticia? You can do this, Oliver. Where's Letticia? Where's Letticia?"
Oliver turned and looked back toward the faint lights that were the windows of Primroselea.
"Yes! Good boy. Find Letticia. Find Letticia." Gwenllian pointed his body toward the house, one hand on either side of him. "You can do this, puglet. Find Letticia." She released him, subtly urging him forward with the flourish of her hands.
Oliver barreled away down the lawn. What with the weak moonlight, he disappeared into the dark almost immediately. Hopefully he would be able to attract the attention of one of the servants and they would realize she was missing. If he could not, he would never get in the house. And they would still be on their own.
Gwenllian ran back to the shed. The moonlight was glinting on something metal by the entrance. A sword. Mr. Wyckliff must have brought a sword with him. She stooped to pick it up. When she stood, she could see why the battle inside was not a sword fight. There just was not enough room to wield a bunch of these heavy weapons. Fists were much more appropriate. But since she could not fist fight...
Gwenllian entered the shed. Two of the Frenchmen lay unresponding on the ground. The other three were pummeling Mr. Wyckliff, but he was giving as good as he got. She dragged the sword the few paces it took to reach the brawl. Do not think. If she thought about what a sword did to a body she would not be able to use it. Do not think. She reached the closest Frenchman and swung the sword as best and as hard as she could.
Gwenllian had good aim.
There was blood everywhere. How could a body have that much blood? Blood on her clothes. Blood on the dirt floor. Blood on Mr. Wyckliff. Some of that was his. The French soldiers had injured her Mr. Wyckliff. Fury gave Gwenllian another good blow with the sword before the remaining French could react to the surprise of her attack.
But they could not recover.
Mr. Wyckliff dispatched the other two Frenchmen with his bare hands. He certainly had some lethal talents.
She let the heavy sword drop from her fingers to the floor. "They are all dead?" she whispered.
"Aye. We won't have to worry about them." Mr. Wyckliff stepped across the bodies to stand in front of her. "Are you injured?"
She shook her head. "Are you?"
"Nothing I mind. Now, quick, what's their plan?"
"It is not an invasion. But there is a second boat coming with more French soldiers. They are to slaughter everyone at Primroselea, apparently at Geoffrey's request."
"More likely the French were looking for a coastal manor to destroy. Such a raid would create a good deal of terror for very little expense. It would seem to prove they could murder us in our beds any time they want. And if Geoffrey was looking for someone to kill his family, I imagine Costeroe approached him at one of the gaming hells he frequents and Geoffrey was quick to sign on. Do you know how many there are?"
"I heard the number twenty, but I do not know if they," Gwenllian indicated the bodies on the floor, "were part of that number. Mr. Costeroe is a French agent?"
Mr. Wyckliff nodded. "Seems he has turned so for money. He has no loyalty beyond silver. Now, get thee away from here, lass. 'Tis too dangerous for the likes of thee."
"But not for you, judging by your skills." She could not think precisely how to phrase her next question. "You, you are not a gentlemen, are you? I mean ... I did not mean it like that."
Mr. Wyckliff laughed darkly. "No. I'm nothing: the damaged, illegitimate son of a peer who was more of a bastard by nature than I am by name. I can just about act like one of them, but I'm not one of them. And I never shall be."
"Your money?"
"I haven't any. What wasn't simply rumor was given to me, like the curricle and my clothes. All props for play-acting."
"And your carriage accident?"
He grinned mirthlessly. "Aye, a carriage called Assaye. You would not have liked it."
She recognized the name. It was a battle. "So you are a soldier?"
"A lieutenant. Though I am but a year or two older than yourself, you are thinking I am rather old for a lieutenant, and you would be right."
"I was actually thinking nothing of the sort. I believe a gentleman can begin his military career as an ensign at sixteen, but as to how it progresses from there I am sadly uninformed."
"I am with the Light Dragoons, so for me it would have been cornet, not ensign, had I been a gentleman. As I was not, my advancement took a bit longer. I was raised from the ranks. A common soldier. So you see, I am utterly beneath you."
She took a deep breath. The world was upside down tonight. She might as well add to the madness. "I would still marry you."
"Brazen hussy," he teased. He bent forward and gave her a swift kiss on the forehead. "Who spoke of marriage? I shan't marry thee. I would never condemn you to a life on campaign."
"I could adapt."
"I dare say you might envision how to boil an egg for supper, lass, but do you know how to use maggots to clean a wound?"
"I can learn."
"We do not have the time for this conversation now. And chances are at least one of us won't be alive to continue it later. We must throw the French back into the sea."
"We? What we? Have you pigs in your belly?"
"We are enough." He raised his hands and firmly clasped her shoulders. "The militia is too far away. They would not get here in time to do anything but look futile. You must fetch as many people from Primroselea as you can. We won't alarm the village unless we cannot hold them off."
"But with the village's help..."
"The fewer people who know of this incursion the better. The French want to terrorize our countryside. Once the village knows, the news will spread like the plague. We will have panic in the streets as far as the Scottish border. We will have done their job for them." Mr. Wyckliff gently took her in his arms and hugged her. "Princess, all that stands between England and complete havoc is you and me. And as many people from Primroselea as you can fetch."
"I understand."
"Off with you, then." He released her.
She moved toward the entrance. "What will you be doing?"
"Blocking their path," he responded, his tone light.
"Just you?"
"And the pigs in my belly."
"Do not jest. I admit you are good, but how..."
"I've examined that path before. 'Tis treacherous. They must come up one at a time. And there cannot be more than twenty of them."
"You can hold off twenty men?"
"I've done worse."
"You are a bad liar, sir."
"Then 'tis a good thing I do not intend to make a habit of it."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Gwenllian hesitated, staring at the floor. She knew she must leave. The sooner the better. She had to raise the alarm.
But she was afraid to leave, afraid that once she turned her back she would never see him again. She raised her eyes and their gazes locked.
Mr. Wyckliff crossed to her in three long strides. He grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her up against his chest. Then his mouth claimed hers. She felt his fierce passion all the way to her toes. When he broke the kiss to speak, his voice was ragged.
"Give me my name. It's---"
"Daniel," she answered breathlessly. "I know. Daniel."
She kissed him. He moaned softly, a low desperate sound, and fervently returned her kiss. Gleefully, she hoped that meant she was acquiring talent. The pressure of his mouth increased, demanding access, submission, and she complied. His tongue gently parted her lips further, touching, swirling, deepening the kiss until his possession of her mouth was complete and she melted against him. She wanted him to possess her entirely.
"I love you, Daniel."
"Nowt to how I luv thee, Gwenllian." He was grinning, tenderly kissing her between each word, making a point of saying her first name.
She hugged him tightly, her fingers trying to clutch his back through his blood-stained cambric shirt. "Come with me."
With gentle, reluctant movements, he freed himself. "You know I cannot."
She pulled herself together and gave him a determined nod. "Good luck."
She started for the door.
"Gwenllian."
She turned and looked back. Daniel had picked up his sword. He held it down at his side with unaffected ease. She was painfully aware of his long fingers wrapped around its hilt, of his bright smile, of his disheveled golden hair, and of his torn and bloody clothing. He had never looked more handsome.
He winked at her. "Fight dirty and die hard."
She smiled. "Is there any other way?" Then she ducked out the door before he could see the tears spilling from her eyes.
Daniel stood on the clifftop brandishing his great sword with the gently arcing blade. Even in moonlit silhouette, Gwenllian could tell it was him. The first French solider hove into view suddenly above the cliffline. Daniel brutally kicked him where a man is most vulnerable, then slashed the soldier coming behind as the first one fell.
He swung the heavy sword like it was an extension of his arm, swirling and thrusting violently, madly, beating down the French weapons raised against him as much as parrying them. She heard the clang of metal, and grunts of pain, but above all she heard his voice, raspy with rage and emotion. It carried across the distance like the roar of a defiant lion. "Come on! Come on, you bastards! I want you!"
Gwenllian turned and continued running. She did not dare look back again. Not only was there no time to spare, but if she did look back she might weep in earnest and that would hamper her running. Soon she could no longer hear Daniel. She was nearing the gardens. She tried to make her legs dash faster.
A lamp! Someone was carrying a lamp in the gardens. Gwenllian aimed for the lamp. She was stumbling as she got near enough to see who was holding it.
Letticia!
"Gwenllian!" her sister shrieked. "Are you unharmed? James heard Oliver scratching at the back door and you weren't anywhere to be found. What is happening?"
And she had brought two footmen with her. Footmen with muskets. Gwenllian bent over and held on to her knees for dear life. Her lungs burned.
"Bless you, Letticia, for bringing weapons," she gasped between heaves and coughs. "The path from the sea, do you know where that is?" she asked the footmen.
"Yes, miss."
"Then go. Go! Daniel is holding the path. All alone. Against the French."
The two footmen rushed off in the direction Gwenllian had been pointing. She turned to Letticia. "Where is Oliver?"
"I closed him in your room so he wouldn't be underfoot."
"The French are attacking. We need more of the Baron's weapons. And men."
"Is this the invasion?" Letticia had turned sickly pale in the lamplight.
"No, they just want to kill us all." Gwenllian resumed running for the house.
"That does not make me feel better," her sister called, hastening after her.
By the time Gwenllian reached the back door of Primroselea, she had an excruciating stitch in her side. As she dragged herself upstairs, her legs felt like lead. She could hear Letticia assembling the servants, but it sounded very far away.
Gwenllian found the Baron first. He proved to be a solid man in a crisis. He took her at her word---the few, panting ones she could get out---and immediately ordered the footmen to start loading weapons.
"We shall start for the path posthaste," he assured her.
"Where is Geo---Mr. Berwentford?" she asked.
"I will send a maid for him and Mr. Faircross," the Baron replied, calling over one of the maids and giving her the instructions. "They will be here shortly."
Isabella and Mariah appeared on the stairs, wondering at all the commotion. While the Baron went to explain it to them, Gwenllian snuck over to the pile of newly-loaded weapons. She surreptitiously stole one of the pistols as the Baron announced that the ladies should gather in the drawing room.
"Miss Lloyd, do come to the drawing room. You ladies shall be safe there."
"I must fetch something from my room first," she replied, hiding the pistol behind her back.
The moment the Baron turned to supervise the footmen, she charged up the stairs. If Geoffrey was still in his bedroom, he would regret it. On the stairs, she passed Mr. Faircross hurrying down.
He looked at her with startled eyes. "The maid said the French are attacking."
"Yes."
"If I had any skill with a blade, I'd have joined a militia." He groaned.
"Do your best."
"Are you carrying a pistol?"
Gwenllian kept going up the stairs.
She was at Geoffrey's bedroom door almost before she knew it. This was it. She tried the doorknob.
"Go away!" Geoffrey ordered.
"You will speak to me."
There was a pause. Then the door opened.
Geoffrey stared at her. "How did you escape?"
"Mr. Wyckliff. He is currently holding the clifftop against your prospective assassins."
"My brother will never believe I had anything to do with this."
"I did not come here to expose you. Mr. Wyckliff could use help---even yours. Trust me, you have nothing better to do with the time remaining to you." Gwenllian revealed the pistol she had been hiding behind her back.
She pointed the pistol at Geoffrey's chest, taking care that she was far enough away from him that he could not grab it from her.
He gave her a withering look. "I am not going out there."
She pulled back the crooked hammer atop the pistol. It made a distinctive, metallic clack. "Do not make me kill you."
He raised his eyebrows. "You would kill me?"
"As certain as I stand here, you will either come fight for your country or you will never leave this room."
"You're joking," he scoffed. "No little gypsy girl can make me."
"Welsh! I am Welsh, you ignorant---" Gwenllian interrupted, but stopped herself. She took a deep breath before continuing, her voice thick with fury. "Our last Prince was drawn, quartered and disemboweled by you treacherous English. Do not dare dismiss what an angry Welshwoman might do."
Gwenllian moved forward, keeping the distance between them and forcing Geoffrey to back into his room. She advanced until the light from his bedchamber candelabra was full upon her.
"Look at my dress. My dress has been ruined, sir, by a man's life blood. I cut him down with a sword." She pointed the pistol directly at Geoffrey's face. "Look at me, sir, and ask yourself if I am joking."
Slowly his countenance began to pale. He had been gazing at her this entire time, but only now had he truly seen her. A predatory spirit Gwenllian had not known she possessed quickened and she knew with instinctual certainty that she had him. He was within her power. Her grip on the pistol was solid as a rock.
"Now, sir. Will you die here or will you die with honor?"
The remnants of white musket smoke floating in the pre-dawn gloom did nothing to aid Gwenllian's search as she picked her way across the segment of lawn and clifftop that had so shortly before been a battlefield. The aftermath was terrible in its quietude. The shouting and clanging metal and bang of gunfire had been replaced by a few soft moans which were gradually becoming nothing. Nothing but the muted crash of the waves below and, in the distance, sporadic birdsong.
By the time she had marched Geoffrey out to join the Baron, Mr. Faircross, and the footmen at the cliff, the engagement was well under way. She had been unable to discern Daniel amongst the smoke, and dark, and confusion. Now that the battle was over, she had to find him. Her place was at his side. She should have been there sooner.
"Come away from there, Miss Lloyd," Mr. Faircross called.
The Baron's voice boomed in the silence. "Ladies should be in the drawing room. Someone tell me who let this gel out here."
Gwenllian ignored them. It wasn't difficult. It was taking all of her willpower not to be violently ill as she stepped among the corpses, hoping desperately that she would find Daniel alive and sick with dread that she would not.
A hacking cough cut through the hush. One of the bodies was struggling into a partially raised position, propped up on his bent elbows. She abandoned her somewhat methodical search pattern to scamper over corpses and across the despoiled grass to him. Skidding to a halt, she crouched at his side. The man was filthy with blood and dirt but she knew him immediately even in the weak morning light. Tears prickled her eyes as air rushed out of her lungs in a gigantic sigh of relief. Daniel.
"Gwenllian?" He seemed to be having difficulty focusing.
"Yes, I'm here." Her voice verged on sobbing.
"That should be twenty." Daniel weakly indicated the carnage around him with a toss of his head. His blond forelock fell forward into eyes feverish with pain but he grinned at her nonetheless.
She choked, caught between laughing and crying. She wanted to take him in her arms but she feared aggravating his injuries. He bled from what seemed at least a dozen places. Her hands fluttered above him like birds afraid to land.
"You've sprung a leak," he teased, eyeing the tears streaming down her face. His gravelly voice trailed off into another strenuous fit of coughing and blood oozed from his mouth. He collapsed back on the ground. "Think I have as well."
She screamed for the Baron and Mr. Faircross to come and ordered one of the footmen to fetch a surgeon. "Hold on, we shall get you back to Primroselea," she told Daniel.
"What about, Ber..." He licked his lips and tried for the shorter name. "Geoffrey?" he whispered.
"Geoffrey!" She had completely forgotten about him. "I lost track of the damnable man." Quickly her eyes raked over the general area, including the bodies close enough to be identifiable. "I do not see him."
"Jumped?"
As they were practically on top of the precipice, she tore herself away from Daniel long enough to crawl to the edge and look over. Serene waves caressed lifeless bodies on the pebbly beach below, but it was impossible to tell if one of them was Geoffrey. She crawled back to Daniel's side.
"For his sake, I hope he jumped. I shall certainly push him over if ever I see him again."
Daniel smiled weakly. "Bloodthirsty Celt."
Then his eyes closed and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Gwenllian flipped the corner of the clean, crisp sheet down once more to take Daniel's pulse. Not that she knew what the weak, trembling beats meant. But the Baron's apothecary, Mr. Sanderson, did it every time he called so she reckoned she had better monitor it as well, just in case there was a change. But Daniel's distressing condition had yet to improve.
The militia's surgeon had come the first day, though not before her anxiety at his seeming delay had driven her to vow to bring him to Primroselea at the point of a pistol. He had done what he could, but the suffering on Daniel's face and the sound of his tortured groans under the surgeon's excruciating ministrations had driven her half mad with empathetic anguish. Mr. Sanderson had continued to call on a daily basis---sometimes two or three times a day---and always with a new poultice or the ingredients for another salutary infusion. But each healer had intimated ... well, the surgeon had come right out and said that there was little more to be done for Daniel but wait.
So she had waited. And waited. It had been three long days and nights now. And still she sat on this uncomfortable chair at his beleaguered bedside, tending to him for hours on end.
She had helped Letticia wash him when he first was put to bed. Since then she routinely bathed his face with cool water. She applied compresses and poultices. She changed his dressings on a regular basis, smearing a thin coat of honey on his wounds, as the village wise woman had advised, before covering them with fresh bandages. She helped him drink the apothecary's infusions to facilitate mending and cordials to lessen his pain during the rare, fleeting moments when he was conscious. She wet his lips with the concoctions when he was not.
And while she undertook all this, her patient spoke not a word. There was no delirium, which she took to be a good sign, but neither was there awareness.
Tonight, insensible to the world but not to pain, Daniel shivered and writhed in his sleep. She moistened his lips with cordials and miserably wished that he would awaken so that he could drink the remedies properly.
Gwenllian sat back in her chair. She was so tired. Her brain felt fuzzy, like mold on cheese. If only she could sleep.
At least everyone else who had survived the battle was on the mend. Well, Mr. Faircross had emerged from the battle remarkably unscathed, and no one spoke of the missing Geoffrey, but the Baron had sustained a flesh wound which Mr. Sanderson's talents had kept free of infection. It was healing nicely.
Several of the footmen had died in the battle. Others had received severe injuries, but the Baron saw to it that they received as good care as he. According to Letticia, who kept her apprised of what was happening elsewhere in Primroselea, yesterday had marked the convalescence of the last footman not already recovering.
So now it was only Daniel around whom Death still hovered, thanks to the grave wounds he had received while he was holding the cliff top alone. And it was only she who still went long nights without sleep. But she could not rest until Daniel was out of danger.
A particularly extended pug snore pierced the stillness of the sick room. Oliver had spent these past days and nights either sitting on one of her feet or sleeping on the floor beside her chair. His comforting presence was about the only thing keeping her sane. She leaned over and petted her pug's hairy back. He raised his head and his velvety muzzle inspected her hand. Then his head dropped back down to the floor. Oliver sighed heavily.
"Seconded," she murmured in response.
The sick room door opened. Weary Gwenllian did not bother to look behind her. She recognized her sister's footsteps, even muffled as they were by the carpeted floor. Letticia quietly greeted Oliver, then placed a comforting hand upon Gwenllian's shoulder.
"Any improvement?"
"Not yet," she replied listlessly.
"Come to bed."
"Not yet."
Letticia squeezed her shoulder, then gave her a little shake. "Don't do this to yourself. You told me he's a soldier---"
"Cavalry officer," Gwenllian interrupted, her voice still a monotone.
"The point I'm going for is that they're a hardy sort. He'll pull through. I'll watch him, if you want, but you need some rest."
"Not yet."
Letticia squeezed her shoulder again. "You have done everything a person could do. You have procured advice from every quarter, you have applied concoctions at all hours of the day and night, and I hear from Patsy that you are determined to launder some maggots if any of Mr. Wyckliff's wounds become putrid."
"Not launder, wash," Gwenllian corrected, the words dragging from her exhausted body. "They must have to be clean, do you not think so? Everything else must be clean. Clean bandages. Clean maggots."
"Well, whatever one does with maggots, then." Letticia waved her hand impatiently. "Cut along to bed before you become delirious."
A thought struck Gwenllian, sparking an involuntary fit of giggles. She glanced up at Letticia. "I had not considered..." She took a deep breath, trying to recapture a dignified air. "Where does one find maggots? Do you think there's a shop?"
"That's torn it. You are coming to bed immediately."
Gwenllian's mad little giggles continued until Letticia tried to pull her out of the chair. She grasped hold of the mattress, her fingers sinking in as if to root her in place.
"No! Staying!" She was unmovable. Letticia gave up.
"Then sleep here, but sleep." With gentle pressure, her sister pushed her over so that while her hips remained in the chair, her top half rested on the bed. Gwenllian did not resist. But she did shift her position slightly so her cheek could nestle against the back of Daniel's hand.
The restlessness of Daniel's slumber often seemed to ebb when Gwenllian touched him, and contact with her worked its charm again. His breathing became more regular and his body ceased to toss back and forth. As Letticia left, the only sound was Oliver's contented snoring.
The following day Daniel's pulse seemed stronger. Gwenllian tried not to get her hopes up, being as all hope centered upon something she was still uncertain she knew how to read correctly. But once present, hope was too stubborn to evict. Didn't his complexion seem to retain more life now? And his breathing had certainly eased. When Mr. Sanderson arrived, he agreed that Daniel's condition reflected a definite improvement.
Letticia came to visit the sick room after Mr. Sanderson left.
"I hear he's doing much better."
"Yes, according to Mr. Sanderson, he is out of danger now," Gwenllian replied. "Though I won't believe it until he opens his eyes."
Letticia nodded. "What will you do then?"
"How do you mean?"
"I don't wish to fight again."
"I am sorry about that, by the by. What I said. When we fought ... it seems so long ago." Gwenllian shook her head. "I don't wish to fight either. But that reminds me, Geoffrey knew about you. Where is Mr. Faircross? Is he still here?"
"No, he left days ago. Isabella and Mariah are still here, though Isabella has made plans for her departure. Mariah has said nothing of parting from us, of course. She's worse than an infestation of fleas, that girl. One just cannot get rid of her."
Gwenllian chuckled. That was certainly the way she felt about Mariah. "Anyhow, Geoffrey knew, so you had best keep to yourself for a while."
"I already intended to," her sister responded haughtily.
"Oh. Well, good. Now what did you not want to fight about?"
"Him."
"Mr. Wyckliff."
"Yes." Letticia folded her arms across her chest. "You have compromised yourself somewhat regarding this man, but you cannot possibly marry him."
"Why not?"
Letticia rolled her eyes. "Must I spell it out?"
"Depends what you are spelling. Snobbery? Pretentiousness? Can you spell pretentiousness?"
"Don't be flippant. Our parents would have an apoplectic fit if you married so far beneath you. And you know they'd blame me. I would never hear the end of it. You cannot do it."
Gwenllian sighed. "Do you have any reasons not directly involving yourself?"
Letticia answered immediately, "He cannot love you."
"Thank you very much."
"Think on it. He was on some, mission. If you hadn't been his voucher into Primroselea he would never have looked at you twice."
Gwenllian frowned but said nothing. Part of her brain agreed with Letticia. Of course his love was false. How could it be otherwise? She should have known from the first. Why would such a handsome man as he wish to be in her company when no other man would? Clearly an ulterior motive was present. She had been a goose not to see it.
And yet, how pleasurable it had been to be a goose.
"He would have cultivated the acquaintance of whoever could get him into Primroselea, and you know it," her sister continued. "How could you ever trust a man like that? Now, granted, if anyone but ourselves had witnessed your transgressions..."
"Well, really," Gwenllian huffed.
"I would have had to insist on his marrying you. But I don't think your situation has sunk to such a state of affairs, and I'm not forcing you into a marriage without love."
Gwenllian sighed again. Letticia meant well. She knew firsthand the heartache such an arrangement could inflict. She was trying to be helpful.
"You need not worry. He specifically said he would not marry me."
"Of all the nerve," her sister snapped, outraged on her behalf. "I don't see why you waste your time on him."
"Let us say 'tis better than being out there with Mariah."
"La! That's true enough." Letticia chuckled. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"
"You could bring me Oliver. Is he still in the kitchen?"
"As it is dinner time, I would venture to guess yes." Letticia headed for the door. "I will even walk him for you first. Never say I do nothing for you."
The next night, Daniel opened his eyes.
Gwenllian had been resting her head upon the edge of his mattress when she felt him stir fretfully. She jerked upright and moved to watch his haggard, unshaven face, dreading that the candlelight would reveal the return of his pain. Instead she was rewarded by the sight of him blinking slowly, several times. He was regaining consciousness.
Her heart raced with joy. He blinked again and then suddenly he was gazing up at her. His entire countenance seemed to change in that moment, as if jolted back to life. His eyes sparked with vitality that his body could not match yet. Her breath caught in her throat. How she had missed his mesmerizing hazel eyes.
She inhaled. "How do you feel?"
His lips gradually formed a lopsided grin. "Better for seeing you." His voice was hoarse and each word cost him some little effort.
Limbs stiff from long hours of sitting, she lurched for the cup resting upon the bedside table near the graceful candelabrum. "I have a tonic here. It has honey in it."
She leaned forward, one hand resting on the mattress, and helped Daniel take a sip.
"I am so relieved I cannot tell you. No, you must finish all the tonic. I feared you would never wake again. This is such good news." She paused, trying to control the tumult of emotion squirming for release within her: elation, relief, gratitude, hysteria. She took a deep breath before continuing lightly, "For one thing it means that now I'll be away to my own bed."
Her supporting hand still resting on the mattress, she twisted to replace the empty cup upon the table. As she turned back, she saw Daniel's hand creeping toward hers upon the coverlet.
When his fingers touched hers, it was a light, cautious touch, as if he feared she might snatch her hand away. She did not. He covered her hand, took her hand in his. His skin was warm and dry, his grip gentle. "Stay."
Gwenllian shifted so she might rest her hip against the bed and yet continue to allow him to hold her hand. "You may not know it, but I have stayed. I have stayed here so long that my back is comprised of pain and aches rather than bones and my legs have become one with that chair. What I would give to lie flat." She stopped, dreadfully aware of how her voice quavered. What must he think of her? He was the one who had suffered and here she was bleating and moaning.
But he continued to grin at her.
Oliver, who had been standing alertly beside the chair ever since Gwenllian's lunge to her feet had awakened him, now hopped about at the side of the bed, huffing and wheezing. Even he did not deign to whine. But he could not have been more articulate with words that he wanted to be up on the mattress where the action was.
"No, Oliver."
Oliver scrunched down, readying to launch himself into the air. Clearly he was determined that if she would not pick him up, then he would do it himself.
"You shan't make it," she warned. "This bed's too tall."
Daniel made a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. "Put pudgy pug up here."
"Are you certain?"
He nodded. "You can all climb in."
She tried not to scowl. But his words hurt. They reminded her of reality. He did not actually want her in his bed. He said that only because he knew she would not take him up on the offer. He had told her plainly he did not wish to marry her. She would have to be featherbrained to compromise herself with him after that. She took back her hand and stepped away from the bed.
"No, thank you, sir. And if you are well enough to tease me then I feel confident enough in your health that I may take my leave of you."
He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. The sheet slid down as he did so, revealing the bare skin of his sleekly muscled chest. "Beg pardon, lass. Don't leave."
With a mighty leap, Oliver propelled himself up onto the bed. His hind feet had to scrabble on the edge of the mattress while the bed boards squeaked and the mattress slightly swayed but then he was up and waddling toward Daniel's face. Gwenllian skipped forward to rescue Daniel from unrestrained pug enthusiasm.
Pointing Oliver's hairy body toward the foot of the bed, she gave to Daniel the smile which her pug's antics had raised. "No, I beg your pardon. My emotions are all fluttered together tonight."
Daniel patted the mattress at his side. "Come rest."
"I couldn't possibly."
"Rest."
"Just because my dog is mad for your bed doesn't mean I am."
"Rest." He growled the word like a command but she could tell he did not mean it harshly.
She smiled. "I take orders from you, do I?"
"Aye, Princess, tha does."
His voice, especially when it slipped into that husky accent, lit such pleasurable fires in her belly. She shook her head. She would have to be featherbrained. She certainly felt lightheaded and featherbrained. It would be so nice to lie down. And it would be so deliciously decadent to lie down on his bed. After all this, she deserved something deliciously decadent.
Drat. She was as determined as her pug to get into his bed. Would Oliver qualify as a chaperone? Nevermind.
"I shall take you up on your solicitous proposal. But if we are discovered, you will be forced to offer for me and you shall only have yourself to blame."
"Duly noted."
She put out the candles and then crawled up on the mattress, unsuccessful in her attempt to limit the subtle rocking and creaking caused by her joining him, and lay down on top of the bedclothes. Oliver trundled up the bed, snorting happily, always pleased to have company. Gwenllian turned on her side, her back to Daniel, and threw her arm around wriggling Oliver to keep him from snuffling her face. After a moment he flopped down next to her stomach and heaved a relaxed, snorting sigh.
But Gwenllian could not relax. Heart thumping in her ears, she held her body rigid, careful not to let herself touch Daniel for fear of aggravating one of his injuries. He, however, seemed to have no such concerns. She had not been settled long when she felt the bed shift as he awkwardly inched over. She held her breath.
Only a sheet, a blanket, and a coverlet separated her body from his. She might be fully clothed but she knew from having helped to bathe him during his infirmity that he wore nothing underneath that sheet.
Remembrances flashed through her brain, swift images of how he had looked. His battle scars, both old and new, had only added to the rugged appeal of his superbly sculptured form. Granted, Letticia had banished her from the room so that she would not see everything. But what she had seen could have no equal elsewhere.
She felt the solid form of his body pressing lightly against her back, a surprisingly intimate position despite the layers between them. The bedclothes shifted as he moved, then his hand rested upon her upper arm. The pressure of his grip was gentle, but possessive. She could not see them in the dark, but from his grip she could imagine how his long fingers looked curled around her arm. Then he tenderly stroked from her shoulder down to her wrist, and back up again.
"The touch of thee's magic," he mumbled drowsily.
His hand stayed on her shoulder. Only a short time later his regular breathing indicated he was asleep. That observation was her last conscious thought before sleep claimed her as well.
The following morning Daniel, with the assistance of two footmen, was fit enough to leave his bed for a proper bath. The maids took this opportunity to provide his mattress with clean linens and the room with a thorough airing. Gwenllian was on hand to inspect the finished product. With all the windows flung open and the sunlight gushing in, it hardly looked like a sickroom anymore. One would never realize all the desperate hours she had spent in here.
To preserve her modesty, Gwenllian was forced to vacate the room when Daniel was ready to be returned. She was not allowed back in until he was appropriately situated in bed, the bedclothes up to his chin, and Letticia was sitting watchfully in a corner of the room.
"Apparently one of the maids found us sleeping last night and reported us," Gwenllian told Daniel, aiming a wry grin at their observer. "I am no longer allowed to have unsupervised visits with you. Apparently I cannot be trusted not to fling myself into your bed at a moment's notice."
"No, you cannot be trusted," her sister replied irritably. "That's the right of it."
"Though if you offer for me..." Gwenllian waited. Daniel did not seem to recognize his cue. "If you offer for me, then any previous indiscretions will be forgiven."
"You think he'll offer for you?" Letticia's contemptuous snort could be heard clear across the chamber. "Men who get free milk don't buy the cow."
"He has not got free milk, er, a free cow. Nevermind! Give us some peace back there." Gwenllian rolled her eyes. Grabbing a chair, she sat as close to his bed as physically possible. "You invited me into your bed," she whispered. "I thought perhaps..."
"It was a moment of weakness. I shall not do so again." The words were quiet, unemotional. But his eyes betrayed him.
"I do not believe you," she responded, her voice hushed. "You mean to say you still do not wish to marry me?"
"Something like."
"What, exactly, like?" she snapped before realizing she had raised her voice.
"What are you discussing over there?" asked Letticia.
"Nothing!" She looked expectantly at Daniel.
"However much I might wish to marry you, I will not," he whispered. "I value you too highly to see you brought low."
"Whatever do you mean? I have no title, no noble blood. My family's connections relate only to commerce, which to Society makes us barely legitimate."
"Remember, I am not legitimate at all."
"If anyone was allowed to speak of what you did, if the whole thing were not some national secret, you would be a celebrated hero."
He chuckled, but it was a sound of mirthless derision. "I simply did what must be done."
Gwenllian was hard pressed not to hiss in frustration. "So was I merely your voucher into Primroselea then? Your mission is finished, so now you discard me as you would do any Jezebel you used in the stews."
Daniel propped himself up on his elbows. "'Any Jezebel'? You think..."
"I am certain I do not need to be told what I think."
"Adjust the covers, his chest is showing," called Letticia.
Daniel swore softly, but held the sheet up with one hand while he leaned toward Gwenllian. "Listen, if you think I am some sort of hero, then you must apprehend that what I am doing is for your own good."
She crossed her arms. "So then, what will you have me be, your mistress?"
"Heaven save me from you, woman." He laughed. "You are irrepressible."
"What did you say, Gwenllian?" her sister called over, alert and alarmed.
Gwenllian ignored her. "I do not see why I cannot be your mistress," she whispered at Daniel.
"Because seducing you would be the antithesis of heroic."
"But I thought that was what rakes did."
"I am not actually a rake." He sounded embarrassed. "That was attributed to me as part of my masquerade. Truthfully, I have little experience of women I did not pay for. But I'm not poxed," he added defensively.
"I know. Mr. Sanderson proclaimed you an extraordinarily healthy specimen, except for being hacked up like a joint of beef."
"I am certain I heard the word 'poxed.' I am coming over there," Letticia declared.
"'Tis nothing, stay where you are," ordered Gwenllian. She turned back to Daniel. "So you are determined never to see me again, is that it?"
He lay back and closed his eyes. "I am determined to do what is right. I am determined to see you happy."
"Impossible. The one excludes the other," she warned him as she stood, knocking back her chair and not caring if her sister heard her words.
Then she stormed out the door. She did not return to Daniel's bedchamber at all that day, nor that night. Let him see what parting would be like. He would miss her. He would ask for her. Eventually he would come around to her point of view.
Wouldn't he?
"Mrs. Wood wishes to take leave of you," Letticia announced as she entered the library.
Gwenllian looked up from her book. "Why?"
"Courtesy does not need logic. Go, so we might be rid of her."
Gwenllian groaned, but she placed the pale ribbon inside her book to mark her place and stood.
"You can walk faster than that," her sister scolded from the library door where she remained.
"No, for Isabella I cannot."
Though she moved through the house with slow reluctance, it was not long before Gwenllian was descending the grand stone steps to the carriage sweep where Isabella stood beside her fine carriage. Her fine carriage that the Baron most likely bought for her.
Isabella smiled as she approached. "I wanted to give you my compliments on your victory."
"Pardon?"
"Mr. Wyckliff is a handsome man." Isabella winked.
Gwenllian narrowed her eyes as she fleetingly debated whether to acknowledge Isabella's insinuation. She decided a noncommittal answer was best. "He is at that."
"Not many men would prefer you to me."
She gave Isabella an ironic smile. "Absolutely none, I should say."
Isabella ducked her head. "I did not mean that the way it sounded. I meant that he must be exceedingly fond of you."
"Oh." Gwenllian could not think of a suitable response. Yes, Daniel might like her, but he had refused to even have the keeping of her---and she was certainly not about to inform Isabella of that. She decided to change the subject. "Shall you be leaving the Baron?"
"You know, then." She shrugged. "Perhaps. I am tiring of all the secrecy Edgar requires. But I shall have to see what is new upon the market in London."
"And the fact that you are using someone else's husband does not trouble you?"
Isabella smiled again. "His choices are no fault of mine. He is free to leave me whenever his conscience obtains the upper hand. Speaking of choices, you might tell your sister to be more circumspect."
Gwenllian drew herself up to her full height and replied frostily, "I am certain I do not know what you mean."
Isabella laughed. It was a light, musical sound. "I suspect no one will ever know what I mean---and Mariah is most vexed about that. Especially as she was so close to showing the Baron proof."
Gwenllian could feel her stomach icing over. This was not good. "So Mariah shared her preposterous suspicions with you. Will you now share them with the Baron?"
"On what evidence?" Isabella shook her head. "A good mistress knows what gossip not to repeat."
"Even though it might be beneficial to you?"
"How do you mean?"
"He might marry you in Letticia's place."
Isabella sighed and gave her a condescending look. "You think men marry their mistresses?"
"They might do."
Isabella slowly nodded. "So that's the way it stands with Mr. Wyckliff, is it?"
"I said nothing of the sort." Gwenllian was appalled. Appalled that somehow Isabella had gotten close to the truth.
Isabella was not listening. "I once said you and I were much in sympathy."
"I am not going to be his mistress!"
The rest of her outraged protests had to be cut short as Letticia and the Baron came down the steps to join in the goodbyes. For a group that had so many secrets between them, it was a fairly succinct but frightfully polite leave-taking. Then Isabella's carriage rolled away with a mass of jangling and creaking and a flurry of pebbles.
"Scotland?" Gwenllian gasped.
"You haven't seen our house in Scotland yet," explained Letticia. She sounded serene, but her eyes repeatedly avoided Gwenllian's gaze. "You will find it most agreeable."
"I cannot believe you are sending me to Scotland." She shook her head. This morning was not starting out at all well.
Letticia clasped her hands together and stared at her bedroom's carpeting as if she had never seen it before. "But you shall enjoy it. Really you shall."
"We both know what this is actually in aid of. You wish to remove me from Mr. Wyckliff's presence."
"Distance will give you better perspective on the matter. Edgar thinks it a superb idea."
"I do not need to mind his ideas," Gwenllian replied, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "He is not my husband."
Letticia glanced up. "You know our parents would agree."
She crossed her arms. There was so much anger and frustration building within her chest she felt like she might explode.
"Gwenllian." Her sister started forward, arms outstretched as if intending to hug her, but Gwenllian backed away rapidly until her heels thumped against Letticia's closed bedroom door.
"I know they would agree, of course they would agree," Gwenllian snapped. "'Tis a good idea, yes, yes, yes. But no one in Society wants to marry me! I know that. You know that. The Baron and our parents know that. Why cannot I have this one bit of happiness? I apprehend full well that the wife takes the status of her husband. I would sink to Daniel's, to Mr. Wyckliff's status. But would it be asking too much for my family to simply ignore me?"
"We want what is best for you." Letticia sighed. "Will Mr. Wyckliff marry you, then?"
Tears were pooling in Gwenllian's eyes. She tried not to blink. She did not want to cry.
"When do I leave?"
"But..."
"You have hit upon the only flaw in my plan." She tried to smile. "Mr. Wyckliff has no intention of keeping me. He has not even asked to see me since---"
"Then it is just as well you are to go tomorrow."
Gwenllian could not believe her ears. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow morning," her sister amended. "Patsy will have you all packed, and she will even accompany you. I know it is a long journey. But 'tis for the best."
Gwenllian nodded. She fumbled for the doorknob. Villainous thing would not open. She managed to maintain her dignity through three attempts before she successfully stepped into the corridor and calmly closed the door behind her.
Then, hot tears blurring her vision, she ran pell-mell to her bed chamber. Oliver looked up at her from the bed as she entered. As she was not carrying any treats, he flopped over and went back to sleep.
"They're sending us to Scotland," she informed him as she swung the door shut.
Oliver snored.
"Yes, well, I shall remember this the next time you want sympathy." She crossed to the closest chair, sat and cried. It was several minutes before she could think on the fact that she would never see Daniel again. The man she loved.
Loved.
Gwenllian's trembling fingers rubbed away her tears. What kind of love foists itself where it is not wanted? He had his own exciting life to lead. He was quite right not to want to marry her. And he was being honorable in not wanting to keep her as a mistress. What had she been thinking? Mistress, indeed. The problem was with her. If she genuinely loved him, she would let him go.
Letticia tapped her fingernails on her writing desk, and was amazed at how loud the resultant clicking sounded. The house was so empty. She was going to be so dreadfully bored. Edgar had said she might go visiting, but what fun would that be when she could not speak of all the excitement they'd had?
The General or Major or whatever that nice militiaman called himself---and rather a handsome sort he was, too---had told them that the whole French incident was to be kept quiet. He obviously did not understand the value of a good story at a dinner party. Men were like that.
Men. When would she see Hugh again? To have no set date to look forward to. There was a terrible sadness in her heart, practically a physical pain. Gwenllian was right, as usual, she really should stay away from him for a while. Give meddlesome Mariah a chance to cool down, to find a more interesting target somewhere else.
But it was so difficult not to think of him. He was constantly in her mind. It was like a disease. She had come down with an acute case of Hugh Faircross.
At least that was better than what Gwenllian suffered from. Imagine falling in love with such a plebeian creature. Low-bred, low-born. What sort of provider was that? Why, she'd be practically indigent. Might as well start trolling the dockyards now and be done with it. She must protect her sister from such a fate.
A sudden thump at the doorway startled Letticia from her thoughts. Her head jerked up, eyes darting to the doorway, and she was confronted with the astonishing sight of Mr. Wyckliff, out of bed, fully clothed right down to his boots, and leaning heavily on the doorjamb.
Letticia gasped. "What are you doing? You should be in bed."
Mr. Wyckliff approached her. He moved as if his every joint were rusty. Even from this distance, she could tell he was suffering.
"Where is Miss Lloyd?" he growled.
She moved her desk and stood. "You're not fit to be up yet."
"Where is Miss Lloyd?" Impatience gave his words a sharp edge. He was close now.
"I am sure I do not know."
She started to step away from him, to put a safer distance between them, but Mr. Wyckliff grabbed her by the wrist. His grip was surprisingly harsh. No one handled her this way. How dare he! She glared at him with all the outrage she could muster, but the grim light in his eyes withered her protest before it reached her tongue.
"You shall tell me in the end, so you might as well tell me now."
His ruthless expression reminded her that he had not come by his injuries from a game of whist. For a heartbeat, she felt the cold hand of fear clutch at her insides. But she was not about to let him see it.
She gave a disdainful sniff. "You are no gentleman, sir."
He grinned pleasantly. "Aye, true enough. So tell me where she's gone."
Letticia attempted to yank her wrist free but his grip only tightened. She puffed and tussled for a moment, but Mr. Wyckliff held her fast with ease.
"You'll do yourself a mischief," he advised.
She scowled at him, but stopped struggling. "Gwenllian is no longer here."
"So I noticed."
"Unhand me and I'll tell you where she is."
Mr. Wyckliff grinned again. "Liar."
Letticia glowered. "Impertinent brute."
She kicked at him but he did not seem to mind. In fact, other than holding her in place, his comportment was surprisingly benign.
"I must find her. You know I must," he said quietly.
"And what will you do? Take her away to live in a hovel?" she snapped.
Mr. Wyckliff released her wrist. He spun on his heel and stepped away toward the window.
Letticia pressed her unexpected advantage. "You are inferior to her, you know that. Gwenllian deserves to marry---"
"An impotent, old man like yours?"
"An aristocrat," she corrected. "Or at least a member of the gentry. Someone who can keep her safe. Someone who can keep her in style. You cannot keep her in style, can you?"
"No, my Lady," he muttered. His hands clenched into fists, but they stayed at his sides.
"Neither can you keep her safe. You're some sort of soldier, correct? So she'd either be spending her days alone, at the mercy of anyone, waiting for word that you're dead, or be risking her life in war zones. What kind of life is that?"
Mr. Wyckliff turned to face her. His eyes blazed, yet there was also a sort of sadness deep behind the anger.
"For what 'tis worth, I agree with you." He had more to say, but she noticed him forcibly stop himself and take a deep breath before continuing. "The lass deserves better than me. I simply want her to know that."
"She knows it."
"I want her to know it from my lips, not yours."
Letticia could feel herself weakening. He seemed so earnest. But it was precisely this type of scenario her sister must avoid. If he came to her all sincere like this, Gwenllian would melt faster than ice under boiling water---who in their right mind would not? It was up to her to keep her sister's marriage prospects on course. She must be strong.
Letticia drew herself up to her full height. "I am sorry for you," she said, trying to sound detached. "But I cannot help."
Daniel hobbled toward the door. Lady Berwentford was not going to tell him anything. She had called his bluff. He could hardly beat the information out of her. But there were other ways of finding out what he wanted to know.
It was a long, painful process, going down the stairs. But each step took him closer to the front door, closer to the outside, closer to the stables. There had to be some stable lad who, for a few coins, would be glad to tell him what had been ordered, horse or carriage, for Gwenllian. He might even obtain the likely destination.
He rounded the curve of the staircase and was surprised to see Miss Howard sitting on the bottom step. Her back was to him, but he knew it was her. Her presence was unexpected not only because he had assumed that all the houseguests had left, but because she did not seem the type to sit on anything but finely upholstered furniture.
She did not move even though he knew she must hear his laborious approach. When at last he reached her step, she turned and looked up at him. Her expression was thoughtful. One might almost call it calculating.
"Letticia does not wish you to find Miss Lloyd." It was a bland statement of fact.
"No, miss." Daniel kept his voice as disinterested as hers sounded.
"And you have no money, I hear," she continued.
"None at all."
Miss Howard nodded to herself. "You are completely unsuitable."
"Thank you."
Miss Howard had the grace to blush. "I meant for me." She turned so she could look up at the portraits lining the near wall and pretend her thoughts were upon them. "Letticia can be exceedingly vexing," she murmured.
Daniel waited. Miss Howard wished to make a point. She would get to it eventually.
"She thinks Miss Lloyd should marry a gentleman," Miss Howard continued. "Miss Lloyd would make a poor wife for a gentleman, but she might make do as a poor wife."
Daniel ignored the insult. Miss Howard still seemed pensive. She possessed information about Miss Lloyd, he was certain. The proper words would win it from her, and he had a suspicion he knew what words might work the charm.
"That is not why Lady Berwentford refuses to tell me where she has gone."
Miss Howard looked over at him again. She was frowning. "Why, then?"
"Because I shall not marry Miss Lloyd. I wish to inform her of this to her face."
"Oh. How beastly. In that case..." Miss Howard stood and brushed her palms off on her dress. "She has taken the old north road through Chiptonbury. I believe she is heading to Lord Berwentford's Scottish estate."
The Prancing Pig was not the finest inn in Chiptonbury, but it was clean and she was able to eat in the privacy of her own room. The innkeeper had set up a simple, wooden table and chair in the space between Gwenllian's bed, its tall bedstead hiding the pull-out truckle bed for Patsy underneath, and the hearth. The small fire crackling in the fireplace and the two candles, partially melted to their modest candlesticks, glowing upon the table gave the room a cozy atmosphere, though such light was not entirely necessary. The sun was only just beginning to descend.
Gwenllian sat and picked at her trencher of cold roast beef. Well, she could have eaten in her room if she had had the appetite for it. Food held no interest for her. Nothing held any interest for her. Which was a pity because Scotland was supposed to be beautiful. At any other time in her life she would have been thrilled at the prospect of a long journey and the subsequent opportunity to explore a new, enchanting countryside. But now.
She needed a new brain. This one was too awash in regret. Regret that she had left, and without saying goodbye to Daniel. Regret that she had fallen in love. If she died of a broken heart, she would damn well find Daniel and haunt him about it. She sighed. She might regret leaving, but she could not have stayed. He did not want to marry her. Thank you very much, indeed.
But what had she expected? He had been honest with her. He had never promised her anything. There was no understanding between them. Other than that he was blameless and she was a featherbrained cake. So why stay to mope around Primroselea when she could be moping around Scotland?
She picked some more at the cold beef. It was no use. She leaned over to put the trencher down for Oliver. He danced about impatiently and buried his short muzzle in it the moment it was solidly on the floor. The pug found the beef most impressive.
A single, resounding knock at her closed door made both Gwenllian and Oliver jump. Such power was unlikely to come from Patsy's hands. She was not expecting anyone else.
She rushed to the door and locked it before she called, "Who is there?"
"Open the door." The command was muffled by the solid wood between them but it was a decidedly male voice.
Gwenllian stepped backwards until she bumped into the little table and had to whirl to catch the candlesticks. She took a deep breath. She wasn't such a fool that she would open the door to a stranger. And of the men she knew in her life, there was not one she wished to speak to at present. She released the steadied candles and slowly turned back around to gaze at the closed door. It was the only thing protecting her from the public inn's other occupants, who might be highwaymen, lechers, or drunkards. The door would remain locked.
"No," Gwenllian shouted. "Patsy!"
Her refusal was met with another resounding blow. Then the wood around the lock splintered with a sharp crack and with the next blow the door banged open.
Daniel Wyckliff had kicked the door in.
He stood in the doorway, grinning roguishly at her, even though he looked like death. "Beggin' thy pardon, miss. The door was locked."
Gwenllian was laughing in astonishment. She clasped her hands together merrily. "You are not yet well enough to be up and about, let alone breaking down doors. And, might I add, how dare you! I---or rather, Letticia---shall have to pay for that now." She knew her concurrent laughter belied her chastising words, but she was too pleasantly surprised to see him for her tone to be anything but cheerful.
Daniel stepped across the wreckage of the threshold. Behind him, Patsy ran up. She was carrying Gwenllian's requested ginger beer but much of it had splashed down the front of her dress in her hurry.
"Oh, miss!" she cried out, alarmed.
Daniel looked over his shoulder at her. "Get out," he commanded. He took another arduous step into the room, then looked back again and amended his demand. "Get out, please."
"'Tis fine, Patsy. I should not have called for you. Everything is fine."
Patsy looked nervously from Gwenllian to Daniel. She was absolutely correct in thinking things did not look fine. Gwenllian crossed to the bed where she had deposited her reticule, searched through her coins and withdrew a golden half-guinea. Daniel meanwhile reached the chair she had vacated earlier and collapsed into it. With some effort, he bent over and did his best to pet Oliver, who was wagging wildly and whining to be greeted. She strode to Patsy's side.
"Everything is fine," she reassured the maid. "Here." Gwenllian pressed the half-guinea into her palm. "Might you be able to amuse yourself for a few hours with this?"
Patsy's eyes glowed. "Yes, miss," she replied, her tone one of breathy excitement. She promptly withdrew.
"You gave too large a bribe," Daniel commented.
Gwenllian walked back to stand at his side. "You did not see what I gave her."
"I could tell from her face. For such a sum, she is most likely certain you intend to ravish me."
Gwenllian crossed her arms, suddenly feeling rather defensive. "Why are you here?"
"I am not altogether certain myself. It had something to do with not marrying you."
"I already know that tune," she snapped. "Try something else if you wish to entertain."
"I want you to understand."
"I understand completely."
"No, I do not think that you do." He paused, his eyebrows knit together. "Think on it like this: Would you take Oliver into a war zone? Of course not. You want him to be safe, and indulged, and treated like royalty. That is what I want for you." He sighed and glanced away. "You will always be what I am fighting for, but what I cannot have for myself."
"True, I want the best for Oliver," she began slowly. "But if I were to ask him, and he were to say that he accepted the risk and wanted to come with me, I would let him." She grinned. "I would be mad, of course, for I would be talking to a dog, but we would be together. That is all I ask from you."
He laughed and raised his eyes to hers. "What, madness?"
She gently poked him in the chest. "You know what I meant."
He caught her hand in his. "Aye, lass, but I am that mad about you and no mistake." He turned her hand and lightly kissed the back of it. His lips were warm and dry. "But any union between us would be doomed to failure."
"I prefer your actions to your discouraging words." She freed her hand from his. "Besides, it need not be an official union." She walked to the other side of the room. "I might not wish to marry." She turned to face him. "Ever. I wager I could be like Isabella if I put my mind to it."
"'Tis not an occupation that relies on minds."
"You may mock me, but I daresay I could earn my livelihood in that manner if I tried."
He nodded thoughtfully. "You might do. But as I would have to kill any man who so much as laid a finger on you, I could not in fairness recommend such a course."
She paced back to his side. "And what would you do if I found this rich, phantom husband that you think waits to indulge me? Kill him, too? You are illogical, sir."
He looked down at the floor, where Oliver had resumed eating the cold beef. For a moment the only sounds in the room were the munching of the pug and the rasping of Daniel's breath.
When Daniel glanced up at her once again, the unspoken plea in his intense gaze was answered by thrills and pangs deep within her body. "I am attempting to do what is honorable, and I do not have much honor with which to work. If you continue to fight me on this, I warrant I will give in. Flee while you still have the chance. Please."
"I do not want to flee. And I do not require you to marry me. I am willing to simply tag along with you. I was never much in Society's eye, so if I disappear I doubt anyone will even notice. Letticia will forgive me, eventually, and until then I have money she gave me that I have saved. You can't possibly be that expensive to follow if you are as poor as you say."
He snorted. "Much as I would enjoy that, we can hardly jounce along as we are."
"And why not?"
"First off, your sister will have fits heard across five counties. But even after that, you could never attend any of the amusements of your class. You could never visit anyone. Anywhere you showed your face, whispers and insults would follow you. In order to maintain their own reputations, your relations would have nothing to do with you."
"I pay no mind to that."
He inhaled deeply. "Don't mind when it is too late." He stood, using one hand on the chair for support. The other arm he wrapped around Gwenllian and drew her against him. "If tha wilt nail th'self to me, 'twill be for good an' all. I shall never let thee go."
Mindful of his healing wounds, Gwenllian tenderly embraced him. "Promises, promises," she teased.
He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I am being serious."
"So am I. What do you think of Scotland?"
He chuckled. "Pardon?"
"Oliver and I are on our way to Scotland. I hear recuperation is quite good there this time of year."
"And what would Lady Berwentford say to my presence?"
Gwenllian giggled. "We just won't inform her immediately."
"I will have to advise Nigel Adamstone where I am, though I doubt he cares where I convalesce." Daniel shifted. Gwenllian felt him kiss the top of her head. "Out of curiosity, Princess, and 'tis only curiosity, mind you."
"Yes?"
"How close is where we are going to Gretna Green?"
Gwenllian looked up and met Daniel's mesmerizing hazel eyes and his bright, lawless smile.
This was going to be a splendid beginning.
Susanne Saville has earned a Master's Degree in History and a second Master's Degree in Library Science. The casual observer might suppose that this primarily qualifies her to dispense fries at fast-food restaurants. However, Ms. Saville has worked as a Reference Librarian and as a History instructor at Georgia Military College. She currently resides in New England and, along with writing, delights in researching, spending quality time with her cat, and eating fries at fast-food restaurants.
Visit www.wings-press.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

