The Secret Hunter Read online

  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. I
f 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 lady-like—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."

  Four

  "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.