The Secret Hunter Page 9

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 drawe
r? 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.
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  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.