Love and Larceny (2 page)

Her icy-eyed mother already suspected as
much, even if Daphne didn’t. Lady Rollings had made it very clear
that she’d taken his measure and found him lacking. Very likely she
was hoping for a title for her celebrated daughter.

Or at least a man who was whole.

“I’d be delighted to help,” he assured her.
“But I haven’t been invited.”

“I’ll arrange it,” she promised. “It isn’t as
if you’ll get a better offer for a summer party.”

“In a manor riddled with secret passages,” he
agreed. He ought to take umbrage on any number of points: that she
hadn’t realized he was serious in his pursuit of her, that she
thought he’d drop everything to help her. But Daphne, he’d learned,
was singularly focused. She’d meant no harm.

And if he went with her, perhaps he’d have an
opportunity to prove the depth of his affections for her. Even a
lame man might solve a mystery.

“So you’ll come?” she asked, tone soft and
beseeching, eyes the color of cornflowers staring at him. Those
pink lips were pursed just so, as if she waited for his kiss. How
could any sane man refuse?

“Of course,” Wynn said. “What else would a
suitor do?”

It took a little effort, but Daphne managed
to convince her mother to allow her to ride to Brentfield with Wynn
in his phaeton.

“But you must travel directly in front of
us,” her mother had insisted, “so that we can render aid if
necessary.”

“So she can keep an eye on you, she means,”
Ariadne had murmured to Daphne. “You are welcome to ride with
Sinclair and me.”

And watch her sister and her betrothed bill
and coo? No, thank you. “Wynn prefers to drive,” Daphne had
confided. “And you know he’ll let me take a turn at the reins.”

Ariadne had smiled in understanding. That was
the nice thing about having a sister only a year younger—Ariadne
was also a friend. At times, though, Daphne wondered why they had
so little in common. Certainly they did not resemble each other,
for Ariadne was curved where Daphne was lanky, and her sister’s
light brown hair was straight where Daphne’s had a good deal of
bounce.

Then too, Ariadne excelled at more cerebral
pursuits. She remembered every bit of the plays, poetry, and prose
she so frequently read. Daphne was pleased she’d managed to
memorize parts of Lord Snedley’s guide to proper behavior earlier
that year. She’d hoped she might at last meet the standards of
propriety her mother set. Later, she’d learned that her sister had
penned the popular book under a
nom de plume
.

That discovery had hurt. She and Ariadne
never kept secrets from each other. Ariadne had apologized, but
just last month, she had hidden her involvement with the
intelligence corps. That was a requirement of the assignment, but
still. Her sister’s omissions proved to Daphne that the two of them
were growing apart, and this betrothal with Sinclair had only made
matters worse. Her sister had come across the handsome intelligence
agent while she and Lady Emily had been investigating blackmail
notes that kept appearing in Priscilla’s pocket. Ariadne had been
intrigued from the first and had gone out of her way to track
Sinclair down. The two had even pretended to be engaged for a time
to flush out a French spy. And now they truly were engaged.

“It’s as if I’m suddenly on my own,” Daphne
told Wynn as the two of them tooled along a country road, headed
for Somerset. Normally, she would have taken pleasure in the
rolling green hills that were perfect for riding and the meandering
streams that were perfect for boating. Now her problems seemed to
loom larger than the Mendip Hills in the distance.

“I know what you mean,” Wynn replied, gaze on
the winding road ahead, which cut through fields where sheep
roamed. “After the accident, my friends never seemed to know what
to say to me, as if I wouldn’t want to hear what they were doing if
I couldn’t join them. Eventually, they stopped coming to
visit.”

“Well, they weren’t very good friends, then,”
Daphne said. “I will never abandon my friends, whoever they marry.”
She shifted her muslin skirts on the bench, hoping to keep off a
little of the dust puffing up from the horses’ hooves. Her mother
insisted on white—white muslin for the day, white silk for the
evening. The color bored Ariadne beyond tears, but Daphne didn’t
normally mind. At least her mother let her have more vibrant colors
for her riding habits! She could hardly wait to pull one out of her
trunk and ride off across the Brentfield estate.

They talked of many things then, from
favorite subjects in school to plans for the future. Wynn wanted to
be an architect. She’d seen some of his sketches; he was quite
good. But most of all, she just enjoyed talking with him—she could
tell him anything, and he never chided her, even when she couldn’t
quite determine whether she was the Amazon or the Society belle
that day. Her mother was forever complaining about how Daphne moved
or what she said, while Daphne’s suitors always watched her if as
waiting for the next audacious thing she would do or say. With
Wynn, as with her other friends, she could simply relax.

They arrived at Brentfield the next day after
an overnight stay in Swindon. She couldn’t help smiling at the way
Wynn gaped at the massive house. Brentfield Manor had been
patterned after Kensington Palace, built from rose-colored brick
with wings stretching east and west from the three-story main
block. All the windows and the porticoed porch were edged in white.
The drive led up over a white stone bridge arching the stream that
fed a reflecting pond. As soon as Wynn reined in, an army of
footmen and grooms descended on them, taking charge of baggage and
horses. But Daphne’s gaze was all for her former art teacher, now
the Countess of Brentfield.

In the five months since Daphne had last seen
her, Hannah had changed little, and a great deal. She was still a
few inches shorter than Daphne, and she had kept the style of
braiding her long black hair around her head. Her wide
chocolate-colored eyes were tilted up in obvious pleasure. But
instead of her dark teacher’s frock, she wore a fashionable
lustring gown the color of violets, and she held herself confident,
poised, as if she knew who she was and where she belonged. Daphne
envied her that.

She dipped a curtsey. “Lady Brentfield. Thank
you for inviting us.”

Hannah’s rosy lips quirked. “That is quite
enough of the Lady Brentfield nonsense. I’m still not accustomed to
it, and I never use it with friends. I am Hannah, and you are very
welcome in our home, Daphne.”

Daphne grinned, rising. “I’m so glad.” She
turned and motioned Wynn forward. “Hannah, may I present Mr. Wynn
Fairfax, a particular friend of mine.”

Hannah raised her brows as if Daphne had said
something intriguing.

Wynn offered her a bow. “Your ladyship.”

She nodded as he straightened. “Mr. Fairfax.
Any friend of Daphne’s is certainly welcome here. Just know that
this is the first time my husband and I have entertained, so you
must tell us if we can do anything more to make you feel at
ease.”

“Such congenial company and pleasant
surroundings would put anyone at ease,” he assured her.

Daphne giggled. “Oh, you haven’t spent enough
time in our company. Something interesting always happens when the
four of us and Hannah get together.”

“David is determined that this house party
will be quite different from the last you spent at Brentfield,”
Hannah promised, twinkle in her eyes. “But I know you will help
solve that problem I posed to you all.”

Daphne nodded. “Certainly!”

Hannah smiled her thanks. “If you go inside,
our staff will see you to your rooms. I regret that Mr. Asheram has
taken leave of us, and most of the staff are new. You’ll likely
know the house better than they do. I’ll greet the rest of our
guests, and David and I will join you shortly in the Blue Salon.
He’d have been here himself, except he was called to the village on
urgent business.”

Daphne wasn’t sure why the earl would be
called to Wenwood, the little village to the west of the estate,
but she was certain David would handle the matter with his usual
aplomb. She’d warned Wynn on the way to be prepared for the open
manner of the soft-spoken Yank who had found himself the last heir
of Brentfield.

Wynn offered her his arm as if to escort her
to the house. Silly gesture. She was perfectly capable of climbing
the white stone steps by herself. As if he knew her thoughts, he
leaned closer and whispered, “I am your suitor, remember.”

Oh, right. They were supposed to be courting.
With a blush, she lay her hand on his.

But as they started up to the double doors
that led into the circular rotunda, she glanced about once more at
the magnificence that was Brentfield. She could just catch a
glimpse of the stables, where riding mounts would be standing ready
to take her flying across the fields, and the woods that flanked
the gardens behind the house.

Something moved along the edges, a man
hurrying deeper into the shadows of the trees. Very likely it was
no more than a gamekeeper doing his duty. But Daphne couldn’t help
feeling as if someone was watching them.

*

Wynn had once visited his distant relatives
the Darbys, who lived not far from Brentfield, but he had never
realized how Brentfield Manor dwarfed his cousin’s impressive
home.

Everywhere he looked, he saw grandeur and
refinement, exactly the sort of house he hoped to someday build.
The ceiling of the circular entry hall was easily three stories and
surmounted by a glass dome that streamed light down to the marble
floor. Each wall boasted artwork that might have graced one of His
Majesty’s palaces. Wynn was led to a room in the east wing, having
been assured by the footman that the house had been recently
renovated. If the elegant bed hangings and polished wood furniture
were any indication, Lady Brentfield had exquisite taste. But then,
Daphne had told him, she had been an art teacher and portrait
painter before marrying the unconventional earl.

After changing out of his travel dirt into
the navy coat and buff trousers of a gentleman, he followed the
helpful footman back to the Blue Salon, where the company had
assembled. He paused in the doorway, admiring the architectural
features: the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a vista out
across the fields, the wood-framed hearth flanked by massive
cerulean vases of an earlier century; the open beams on the high
ceiling. The color scheme was equally elegant, with gray-blue walls
behind a dozen or so armchairs and sofas patterned in blue and
white. Graceful statues filled the corners, and the paintings were
cool oceanscapes.

“Miss Pritchard, your former literature
teacher, sends her regards,” Lady Brentfield was telling the girls
as he crossed the threshold.

Daphne, her sister, and their friends were
clustered around the countess on one of the sofas and surrounding
chairs, their white, pink, and yellow muslin gowns reminding him of
tulips in the spring. Wynn knew Daphne’s friend Priscilla Tate was
accorded a great beauty, but he found her lustrous, wavy blond hair
and emerald eyes a bit overpowering. Lady Emily, daughter of the
Duke of Emerson, on the other hand, was too dark for his tastes, in
looks and demeanor.

Daphne was the perfect woman, as far as he
was concerned—bright, energetic, cheerful, and oh-so-talented. He
was the luckiest of men to have found a place at her side. Now if
he could just convince her to allow him to remain there, for all
his life.

“I also received a note from Acantha
Dalrymple this morning,” Lady Brentfield continued. “You remember
her.”

By the looks on Daphne and her friends’
faces, they remembered but not kindly.

“It seems she is to be married,” Hannah
continued undaunted.

“Really?” Priscilla drawled, doubt in each
syllable.

“To whom?” Lady Emily asked with a frown.

The countess smiled. “Mr. Horatio
Cunningham.”

Ariadne’s mouth hung open.

Daphne patted her sister’s hand. “I know you
once hoped to attract his attentions, but he was never good enough
for you. You are far better off with Sinclair.”

Wynn’s gaze veered to where her intended,
Lord Hawksbury, was standing by the hearth conversing with
Priscilla’s betrothed, Nathan Kent, and Emily’s guest, Sir James
Cropper. Hawksbury, who had asked them all to call him by his
family name of Sinclair, had raven hair and a powerful build; Kent
had brown hair and a friendly face; and Sir James had russet hair
and a cocky attitude. They too had donned the requisite navy coats
and buff trousers, though Sinclair and Sir James favored boots
while Kent wore practical shoes. No doubt Wynn should join them,
but he was tired of the pitying looks that always seemed to
accompany discussions on the
ton
once anyone recalled his
infirmity.

He glanced back to Daphne and her friends in
time to see Lady Emily’s look darken. She too seemed to have found
her classmate’s betrothal troubling. Then he remembered Daphne
mentioning that Sir James had yet to declare himself.

His carefully tied cravat suddenly felt
over-tight. One day soon he would declare his feelings to Daphne,
and he was none too sure of her answer.

The best he could hope was that he could
commend himself to her on this trip, one way or another. And he
could start by determining where this mystery was leading them.

Daphne spotted Wynn in the doorway and
beckoned him closer. The other gentlemen might be clustered around
the wood-wrapped hearth, but they were already spoken for. After
her gaff earlier, she was determined that she and Wynn would look
like a courting couple, which meant he ought to be near at
hand.

Besides, she wanted him to hear the answer to
the question Emily had just posed about why Hannah had asked them
all here. Daphne scooted Ariadne over on the sofa to make room for
Wynn.