* * *
Wings ePress, Inc
www.wings-press.com
Copyright ©2007 by Susanne McCaffery Saville
First published in 2007, 2007
* * *
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
* * *
The Secret Hunter
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.
Wings
The Secret Hunter
by
Susanne Saville
A Wings ePress, Inc.
Regency Historical Novel
Wings ePress, Inc.
Edited by: Cindy Davis
Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds
Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges
Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens
Cover art: Pat Casey
Photo: Norhidayah Azman
All rights reserved
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.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Wings ePress Books
www.wings-press.com
Copyright © 2007 by Susanne Saville
ISBN 978-1-59705-161-3
Published In the United States Of America
September 2007
Wings ePress Inc.
403 Wallace Court
Richmond, KY 40475
Dedication
For Dudley
One
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."
The Secret Hunter Page 1