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."
The Secret Hunter Page 2