"Often you would be right,” said a husky voice behind her.
Gwenllian stiffened. Mr. Wyckliff. He was standing behind her and he had heard. No wonder Mariah had been smiling so self-consciously. She had seen him approach. And the little she-viper had not warned her. Gwenllian's heart was a maelstrom of emotion as she turned to face him with as much dignity as she could scrape together.
"Mr. Wyckliff.” Gwenllian curtseyed.
"Shall you dance, Miss Lloyd?” He gazed directly into her eyes. There was such an extraordinary intensity to his look. Her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl's.
"Miss Lloyd rarely dances.” Mariah moved forward and deliberately stepped in front of her. Then, arm already lifted and waiting, Mariah posed in clear expectation of being led onto the dance floor.
Gwenllian clenched her jaw but politely drew back. Mariah had beauty, breeding and an impressive dowry waiting. No man would resist such a triumvirate.
"Your pardon, Miss Howard.” Mr. Wyckliff stepped around Mariah.
Gwenllian could not believe it. He was again standing in front of her, looking only at her. She found herself mesmerized by his intense hazel eyes.
"Shall you dance or shall I fetch you some white soup?” he asked with a kind smile.
"Dance,” she whispered, trying to remember how to breathe.
Two
Mariah was glaring daggers at her but Gwenllian did not care. One of the most handsome men in the room had asked her to dance. She could feel envious eyes boring holes in her from all sides. This must be what it is like to have rank or be beautiful.
"You will accept my apologies in advance if I am not the best partner?” Mr. Wyckliff asked.
"I expect you will put me to shame, sir. When she said ‘I rarely dance', Mariah was being quite truthful.” Gwenllian barely managed to stop herself from adding ‘for once'.
"Not to worry. I made certain this would be a triple minor before I asked you for the dance. If we can manage to position ourselves as one of the third couples, we shall dance very little."
She grinned. “An excellent stratagem."
"Am I as useful as your pug, then?” His eyes sparkled.
She ducked her head. He was referring to something she had said this morning. Was he encouraging her to acknowledge their meeting? She should ignore the comment, and yet ... She inhaled deeply and decided to be daring.
"I could not say, sir, until I have seen you put to more uses."
He raised an eyebrow. “Suggest something."
She swallowed. Her heart pounded in her ears. But she was still going to say it. After all, if he were truly a rake, he would appreciate the jest.
"Pugs make unparalleled bed warmers."
He gave her a wide grin. “Minx,” he whispered. His eyes flashed, but the emotion within was unfamiliar to her and thus unreadable.
The dance began, and they had been successful in their positioning. While the first couples progressed down the room, Gwenllian and Mr. Wyckliff were left to chat. It was the perfect moment to build on her audacious insinuation. They were as far away from Letticia or Mariah or any chaperoning presence as they were likely to get. But Gwenllian could think of nothing but the most dull and obvious question. Deciding it were better to be trite than silent, she asked it anyway. “Have you been in Bath long?"
"About a month."
"Truly? I wonder how it is we have not met before?"
He smiled. “I fear I came to Bath unfashionably, for my health rather than society. My injuries did not permit me..."
"Oh, of course, pray forgive me,” she interrupted. How could she have been so thoughtless? “That was a silly question. I do beg your pardon."
"But I have gradually expanded to the Pump Room and the Lower Rooms,” he continued amiably. “I suppose you spend most of your time in the Upper Rooms?"
She nodded. “I can be found there. Mostly I walk with Oliver, or when it rains I read indoors."
The second couples began their progress up the room.
"I imagine you also practice your piano forte and your singing, as any accomplished young lady does?"
She grinned wryly. “No, my main accomplishment is that I can pass for a lady."
A quizzical spark lit his eyes.
"My family is in trade,” she explained. “You might as well know now. Though I am quite surprised no one warned you."
"I believe I was warned. I saw no reason for it."
It came their turn to enter the dance before she could reply and she had to wait for them to cross before she could answer.
"Pretentious lower classes do not displease you?” she asked as he went by.
"You do not seem pretentious,” he answered on his return pass.
She had to wait until it was her turn to loop about him before she could respond. “I am named for a Welsh princess. So you see, I have been steeped in pretensions."
She waited on tenterhooks for him to promenade past her. Would he compliment her again or issue a subtle set down which, according to his class, her upstart background no doubt deserved?
"It does no harm to have a goal,” he stated, his equable attitude unchanged.
"A singular opinion,” she interjected before he was away again.
Upon his return, he would finish his remarks with the expected set down. She was certain of that. She hardened her heart against the upcoming slight. But again he surprised her.
"I am a singular gentleman.” Mr. Wyckliff grinned. He was laughing at some inner joke, but it was not aimed at her.
Indeed, his grin and the glint in his eyes as he gazed at her elicited the strangest warm feeling within her. It tingled in her limbs and flooded her chest. Her pulse quickened as she realized his earlier words might have been sincere.
"It is an opinion I wish more people shared,” she acknowledged, suddenly shy. If he insulted her now she would not be able to bear it.
The dance ended. The couples bowed and curtseyed each to the other. Gwenllian was afraid to look up, afraid that she had imagined the warmth and that his eyes would contain that same disinterested boredom she had seen time and again in the eyes of men who beheld her. She forced herself to look up into Mr. Wyckliff's face.
"Might I have a second dance?” he asked.
She nodded. Hazel eyes were lovely. This was the best ball she had ever attended by a clear mile. She was going to record this in her journal. Not that she had a journal. But she would start one immediately.
A hand caught her elbow. “Beg pardon, Mr. Wyckliff. So sorry, Gwenllian dear, but we must be going,” Letticia began. “Mariah has a headache and we must take her home."
Gwenllian frowned. She would be starting that journal a little bit later. Directly after killing Mariah.
Letticia hastened away toward the door where Mariah waited looking sallow and sour.
Gwenllian curtseyed to Mr. Wyckliff with far more grace than she felt. “Good night, Mr. Wyckliff. I am sorry."
"No more than I. Might I escort you to the door?"
"Thank you."
The vicinity of the doorway was fair deserted compared to the press of people deeper within the room. It was the perfect situation for quiet confidences, but Gwenllian's wits once more chose to abandon her. She could think of nothing clever to say.
Mariah and Letticia had already left. She was going to have to hurry. The pressure did not help matters. She gave up. “Good night, then, Mr. Wyckliff,” she said as they reached the door. “Thank you for the dance.” The words sounded terribly lame.
Mr. Wyckliff bowed. Before he moved away he spoke, his husky voice low and his northern—perhaps Yorkshire—accent more pronounced. Only Gwenllian was close enough to hear. “Good night, Princess."
* * * *
Sun-filled as the following morning was, its luster was now lost on Gwenllian as she and Letticia completed their third circuit around the Pump Room's highly polished wood floor. Letticia had acknowledged and spoken with several ladies and gentlemen during the course of each
circle, the resultant chatter and compliments echoing up and up to the ceiling high above. Then they had walked on, an appreciative flutter of excitement following in their wake. Gwenllian would normally have taken a vicarious enjoyment in the admiration surrounding her sister, sycophantic as it might be. Instead, her earlier good spirits waned. Here they had finished three circuits, and Gwenllian had yet to see the one person she was hoping might be present.
When her sister had proposed they visit the Pump Room this morning, she could scarcely continue eating breakfast. She had spent an inordinate amount of time choosing her attire, and then removing, with great care, all the loose pug hairs from her lavender muslin dress and purple velvet spencer. She had even left Oliver at home, much to his dismay.
Anticipation had surged into expectancy and she felt weak in the knees as she entered the Pump Room, yet telling herself all the while that Mr. Wyckliff probably would not be there. And unfortunately that proved to be true.
He was not among the milling crowd. He was not sitting in one of the elegant wooden chairs lining the white upon white plaster-worked walls. He was not being served at the Pump. This third circuit had proven to her beyond doubt that he was not in the room. Gwenllian had never felt so disappointed.
"There he is!” Letticia whispered. “Look, look!"
Gwenllian raised her head. Mr. Wyckliff had just entered the room. Her heart pounded at the sight of him. Handsome as ever, he limped toward the Pump. Many pairs of female eyes, not as hidden behind their fans as they supposed, followed his progress. But clearly none of them had been introduced, else they would have acknowledged him in hope of initiating a conversation. She was rather pleased to be one of the few women in the room able to speak to him.
"We shall acknowledge him,” Letticia announced. She began to glide majestically across the floor towards Mr. Wyckliff, but Gwenllian caught her arm.
"No, no, wait.” Gwenllian's empty stomach churned in a most peculiar fashion.
Letticia turned, her confusion evident in her expression. “But you came here in hopes of meeting him."
Gwenllian twisted her hands in an agony of indecision. He had called her ‘Princess’ last night. Nothing could surpass that. But amongst this exalted society with which her family was so desperate to align themselves, marriages—like her sister's—were based not on emotions, but on the acquisition of wealth or rank. And she had neither to offer him. “What if he has thought better of ... I mean, what if he does not wish to speak to me?"
"Of course he wants to speak to you. He will hardly snub you. Not in front of me,” Letticia declared. “No one cuts a Baroness. Let's go."
Mr. Wyckliff saw them approaching and his eyes brightened. Gwenllian felt her heart skip at the candid pleasure evident in his wide grin. She wished he would smile at her like that forever.
After dispensing with the usual pleasantries, Letticia suggested they all improve their health by imbibing the water. Soon they were lined up at the wooden bar that cordoned the front of the Pump's bright alcove.
Gwenllian watched Mrs. Coral, the official Pumper, fill their cups one by one. Each pewter goblet interrupted the arc of clear water shimmering in the sunlight that streamed from the tall windows. Then the interfering vessel was removed and the ribbon of water burbled on.
Letticia sipped her water and made a face. “I much prefer to bathe in this than drink it."
"The secret, my Lady, is to drink faster.” Mr. Wyckliff tossed his back with a practiced hand.
Gwenllian raised her goblet to her lips. The water was very warm and slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.
"Things which are good for us are often not as tasty as those that are not,” she observed.
"I cannot agree, Miss Lloyd.” Mr. Wyckliff reached to replace his goblet on the bar, leaning very close to Gwenllian as he did so. She felt the light puff of his warm breath caress her cheek. Tingles raced up her spine. “I am certain both of your goodness and your good ... taste,” he added in a whisper.
Gwenllian had to consciously remember to close her mouth.
Letticia could not possibly have heard him, and yet she was stifling laughter. Gwenllian guessed her expression had given something away and she was too embarrassed for words.
"Well,” Letticia began, setting her goblet down on the bar. “I must get to my shopping."
Gwenllian's heart skipped. Letticia was not leaving her alone with him, was she? “Shopping? Oh, but I thought we—"
"No, no, I must shop and shop now. Perhaps, Mr. Wyckliff, you would do me the favor of escorting my sister home?"
He bowed. “It would be an honor."
Gwenllian glared at her sister but she was already sailing away, the crowd parting before her.
Gwenllian shook her head. “Would it surprise you to know that Letticia is not famous for her subtlety?” Then she glanced up at Mr. Wyckliff and grinned. “Not that you would recognize subtlety, sir, even if it painted itself poppy red."
"I am certain I don't know what you mean, Princess.” His chuckle belied his words. “Shall we walk?"
She set down her goblet and allowed him to steer her by the elbow through the crowded room toward the door.
"Might I inquire after your friend's health this morning?"
"You mean Miss Howard?” Gwenllian resisted answering No, you may not. Mariah was the last person she wished to discuss—especially with this man. She wanted him all to herself for as long as possible. “She remains a trifle unwell."
They stepped outside into the busy paved plaza of the Abbey Church Yard.
"And what of your pug?"
Now that was a topic she was thrilled to discuss. She began to gush about Oliver but suddenly Mr. Wyckliff was no longer listening. His posture became ever so slightly more rigid and his eyes narrowed. He seemed for all the world like a hunting dog that had spotted its prey. Gwenllian turned to see what he was looking at, but nothing in the throng behind her appeared worthy of such notice.
Her gaze returned to Mr. Wyckliff. The kind, boyish good-humor was gone from his face, and in its place was the ruthless sort of expression she imagined banditti in gothic novels wore.
"Mr. Wyckliff? Is ought the matter?"
Three
As if the sound of Gwenllian's voice spurred him to action, Mr. Wyckliff strode over to a parked sedan chair waiting for hire beneath the colonnade and poured several coins into the front bearer's palm. “Take Miss Lloyd wherever she wishes,” he ordered. He swung the black, carriage-like door and held it open for Gwenllian before the man could react.
"What is it? What have you seen?” she whispered. She attempted to scan the crowd again, but he moved to obstruct her view.
"You do not want to know.” There was a dangerous edge to his voice that she had never heard before.
"But..."
"Go home.” The command was urgent and forbid questions.
She felt as if he had not so much spoken the words as pelted her with them. Her eyes prickled in the back but she was not about to let tears form. Not in public. She was no silly, irrational chit.
For a moment she thought she saw compassion glimmer in his eyes, as if he felt her distress, but she must have imagined it for in the next moment his eyes were as cold as polished stones. He abruptly bowed. She watched him limp away. As he disappeared into the crowd, with him went all her joy.
She gave the sedan chair bearers her address and climbed into the compartment. The two men lifted their poles and then she was jostling down the bustling street. What had Mr. Wyckliff seen? She continued to scan the crowd but could not distinguish anyone who would merit such interest: simply the standard collection of fashionable persons, some quite startling bonnets, and perhaps a French émigré or two. One would think that at the very least Mr. Wyckliff had spotted the green gig of the Bath Bugabo. With a heavy sigh, she leaned back in the chair and tried to convince herself that she was angry and that if she ever saw Mr. Wyckliff again it would be too soon.
* * * *
; Curled up in the window seat clutching her pug, Gwenllian watched Letticia hurrying along the Crescent. She moved like a woman on a mission, and Gwenllian could guess that at least part of that mission entailed throwing her at Mr. Wyckliff. Letticia would be most disheartened to learn that he was well able to duck.
Silently she measured Letticia's arrival time; she would be in the entrance hall now, then a minute to divest herself of her outer garments, now she would be working her way upstairs.
Letticia's eyes were burning with excitement as she burst into the drawing room, her sheer muslin matron's cap slightly askew. “That Mr. Wyckliff seemed quite taken with you."
Remembering his sudden departure, Gwenllian shook her head. “He was merely being polite."
But Letticia was not listening. “I have decided we shall have a small house party at Primroselea and invite him."
Gwenllian's stomach twisted and her hands flew up in protest. “Oh, do not go to the trouble."
But even as the words left her lips, hope irrepressibly bubbled within her. Why did thoughts of seeing him again make her feel this way? Where were her delicate, lady-like sensibilities? She must be an appalling person. And she would taste delicious. Stop it!
Letticia continued her jolly chatter. “What trouble? Mariah is already coming with us, so we are well on our way. Oh, I do love a house party. Who shall we ask to attend? It cannot be solely Mr. Wyckliff. That would be too obvious."
"Agreed,” Gwenllian muttered. “Besides which Mariah would simply keep him all to herself."
"Hugh Faircross can partner Mariah. He is charm personified. He shall keep her busy for you. So that is three couples."
"Three?"
"The Baron and myself, you and Mr. Wyckliff, and Mariah and Mr. Faircross. But that is much too small. Three couples do not bear thinking about. We must have four at least."
"You have forgotten Geoffrey,” Gwenllian stated. “Is he not still at Primroselea Park?"
"Oh, yes, of course he is. Then we simply need a lady. Mariah can ask that old school friend of hers: Isabella something. There! We have four couples. It is all planned."
The Secret Hunter Page 3