The Secret Hunter

by Susanne Saville

  Nigel rang for tea.

  Daniel returned to his writing.

  "So whose body was it? Wait—I hazard it was that émigré Thiervet. Am I correct?"

  Daniel nodded and kept writing. He heard the smack of Nigel triumphantly pounding his fist into his other hand.

  "I knew he was not to be trusted. Something about the eyes. Those French are a perfidious lot of devils.” Soft footsteps of Nigel pacing the carpet. Then Nigel came to hover at his shoulder. “You killed him, did you?"

  Daniel shrugged, still writing. “He attempted to kill me."

  "More the fool him.” Nigel laughed. “Still, if you had been able to take him alive..."

  Daniel glanced up at Nigel. “Bit gruesome to keep a man alive simply so you could hang him."

  Nigel raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Daniel finished his directions and handed the page to him.

  Nigel scanned it. “I will get this seen to.” The tea arrived as Nigel was leaving the room. “Do help yourself,” he added, waving his arm at the silver tray.

  Daniel fixed himself a cup of the aromatic tea, adding plenty of sugar from the silver sugar urn. The tea was warm. It was sweet. It was not brandy. But for now it would have to do.

  Having finished, Daniel replaced the cup on the tray and lay back on the sofa again. The backs of his eyelids used to offer nothing but darkness, but now when he closed them he could visualize Miss Lloyd. It was unexpectedly comforting.

  "Wyckliff.” Nigel had returned, and was trying to get his attention.

  "What?"

  "You seem, bothered."

  Daniel opened his eyes. “Not especially,” he lied.

  Nigel frowned. He reached for a teacup. “When you received those wounds,” he indicated Daniel's recuperating arm and leg with a flourish of the empty cup. “How many of those men did you kill?"

  Daniel smiled bitterly. “All of them."

  Nigel chuckled as he poured his tea. “But it was quite a crowd."

  On a contrary whim, he pretended not to realize Nigel wished for a numerical reckoning. His answer was a simple, “Indeed."

  "So...” Nigel took a swig of tea. “With the ‘mount of killing you've done, I would have thought you'd enjoy it."

  "You thought wrong."

  "Fair ‘nough.” Nigel sipped tea. “Did you get anything out of Thiervet?"

  "Yes. No names, but what we want will definitely be at Primroselea Park this weekend."

  Nigel brightened considerably. “I say, that narrows the field a bit."

  "Not necessarily. Lady Berwentford is holding a house party. Even I shall be at Primroselea Park this weekend."

  "Oh? Well, if this were easy, any fool could do it. Well done on the invite, old man. When does the party start?"

  "I am to arrive there on Thursday."

  Nigel placed his empty teacup back on the tray. He did not raise his eyes when he spoke. “You know what to do?"

  "Let me alone for that, I shall manage.” Daniel closed his eyes. Nigel had some nice furniture. This was quite a comfortable sofa. He could easily nap here for an hour or two.

  He could hear Nigel moving about the room. “Would you not prefer your own bed?” Nigel sounded uneasy.

  Daniel did not open his eyes. “Do you mean to throw me out?"

  "No, of course not, old man.” Nigel chuckled nervously. “After all, a fellow like you prob'ly has a weapon of some sort concealed about your person."

  "A knife,” Daniel threw in helpfully, eyes still closed.

  "Good God, really?” Then Nigel coughed, trying to recover his poise. “I was joking, you realize."

  "I was not."

  Daniel heard Nigel start toward the door.

  "I will let you sleep,” Nigel said. The door clicked shut.

  Daniel smiled to himself. Nigel would never fear another gentleman, but he believed Daniel capable of anything. Vexatious as Nigel's prejudices were, in this case they were a boon. Now he could get a proper bit of rest.

  * * * *

  Someone was shaking Gwenllian. It was most irritating. She had been having a lovely dream and now her cozy cocoon was shattered.

  "Up, up, up!” urged Letticia's voice.

  Gwenllian groaned, rolled over, and opened her eyes. Candlelight. She raised her head and squinted toward the windows. The curtains had been pulled back, but the feeble, gray sky lent no light to the room.

  "Is it not daybreak yet?” She fell back against the pillows, her every muscle sorely protesting the early hour.

  Awakened by the commotion, Oliver trundled up from the foot of the bed and snuffled her face. Then he wandered about the mattress, snorting and wagging and trying to greet both Gwenllian and Letticia at the same time.

  Gwenllian attempted to hide her face in the pillows, hoping she could return to sleep. Letticia shook her again.

  "Hurry, he is already there."

  "Who is where?” Gwenllian spoke into the pillow.

  "Mr. Wyckliff. He is at the Cross Bath."

  Achy and tired as she was, Gwenllian's heart skipped at the sound of his name. She raised her head. “How do you know this?"

  "I sent our footman to speak with his footman."

  "Oh, Letticia, one just does not do that.” She moaned and buried her face in her pillow again. “It is not done."

  "Well, it is done now, so make the most of it and get up."

  Gwenllian's covers were suddenly absent and she was at the mercy of the brisk air. She jerked upright and wrapped her arms around her knees. “That was unfair."

  Letticia, having pulled the covers all the way to the floor, stood with Oliver in her arms. “Get dressed and come downstairs. I'll have a sedan chair waiting."

  Letticia turned and marched to the door, still carrying Oliver.

  "But I thought we were leaving today,” Gwenllian called after her.

  "We are not leaving until after breakfast; you have bags of time."

  "Wait, wait! I barely know the man,” Gwenllian protested. “How can I bathe with him?"

  Letticia laughed. “What a goose you are. There'll be other people there."

  "That is supposed to make me feel better, is it?"

  "'Twill all be most diverting, you'll see. Now get yourself ready."

  Gwenllian arrived at the Cross Bath with her brain still hazy, as if enmeshed in the webbing of a dream. Only the pounding of her heart as the attendant helped her into her voluminous bathing dress warned her that this was all happening for real.

  Passing between two of the decorative columns encircling the stately bathing area, she eased her way down the steps into the pool. The eerie blue-green water felt hot upon her skin, but not uncomfortably so. She was more disconcerted by how deep it was. The water lapped at the top of her breasts before her feet touched the slippery floor. For a moment, the panicky fear crossed her mind that if she fell and went under, her waterlogged dress might prevent her from ever reaching the surface. Her loose sleeves had filled with water and now floated out. In fact, the whole dress seemed to wish to drift away from her body. It was like wearing a tent—but it effectively disguised her shape.

  Steadying herself against the side, she raised her eyes for the first time to peer through the steamy atmosphere at the other bathers. Where was Mr. Wyckliff? A stab of shame pierced her at the thought. She could not believe she was doing this. And yet, if Mr. Wyckliff were not present, she was going to be seriously disappointed.

  Brown hair. Female. Another female. A bald gentleman. Another brunette. But not him. More females. Another balding gentleman. Another blonde! Gwenllian's stomach flopped about like a fish out of water. It was him, her golden fox.

  He was conversing with two gentlemen—at least, she assumed they were gentlemen. With all the men clad in their bathing canvas drawers and waistcoats, class was difficult to discern. Gwenllian carefully made her way closer to the trio, eager to catch Mr. Wyckliff's eye through the wisps of white mist drifting off the water.

  Success! She gave him a n
od of acknowledgement which she hoped did not come across as too desperate. He was coming over now. He moved through the water quite easily. How did he do that?

  "My compliments, Princess.” Mr. Wyckliff stood close to her side so she could hear his whispered words. Then, louder, “Is it not a fine morning, Miss?"

  He smiled down at her. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Such a bright, toothy smile. He could light up a room with that smile.

  "I, too, find ‘tis best to get here early and thus avoid the crowds,” he added, and she abruptly realized that she had failed to respond about the weather. He must think her woolgathering.

  "Yes, yes, precisely,” she hastily replied. “Bathing is much more enjoyable when one has space."

  She glanced around the pool as she spoke and noticed that the couple at the side directly opposite to them had no space between them at all. It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on, but there was giggling, and the man's hands were entirely too near the woman's breasts.

  "Their motive for avoiding the crowd is completely different,” Mr. Wyckliff whispered.

  What shame the couple did not seem to possess, Gwenllian felt on their behalf. She pivoted so that her back was toward them, and concentrated on Mr. Wyckliff.

  His eyebrows knit in concern. “Have they offended you?"

  "No, no, I am quite content. I ... does that sort of thing happen here often?"

  "It depends upon your definition of often,” he said lightly. “But if you remember that people used to bathe here nude, I should think it happens far less often now than it did then."

  Scandalous! Why, whatever would he say next? Thoughts of mixed nude bathing flew through her mind, though she had to admit they were accompanied more by curiosity than shock. The only unclad parts of Mr. Wyckliff's body she could currently see were his arms. He had handsome arms, wiry yet sculptured. Even the wicked scars twisting along his right arm could not mar his appeal. They made him seem rather, dangerous. Piratical. But in the nicest, most romantic sort of way.

  "Not an attractive sight, is it?” Mr. Wyckliff said grimly. He had obviously noticed the direction of her gaze.

  "Actually, I was thinking quite the opposite. I mean...” There was no way to make that sentence sound less forward than it was. She gave up. Besides, he was a rake. He probably liked forward women. “Do they still pain you, those scars?"

  "Not as such."

  She felt a sudden, mischievous desire to touch him, to trace the scars on his arm. Should she? It would be quite improper. But no one here was likely to mind. No one would probably even notice—that other couple was drawing far more attention with their carryings-on.

  Mentally urging herself to be daring, she reached out. Her forefinger gingerly followed one of his furrowed scars on its angled way up his arm from his wrist to his elbow. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. For some reason the contact made her feel a sweltering heat inside her own skin, far hotter than the water embracing her body. She allowed herself a quick glance up at his face. He was watching her with a strange intensity to his eyes.

  Forcing her attention back to his scars, her fingers stroked the sensitive skin on the inside of his forearm. He gasped.

  She immediately withdrew. “Oh dear, I am so sorry. I thought you said they did not hurt."

  A sort of breathy chuckle escaped his lips. “That was not exactly pain, lass."

  He inched closer to her. They were almost touching. His eyes still burned with that peculiar vitality. He raised his hand from the edge of the pool and for a moment she thought he was going to stroke her cheek. Then his hand froze in mid-air and quickly returned to grip the edge. He glanced around but none of the other bathers were taking the slightest bit of notice of them.

  She inched forward. “I am relieved to hear I did not cause you pain."

  Then she heard some splashing behind her and suddenly his hands were on her shoulders. He pulled her to him as if moving her protectively out of the way of some overly energetic bather. But then he did not let her go.

  Her heart pounded. She was in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, surrounded by wafting steam and enveloped by hot water. She must be dreaming. Yet he seemed solid enough. Very solid. She was excessively aware of each point where their bodies touched; his strong arms about her shoulders, the hard muscles of his chest pressed against her breasts, the—oh, my goodness what is that?

  She splashed backward with all the startled violence of a bolting horse. Suddenly her feet did not seem to be under her any more and her face was plunging into the pool. Bitter water filled her mouth, her nose. Hands grabbed her before she could go completely under, pulled her through the water like a doll, and then she was at the side, grasping the edge, sputtering and gulping air.

  "My deepest apologies, Miss Lloyd,” Mr. Wyckliff murmured. He stood close. He had plainly been the one to rescue her, but now his hands gripped the edge of the pool instead of her shoulders. “I would not ... you must understand...” He ducked his head briefly before raising his eyes to hers again. “Fashion does not allow much freedom for a man's private thoughts."

  He was as embarrassed as she. Why had she caused such a scene? Where was her tact? Where were her manners? The other bathers must be staring now. She had to get out of here.

  "It is nothing, it is forgotten.” She held on to the side as she half paddled, half trudged toward the attendant who waited to help the bathers exit the Bath.

  But the pool did not wish to give her up. She felt so heavy. Water streamed off her dress. The humid air was no match for the comfort of the Bath. But she was out now. She had to leave.

  Why, oh why had she panicked? Isabella would not have panicked. Isabella would have said something sly and witty. Or even, or even touched him. Well, it was no matter. She would have another chance at the party. If he still came. What if he did not?

  Instead of following the attendant into the slips where she could change into dry clothes, she padded across to the edge of the pool nearest Mr. Wyckliff, her feet wetly slapping upon the damp stone floor. She crouched down.

  "You will still attend the party, will you not?” she whispered, trying to ignore the other bathers’ stares. “Please say you will still come."

  He did not look at her. “Only if you wish it."

  "I do."

  He nodded slowly, but still did not favor her with a glance. “Then it is my pleasure to obey."

  She padded away toward the slips. She would have her second chance. He might be disappointed in her now, but just wait. She would make it up to him at the party.

  Somehow.

  Five

  The coach jingled and crunched up the gravel carriage sweep. Gwenllian tilted her head and leaned against the side of the gently rocking carriage so she could observe Primroselea out the window as they approached. The Jacobean mansion was an angular, gothic fantasy of red brick and stone. One wing was decoratively entwined in vines that almost reached the pitched roof. The roof itself peaked in a profusion of triangles, each of which seemed to sprout its own chimneystack. Gwenllian liked the romantic façade. One would never guess the interior was all modern elegance.

  The horses slowed to a halt at the foot of the wide stone steps leading to the imposing front door. Handsomely liveried servants rushed to help the ladies from the coach. Gwenllian had to hand Oliver out before she could descend. Even with help, she stumbled as she stepped down, her legs stiff from the long ride.

  She smoothed her skirts, brushing away what pug hair she could, then took Oliver back in her arms and followed Letticia and the Baron up the grand stone stairs and inside. Geoffrey met them in the marble entrance hall.

  "This is a dashed imposition, Edgar. Servants opening rooms, flapping about like wild chickens, and for what?” Geoffrey threw up his arms as if he considered himself the lone sane person in Dorsetshire. “An impromptu house party? Ain't I to be consulted first? My solitude has been completely violated."

  "Not your house, Geoffrey,�
�� Lord Berwentford answered. He kept walking.

  Gwenllian decided to make herself scarce. Head down, still carrying Oliver, she darted up the grand circular staircase as quietly as possible and headed toward the Wedgwood Bedroom, which was customarily given to her.

  The bright, airy chamber was indeed awaiting her occupation. Its curtains had been opened, the bed-hangings drawn back, and the china figurines on the dressing table had been arranged just so. She deposited her dog on the carpet and he trundled off to reacquaint himself with the best places to nap.

  Gwenllian untied her bonnet. Then she headed toward the windows, tossing her bonnet on the blue damask bedcover as she strode past the bed. The prospect from this wing of the mansion was her favorite. The view encompassed almost the entire rear grounds, from the impressive pinery, its glass glinting in the sun, to the classically arranged flowerbeds and manicured shrubbery walk, to the sweeping grass lawn that stretched all the way out to the cliff beyond which the water of the English Channel met the horizon.

  "Geoffrey is being very unpleasant about my house party."

  She turned to see Letticia collapsing into one of the bedchamber's sinuous chairs. The wood creaked in protest at the sudden subsidence.

  "One would think he didn't want any company,” her sister continued, her hand absently petting the pug. Eager Oliver greeted Letticia as if he had not just spent six hours enclosed in a carriage with her.

  "Perhaps he does not. Not everyone is a pug,” Gwenllian commented.

  Letticia shook her blonde curls. “Oh, no, he's just being bitter."

  Gwenllian walked over and kindly patted her shoulder. “I should think being a second son would be trying for the best of us. And Geoffrey is a second son in embarrassed circumstances, obliged to live off of his brother's generosity in his brother's house. I think we can see past a little bitterness."

  "Well, I'd prefer him to be grateful,” Letticia huffed.

  The word flashed Gwenllian back to Sydney Gardens and Isabella's worldly smile.