The Secret Hunter

by Susanne Saville

  "Maybe that Isabella will give him something to be grateful about,” she muttered.

  Letticia perked up, her eyes alight with curiosity. “You do not like Mrs. Wood, do you?"

  "No, I do not.” Gwenllian smiled. “But I am a bitter, bitter woman."

  Laughing, Letticia sprang to her feet. “You have nothing to be bitter about. Mr. Wyckliff should be arriving soon."

  "And what is that supposed to mean?"

  But Letticia was not listening. “I'll have Patsy prepare a bath for you. We want you to look your best for dinner."

  "Oh, Subtlety, thy name is not Letticia."

  "I don't know what you're on about. I'm having a bath, too,” Letticia protested with a laugh. She stood and clapped her palms together. “Look lively now, before Mariah and Mrs. Wood arrive."

  Mariah had decided to come down in Isabella's surprisingly fine carriage. The two carriages had traveled in concert and had broken their journey together at the same inn. But Mariah and Isabella had been late in waking—unfortunately for them—as Letticia had insisted there was too much to prepare to wait. Thus the Baron's carriage had continued ahead alone. Mariah and Isabella could not be that far behind, though. Gwenllian supposed they should be arriving in an hour or two.

  One refreshing bath later, Gwenllian slipped into her white muslin dress with the plum embroidery. Oliver attempted to make off with one of her matching plum shoes, shaking it as if he were killing a rat as he chugged gleefully around the room. It took her several turns of chasing him before she was able to rescue it.

  Mariah's voice was echoing around the entrance hall as Gwenllian reached the top of the grand stairs. Her spirits sank at the sound. Making a deft turn away from the staircase, she kept walking. She was now entering the family's wing of the house. She would hide out in her sister's bedroom until Mariah and Isabella were safely installed in their chambers. That way her respite from them would last a bit longer.

  Oliver had started to trundle down the stairs before he realized Gwenllian was no longer behind him. He whirled about, bounded back up the steps and came barreling down the hallway until he caught up to her. She heard him coming—short but solid, for a small dog he quite thundered down the halls. Apparently believing that she had deliberately feigned her descent as part of some Confuse-the-Pug game, Oliver trotted beside her, wagging his tail and looking up expectantly at her, waiting for a re-match.

  "We are just going to Letticia's room,” she stated, looking down into Oliver's big brown eyes.

  "Watcher!” exclaimed an unfamiliar male voice.

  Gwenllian's head jerked up and she stopped short, barely in time to avoid the man standing in the hallway outside Geoffrey's room. Expensively yet not tastefully dressed, he was neither a servant nor one of Letticia's guests. Gwenllian had never seen him before. His gaze swept her from head to toe, his expression a disturbing mix of disdain and lechery. With a creeping sense of unease, she knew he did not belong in the family's wing of Primroselea.

  She scooped Oliver up in her arms before coolly addressing the stranger. “Have you lost your way, sir?"

  Geoffrey popped out of his bedroom. “Miss Lloyd, pleasure to see you again."

  "And you, Mr. Berwentford.” She smiled. She had always liked Geoffrey. He was significantly younger than the Baron and he spoke to her like an equal—not just in age but in rank.

  "I see my butler is in your way,” he continued.

  "Your butler?” She glanced at the unpleasant man. He continued to look at her as if her clothing had turned invisible.

  "Yes, from my—well, Edgar's place in London. So difficult to find good help, isn't it? Thought he might profit from a bit of training here so I brought him along. Out of the lady's way, Costeroe.” Geoffrey slapped the man on the back while steering him into his room. “He is frightfully new,” Geoffrey added apologetically. His door swung shut.

  Gwenllian continued on to Letticia's room, feeling slightly unsettled. Geoffrey had as much to do with the hiring and training Lord Berwentford's staff as she did, which was to say nothing at all. And however new he was, and however difficult it was to find good servants, that Mr. Costeroe was no butler. The Baron would never have permitted the hiring of such a man.

  Letticia was not in her bed chamber, which was much as Gwenllian expected. She closed the door with her hip and walked over to her sister's heavily draped, four-poster bed, Oliver still in her arms. She plopped him down on the bedcovers and hopped up beside him.

  "Well, I suspect we've uncovered Geoffrey's true reason for resenting the house party,” she commented to Oliver as he wandered away to spread pug hair over the mattress.

  Mr. Costeroe must be one of Geoffrey's more unsavory friends from the unspeakable gaming establishments he frequented in London. Because of Letticia's house party, Geoffrey was being forced to pass him off as a new butler instead of doing whatever they would have done had they had the house to themselves. Of course, as that undoubtedly would have involved gambling, it was far better for Geoffrey that they had been stymied. Geoffrey really did not have money to lose.

  Did the Baron or Letticia know of Mr. Costeroe's presence? They would not necessarily see him if he were masquerading as a butler. For one thing, he would eat below stairs with the actual servants. And Geoffrey most likely intended to restrict him to the less frequented areas of the house. Should she tell Letticia about him?

  Poor Geoffrey. The Baron would have a fit if he knew Geoffrey had hoped to host a gaming weekend in his house. But since his plans had been foiled, as long as they behaved themselves, it would do no harm to leave Lord Berwentford in ignorance. And why distract Letticia from her party?

  The party.

  "Do you think they're settled in by now?” she asked Oliver.

  The pug snorted from the far side of the bed.

  With a deep breath to steady herself, she rose. She had decided two things. First, that it was time to chance descending into possibly Mariah-occupied territory. Second, that she would not inform anyone about Mr. Costeroe. For him, a quiet week was probably punishment enough.

  * * * *

  "Why, I believe this is Mr. Wyckliff arriving.” Letticia was peering out one of the front windows. “My, but those horses must have cost a packet."

  Gwenllian crossed the library floor to join her, Oliver trotting along behind. Two dapple-gray horses were prancing up the carriage sweep pulling a smart curricle. The man driving wore a Carrick coat, its capes flapping back from his shoulders, but he was still too distant to discern his face. Gwenllian fancied she could see blonde hair shining in the sun despite the brim of his hat.

  Letticia had been right about the horses. Their glossy coats were both dark, pewter gray mottled with bright white spots as large around as a copper twopence. A matched pair of such striking animals must have been expensive indeed.

  The curricle frisked closer to reveal that Mr. Wyckliff was indeed the driver. He pulled up at the stairs with a practiced hand.

  Gwenllian picked up Oliver and, while awkwardly supporting him by a combination of her arm and hip, attempted to use her other hand to point at Mr. Wyckliff without her finger making a mark on the windowpane.

  "That is Mr. Wyckliff,” Gwenllian informed Oliver. “Wyckliff."

  Letticia clicked her tongue in mock pity. “You can't believe he understands you, dear."

  "Whyever not? He knows you are Letticia."

  "I cannot believe I am on first-name terms with a dog.” Letticia sniffed, and feigned haughtiness. “How common."

  "Mr. Wyckliff,” Gwenllian said to her pug. “Shall we go greet Mr. Wyckliff?"

  Oliver wriggled with excitement. But he was keen on greeting pretty much anyone.

  Mr. Wyckliff was already in the entrance hall when Gwenllian got there, being welcomed by the Baron while servants carried his baggage up the grand staircase. As Gwenllian put Oliver down, his feet were already flailing. Briefly he scrabbled for purchase on the smooth marble and then careened off toward Mr. Wyck
liff, squeaking in jubilation and wagging his curly tail.

  Mr. Wyckliff's eyes widened slightly as the dog bore down on him, showing every intention of crashing straight into his shins. But this time Mr. Wyckliff smoothly bent on one knee and caught Oliver, one hand on each side of his chunky body.

  "Who let that dog in here?” Lord Berwentford roared, just before he turned and saw Gwenllian approaching them. He grunted and then turned back to Mr. Wyckliff. “Wife's sister, you understand,” the Baron said with a despairing shake of his head, as if this explained everything. “Dinner will be in an hour. James there will show you to your room."

  "I can do that,” volunteered Gwenllian as she picked Oliver up.

  For a moment she thought the Baron was going to forbid it. His lips were pursed together so tightly it looked like he might pop his rapidly blinking eyeballs right out. But in the end he said nothing to her, only took his leave of Mr. Wyckliff. She waited until the Baron had exited the hall before she spoke.

  "I..."

  "Miss,” Mr. Wyckliff began at precisely the same time.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon.” Nervously she ducked her head. “Do continue."

  But he seemed as bashful as she was. “No, no, go on, Miss Lloyd."

  When still she hesitated, he stepped forward one pace. He looked down at his boots, then up at her, his expression painfully self-conscious and yet there was a hopeful glint in his eyes.

  Encouraged, she launched into the statement she had prepared for their meeting. “I hope your journey was pleasant, sir."

  He grinned. She fancied there was some relief to his expression.

  "Thank you, Miss Lloyd, it was. Tell me, does your pug normally do that? Run into people?"

  "Oh yes,” she replied with mock gravity. “When he likes you, that is."

  "I see. And might one ask what it is you do when you like a person?” His eyes sparkled.

  "What a question. Why, I set my pug upon their shins, of course."

  "Of course."

  They shared a grin. Talking with Mr. Wyckliff gave her such a rush of pleasure. Never before had she considered how seductive a conversation could be. This man was dangerous indeed.

  Gwenllian led him upstairs to the Chintz Bedroom, which Letticia had assigned to him because of its proximity to Gwenllian's chamber. This fact was not, however, one of the pleasantries Gwenllian spouted before she turned to quickly take her leave. The Baron would strongly disapprove of her staying too long alone in a bedroom with a man, even a gentleman.

  "Miss Lloyd."

  She paused at the doorway. Mr. Wyckliff was rummaging inside one of his cases. He found what he was looking for and quickly hid it behind his back as he approached her.

  "At our last meeting I was unpardonably—"

  "It is forgotten,” she interrupted.

  "Not by me. But I am hoping that another bold move will make amends for the previous one."

  What was this? What was he going to do now? She stepped back, momentarily afraid he might try to take her and Oliver bodily into his arms. However would she explain that to Letticia?

  Instead, Mr. Wyckliff held out a little box. “I have brought a gift for your dog."

  She placed Oliver on the floor, then took the shagreen box in her hands. Inside lay a wide, leather dog collar, from which dangled five shiny, spherical bells. Gwenllian picked up the collar, and her shaky fingers caused the silvery bells to jingle pleasantly. It was a beautiful piece of work.

  She glanced up at Mr. Wyckliff, too moved to speak.

  He grinned. “I once saw its like on a fashionable pug in Portman Square."

  No one outside her family had ever given her a gift. And here this unrelated gentleman had gone and bought such a lovely thing for her Oliver. Tears sprang to her eyes. It was so lovely. And she was so maudlin. She inwardly groaned. What was it about this man that stirred her emotions so? Impatient with her silly sensibilities, she crouched down beside her pug.

  "Look, Oliver, is it not beautiful?"

  As the collar was inedible, Oliver was less than impressed.

  Gwenllian buckled the collar around Oliver's neck. At first he objected, scratching at it with a hind leg and next shaking his whole body as if wet, releasing a cascade of jangles instead of a spray of water droplets. But with the patience and aplomb of many of his breed, Oliver soon accepted his fate. He spent the next few minutes waddling about his mistress and Mr. Wyckliff in wide figures of eight, a chunky, cheery jingle pug.

  "It is the best present Oliver has ever had. Thank you, sir. But perhaps I should not have accepted it—for now Oliver is deeply in your debt."

  "I seek no return, never fear."

  "It is lovely. Thank you, Mr. Wyckliff."

  He smiled at her and looked away, the broad grin still on his face, almost bashful in his pleasure at her delight. Then his gaze returned to her, his smile still present. She wished this moment would never end.

  "Found the bedroom, did we?” Letticia stated from the doorway.

  * * * *

  Dinner was a splendid affair, the table artfully arranged in a symmetrical pattern of china tureens and silver platters. Gwenllian headed for her customary position to the left of the Baron at the foot of the table. She noticed Mariah seating herself to Letticia's right at the top of the table, as expected, and Geoffrey taking the other seat of honor to Letticia's left—rather unexpectedly since he was not really a guest. But he was tipsy and it would have been improper for anyone to argue the point. Geoffrey glanced at Gwenllian several times as he sat there, always a strange expression in his eye, and she wondered if he had started drinking because he feared she had informed on him.

  One chair separated her from Mariah, shortly to be filled by Isabella, Gwenllian assumed. But Isabella did not sit by her friend. She chose instead to sit across from Gwenllian, to the right of the Baron. That was a bit of unforeseen modesty. She would not have thought Isabella the sort to volunteer for the low end of the table. From the corner of her eye, Gwenllian caught sight of Mr. Wyckliff moving toward the empty chair at her left. Her heart skipped a beat. He was going to choose to sit beside her. Not that there was much choice, being only two seats left, but he was choosing the one next to her. That had to be good.

  Just then the seat was drawn back and Mr. Faircross appeared in her line of view. He had been coming from the other direction, behind her, and he dropped into the seat as if oblivious to the fact that it had been someone else's target. Perhaps he was truly oblivious. But Gwenllian thought him the cruelest man in Christendom as Mr. Wyckliff turned and took the remaining seat to the right of Isabella.

  Isabella's chestnut mane was swept up into an intricate knot wrapped with garlands of braids. As the meal progressed, Geoffrey repeatedly referred to Isabella's hair as a ‘crown of glory,’ which was fine with Gwenllian as long as Mr. Wyckliff did not say anything similar, until the repetition itself became irritating. She heartily wished Geoffrey would partake more of the food and thus give his mouth something worthwhile to do instead of pandering to his soggy brain.

  Despite Geoffrey's effusive compliments, Isabella kept her most gracious attentions for Mr. Wyckliff. She laughed prettily and leaned in to him as if sharing intimate confidences during which she seemed able to blush at will, tinting her ivory cheeks a delicate color that practically matched the pale pink silk of her gown.

  Mr. Wyckliff returned her smiles, chatting and listening attentively to her answers, seeming interested in learning all there was to know about her. Gwenllian struggled with her envy throughout the first course. She reminded herself that such feelings were petty, and that Isabella was quite a nice person while the second course was laid out and admired. But by the time the second course was underway, she admitted defeat and had a good seethe. Isabella was beautiful, charming, and attractive to men, and she was jealous. Gwenllian decided to console herself with pudding.

  "Mrs. Wood, might you please pass the bread pudding?"

  Isabella acted as if she had not hea
rd. And Gwenllian was fairly certain it was an act. This was not the first time Isabella had ignored her request to pass one of the dishes stationed on that side of the table. Earlier, she had been forced to send for the china tureen of fricasseed turnips from the other end of the table as the matching one at her end was held hostage at Isabella's elbow.

  The tight rein Gwenllian had been keeping on her temper began to slip. She could feel it go. She was going to say something she would regret later. But right at this moment the temptation was too great to resist.

  "Mrs. Wood—"

  Mr. Wyckliff interrupted her. “Mrs. Wood, might I have the bread pudding?"

  Gwenllian's mouth dropped open. Of all the nerve!

  "Of course, Mr. Wyckliff.” Isabella simpered.

  Gwenllian's eyes narrowed as Isabella passed the silver bowl to Mr. Wyckliff. But the expression was hastily replaced by astonishment as Mr. Wyckliff stood and carried the bread pudding around the table to her side. He held the silver bowl out so that Gwenllian would easily be able to serve herself. A scandalized hush fell over the diners.

  "I believe you might enjoy this, Miss Lloyd.” Mr. Wyckliff's eyes sparkled with conspiratorial humor.

  "Why, whatever gave you that impression?” She scooped a substantial portion onto her plate, attempting to be as nonchalant as he.

  "I do not recall.” He grinned. “Perhaps because it is an unassuming, sweet-natured pudding, rather like yourself."

  He returned to his seat with the silver bowl. She watched him, admiring the rough dexterity of his movement. Sort of a lopsided lope, with no dragging of his leg. As if in another room, she could hear Letticia, discomfiture making her voice over-loud in the silent room, managing to quickly start up simultaneous conversations with both Geoffrey and Mariah. Letticia was an incomparable sister.

  Gwenllian waited until several conversations were established and an appropriate noise level had been reached before she attempted to catch Mr. Wyckliff's eye. It proved to be more difficult than expected. He seemed to pause and look about him before choosing his cutlery. Only momentarily. Any sane person able to keep their eyes off him for more than a minute at a time would never have noticed it. It was almost as if he were waiting for one of the company to pick up their utensil in order to be certain which he should be using for which dish. Though it mostly occurred with the more exotic dishes, so perhaps unfamiliarity with their protocol was not surprising.