The Secret Hunter

by Susanne Saville

  Suddenly she was rewarded by a glance in her direction and she jumped at her chance. “Mr. Wyckliff?"

  His attention focused on her, his eyebrows raised in silent inquiry.

  "I am afraid you do not know me as you suppose. I should make a rather bitter pudding."

  He smiled. “Your strong nature is more in the line of a curried sauce?"

  "Perhaps.” She tossed her head with more bravado than she actually felt. “I do not object to being a dish not to everyone's taste."

  "It is a taste I should very much like to acquire."

  His husky voice pulled at her insides. Her chest tightened and she realized she had stopped breathing. She inhaled and tried to present a semblance of calm indifference while spooning up a bite of pudding. Her hand shook. So much for calm. But Mr. Wyckliff was not looking at her anyway.

  "And what sort of dish am I, Mr. Wyckliff?” Isabella had asked.

  The conversation descended into a frenzy of accolades, with Mr. Wyckliff, Geoffrey, and Lord Berwentford all vying to pronounce Isabella the sweetest and most superb of comestibles. When the tablecloth was removed and the table relaid for dessert, Gwenllian welcomed the interruption.

  Soon a fine array of desserts had been assembled upon the tabletop like a grand parade. Gwenllian, still compulsively observing Mr. Wyckliff, noticed more utensil hesitations as he ate. He was clearly a gentleman. How could he be uncertain of his etiquette? Perhaps it was a game. She wondered if she could catch him out.

  Gwenllian served herself trifle, then passed it on to Lord Berwentford. She waited until it arrived at Mr. Wyckliff. He served himself and passed the trifle on.

  Then Gwenllian slowly reached for her pistol-handled knife and watched Mr. Wyckliff out of the corner of her eye. He reached for his knife in time with her. She quickly put the knife down, picked up her rat-tailed spoon and glanced across the table at him.

  Their eyes locked.

  The full force of Mr. Wyckliff's hazel eyes blistered her soul. Never had she seen anything like the dangerous intensity in his gaze. It was only there for a second, then it was gone and his eyes were as affable as any gentleman could be. But her body involuntarily recoiled as if from a blow. He knew she knew. Mr. Wyckliff picked up his rat-tailed spoon and turned away to continue his conversation with the unaware Isabella. But Gwenllian found she could not swallow.

  What had she done?

  Six

  "What with the Terror and all, I was ever so surprised to be invited to the coast.” Isabella took a dainty sip of her tea. “How can you bear the suspense, Lady Berwentford?"

  Letticia raised her eyebrows. “I am sure I don't know what you mean. Now, have you seen the new—"

  "She means the imminent French invasion,” Mariah interjected. “We could all be slaughtered in our beds."

  Gwenllian smiled into her teacup. Letticia was perfectly aware of those rumors—she simply did not consider them to be appropriate after-dinner conversation. Ladies retired to the drawing room to discuss fabrics and fashions, not war.

  The men were discussing the war, Gwenllian wagered. If only they would hurry it up a bit. Her nerves thrummed with frustrated excitement. When would Mr. Wyckliff quit the company of the men and join them? Her apology was becoming stale with the delay. And why did she feel the need to apologize to him?

  Oliver's leg twitched impatiently in her lap and she resumed petting him. She had done nothing wrong. ‘Twas Mr. Wyckliff's table manners that were ... yes, what were they? If she could just manage to corner him. Surreptitiously, of course. Be very proper, and force him to explain himself. No, no, not proper at all, that. Cajole him into explaining himself.

  Gwenllian glanced at the door but it provided her with no hint as to when it might furnish her expected company. Why were they taking so long? Men could be so irritating.

  "Not that anyone would want to invade Dorsetshire,” Mariah continued with a sniff. “We are quite safe—I asked Lord Berwentford."

  "And with his French connections, he would know,” Gwenllian sarcastically mumbled to Oliver.

  In the sudden hush that shrouded the room she had more than enough proof that her unfortunate muttering had been loud enough for the others to hear. She forced herself to raise her eyes. A burning flush rose within her cheeks in response to the congregation of horrified stares that bored into her.

  "What is that supposed to mean?” snapped Mariah.

  Gwenllian swallowed. “I ... nothing, nothing. I meant nothing. How can he know? ‘Tis not as if he has a direct line to Napoleon."

  "He does have connections in France, though,” Isabella remarked, turning to Letticia. “Was not your bridal tour through France?"

  "That was during the Peace. Everyone who was anyone was going,” Letticia answered haughtily. “You're not suggesting..."

  "Never!” Isabella placed her teacup on the nearest table with a decided clink. “Please do not think such a thing of me. I could not bear it if you thought I meant to sully your ever so respectable name."

  "Of course no one thought you meant that,” Mariah reassured Isabella. “We all know an Englishman would have nothing to do with those beastly French."

  A general murmuring of agreement ensued. Mariah sipped her tea. “Mind you, the French do have a way with fashion,” she added.

  Letticia grabbed that opening to launch into an admirable soliloquy on French fashion. She soon had both Mariah and Isabella participating in a meticulous, and interminable, discussion of ribbons. Gwenllian continued to pet Oliver and watch the door.

  And time seemed to just about grind to a halt.

  Gwenllian thought she must have grown roots five times before finally she heard the click of the doorknob being turned. The door opened to reveal Mr. Wyckliff.

  And suddenly he was the darling of the room. Every eye turned to him, every voice had some bright greeting for him. Gwenllian never had a chance to corner him before he was swept into the center of the company.

  Mr. Wyckliff spent a painfully vast amount of time listening to Isabella describe her house in London. Gwenllian waited. He encouraged Mariah to recount her travels to Ireland. And Gwenllian waited. He ingeniously wove the conversations together through interspersing numerous questions to Letticia about the Baron's family and the estate. Still Gwenllian waited.

  He did not address Gwenllian at all.

  When the rest of the gentlemen joined them, Mr. Wyckliff complimented Geoffrey on his splendid gold pocket watch, an item which, Gwenllian sourly noted to herself, proved Geoffrey was still living beyond his means. Now he was listening to Mr. Faircross boast about his stables. And Gwenllian was still waiting.

  Mr. Wyckliff was conversing with everyone—except her.

  Gwenllian attempted to distract herself with more tea. Blast the man, why would he not speak to her? She did not dare speak to him first. Not now. He seemed so detached from her, so aloof. What if he cut her in front of everyone?

  No, she was being a goose. He would not do that. No gentleman would do. Especially not a guest. But what if he responded impersonally to her? What if he showed less interest in her than he showed in Mariah or Isabella? She could not bear that. It was safer to remain silent, with his indifference unconfirmed and her pride intact.

  She sighed to herself. The only happy thought in this situation was that it gave her a chance to observe him unawares. And yet even that turned out more difficult than it should have been.

  An intent vigilance dwelt in Mr. Wyckliff's eyes and never left. It made trying to examine him without his noticing exceedingly difficult. She glanced away as once more he caught her gaze upon him.

  It only made her more determined not to be foiled. He might be vigilant but she would outfox him. She hoisted herself to her feet, not exactly a graceful undertaking with stout Oliver in her arms, and wandered across to the windows. The growing darkness outside made the window-glass more of a looking-glass. If she stood at a certain angle, she could catch a blurred but unaware Mr. Wyckliff in the ref
lection.

  She smiled. It was an inconsequential victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

  Suddenly Letticia was at her side, smiling brightly and jiggling Gwenllian's elbow. “Rejoicing already?"

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts before responding. “What do you mean?"

  "Mr. Wyckliff said his favorite color is purple,” her sister stated as if such a sentence merited a fanfare of trumpets.

  "He did not."

  "He did."

  "When?"

  "When he was speaking with me, of course."

  Gwenllian frowned. “Fine, but I do not see how—"

  Letticia interrupted with an exasperated groan. “Purple is your theme. Do you ever wear anything without purple in it? He must have meant you. You are being deliberately obtuse."

  She looked away. “He cannot have meant me."

  "Whyever not?"

  "Now you are being obtuse. Mr. Wyckliff has not spoken to me at all since dinner. I fear I vexed him."

  Letticia waved her hand dismissively. “He will have long forgotten anything that happened at dinner once Edgar gets through with him. Look.” With a toss of her head, Letticia indicated the other side of the room where, like an enthusiastic schoolboy, the Baron was escorting Mr. Wyckliff to the wall of weapons. “Mr. Wyckliff must have asked about the Collection. He is in for it now."

  Lord Berwentford possessed an impressive collection of weapons. Gwenllian had browsed the baffling wall before. Sabres, broadswords, cutlasses, rapiers, daggers—who knew there were so many different ways of making a pointy piece of metal? She preferred the smattering of elegantly engraved pistols which sat so unassumingly amongst the swords. The Baron had shown her how one worked once. But she had not been allowed to touch it herself. Gwenllian noticed that he was allowing Mr. Wyckliff to handle the precious items. Not quite fair, that.

  Lord Berwentford handed Mr. Wyckliff one of the gently curving sabres. The length of the blade alone looked to be almost three feet. At first, Mr. Wyckliff took the hilt with his right hand to perform a few swirling moves, but he soon switched to his more fluid left.

  "He knows a thing or two about that, I reckon.” Mr. Faircross had joined Gwenllian and Letticia at the window. “Mind you, I could still thrash him soundly in a duel."

  Letticia smiled at Mr. Faircross. “That is because you would cheat and use a pistol, sir."

  Far from being insulted, Mr. Faircross chuckled. “Perhaps I should instead use your sharp tongue, my Lady."

  Letticia joined him in quiet laughter.

  Mr. Faircross would have made a far better husband for Letticia, Gwenllian suspected. The Baron never made Letticia laugh—never even attempted it. Mr. Faircross's interest in Letticia also seemed more sincere. Although he was being decidedly inaccurate about his dueling ability. Even with the little Gwenllian knew about pointy weapons, it was clear Mr. Wyckliff handled a sword with a talent found in no one else in the room.

  Soon after Mr. Wyckliff returned the sabre, Gwenllian returned to her chair. Oliver was too heavy to hold for long. She watched as Isabella drifted to the Baron's side. Mr. Wyckliff seemed to be excusing himself. Perhaps he wanted more tea? Then she caught him gazing in her direction.

  Her whole body jumped to the alert. Yes, he was definitely looking at her. And now he was moving, moving with that hitching stride that was actually becoming more of a striking asset than a disadvantage to his long, fine legs. She glanced away. Would he come to her? She tried to remain calm. A quick peek in his direction confirmed her hopes. He was definitely coming toward her. She mustn't look too eager.

  Oliver snorted. She was petting too fast. She attempted to slow her hand and feign composure.

  "You are quiet this evening, Miss Lloyd."

  Clearly he could not hear her wildly pounding heart.

  "I am quiet most evenings,” she replied, attempting to sound demure.

  He nodded. “I, too, prefer to observe."

  "A nice thought, but do not ask me for the validation of it."

  "You disbelieve me?” He raised an amused eyebrow.

  "Well, sir, plainly you like conversing. You have spoken with everyone in the room this evening. Except for me."

  "Ah, but I observed you,” he solemnly replied, “And preferred the view above all my conversations."

  "Then you should have spoken with me sooner. Truly, I converse rather better than I view."

  He chuckled. “I fear you are mistaken, Miss Lloyd. All your charms are so incomparable as to make it impossible for one to outshine another."

  He crouched down at her side. The position seemed slightly awkward for him, probably due to his stiff leg. Yet he remained there, reaching across the low arm of the chair to pet snoring Oliver sprawled upon her lap.

  She held her breath, terribly aware of his proximity. He was so near that her exhalation might shuffle his honey locks. So near she could note his fair eyelashes. The space between them seemed as nothing.

  In this position, he was as close as he could be without touching her. A thrilling speculation raced through her mind that perhaps he had done it on purpose to be nearer to her. She dismissed the notion immediately. It was too much to hope for.

  Then he glanced up. Her stomach flopped over and headed for her knees. Never had anyone gazed at her with such an expression. Such a burning, longing expression. In that moment, the room seemed empty except for them.

  Did he feel it, too? His arm had frozen in the middle of stroking Oliver. She thought she could feel the gentle pressure of his palm through Oliver's body. Discontented by the petting stoppage, the pug snorted and rolled away. Mr. Wyckliff's hand slid from Oliver's back onto Gwenllian's now vacant lap.

  And she definitely felt that.

  The thin fabric of her gown was no barrier to the warmth of his hand as his palm pressed the top of her thigh. A wave of awareness gushed through her, while simultaneously lifting all the hairs on the back of her neck.

  He removed his hand as if she had been made from hot coals and clambered to his feet.

  She ducked her head, surreptitiously glancing around to see if anyone had noticed their proscribed contact. No one seemed to be looking in their direction. Slowly she straightened her spine.

  "There is a prodigious amount of silver in here.” Mr. Wyckliff gestured at the assembled silver candlesticks and elaborate silver candelabra.

  It would have been just as accurate to say there was a prodigious amount of candles. Gwenllian appreciated that Letticia's wealth—or rather, the Baron's wealth now—provided the wherewithal to burn so many, many candles. They bathed the room in a bright, warm glow that was not a strain upon the eyes at all. But neither topic was well chosen to begin a new, innocent conversation.

  "Funds are not a difficulty here, I take it,” he continued.

  "I would not expect to know."

  Such speculation was not a proper topic of conversation for Mr. Wyckliff to engage in regarding his host. And he should know that. She was reminded of his behavior at dinner.

  "Mr. Wyckliff, might I ask..."

  "Pray pardon me, Miss Lloyd. Miss Howard seeks my attention."

  He limped away to join Mariah and Geoffrey near the fireplace. Gwenllian leaned back in her chair. She had been rebuffed. Unmistakably rebuffed. She watched Mariah parade her most winning ways at Mr. Wyckliff and soured even more when Geoffrey moved off and the conversation became a jovial tête-à-tête. If only she could hear them. No, she did not want to hear. They were too jolly by half.

  In a loud voice aimed at no one in particular, Geoffrey announced his desire to play a game of cards. The Baron was clearly bothered by his suggestion, but Isabella and Mariah simultaneously seconded the idea with too many enthusiastic squeals to be easily deterred. They had not yet decided upon which card game to play when, using the excuse that her dog required walking, Gwenllian exited the drawing room. She found little enjoyment in games when Geoffrey was playing. He was so dreadfully competitive when it came to cards.<
br />
  Oliver stayed by her side while they descended the back stairs, but he took a detour upon crossing the kitchen, taking it upon himself to help dispose of the dinner leftovers by gobbling up the bits which had fallen to the floor. He was completely uninterested in leaving until Gwenllian opened the back door. Then suddenly the pug wanted to go out—first, of course. He dashed over to beat her outside.

  The sun had set, leaving the sky streaked with pinks and purples and shadows lengthening upon the ground. Still, there was light enough that she saw no need for a lamp.

  Together, she and Oliver wandered the gravel path through the classically arranged flowerbeds. And then she spotted Geoffrey's friend Costeroe. She would not have assumed he was one for admiring flowers—Geoffrey certainly had no time for them—yet here he was marching up from the lawn. He must have walked the whole circuit.

  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."