The Secret Hunter

by Susanne Saville

  "I've seen you lookin’ at him.” He grabbed her by the arm. “If he's had you first it don’ bovver me none."

  "Get off!” Gwenllian struggled, pulling away as he tried to pull her closer. “You odious ... Unhand me! Oliver! Oliver!"

  But Oliver had either traipsed too far away to take note of the proceedings, or was too good-natured to realize he was being called upon to attack.

  She changed tactics, allowing Costeroe to pull her nearer. This put her within handy reach of his feet, which she stomped upon with abandon.

  All manner of foul exclamations spewed from his lips as he released her arm. She stepped away, but before she could turn to run for the door suddenly Mr. Wyckliff was standing between them.

  A rough, physical confidence radiated from him, almost tangible in its impact. “Go inside, Princess."

  She had heard that ominous tone before. Immediately she backed toward the door. Walking backward was slower, but she was not about to miss whatever would happen next.

  In a burst of violence all the more frightening for the swiftness of it, Mr. Wyckliff shoved Costeroe. He used only one straight arm, a single, brutal motion, but Costeroe was knocked backwards several feet. His heels slipped on the loose gravel and he fell heavily upon the abrasive path. Mr. Wyckliff towered over him, the angle of his body stiff and menacing.

  She could not hear what Mr. Wyckliff said, but Costeroe nodded frantically. Mr. Wyckliff stepped back and he scrambled to his feet, bowed deeply, and scurried away.

  Mr. Wyckliff returned to her side. “He will not bother you again. Are you harmed at all?"

  "No, thank you, I am quite well, sir."

  "Then I bid you good evening.” He inclined his head and turned to leave.

  "You are not displeased with me?” She blurted to his departing back.

  He stopped walking.

  She felt like hitting herself upon the forehead. What had possessed her to say such a thing? Why did she have no dignity where this man was concerned?

  Slowly he rotated on his booted heels to face her. She was surprised to find that he was smiling. He shook his head. “You shall be the death of me, unless I am much mistaken. No, lass, I am not displeased. Now fetch your Oliver and I shall escort you indoors."

  * * * *

  Gwenllian knew what he had to be.

  The realization had come to her while she prepared for bed. How had the truth not occurred to her earlier? Now it buzzed about inside her head with such vigor that sleep stood no chance in coming.

  There was nothing for it. Letticia would have to be told.

  She abandoned her bed. Leaving a protesting pug shut inside her bedchamber, she tiptoed down the hall and scratched on her sister's closed bedroom door.

  "Are you awake?” she whispered.

  She could hear several soft thumps. “Gwenllian?” Letticia's voice was muffled through the door.

  "Yes, may I come in?"

  "La! What a time for visiting."

  Gwenllian quickly let herself into the chamber and skipped across the carpeted floor to join bright-eyed Letticia standing in front of her tall four-poster bed with its heavy, old-fashioned curtains that hung all the way to the floor.

  "I have news."

  Letticia smiled. “Of that I had no doubt. What could not wait until morning?"

  "'Tis Mr. Wyckliff.” She hesitated. How was she to impart the information? Now that she was here, facing Letticia, it all seemed so silly. So fanciful.

  "What about Mr. Wyckliff?” Letticia prompted.

  Gwenllian inhaled deeply before plunging ahead. “I believe he is a highwayman."

  Seven

  "You think Mr. Daniel Wyckliff is a highwayman?” Letticia dissolved into peals of laughter. “Go shoe the goose!"

  "I do not see why my idea is so nonsensical.” Gwenllian frowned, trying not to show how hurt she felt by her sister's amusement.

  "Well, honestly,” Letticia chided between fits of giggles. “You sounded so theatrical. His means are two pops and a galloper.” Letticia delivered the last bit in a deep, quaky voice with her hands clasped histrionically to her breast.

  Gwenllian grimaced at her. “He has two fast horses, actually."

  "But no pistols. Seems your highwayman doesn't know the proper equipment of his trade."

  "Yes, well, you did not see what he did at dinner."

  "He has ten thousand pounds a year. He can do what he likes at dinner."

  "Ah,” Gwenllian exclaimed. “But how do we know that?"

  "Know what?"

  "How do we know he has ten thousand a year?"

  Letticia rolled her eyes. “Because everyone in Bath says so."

  Gwenllian decided not to argue the point of whether her sister had truly spoken with everyone in Bath. “And how do they know?"

  "The same way Society always knows.” Letticia was getting impatient. “If they let just anybody in, our family would not have spent years suffering under the appellation of mushroom, now would we?” She snorted. “You saw his clothes, his curricle. Clearly he has wealth. What precisely do you think such a man resorts to robbery for? Pin money?"

  She sighed at Letticia's gently sarcastic tone. Those were valid points. “But I still think something is not quite right."

  "Look, dearest, things like that do not happen in England. You have been reading too many novels.” Letticia giggled again. “You wish Mr. Wyckliff to be a romantic foreign bandit who will carry you off."

  Gwenllian's jaw dropped. “I do not.” Her voice sounded properly appalled, but she felt the burning flush creeping up her cheeks. She had thought him romantically dangerous back in Bath. How did Letticia know? Perhaps she truly was being silly, allowing furtive desires to muddle her brain.

  "Let me tell you, foreign bandits do not have half the wherewithal needed to keep you in style,” her sister added.

  Letticia's teasing was only making her hot discomfiture worse. “I see you are unable to carry on a serious conversation. I am going back to my room now."

  "Pleasant dreams,” Letticia called after her, an unambiguously suggestive tone to her voice.

  Gwenllian ignored her. She tried to exit the room with dignity but one question plagued her, begging to be asked. She paused at the door, her hand resting on the porcelain doorknob. “Letticia."

  "Yes?"

  "What did you say his first name was?” She glanced back over her shoulder.

  Letticia was smiling. “Daniel."

  "How did you..."

  "When I obtained his address for the invitation."

  "I see.” She opened the door.

  "I was hoping you would have learned it for yourself by now."

  Before she closed the door, Gwenllian leaned back in.

  "I am not a galloper,” she replied solemnly.

  * * * *

  Oliver never slept in. Having popped out into the garden with him in the cool, grey light of dawn, Gwenllian trudged back to her room. Perky Oliver trotted by her side. He seemed completely unaffected by the noises of the last night, but all that creaking and squeaking had startled Gwenllian from sleep several times. It did not make for peaceful slumber, and she was not best pleased. The old mansion had never creaked so during her previous visits. Was it possible Primroselea was becoming more haunted? Did ghosts have house parties?

  She dressed in lilac muslin while her pug sat in the nearest chair. It was a favorite of his, and the velvet upholstery was strewn with fawn-color hairs.

  "Letticia is going to have to purchase some pug-colored furniture. Then your hair will not show so much. Remind me when I have a house to match my décor to you."

  Oliver just stared at her with his big, brown eyes.

  Finished readying herself for the day, she petted Oliver for a few moments before buckling his new bell collar around his neck.

  "Shall we go read in the library?"

  Oliver cocked his head, alert with word recognition. He liked the word library, although he preferred kitchen.

&nb
sp; "Let's go to the library."

  The pug jumped down from the chair with a clash of bells and headed toward the stairs. She followed. On the way down the hall they passed the Yellow Bedroom, one of the many guest bedrooms in Primroselea. Passing this chamber was normally routine, but this morning Gwenllian had special cause to note it.

  The chamber-horse was kept in there.

  She stopped at the door. Mr. Costeroe had said such strange things last night, especially regarding chamber-horses. She entered the room, Oliver jingling in after her.

  With tentative steps, she approached the wooden box. It looked innocent as always, simply a sort of chair with a thick box for a seat instead of a cushion. The box contained tier upon tier of springs so that when one sat upon it, one could bounce up and down as if on horseback. It was supposed to be excellent exercise.

  Gingerly she sat upon the box. There was a brief whoosh of air and a faint squeak from the springs. She made a few cautious bounces. The chamber-horse softly creaked and jostled in response. How on earth could Costeroe be comparing this to...? That had been what he meant, was it not? She bounced a little more energetically. The chamber-horse jounced and joggled her. It was most agreeable—a light, free feeling, like riding a horse only without the sensations of progress and speed.

  "Exercise at this early hour, Princess?"

  * * * *

  Daniel watched as Miss Lloyd used her accumulated impetus to bounce to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing rapid, but as her eyes darted about the room looking everywhere except at him, he wondered if her flustered condition was less about invigorating exercise and more due to embarrassment.

  "I was just..."

  He stepped back. “You were busy. I apologize for disturbing you."

  "Mr. Wyckliff."

  "Yes, Miss Lloyd?"

  She stood mute, her fingers clasped tightly together.

  "Is something amiss?"

  "No. No."

  Her pug jingled over, curled tail wagging, and stood at his side, presenting his back to be stroked. Daniel bent to pet him. “I see you are wearing my gift."

  He heard Miss Lloyd's quick step and then she was kneeling beside her dog. “I think he enjoys being fashionable."

  She smiled up at Daniel, her eyes bright and her short hair even more tousled than usual. There was no artifice in her expression, no calculation of how she appeared to best advantage, no narrow speculations on the size of his purse. She was unlike any female he had experienced. An impulsive urge to kiss her raced through him. He struggled to suppress it.

  "He needs no ornamentation to be beautiful.” His lowered voice sounded husky to his own ears, and lent the words a consequence which he had intended to be more subtle. Then he realized the last word had slipped. “Fashionable,” he corrected.

  Her smile faltered and her eyes betrayed a bashful uncertainty. “That is most kind of you to say.” She quickly lowered her gaze to concentrate on stroking the pug's back. Tufts of pug hair shed off with her motions. “Oh dear."

  She leaned forward, brushing the dog hairs away from his boots with her hand.

  "Don't trouble thee, lass."

  "No, no, if I do not ward them off you shall never see the last of them. You would be surprised at how tenacious pug hair is in sticking to clothing."

  He chuckled. “I am going to tour the countryside, I will only get dirtier."

  But she kept brushing. He caught her moving hand and held it captive in his. Her head jerked up. Her eyes were wide with surprise, or fear.

  With stiff movements, he crouched beside her kneeling form, still holding her imprisoned hand. His heart pounded as if he were awaiting the order to charge. She was so close. He could be upon her lightly lavender-scented body in seconds, like a wolf upon a lamb. What was he doing? She could never be his, and yet he was risking compromising her. He should stand and withdraw. But he could not. It was all he could do to maintain his composure. He was no gentleman. He was leaving it up to her to move away.

  Miss Lloyd's breath was coming fast between her parted lips but she did not struggle to free herself. Instead, she almost seemed to be leaning closer to him. Her expression no longer held any alarm. Her direct gaze warmed his blood and enthralled his mind. He brought her hand to his cheek. Her skin was so smooth. He wondered if all her skin felt so silky. It was not a line of thought that promoted composure.

  "'Appen ye go with me?"

  "Sir?” It was more air than word.

  Suddenly the pug's head intruded between them. Body wriggling, velvet muzzle snuffling, and pink tongue licking, he was delighted at the luck of having two faces so near to his own. Daniel immediately released Miss Lloyd and they both scrambled to their feet to escape the affectionate onslaught.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you like to accompany me, Miss Lloyd? We can ride in my curricle. And you need not worry, we shall stay in the lanes."

  He was afraid the moment had passed, but Miss Lloyd still looked thoughtful. “Mr. Wyckliff, might I ask you a question?"

  "Anything, Miss Lloyd."

  She inhaled deeply. “Would you consider there to be a relation between chamber-horses and anything unmentionable?"

  This could be a sticky conversation. “How, unmentionable?"

  Her eyes widened, as if she had just realized she had actually spoken her thoughts aloud, and to him. But she answered. “Bedroom unmentionable."

  "I see. No, I should not think so."

  She visibly relaxed. “I am glad to hear it. The bouncing was so enjoyable, I should have been sorry to hear it was improper."

  "Far from it. I think you bounce most charmingly. If you would care to come out in my curricle, I shall drive you over bumpy roads a-purpose."

  Miss Lloyd blushed quite adorably.

  "I shall order my curricle and meet you out front,” he continued as he moved away. “Bring your pug, if you would like."

  "But of course. We are inseparable."

  "Lucky dog.” Daniel muttered under his breath. Miss Lloyd did not hear him.

  * * * *

  Gwenllian paced along the carriage sweep, gradually moving farther and farther away from the grand stone steps. Oliver also paced, but he traveled in sweeping circles, first to a bush then to her side. It was a lovely spring morning. Primroselea had never looked greener. It was the perfect morning for a ride in a carriage or a walk in the grounds. Perhaps, after the drive, Mr. Wyckliff would agree to a walk in the gardens with her.

  She glanced toward the garden side of the house and her eye caught upon Isabella turning the corner and strolling directly toward her. She was accompanied by, of all people, Mr. Costeroe. He was scuttling sideways, talking to her. A tiny smile quirked the corners of her lips but she never so much as looked at him. They parted company at the edge of the carriage sweep, though not before Mr. Costeroe had made a deliberate grab for her hand. Isabella smoothly extricated herself and walked on across the gravel alone while Mr. Costeroe retreated in the direction from whence they came.

  "Is it not a fine morning, Gwenllian? Why are you standing out in the drive?"

  "I await Mr. Wyckliff's curricle.” She waited for Isabella to draw quite near before she added, “How do you come to be acquainted with Mr. Costeroe?"

  "Is that his name? We are hardly acquainted. He just spoke to me in the garden.” Isabella sighed. “Do you find male admiration growing less and less imaginative? I am sure I do. They used to couch their compliments in cryptic metaphors but now everyone is so blatant. Bad manners are everywhere."

  Gwenllian smiled, nodding her accord. Having rarely received any sort of compliment from anyone, she had no observations to make on the condition of male adoration. But Mr. Wyckliff was taking her out in his carriage so she felt particularly agreeable.

  "Did you say Mr. Wyckliff's curricle?"

  She nodded again and glanced toward the stables. “He should be along soon."

  "My dear, you cannot possibly mean to go out with him alone.” Isabella gasp
ed, and one hand fluttered dramatically at her throat.

  Gwenllian felt her mouth opening, but could not think how to respond. She had been so pleased at being singled out for Mr. Wyckliff's offer of a ride that it had never crossed her mind to question the propriety of accepting it.

  Isabella pursed her lips in a pitying frown before she continued, “Unless you are quite comfortable with exposing yourself."

  "Exposing? There will be no exposing. Unless you mean to refer to the curricle itself being an open carriage, which then yes, it is."

  Isabella firmly shook her head. “You need a chaperone."

  "The whole world will be our chaperone,” Gwenllian exclaimed. She winced inside at the sound of her own voice, too shrill with exasperation to be ladylike, but she could not stop herself. “It is an open carriage."

  "Never fear, I will accompany you.” Isabella patted her shoulder. “Your reputation will be preserved."

  The very last thing Gwenllian wanted was for Isabella to come with her, for so many reasons. Not the least of which being that she could hardly question Mr. Wyckliff about his suspicious—well, slightly suspicious, anyway—behavior with Isabella present. It would be too awkward and embarrassing. Besides, whatever secret Mr. Wyckliff might be keeping should be solely for her ears. She was the only one who had noticed anything amiss, after all. She alone deserved to know.

  "No, no, do not put yourself out on my account. I could not possibly take you away from Primroselea's many divertissements.” Gwenllian desperately attempted to name one of them. Her brain seemed to empty of words when she needed them most.

  A pleasant, familiar jingling and clopping announced the arrival of the curricle behind her. She turned. The handsome sight of Mr. Wyckliff and his matching dapple-grays was enough to make anyone's heart skip a beat.

  "A prime bit of weather for driving, Miss Lloyd.” Mr. Wyckliff drove up as close to Gwenllian as possible.

  "Most excellent,” Isabella agreed.

  Gwenllian smiled at him and silently wished Isabella would go away.

  Instead she moved to hover nearer. “I am lucky indeed to be able to perform my duty in such enjoyable weather."