Costeroe had not feared his writing.
He had assumed Costeroe meant him to construe this confidence as innocence, to make him believe he expected Nigel's answer to support his claims. But such confidence might signify something even more devious. If Nigel's response could not threaten, and Daniel was certain this was not because it would be supportive, then it must be, irrelevant.
So why might it be irrelevant? Daniel carefully began to rip the unfinished letter into long, slender strips. The heavy white paper tore with a dignified splitting sound. There was no question of Nigel's answer being incorrect, so it was not an issue of quality. When else might intelligence be useless?
When its timeliness had passed.
This was all about distance. He finished tearing the letter and gathered the strips into a single pile. Though Nigel Adamstone might yet be in Bath, he had most likely removed to London. But even if Daniel correctly guessed his direction, even if the letter traveled continuously at top speed, he could not expect to receive a reply until at least two nights had passed. Costeroe knew that. So whatever Costeroe was arranging must come to fruition within the next two nights—making any letter from Nigel too late and its information irrelevant.
Daniel stood. He needed to find a servant and have a fire made up in here. Precious as paper was, there was a good chance his strips of scrawl would be made into fireplace spills unless he destroyed them utterly. A fire should not be too suspicious, just an attempt to make an unused room more comfortable. Even with the fine weather, a room could still plausibly need a fire.
* * * *
Who was using the Rose Bedroom? Gwenllian peered inside. Her attention had been caught by the merry crackling and popping of the fire as she passed the doorway, but now she could see that the fireplace contained the only activity in the room. Odd for an empty room to have a fire going.
Oliver pushed past her leg and trotted up to the hearth. He looked back quizzically when she did not follow him.
"Yes, yes, I'm stopping,” Gwenllian told the pug. She approached the hearth.
The fire blazed away brightly, but the remains of the paper spills that had been used to kindle it could still be seen. Quite a number of spills, in fact. Far too many for a simple lighting. Someone was burning something.
She crouched down as close as she could to the fire. Uncomfortably close. Waves of heat pounded the skin of her face and arms. But the strips of paper were all too deep within the fire. She could not reach any of them.
There might have been handwriting on the closest strip. It was too scorched to read or even to recognize the writer's hand. Handwriting would generally indicate a letter.
She sat back on the floor beside Oliver. He immediately put his near front leg up on her thigh and leaned against her. Pugs. She stroked Oliver's back. His main goal in life was making himself comfortable. Unhappily, her thoughts were making her very uncomfortable.
Why would someone burn a letter in an unused room? Had Mariah found what she was looking for in Letticia's writing desk and come up here to burn it?
"What are you doing there?"
Gwenllian's entire body jerked in surprise at the sound of Mr. Wyckliff's voice. She looked up and watched him cross from the doorway to her side. “I ... I..."
Oliver had jumped with her. Now he waddled to Mr. Wyckliff, tail wagging. Her mind raced as he paused to pet Oliver. What should she say? She could not be certain that the paper was not her sister's. If Letticia were burning something, it was not for anyone in the house to know about. But if he came any closer, he would see all the spills and know that something was being destroyed.
She swallowed. “I am burning a letter of mine."
"Of yours?” Mr. Wyckliff was looking down at her too strangely.
"Yes, of mine.” She frowned. He could not possibly know the letter wasn't hers. Unless he had burned it. What would he be doing with a letter of Letticia's? Unless it wasn't Letticia's. Too late now, if that were the right of it.
"Why are you burning a letter?” asked Mariah's voice.
Gwenllian pivoted to face the doorway where the unwelcome newcomer stood. For such a vast mansion, people were certainly in each other's pockets.
"I am burning my letter for my own reasons, thank you.” Gwenllian heaved herself to her feet. “Now if you will please excuse me, I must walk my dog. Come, Oliver."
* * * *
Miss Howard moved aside and Miss Lloyd exited the room with her head high, her pug trotting behind her.
Daniel shook his head. One could not leave things alone for a moment in this place. And what was Miss Lloyd doing claiming his letter as hers?
"Such a cozy room,” Miss Howard commented, her voice breaking across his thoughts.
Though she sounded properly demure, her words sent a cold tingle up the back of Daniel's neck. He was suddenly very aware that he was standing with an unchaperoned woman in a bed chamber. An unmarried, unchaperoned woman who had moved to block the doorway again and gazed up at him with confident expectation, as if she believed he might wish to amend her unattached state.
"So it is.” He approached the doorway, which meant approaching her as well. “You must be wishing for my absence so you might enjoy the room the better. I shall not disturb you."
"No, no, I am quite content.” She stepped toward him. “Your company is most agreeable, Mr. Wyckliff."
He repressed the mirthless chuckle that simmered within him. High-born women had never found his company agreeable before this assignment. And he would never have presumed to imagine they might do. In fact, when Nigel had originally imparted his scheme, Daniel had laughed. He could not possibly fly such false flag without detection.
Yet the longer he walked among them, the less he perceived the distinction of their rank. These people were materially well-off, but not materially better. The same sins, the same greed, the same lust still moved through their flesh as it in any other person.
Miss Howard was still gazing at him as if she anticipated protestations of his affection at any moment. She was an excellent catch, and she knew it. She had clearly indicated she was receptive. She was quite right to expect such a response. Her only mistake was to expect it from him.
He had more fascinating affairs to occupy his mind. Such as the question of why that beguiling Miss Lloyd would lie about his letter.
"You must forgive me, Miss Howard.” He mentally cast about for an excuse and opted for the truth. “I am engaged to go riding."
Her smile wavered. She was obviously unused to gentlemen declining her in favor of prior engagements.
"But I would be glad of the honor of escorting you back to the ladies or wherever else you wish to go,” he added in what he hoped was a gallant tone.
Her smile returned. His deception continued.
* * * *
Daniel reined in his horse at the top of the little hill. Mr. Faircross and Mr. Berwentford pulled up beside him. Mr. Berwentford had been showing them Primroselea's grounds, revealing only a modicum of bitterness that it all belonged to his brother the Baron.
From the advantage of this rise, they could easily look across the grassy fields to admire the architecture of Primroselea's less seen side view. As it happened, there was an even better view to be witnessed. Not far from the house, the ladies were practicing archery. They were too distant for one to determine which of them had the better aim, but not too distant to be worth watching.
"Quite a collection of ladies.” Mr. Faircross emitted a low whistle of approval. “In the best of all possible worlds, which would you tup, Geoffrey?"
Mr. Berwentford shrugged. “All cats are grey in the dark."
Mr. Faircross snickered. “What about you then, Wyckliff?"
Daniel allowed himself a rakish grin. “Don't think any of them would accept my coin."
Mr. Faircross laughed. “I say, you are too hard!"
"You would be surprised what money can do,” Mr. Berwentford remarked. He sounded grim. Resigned.
"Come, sirs, an answer.” Mr. Faircross clapped his hands peremptorily. “One would think your rhubarb's never up."
"Mariah then, if I must choose.” Mr. Berwentford turned his steed. “I must take my leave of you, gentlemen. I have affairs which need my attention."
"Might they need Mariah's attention as well?” Mr. Faircross called after him.
Mr. Berwentford temporarily reined in his trotting horse and looked back at them with a grin. “They might do at that."
As Mr. Berwentford continued on down the hill, Mr. Faircross gave Daniel a conspiratorial wink. “Mariah is pleasant on the eye but too haughty by half.” He glanced over at Mrs. Wood. “But that Isabella now, she seems game for anything. Would you have a go at her?"
Daniel shrugged. “She has the customary bits and pieces and they're all in the right place."
There was nothing wrong with any of the ladies cavorting about below. They were all admirable creatures, and yet his eyes continually sought out Miss Lloyd. Mysterious, letter-claiming Miss Lloyd. Miss Lloyd the bluestocking. The possible Francophile. Is that why her doings were of so much more interest to him? Why he could not release her from his gaze? Had it been his hunting instincts all along which drew him to her?
"Have you tumbled her yet?"
"What?” Daniel growled, his stomach tightening along with his fists.
"Yon gypsy gel. Lady Berwentford's sister."
Mr. Faircross had evidently been following his line of sight. Daniel sidled his horse closer to him. If she were a spy, that was his problem and he would deal with it. No one would disparage her in his hearing.
"Bit daring of you to be lifting her skirts—compromising a maiden and all that. Not that I'm against a taste of danger myself,” Mr. Faircross continued. “But how you've got the touch! Looks like she's half mad for it."
With the speed of a striking cobra, Daniel's left hand seized Mr. Faircross by the throat. Already unnerved by the proximity of Daniel's mount, Mr. Faircross’ horse felt its rider's fear and stepped about agitatedly. It took all of Daniel's riding expertise to keep alongside.
"Have a care,” Mr. Faircross squeaked.
"Shut it!” Daniel snarled. “And ne'er speak so of Miss Lloyd again."
"I meant nothing.” Mr. Faircross was struggling for breath, his voice feeble and constrained. “Gad, sir. I meant nothing."
Daniel released his hold of Mr. Faircross's throat and wheeled his horse away, allowing the gasping man to get his mount under control.
"Your behavior rightly does inspire thoughts of highwaymen.” Mr. Faircross muttered between gulps of air.
"Who spoke of highwaymen?"
Mr. Faircross fumbled with the disarrayed fabric at his neck. “No one. Nothing. I say, I do believe the ladies wish me to join them.” He cantered off before Daniel could question him further.
"Walk on,” Daniel urged his horse to follow Mr. Faircross’ retreat. Anger still boiled within him, but now it was mostly directed at himself. What was he doing? He should go inside. Perhaps a stiff drink would banish those distracting thoughts of Miss Lloyd and help him to regain that icy, single-minded detachment which had saved his neck many a time in the past.
Or perhaps he'd just get drunk.
* * * *
Isabella let her arrow fly. “I think Mr. Wyckliff is the handsomest man here."
The arrow thwapped into the target. Gwenllian wondered if she could get her arrow to split Isabella's. Probably not. She opted for a direct center hit. Oliver continued to snore several feet behind her, but Letticia was impressed.
"Well done!” Letticia clapped her hands. “I wish I had your aim, Gwenllian. Now if only Mr. Wyckliff had seen that—he would be much impressed."
"Oh, is he interested in Gwenllian?” asked Isabella.
Letticia winked playfully at her sister. “I cannot say, I am sure. But there may be prospects."
"We are all allowed to have false hopes,” Mariah commented.
Gwenllian pondered the one disadvantage of having good aim: Were she to run Mariah through with an arrow, she would never be able to convince anyone it was an accident.
Letticia, meanwhile, had retrieved her bow. She took aim, but ended up missing the target entirely.
Mariah laughed. “You shall never impress anyone like that."
"I don't have to impress anyone—I'm married,” Letticia replied cheerfully. “But if I weren't, I would say Mr. Faircross is the handsomest man at this party."
Isabella nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Faircross is quite handsome."
"Mr. Faircross is handsome, I will give you that.” Mariah sniffed. She released her arrow. “But I fear his consequence is somewhat beneath ours. Would you not agree, Letticia?"
Letticia smiled. She looked agreeable, but Gwenllian could tell she was gritting her teeth.
"I think he would make a marvelous partner,” Isabella said lightly.
Mariah scowled. “I was not speaking of dancing."
Gwenllian would have bet Isabella was not speaking of dancing either.
"I meant,” Mariah continued, “That he is not as choice a conquest as, say, a baron. What say you, Letticia?"
"I am sure I have nothing to say,” Letticia replied. She picked up her bow and then put it down again.
Mariah's lips curled in that superior smirk she was always using against Gwenllian. Gwenllian had grown accustomed to it aimed against herself, but no one treated her sister that way.
"Why, have you been conquering barons lately, Miss Howard?” she asked.
Mariah's smirk vanished. “What?"
Gwenllian widened her eyes innocently. “Did you not imply you had experience in the conquest of barons?"
Mariah had gone bright pink. “I most certainly did not. No, I did not."
"I heard nothing of the sort,” Isabella stated.
"I would never,” Mariah continued to sputter.
Isabella moved to pat her hand. “No, of course not."
"Pray excuse me.” Letticia stood and walked quickly, but with dignity, toward the house.
Abandoning her archery accoutrements as well, Gwenllian took her leave of Isabella and Mariah and, with Oliver jingling after her, followed her sister inside. Letticia had attained the sanctity of her bed chamber before she and Oliver caught up with her.
"Why did you leave?” Gwenllian asked from the doorway. “If anyone, it should have been Miss Howard who withdrew."
Letticia collapsed onto one of her elegant, silk-upholstered chairs. “Mariah can be very tiring."
"Tiring, I don't think. Irksome, no, vexatious is more apt."
"Her assessment of Mr. Faircross was quite undeserved."
Although Gwenllian felt that was the least of Mariah's affronts, she nodded in agreement.
Her sister rose and moved to stand at the closest window. “Do you have an understanding with Mr. Wyckliff?"
Nine
It was such an unexpected question that Gwenllian was too shocked to answer at first. How had they gotten to this topic? “No, of course not. Why should you think such a thing?"
"Last night I saw him looking up at your room."
"Wh—what do you mean?"
"I...” Letticia fiddled with the draperies. “I had difficulty sleeping last night and was up at the break of dawn. When I drew back the curtains to admire our shrubbery walk, I saw Mr. Wyckliff gazing up at the house.” She glanced at Gwenllian. “But not at me, you understand. He was farther along to the side. It was then I realized he was looking up at your room. How he knew it was your room is anybody's guess. But he was standing, staring up at your windows, like a wolf looking up to the moon."
Gwenllian's heart was thumping as if she had run a mile. “You are teasing me."
Letticia laughed and turned to gaze through the glass. “As if I would. I tell you, it was enough to make one think all sorts of things."
"Well, just you banish those thoughts. We have no understanding. As far as I know, Mr. Wyckliff possesses equal interest in Mariah and I
sabella."
"You cannot think that,” her sister replied, still looking out the window.
"Whyever not? He has long conversations with them."
"He converses with them, certainly. But I have taken pains to observe him."
"You have not!” Gwenllian gasped, surprised and not a little embarrassed at such overly inquisitive behavior.
"I vow I have, even at the first instance in Bath. And my conclusion is that you are his favorite.” She briefly turned her head and gave Gwenllian a wink. “That lawless smile of his he gives to none but you."
A pleasurable glow lit Gwenllian's heart at her words. She was smitten. She could not deny it. Utterly smitten with the first gentleman to show any interest in her. It was pathetic. She must guard against these feelings. Restrain herself. Where was her pride? Although, no one could say he was a poor catch, what with his money. Her family would certainly be proud of her.
From her post at the window, Letticia made a sound of chagrin. “If only I could retire for a few hours. I'm afraid my head will start aching something fierce at any moment."
"Let us get you to bed. And worry not, I can distract your company."
Letticia smiled weakly. “Oh yes?"
"Yes. I think we shall begin with Oliver getting pug hair on Mariah."
* * * *
A pair of liveried footmen opened the grand doors as Daniel limped toward them up the wide stone steps. People in this house couldn't be bothered to open their own doors? He passed through into the marble entrance hall. Were these poor starched bastards forced to wait all day for someone to approach? A woman hove into his path almost before he had finished the thought.
Someone had certainly been awaiting him.
He sidestepped deeper into the otherwise empty hall. “Mrs. Wood?"
The imposing doors shut with a resonate boom. She waited for quiet before she answered.
"Call me Isabella.” She gave him a dazzling smile, clearly calculated to warm him through.
He returned her smile. “Isabella, then."
"I heard the gentlemen had gone riding. I was intending to join you, or have you tired of such sport?"
The Secret Hunter Page 11