The Secret Hunter

by Susanne Saville

"Not at all.” He swept his arm gallantly in the direction of the door. “I would gladly accompany you. Do you do much riding?"

  "Oh, yes,” she replied, her voice breathy. “I ride very well indeed."

  She sounded as if she meant something other than horseback riding. Even before Daniel could finish that conjecture, she had sidled up to him. Her fingertips deliberately brushed his thigh. She absolutely did not mean horseback riding.

  Daniel did not move away. His quarry could just as easily be Isabella as anyone else in the house. It would behoove him to continue their conversation.

  "It is an exhilarating sport, is it not?” he replied.

  She gazed up at him, her eyelids half lowered over dreamy eyes. “Some sports are even more exhilarating performed indoors.” Her fingers drifted up his leg.

  "Exhilarating but not exclusive. I have seen you walking with Mr. Costeroe."

  She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “A trifle. He is continually pressing his attentions upon me. But he does not interest me."

  "And I do?"

  "Indubitably."

  "Would that interest, perchance, involve my money?"

  She pouted playfully. “You have not done this before, to talk of money at such a time."

  "I like to know the price of goods before I buy."

  The tip of her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “Perhaps you would like to experience a sample of what I can provide as proof of value?"

  "What would you say if I told you I already have a woman?"

  Innocently she looked around the empty entrance hall. “She is not here."

  "She is here. She is present in my heart."

  Isabella laughed. “You are too romantic for words. But I do not switch horses unless I am certain of my success."

  She pressed herself full length against him. Her hands slid down his body with licentious purpose. She knew how to expertly manipulate his nerves. But the sensations which he might otherwise have found pleasurable now only irritated him. They interfered with his detached analysis of her words.

  As his flesh mindlessly reacted to her, a bold and knowing light twinkled in Isabella's eyes. “You are interested, admit it."

  He gazed down at her upturned face. She was a beautiful woman, it was true. And it might further his cause to bed her.

  But she was not the woman he wished were in his arms.

  Try as Isabella might, there was no magic in her touch, and he did not desire to know the person behind her glittering eyes. Before Miss Lloyd he would not have been so discriminating. He would have been grateful for a tumble with a woman of her class. It seemed like another lifetime.

  Now his thoughts only ran to Miss Lloyd. Quiet, kind Miss Lloyd, who could ignite his blood with a smile, who was too good for him, and who just might be his enemy. Yet he yearned for her and only her.

  "I can do things for you,” Isabella was whispering. “Things other women could never conceive of, things you've never even dreamed. Men have dueled for me. I've been paid in rubies and gold. But I'm offering my services to you for free. You might have for free what others have paid for so dearly. Aren't you curious? Don't you long to know, to experience me?"

  Daniel was surprised to find that he did not. Tupping her might be easier, but there were other ways to investigate Isabella.

  "Madam,” he began with cold formality. “There is only one woman I want, and she is not you."

  Isabella shook her head. “You cannot mean that."

  * * * *

  Gwenllian peered around the marble column behind which she hid, Oliver clasped in her arms, his collar silenced, clutched inside her fist. She had managed to slip off Oliver's collar, descend the final flight of stairs and conceal herself behind the column without Isabella and Mr. Wyckliff noticing. Not that that was such a feat. They were very engrossed in their conversation.

  Now Isabella was sidling up to Mr. Wyckliff in a most immodest manner. He did not back away, but he seemed to stand straighter, although his fists remained at his sides. Isabella's hand languorously stroked up and down his thigh while she spoke, whispered, and gazed up into his face. Gwenllian wished she could hear what Isabella was saying. Then Isabella pressed herself up against Mr. Wyckliff. Where were her hands going now? Gwenllian gasped.

  That was quite enough of that.

  Time to send in the pug.

  She bent down, put Oliver on the floor and gently held him in place with one hand on either side of the barrel of his body.

  "Where's Mr. Wyckliff? Where's Mr. Wyckliff?” she whispered excitedly to the dog. “Find Mr. Wyckliff."

  Oliver was looking straight across the room at his target. His body shivered with enthusiasm and his curly tail whipped back and forth so that the force practically straightened it.

  "Go greet Mr. Wyckliff. Go greet him!” She released Oliver. He launched himself across the room, the clacking of his nails on the marble making him sound more like a stampede of pugs than merely one lone dog.

  Mr. Wyckliff obviously heard him and looked over. He saw Oliver coming and stepped away from Isabella, but beyond that he did not move.

  "Oliver?” Gwenllian heard him say. Just before Oliver careened into Mr. Wyckliff's legs.

  He absorbed the crash with little more than a totter. Then he asked after Oliver's health, and crouched down to pet the snuffling, wriggling pug.

  "Where is your mistress?"

  She stepped forward and started across the room. “Why, there you are, Oliver."

  Isabella was frowning. Apparently Gwenllian's innocent act was not well-acted enough.

  "And where are you two off to?” Mr. Wyckliff asked.

  She thought fast as she re-buckled Oliver's collar around his neck. “We thought a walk might do us good."

  "What an excellent idea.” Isabella smiled up at Mr. Wyckliff. “Others might think it an exhibition to be out dirtying her skirts, but Gwenllian thinks only of exercise."

  "It is a fine day for exercise,” he replied. “Might I escort you, Miss Lloyd?"

  She felt an irrational rush of pride. He was choosing her over Isabella. “Certainly."

  He turned to Isabella. “Would you like to accompany us, Mrs. Wood?"

  Gwenllian's pride faltered.

  "No, thank you.” Isabella looked at her as she tried to hide her relief. “I'm afraid I am too tired for scampering around the countryside.” Isabella looked up at Mr. Wyckliff again and smiled her beckoning smile. “I will retire to my bedroom. Perhaps I shall see you anon, Mr. Wyckliff."

  He raised an amused eyebrow, but he did not reply to Isabella. Instead he looked down at Oliver. “Come, Oliver, let us take your mistress for a walk."

  * * * *

  It was lovely outdoors. Everything was terribly green and the bright sunlight felt more like summer than spring. Jangling and panting, Oliver led them across the grass. Gwenllian noted happily that Mr. Wyckliff continued to heal well. He loped along with only a trifling hitch to his stride. She felt that deserved some sort of positive comment, but could not think of a polite way to introduce the topic. In fact, she could not think of a polite way to introduce any topic.

  As Mr. Wyckliff seemed unable to introduce a topic either, they walked in silence. A silence that became more and more uncomfortable. Or at least Gwenllian felt it uncomfortable. Finally she decided she might as well plunge in with what was uppermost on her mind.

  "Isabella is very beautiful."

  Mr. Wyckliff gave a noncommittal grunt.

  Her heart sank. “You agree, then? That she has many charms?"

  "Perhaps, but they are not very unique charms."

  "What do you mean? Do you mean that all women possess the same attractions?” This was not good news either.

  "No, that was not what I meant to imply, but that will work just as well. All women are the same, but you might find one who is special."

  As he did not elaborate, she decided to press him.

  "Special how?"

  He stopped practically in
mid-stride. She halted beside him. At first he stared at the ground. Then he turned to gaze directly into her eyes.

  "Special in that all your thoughts turn to her. You miss her when she is not present and count the hours until you can see her again. Life is more agreeable in her presence. And if you must go into battle, she represents all you are fighting for."

  The sincerity in his husky voice was overwhelming. Her heart felt like it was too full for her chest. She lowered her eyes. He could not possibly be speaking about her. It was too good to be true. He would say something now, something to identify this paragon as Isabella. Or Mariah. She waited tensely for disappointment.

  "And she looks quite enchanting in purple."

  Her head snapped up. She was staring into his mesmerizing hazel eyes once again.

  "I wear purple,” she whispered.

  "I know."

  The distance between them seemed to be closing as if the air itself were congealing and drawing them in. He was going to touch her. He was definitely going to touch her. Heart pounding, she waited to be ruined. No one wanted to marry her anyway. If this splendid man wished to kiss her, she was more than willing to be kissed.

  The moment shattered when Oliver, who had fallen a bit behind as they walked, suddenly dropped to the grass with a distressing clash of bells.

  "Oliver!” She turned to run to him.

  Mr. Wyckliff waved her back. “Don't fret, I shall save your pug."

  He strode over to Oliver and scooped him off the ground. “Quite a forced march for a poor little dog."

  He brought him to Gwenllian. She examined Oliver as Mr. Wyckliff held him snug in his arms. He seemed to be healthy, but he was panting heavily and looked very tired.

  "He doesn't do well in such unseasonably warm weather,” she explained as she fussed over her pug.

  Mr. Wyckliff nodded. A merry light danced in his eyes, contrasting with his solemn countenance. “Indeed, that strange, orange object in the sky generates a most peculiar heat. I shall be relieved when our familiar rain returns."

  "As will I,” Gwenllian agreed. “Too many peculiar things have happened recently.” Her breath caught in her throat. That was another matter. She must ask. “Speaking of peculiar, Mr. Wyckliff."

  He raised his eyebrows. “You find me peculiar?"

  "Perhaps some of your actions."

  He smiled. “Are you the one saying I'm a highwayman?"

  Gwenllian was aghast. How could he know? “I told only Letticia of my suspicions. Do not tell me she told you."

  "No, ‘twas not her."

  "Then who?"

  "Mr. Faircross."

  "I positively never spoke my thoughts to him.” How could he have known? Had they come to the same conclusion independently? She sighed. “I meant no disparagement, you realize."

  "Of course not."

  "But the question stands. Are you a highwayman?"

  He looked away from her for a moment, then turned back with a roguish grin. “If I were, would I tell you?"

  "Yes."

  He raised his eyebrows. “You seem terribly sure."

  "It would be dishonorable to lie to a direct question and you would be foolish not to trust me. You are neither dishonorable nor a fool."

  "And why should I trust you?"

  Because I am besotted with you. No, that was too revealing an answer. Nor was it logical. He would want logic.

  "Well, clearly I am not going to betray you. I have not gone for the militia, have I?"

  "Anything else?"

  This was more difficult than she thought. “My vow that I am trustworthy depends upon you already believing I am trustworthy in order to accept my vow as genuine. So ... I guess, no, I cannot offer anything else other than that my actions have never harmed you."

  He nodded once and, Oliver in his arms, circled her at a slow walk, as if appraising a horse. She stood still, hands clasped politely together, back straight.

  "Sir, may I ask what you hope to accomplish?"

  He did not answer. Instead he completed the circuit and stood in front of her again, gazing directly into her eyes.

  "I am not a highwayman. Are you a French spy?"

  Her jaw dropped. “Certainly not."

  "And you would answer me truthfully?"

  "Of course. This is some sort of jape on your part, is it not?"

  He looked astoundingly serious.

  "I vow I am not a French spy,” she continued, uncertain if she were more offended or amused. “And no one could possibly suspect such a thing of me. For one thing, I own a pug."

  He raised a bemused eyebrow. “And that guarantees respectability?"

  "If nothing else, it guarantees I am too busy taking care of my needful, problematic pet to indulge in treachery."

  "That sounds eminently reasonable.” He smiled.

  The return walk to Primroselea was an exceedingly pleasant affair. Oliver rode happily in Mr. Wyckliff's arms while he and Gwenllian traded insights on the geography and history of Dorsetshire. It was not until they came nearer the house that Mr. Wyckliff grew reserved again.

  "Miss Lloyd."

  "Yes?"

  "Much as I do enjoy your company. Despite what I may have led you to believe."

  She could feel her happiness draining away while an ice cold lump formed in the pit of her stomach. “Yes?"

  "You should not think too often of me.” He paused, his lips pressed tightly together. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then he continued, “I find when ladies think too much upon a man, they inevitably contemplate marriage."

  She swallowed. “And you do not intend to marry?” Her voice sounded weak, almost hoarse.

  "I do not. And a decent lady would not partake of the sort of arrangements I make with women."

  Her hands clenched into fists. “I am not so green as I'm cabbage-looking. I know what rakes get up to."

  Mr. Wyckliff lowered Oliver to the ground. When he stood up, his eyes were surprisingly empty and when he spoke his voice was very dark. “Do not think of me."

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away from her down the shrubbery walk.

  * * * *

  Gwenllian trudged across the lawn toward Primroselea, Oliver trotting with a merry jingle at her side. The back door did not seem to be getting any closer. Why did Mr. Wyckliff want her to stay away from him? He had some tender regard for her. She knew he did. So why would he reject her?

  "The least he could do is give us a proper reason,” she complained to her pug.

  Oliver panted loudly and kept trotting.

  Gwenllian glanced up and saw Mr. Costeroe walk out from behind the shelter of one of the hedges. Dread twisted her stomach. Mr. Costeroe was the last person she wished to speak to right now. She straightened her spine, quickened her step, and nodded acknowledgement to him. Maybe if she kept walking he would not harass her.

  He nodded to her in return, his lewd expression making warning prickles dart up the back of her neck. Immediately she looked away and kept walking, head held high. But she could still feel his eyes upon her. It was a disturbing, repulsive feeling. Just her luck, to be rejected by the gentleman she desired and ogled by a man she could not stand.

  As she opened the back door for Oliver, she surreptitiously glanced back. Mr. Costeroe had not moved. He was not following. Relieved, she trailed Oliver inside. The magnitude of her relief led to a growing sense of anger. She could do nothing about Mr. Wyckliff's affections, but she did not have to tolerate Mr. Costeroe's impertinence. She was Lady Berwentford's sister, after all. She should simply tell Letticia. Letticia would see to it that Geoffrey told Mr. Costeroe to behave.

  "You stay here, I'll return directly,” she told her pug as he drank from his kitchen water bowl with gusto.

  Gwenllian climbed the multiple flights of stairs. It was not until she reached Letticia's bedroom that she paused, her hand inches away from the doorknob, to quickly run through what she would say.

  "Don't believe the Baroness is in there. Can I hel
p at all?” It was Geoffrey's voice.

  Slowly she turned to face him. Mr. Costeroe was Geoffrey's responsibility, whether he was his guest or his servant. He certainly was the one to speak to, but she fervently wished she could have conversed with her sister first. As lady of the house, Letticia had better grounds to confront Geoffrey. Still, as long as she was already speaking with him.

  "Your Mr. Costeroe makes me feel very uncomfortable.” That sounded childish. She tried again. “Have you noticed..."

  "Noticed what?” Geoffrey's blank expression was making this all the harder.

  "Mr. Costeroe often, looks, at me."

  "Well of course he looks at you, he's got eyes."

  "No, no, I mean h-he looks ... it is not the way a man should look at a respectable woman."

  "What, you think he means to ravish you?” Geoffrey laughed. “Ain't that a fancy!"

  The bedroom door opened and Letticia stepped out. She had been in there after all. “What's so funny? I can hear you laughing through the wall."

  "Miss Lloyd believes Mr. Costeroe has designs on her body.” Geoffrey's comic delivery along with the waggling of his eyebrows made the concept sound all the more preposterous.

  Letticia giggled. “Oh, dear, you are full of fancies lately.” She hooked her arm around Gwenllian's waist and led her into the bedroom. “Honestly, that sort of thing does not happen here."

  Gwenllian glanced back at Geoffrey. He shook his head at her in mock pity. Gwenllian started to protest but he turned his back on her and strutted away.

  "I am no longer wasting my sympathy on that horrible man,” Gwenllian grumbled. “As far as I am concerned, Geoffrey deserves to be a second son.” She flopped onto Letticia's bed. “No, he deserves to be a fifth son."

  "Surely someone as imaginative as you can come up with a fate worse than that,” teased Letticia.

  Gwenllian made a face at her sister. “You can laugh, but just you wait. Something is rotten in the state of Primroselea and I'm going to prove it."

  * * * *

  If only Oliver did not snore so loudly. Gwenllian leaned her head back against her bedroom door. She had been sitting here on the hard floor for what felt like hours, waiting to hear something, anything from the corridor. So far all she heard was Oliver. He had gotten too hot curled up in her lap and abandoned her for the bed. Yes, her dog was sleeping in her bed and she was sitting on the floor. She smiled at her own folly. Another contented snore issued from the bed above.