by Regina Scott
She simply had to find a gentleman who shared them.
And what of Mr. Sheridan? She’d had such hopes for the fellow, but he hadn’t come in search of her after she’d left the dance. If he was truly interested in her, why remain behind?
On the other hand, it was quite possible Lady Minerva had latched on to him and refused to let go. He seemed the sort of polite, Society gentleman who might have found it hard to refuse the demands of an elderly lady. Then too, very likely he wanted to impress his hosts after they had made room for him. But she would have preferred that he seek out her company, at least check to make sure she hadn’t fallen off a ledge somewhere!
As her mother had threatened, she saw Daphne to her room and gave her such a searching look that Daphne could only bid her mother humbly good night. But she simply could not settle in the lovely room Hannah had assigned her, even after her maid had helped her into her blue flannel nightgown and combed out her hair.
How was Daphne supposed to sleep when there were passages to explore, thieves to thwart? She hadn’t even had a chance to ask Wynn if he’d discovered anything when he’d searched the stairs and terrace. How could she possibly wait until morning?
She’d always done her best to heed her mother’s warnings and advice. Certainly she never broke a promise. So it seemed as if she was stuck in this room until dawn.
Which was a perfectly reasonable time to rise.
She made herself lie down on the bed, squeezed shut her eyes. But she kept seeing Wynn’s face right before he kissed her, eyes soft as the tide on the shore, smile sweet. The vision made her feel warm, as if the summer air had invaded her bed. Worse, she could hear a decided knocking, as if her heart was pounding in her ears.
Or someone was rapping at the wall.
She bolted out of bed and stood listening. Yes. The sound seemed to be coming from the wall next to the dressing table. There it was again—tap, tap, tap—like knuckles on a door.
Was it the thief? Was he about to burst in on her?
She glanced around, then seized up the brass candlestick and advanced on the wall.
“Who’s there?” she demanded. “I warn you, I’m armed. Enter at your own peril!”
“Daphne.” The voice came dimly through the walls, and despite herself she shivered. “It’s me, Wynn. I found a passage. Let me in.”
*
Wynn crouched beside the wall, waiting, the candle offering a tiny circle of light in the darkness. Why didn’t Daphne answer him? He could not conceive that he had scandalized her, not his bold Amazon, by appearing this way. And she certainly couldn’t be afraid. She’d been all bravado a minute ago. Now her silence was more unnerving than the shadowed byways through which he’d come.
Then he heard her voice echo faintly through the wall. “ I’m not sure how to open it on my side. Is there a lever or a mechanism or . . . Wait, I have it.”
A moment later, the panel slid aside to reveal her standing there. It seemed she had expected to sleep, for she was dressed in a flowing gown of blue flannel with satin ribbons at the neck and wrists, and her warm brown hair draped her shoulders like a veil. For the first time since he’d known her, she looked soft, sweet, entirely feminine. He couldn’t stop staring at her.
She set down the candlestick she had been holding and beamed at him. “Well, aren’t you clever!”
Wynn felt his face heat and forced his gaze away from her. “I studied Lord Brentfield’s map and realized one of the openings to the passages was near my room and one near yours. My entrance was unblocked. I took a chance on yours.” He wiggled back to make room for her beside him. “It’s a bit dusty and dark, but well worth a look. Fetch your cloak and join me.”
She hurried to do as he bid, then returned to hand the candlestick to him before gathering her skirts and climbing into the opening. That was another reason he loved Daphne. She was willing to try anything. Handing her back her candlestick, he showed her how to duck under the beams and climb up to where the passage opened on either side and above, and they could stand. She stared around, eyes wide in wonder.
It was rather amazing. Brentfield Manor, it seemed, was honeycombed with passages running between the chamber story and the servants quarters overhead. The paths lay along wide, heavy beams, girdered on either side, so that it was like walking down a long tunnel with branches leading off in various directions.
“That way leads toward the rotunda,” he explained, pointing to the branch nearest them. “The servants’ stair is the opposite direction.” He leaned closer. “And your mother’s room is just there, so don’t make too much noise or she might hear us.”
“Really?” Daphne said.
From below their feet came a gasp.
“Who’s there? Show yourself.” Lady Rollings ordered.
Daphne exchanged glances with Wynn, then suddenly grinned.
“There’s no one here,” she called. “You’re having a dream.”
“I am?” her mother asked.
“You are,” Daphne insisted, eyes twinkling in the candlelight as if she couldn’t believe her own audacity. “You feel great anguish over the cruel manner with which you treated Mr. Fairfax this evening.”
Wynn raised his brows.
Lady Rollings raised her voice. “I most certainly do not. Very likely it was too much blanc mange. All that sweet milky gelatin never sets well with my digestion.”
Daphne clamped her lips tight as if to hold back a laugh. Wynn nodded to the right, and they set off into the passage, going single file.
“Be careful along here,” Wynn advised her, pointing to the rough spot below the beam on the left. “You can see where the plaster was repaired. I doubt it would sustain our weight should we step on it.”
“Oh, it won’t,” Daphne agreed. “She went right through.”
Wynn frowned, glancing back at her. “She? Who fell?”
She was turning a delicate shade of pink. “A former tenant.” She giggled. “Sorry, bad pun.”
He knew Tenant was Lord Brentfield’s family name. His mother had looked the fellow up in Debrett’s Peerage before allowing Wynn to attend the house party. The king had granted the American a special dispensation to inherit when no other male heirs could be found after the deaths of the last earl and his son in a carriage accident. There had been some speculation that the dowager Countess of Brentfield had fallen into such grief on the death of her second husband that she could no longer tend to her duties. Surely Daphne didn’t mean she had been the one to crash through the ceiling.
“Well, I would never forgive myself if you fell through,” Wynn told her. “Though somehow I doubt I should worry about you.”
“I’d worry more about the dust,” Daphne said with a wrinkle of her nose before he turned to the front once more. “My hem is going to be filthy. I wonder if my maid will think I’ve been out playing in the mud in my nightclothes.”
Wynn stopped and turned to stare at her. “Daphne, you’re brilliant!”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell people,” she agreed.
“Think about it,” he urged. “Lord Brentfield said these passages have been unused recently. You can see dust on every surface. If someone has been in these tunnels, they will have left footprints.”
“Of course!” Daphne cried. “And all we have to do is find those footprints and follow them to our thief. Let’s go!”
Chapter Nine
Walking through the passages really was the most singular sensation. They moved within the circle of light from their candles, cocooned in darkness and quiet, as if the rest of the world had merely drifted away. Behind Wynn, Daphne could only admire the way he walked with such confidence, his limp hardly noticeable. He was her leader, her protector, the champion of her cause. She smiled at his back.
And such a nice back too, stretching the material of his coat. When had his shoulders grown so broad? His legs in those breeches so long? And she could not help but sigh over the way the candlelight reflected in his dark ha
ir.
Which was still adorably mussed. What would he do if she reached up and stroked it down?
What was she thinking? This was Wynn! Oh, but she must actually be growing tired to start dreaming of such things.
She had to focus on their task. That was the ticket. She raised her head, thought hard. Surely there was some conversation they should be having, but she couldn’t remember what.
They came out at a crossroads, and he led her up to a hole in the wall. Some industrious ancestor of Lord Brentfield had built a secret window through which to spy upon the rotunda. She could see the black and white marble tiles below, the staircase curving upward. Lord Brentfield must have been concerned the thief would try the front door, for he had stationed a footman there as well. As they watched, the servant raised a gloved hand to stave off a yawn.
Now, that was a topic of conversation.
“What else did you learn from Lord Brentfield?” she whispered to Wynn as they crept back to the crossroads.
“Not a great deal,” Wynn confided, pausing to stand face to face with her in the candlelight. His eyes looked tired, sagging a bit on the outer edges. He nodded toward the passage that headed off toward the rear of the house. “Passages like this one cross the manor, but he wasn’t able to explore them all before he decided to close them off for safety’s sake. He may have missed some entirely.”
“And someone else found them?” Daphne wrinkled her nose, skeptical.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Wynn replied. “Lord Brentfield is new to the estate. Others may have known more about the place before he arrived.”
“Or came in while he was gone.” Daphne chewed her lower lip a moment. “Hannah and David were on a honeymoon for nearly a month. That must have been when the repairs were done. One or two more workmen might not have been noticed.”
Wynn nodded. “Possibly not. But that would mean the thefts had stopped. The thieves are gone. Our mysterious stranger in the woods and on the terrace was merely a servant as Lord Brentfield implied.”
She should be glad for that, for Hannah’s sake. Yet she felt decidedly dejected. “Then we have no reason to be searching.”
“Except for this.” He pulled something gray out of his waistcoat pocket and held it on his open palm. “I found it at the foot of the terrace. It’s possible our thief dropped it from his shoe.”
Daphne leaned closer. “Is that a rock?”
“Limestone, to be exact.” He rubbed it with his other fingers. “And recently broken off from a larger rock if the roughness is any indication. Are there any limestone deposits on the Brentfield lands?”
“Like big cliffs or mounds?” Daphne shook her head. “Not that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve ridden over most of the estate. The only limestone cliffs I know are near the seashore at Brean. We went there once when we were attending the Barnsley School, which isn’t too far from here.”
In the dim light, she could see Wynn was frowning. “Seashore? We must be miles from the sea.”
“Not too many miles,” Daphne told him, turning for the south passage. “Barnsley was fifteen miles from the coast, and we’re closer here, perhaps six or eight. But I don’t see a reason for a thief to be out looking for seashells like we were.”
“Doubtful,” he agreed, following her, but his voice sounded thoughtful, as if he were considering the matter.
They followed the south passage to where it intersected the servants’ stair at the back of the house, but the only marks in the dust were of their own making. Wynn was yawning when Daphne agreed to call it a night. He saw her back to her room.
“Forgive me,” he said as he handed her out of the passage. “I just realized. By following me, you broke your promise to your mother.”
Daphne took her candle from him. “I most certainly did not. I didn’t set one foot outside my door. I went through the wall instead.”
He smiled. “I meant by being alone with me.”
“Oh.” Daphne felt her face warming. “Well, that part of her dictate is nonsense in any event. You’d never take advantage of a situation like that.”
“Certainly not,” he agreed, but he seemed to be watching her.
“You are a gentleman,” Daphne insisted.
“Indeed I am.” Still he didn’t move. What else did he expect of her?
“And we are just friends,” she pointed out.
“Good night, Daphne,” he said, and he disappeared into the darkness before she realized that he hadn’t agreed with her.
*
Wynn was still yawning when he ventured down the stairs to breakfast the next morning. Perhaps it was the late hour last night or the extra exertion, but his leg felt unusually stiff and sore. Then too, his spirit had taken a bit of a beating as well.
Just friends, Daphne had said. Was that all he would ever be to her?
He did his best to hide his limp as he came into the breakfast room, just in case she should be there. It was the smallest room he had seen at Brentfield, but that wasn’t saying much given the grand size of most of the rooms. The breakfast room had a wall of windows facing the rising sun, which glowed on the oval table and scroll-backed cherry wood chairs. Silver and porcelain dishes filled with all manner of delicacies crowded the sideboard along the opposite wall.
“Daphne is off riding this morning,” Lady Emily told him when he took the chair next to hers. She was the only person in the room at the moment. Daphne’s friend wore a coffee-colored gown that somehow suited her for all his sisters would have protested the dark color. “But she told me you had news to report.”
Those brown eyes could look remarkably piercing. But he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to share the secrets of the passages just yet. Instead, he told Lady Emily about the limestone.
Immediately her eyes narrowed. “Interesting. You must sit in on our interviews with the staff. Perhaps you’ll see something Jamie and I miss.”
Somehow he doubted that. Sir James had become a Bow Street Runner of some note, though he was only a year or two older than Wynn. The Times liked to disclose the large sums of money the Runner earned as rewards for his investigations. Wynn had heard rumors the man was related to a prominent aristocratic family that refused to acknowledge him. Daphne had shared that Emily was enamored of the fellow. Wynn would never act as harshly as some might about the gulf in their stations, but he could not imagine a duke’s daughter settling for an officer of the court, no matter how well situated financially.
But then, who was he to question love, when he couldn’t share his feelings with Daphne?
He could not deny, however, that Lady Emily and Sir James made a good team as they interviewed various staff that morning. Daphne returned in time to join him while Priscilla and Ariadne kept the other guests busy with a game of charades in the orangery. At the last minute, Sheridan peeled away to paste himself next to Daphne.
“I’m sure whatever you are doing will be much more interesting than charades, Miss Courdebas,” he said with a smile.
Could Daphne hear Wynn’s teeth gritting at the facile statement? Worse, Sheridan was attired in a fitted coat of a stunning blue that made his very teeth sparkle. Insufferable, that’s what he was. And while Wynn was dressed in a bottle green coat, he rather thought his own attitude was greener, with jealousy.
If the staff thought it odd to be questioned by no less than five of his lordship’s guests, they were too well trained to remark upon it. However, the two footmen and groom who had heard the noises seemed reticent to talk about the occasions. Perhaps it was the presence of Mr. Harrop, their supervisor, who stood at the back of the breakfast room, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed. Lady Emily and Sir James managed to get a few answers, but, as the interviews wore on, Wynn could see Daphne turning restive, foot swinging under the green sprigged muslin of her skirts.
“I say,” Sheridan whispered to her. “You don’t think the house might be haunted, do you?”
Certainly not, but as reluctantly as Lord Brentfield
had agreed to this investigation, Wynn could not see that he would approve taking Sheridan into their confidence. Daphne frowned at him as if unsure how to answer. Worse, the footman who was being interviewed clamped his jaw tight as if expecting ridicule for whatever he said.
Mr. Harrop reacted mores strongly. “Balderdash. There’s nothing wrong with this house a bit of discipline wouldn’t cure.”
The footman sunk lower in his seat.
Lady Emily frowned at the butler.
“Brentfield Manor is not haunted,” Wynn put in. “But someone’s gone to some trouble to make us wonder. Noises in the night, strangers on the steps.”
Sheridan raised a brow. Mr. Harrop lowered his arms.
The footman straightened with a nod. “That’s the right of it, sir. Hammering, like. And oaths, as if something dropped on someone’s foot.”
“Oh, really,” Sheridan started, but Lady Emily held up a hand.
“Where, exactly?” she asked. Mr. Harrop leaned forward as if to better hear the answer.
“West wing, your ladyship,” the footman said. “Just below where the countess used to sleep.”
Sir James leaned forward as well. “The Countess of Brentfield sleeps in the east wing, with her husband, I’m told.”
“The lady who married Lord Brentfield sleeps there,” the footman allowed, tugging down on his black and silver livery. “The countess, I heard, slept in the west wing, and some say she never left.”
Mr. Harrop grunted as a chill went through Wynn. Was that why the dowager Lady Brentfield hadn’t been seen in London this Season, as was her wont? Was she a prisoner of the very manor she’d thought was her home? To what evil purpose? He simply couldn’t see Hannah or her husband as some kind of cruel wardens.
“Nonsense,” Lady Emily said, voice strident. “Lady Brentfield no longer lives at the manor.”
Wynn could see the butler regarding her thoughtfully.
The footman shrugged. “Just saying what some believe, your ladyship. All I know is that Lady Brentfield had an accident here, and no one ever saw her again. You tell me what happened to her.”