by Regina Scott
“It seems Mr. Fairfax felt it incumbent upon himself to explore the secret passages that run through the house,” she told them. “He took a fall, but we have every hope that his injuries are minor.”
Daphne certainly hoped so. Seeing him lying there so pale and stiff had made her ache inside, as if she were the one who had smashed through the ceiling. She almost wished it had been her. She could have faced her mother’s censure. And she had no previous injury to aggravate. What if his leg had broken again? What if this time he truly couldn’t walk?
A shiver went through her, and she wrapped her arms about her waist.
“I say, what’s the trouble?” Brooks wandered down the corridor. His blond hair remained perfectly combed about his handsome face, and a scarlet dressing gown draped his broad shoulders. Words dried up in her mouth.
“Merely an accident, Mr. Sheridan,” her mother said, drawing her dressing gown closer even as she stepped in front of Daphne’s sister and friends, who were wearing their nightgowns. “I’m sure you will be apprised of all come morning.”
It was a clear dismissal. No one Daphne had ever known would have argued with her mother, with the exception of Ariadne, of course. But Brooks ventured closer, golden brows knit. “An accident, madam? Perhaps I might be of assistance.”
Emily darted around Daphne’s mother to confront him. “You certainly can. Please explain why you of all our gentlemen was the only one to hear the commotion.”
Brooks smiled. “Light sleeper, I expect.”
“Something preying on your mind?” Lady Minerva asked.
He took a step closer to Daphne and smiled that charming smile that made his teeth sparkle in the candlelight. “Such a wonderful evening, I suspect, with the most delightful lady of my acquaintance.”
Something fluttered through her. Was that what people meant when they claimed they had butterflies?
“Nicely said,” Priscilla put in with a look to Emily, which she ignored.
“He could have used more alliteration,” Ariadne muttered with a shake of her head. “Perhaps compare her to the moon or a toadstool ring.”
“Girls.” Lady Rollings stepped in front of Emily and turned her sternest look on Brooks. “Suffice it to say that there is no need for concern, Mr. Sheridan. Good night.”
He hesitated only a moment longer. Impressive. No one challenged her mother to that extent. Then he offered her a bow. “Good night, Lady Rollings. Good night, Daphne.”
He turned and strolled back down the corridor as if nothing untoward had happened.
“Daphne?” Ariadne murmured to her sister. “Well done, you.”
Her mother frowned after him.
Hannah appeared then and offered to lead Lady Rollings to her new room. Lady Minerva stepped closer to the door as if refusing to budge so much as an inch.
Daphne’s mother affixed the girls with a look nearly as stern as the one she’d offered Mr. Sheridan. “Time to turn in, girls.”
Emily’s look turned mutinous. Daphne stepped between them. “I’ll see that they all retire, Mother. It’s the least I can do.”
Her mother regarded her a moment, then inclined her head. “Very well. I will see you all in the morning.” She turned to glide off with Hannah. Lady Minerva opened the door to Wynn’s room and slipped inside. Daphne thought about going after her, but she was certain someone older and more convincing would soon eject her.
“You wouldn’t dare order us to bed,” Priscilla told Daphne.
Daphne shook her head. “Of course I wouldn’t. What I told Mother was the only way to satisfy her. Let’s adjourn to Ariadne’s room and have a good coz.”
They all agreed to that. A few minutes later, draped upon the great blue bed in her sister’s room, they eyed one another expectantly.
“I cannot like the fact that Mr. Fairfax chose to go into the passages alone,” Emily said, arranging her purple flannel nightgown around her where she sat at the foot of the bed. “It simply wasn’t safe. What if he had encountered the thief?”
“Terribly short-sighted,” Ariadne agreed, leaning back against the pillow she’d propped between her and the carved walnut headboard. “I expect more of a hero.”
A hero. How odd her sister used that word for Wynn. Yet his actions tonight had been noble, his concern all for Daphne when he had been the one injured.
“He could have invited the rest of us along if he thought them to be safe,” Emily said. “I’ve been itching for another chance at those passages, but I wasn’t sure which openings were accessible.”
“At the very least I would have expected him to take Daphne with him,” Priscilla added, narrowing her green eyes as she sat regally alongside Daphne in her frilly white nightgown.
“He did,” Daphne told them. “I was with him when he fell.” She swallowed, remembering. “In fact, it’s my fault he went through the plaster. I pushed him.”
Ariadne stared at her. “Whatever did he do to earn your wrath? Call Hortensia a slug?”
“Refuse to teach you to fence?” Emily guessed.
Daphne hung her head. “No. He kissed me.”
“Bravo, Mr. Fairfax,” Priscilla said. “I never knew he had it in him.”
Neither did Daphne. She could not understand why, every time his lips touched hers, she quite forgot herself. Perhaps it was only because she lacked Priscilla’s experience. Perhaps a kiss would grow less exciting with time.
Perhaps pigs might fly.
“Regardless,” Emily said, “he has made our work more difficult. Anyone who wasn’t aware of the secret passages will hear of them now, once word of this accident gets out. Worse, whoever has been using them will be all the more cautious. We have lost our advantage.”
Daphne sighed. “I’m sorry, Emily. I should have told you about last night but it kept slipping my mind. Wynn found an entrance to the passages near his room, and he followed it to one near mine. We thought if we could locate other tracks in the dust, we would determine the path the thief was taking. Only we never found any steps but our own.”
Emily cocked her head. “That alone is telling. So if the thief isn’t using the passages above the rooms, how has he been moving through the manor unseen?”
“And what is he doing with the art?” Priscilla asked. “You’ve seen Wenwood. There is nothing by way of shopping. Where would one dispose of such treasures? I can’t see a Constable hanging over a fisherman’s hearth.”
Ariadne brightened. “Then perhaps the thief isn’t selling the art. Perhaps his plan is to empty the place of its treasures to reflect badly on Hannah and Lord Brentfield. Some other hostess may be jealous of her place in Society.” She tapped one finger to her lips as if considering who would be so dastardly.
“The plot would make an excellent novel,” Priscilla said, earning her a grin from Ariadne. “Unfortunately, I sincerely doubt anyone is jealous of Hannah’s place in Society. She still isn’t received by a good number of hostesses because of her genteel background, not to mention the fact that she paints.”
Emily coughed. “Yes, well, the imagination of the ton is notoriously limited, except when it comes to scandals. Our imaginations, fortunately, are not so lacking. Hannah says she discovered that more art was missing when she compared the house’s offerings to the inventory. We have only one way to know whether the thefts are ongoing. Tomorrow, we will enlist every guest and each available staff member to inventory the house again. If there is something further missing, we need to know what and when. That should help us determine who and how.”
Daphne fidgeted on the bed. “Very wise, I’m sure, but won’t enlisting their help alert Mother and Lady Minerva to our investigation? And what of Brooks? Are we ready to allow him to help?”
Her sister’s face fell while Priscilla’s grew solemn.
Emily waved a hand. “I suspect my aunt already knows. It’s not easy to keep things from her. But as for your mother and Mr. Sheridan, I would prefer we keep them in innocence.”
Ariadne w
iggled her lips a moment, then brightened. “I have it! We can make a game of it. Lord Brentfield can put up some prize and hide it in one of the rooms. Whoever finds it wins. Everyone loves a treasure hunt.”
Priscilla smiled. “Perfect.”
Daphne and Emily chorused their agreement, and they all slipped back to their rooms for some much-needed rest. How nice to have a moment with her friends. It almost felt like things had never changed. But one glance at the wall by her dressing table, and Daphne remembered her other concern.
Would Wynn be all right? And would he forgive her for her part in his injury?
*
Wynn wasn’t sure which was worse, the aches from his bruises or the person who had been assigned to nurse him. Dr. Praxton had examined him, proclaimed him very fortunate, and advised him to rest for a day or two. Wynn hadn’t intended to stay in bed longer than it took for the doctor to leave the room. But Lady Minerva had had other ideas.
“I know how to deal with invalids,” she’d declared, taking the chair the footman had drawn up to the bed. Dr. Praxton had allowed Wynn to walk to a room just down the corridor, leaning on two footmen. His bad leg had protested, but no more than usual, which eased his concerns. A helpful maid had brought his things to him as well.
“I am not an invalid, madam,” Wynn had told her.
“That’s what they all say,” she’d said with a laugh sounding suspiciously like a cackle. “Right up to the moment they succumb to their injuries.”
He had no intentions of succumbing to his injuries. He lay back on the bed and squeezed shut his eyes, hoping she might leave him be. The room was so quiet, he fancied he could hear her breathing. How could he sleep knowing she was waiting for him to die?
But even as he concentrated, he heard another noise in the distance, fast, firm, hard.
Wynn opened his eyes with a frown. Lady Minerva was watching him.
“Do you hear hammering?” he asked.
She cocked her head like a bird. “Do you hear hammering?”
Yes, he did. He couldn’t have mistaken it. Surely Lord Brentfield wouldn’t have started repairs in the middle of the night. The rest of the rooms around this one were inhabited by the lady guests. He couldn’t see any of them except Daphne being willing to take up a hammer. So who was making that noise?
He levered himself up on his elbows, trying to pinpoint the source.
Lady Minerva shook her finger at him. “You lay down, or I’ll call that butler. I warrant he’ll know how to keep you in bed.”
Wynn ignored her. The sounds had faded away, and once more the room had grown quiet. With a sign, he lay back down and attempted to get some sleep.
Unfortunately, when he woke some hours later, Lady Minerva was still there, watching him, and she seemed a bit disappointed to see him awake. She must have left to change at some point, because she was wearing her black bombazine rather than the pink flannel. He felt a little like a worm with the raven bending overhead.
And she would not hear of him rising.
Neither would anyone else. Lord and Lady Brentfield came to check on him. Daphne’s sister brought him a book to read. Miss Tate delivered copies of the Gentleman’s Quarterly. Lady Emily offered to paint the moment of his fall. Even Sheridan paid him a visit.
“That’s the ticket,” he said with a cuff to Wynn’s shoulder that seemed to echo in every scrape and bruise. “You lay here and lap up the attention while the rest of us work.”
He knew from Lord Brentfield that they were going to inventory the house. It was supposed to be a game to find two little golden eggs, one for each partner, but he thought he saw the truth behind the ruse. Lady Emily was trying to determine what else might be missing. Wynn had offered to check the rooms surrounding his, to no avail.
But worse by far was Daphne’s reaction to his injuries. She came in last, as if afraid to see the extent of his wounds, and stood beside Lady Minerva’s chair, lower lip trembling.
“Oh, Wynn,” she said, lovely blue eyes pooling with tears, “can you ever forgive me?”
“Don’t do it,” Lady Minerva advised Wynn. “Suffering is good for the soul.”
He didn’t think suffering was good for much of anything. “There’s nothing to forgive, Daphne. You didn’t mean to make me fall.”
“Of course I didn’t!” Her hands were worrying before the fetching blue cambric gown she was wearing. “You are my dearest friend.” She threw herself down on her knees beside the bed so that her face was level with his as he reclined. “What can I do to make it up to you? Bathe your forehead with lavender water? Brew you a posset of rose hips?”
“Watch it, girl,” Lady Minerva muttered. “That’s my role.”
“I don’t need a posset or your pity,” Wynn said. “I fully intend to climb from this bed as soon as I can convince this old harridan to leave.”
Lady Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “What good are spinster aunts if not to tend the lame and sick?”
That did it. He threw back the covers and swung his bare legs off the bed. “I, madam,” he said, rising to his full height, “am not lame.”
They ogled him. Very likely neither had ever seen a man dressed only in a nightshirt that fell no further than his knees. Aware of their gazes, he strode to the wardrobe. His leg twitched, threatened to seize up on him. He refused to listen.
Daphne recovered first, hurrying after him as he threw open the doors of the wardrobe.
“No, Wynn, wait! You must rest! The doctor said so.”
“And the doctors all said I would never walk again,” he countered, choosing trousers, shirt, and waistcoat. “I didn’t fall to their fears then. I don’t intend to now. If you wish to help, fetch me a valet.”
Daphne nodded, but, as Wynn turned, he saw that Lady Minerva had swiveled her chair so she could watch him, eyes avid. “And find her something else to do,” he added.
“Very well,” Daphne said, putting a hand to his arm. “I doubt Lady Minerva will listen to me. I’ll ask Mother to come take her away. Now please, be careful. I don’t want anything else to happen to you. You are too important to me.” She pressed a kiss against his cheek, then hurried out the door.
Wynn found himself sitting down on a nearby chair, hard.
“Sure you don’t need my services?” Lady Minerva demanded. “You’re paler than blanc mange.”
He grinned at her. “Madam, at the moment, I could waltz from this room with no help from anyone.”
“That’s what they all say,” she grumbled.
Chapter Fourteen
Daphne had to own that it was good to see Wynn up and about by that afternoon, though she very much doubted she would ever forget the sight of him in his nightclothes. Who knew men had such shapely legs? Or was Wynn the only one? She would have to look more closely at the fellows in their evening breeches, although she had heard of gentlemen who padded their stockings to give themselves a more manly line.
She had had hopes that she might partner him or Brooks for the inventory, but her mother grabbed her and refused to let go. So she was forced to watch Wynn go off with Nathan Kent to check the armory, which she was certain would be far more interesting than the portrait gallery to which she and her mother had been assigned.
“Do not think your sighs will move me,” her mother said as they started down the long room. Against each wall, Tenants from ages past gazed balefully out at her from their gilded frames. She knew just how they felt, stuck some place she had no interest in being.
“Yes, Mother,” she said, stopping beside the nearest portrait.
“And do not think I believe your apparent complacency,” her mother continued, glancing down at the paper they had been given, which listed the room’s contents. “You could always be counted upon to heed my advice, until you met Mr. Wynn Fairfax.”
Daphne grimaced. “I wouldn’t blame Wynn. I’m more likely to lead him astray than the other way around.”
Her mother’s mouth was prim. “And what sort of husband would t
hat make, tied forever to his wife’s bonnet strings?”
Daphne tried to envision Wynn stuck against her bonnet and giggled. A look from her mother made the laugh die in her mouth. “At least he’d never complain. He likes me.”
Her mother sighed, lowering the paper. “Oh, my dear girl. Are you truly so blind? Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Fairfax has no intention of settling for your friendship. He loves you.”
Well, certainly her mother would think that. That had been the entire purpose of their charade, after all, to convince people Daphne had a real suitor. Daphne hadn’t been doing a tremendously good job since Brooks Sheridan had arrived on the scene, but still. She opened her mouth to tell her mother as much, then realized she couldn’t without giving away the game.
“Yes, you may well gape,” her mother said, returning to the inventory. “Perhaps that knowledge will help you see his actions in a different light. Now, then, describe the portraits to me, and we will confirm that all are present. And keep an eye out for those golden eggs. They could easily be tucked into one of these massive frames.”
Daphne proceeded to describe this Tenant and that as her mother dutifully checked off the paintings. But faced with such a mundane, slow-moving task, her mind wandered off on its own.
Could her mother be right? Did Wynn really love her? She certainly could see his actions in that light, now that her mother had raised the issue like a lantern. He had kissed her—once in front of everyone and once alone in the dark of the secret passage. From what she knew, friends did not kiss. He had also been overly concerned about her falling. And he’d wanted to tell her something important when he’d first come to her room last night. Had he been about to confess his love?
Her heart started beating faster at the thought. Her and Wynn, together forever. Riding, driving, fencing, laughing. Raising a family. He’d make a marvelous father—so patient and kind. It was all tremendously easy to picture. Indeed, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it herself.
“That apparently is all of them,” her mother said, turning from the portraits. She handed the sheets to Daphne. “Take these to Lord Brentfield and see if we can be of further assistance.”