by Regina Scott
Love and Larceny
by
Regina Scott
Book 5 in the Lady Emily Capers
Smashwords Edition
© 2016 Regina Lundgren
License Note
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people unless it is part of a lending program. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for lending, please delete it from your device and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work and livelihood.
To my beloved hunters—you know who you are!
And to the Lord, who loves us whoever we are.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Sneak Peek: “An Engagement of Convenience”
About the Author
Chapter One
Daphne Courdebas was known throughout London as an Amazon. She rode better than most of the gentlemen, could drive four-in-hand, and had once dangled off a ledge in a ball gown to protect a friend from a murderous jewel thief. The fellows found her fascinating. The ladies were either awed or aghast at her exploits. She could have given them an easy explanation for her bravado. She’d simply learned that her brain worked better when she was moving.
That was why she took Hortensia out earlier than usual that day. The black-coated mare flew along Rotten Row, her hooves kicking up the golden sand on the track, as the trees of Hyde Park flashed past. Daphne’s thoughts flew nearly as fast.
What was she to do about Miss Alexander’s request?
No, no, not Miss Alexander. She must remember her former art teacher’s new name and position. Hannah Alexander was now Lady Brentfield. And she had begged Daphne and her sister, Ariadne, and their friends Priscilla Tate and Lady Emily Southwell to come to her aid.
“Even though David has had all the secret passages closed off,” she’d written, “I know strangers are frequenting the manor. Art is once more missing, and the servants report hearing noises in the night. It is a mystery that must be solved.”
Of course, Emily had agreed. Emily lived to solve mysteries, and she was very good at it. Ariadne said it was because she saw the details of any scene with her painter’s eye. Daphne thought it was more likely because Emily generally saw the dark in any situation.
Either way, Emily had been ready to journey to Somerset right then. Priscilla had agreed nearly as eagerly—any reason to take her betrothed, Nathan Kent, away from his demanding family. Even Ariadne and her betrothed, Lord Hawksbury, were going, because a mysterious manor was simply too picturesque to forego.
And then there was Daphne. Since before she and her friends had graduated from the Barnsley School for Young Ladies that spring, she had struggled to find her place. She’d tried being prim and proper at first, but the rules of Society felt more confining than a badly fitted corset. She’d embraced her adventurous nature and shocked her mother and many Society matrons to the point where her invitations had dwindled. It seemed impossible to find that middle ground.
Now, here she was, unattached and alone, the last of her friends, against all odds, to find a beau. Conversations in London were bad enough these days, with Priscilla and Ariadne prosing on about whether bridal dresses should be gray or white and if Moroccan slippers should be allowed at wedding breakfasts. Just as bad, Emily moped because her inamorata, Jamie Cropper, had yet to propose even though she might actually be able to convince her father to allow her to accept because their last caper to uncover a French spy had resulted in Jamie being knighted. Daphne must remember to call the Bow Street Runner Sir James when next they met.
But with everyone mooning about, how much worse would it be at Brentfield, where everyone around Daphne was either married or about to be? She felt as if she were a dress everyone had outgrown.
She reined in Hortensia, praised her beloved steed for her speed, then turned her to trot back down the path. Perhaps she should stay home. Her father was remaining in town while her mother chaperoned Ariadne in the country. But already London was beginning to thin of company. And she’d miss catching the thief. She was the one her friends relied upon for feats of physical prowess, after all. She was the one most likely to be of assistance this time. If only she didn’t feel like a spinster!
“Good morning, Miss Courdebas.”
Daphne looked up to find a gentleman approaching, astride a silver-gray horse. Gentlemen were always approaching her, to challenge her to a race, to beg her for a dance at the next ball. Though they crowded her sitting room as well, not one had been moved to offer marriage. She was deemed a great gun, a good sport, one of the boys. She still felt alone.
Except with Wynn Fairfax.
She smiled now as her new friend reined in beside her. Wynn always looked slightly startled. Perhaps it was the way his hair, as dark as hot cocoa, tended to fly around his firm-jawed face. Perhaps it was the wide, sea-green eyes that blinked behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Either way, he returned her smile now as he patted his horse’s powerful neck.
“You’re out early,” he commented.
“A great deal on my mind,” she confided.
His smile broadened. “And it’s easier to think astride.”
“Exactly!” Daphne beamed at him and watched his cheeks turn pink. It was amazing to think that a gentleman might be embarrassed by her appreciation and not the other way around. It was equally amazing how well he understood her when they’d known each other only a month.
She would never forget the night they’d met. She had accompanied Ariadne and their friends to the hallowed halls of Almack’s, that exclusive ladies’ club. Ariadne had been there because she had fallen in with the intelligence corps and had been tasked to identify a French spy. But the spy had taken her captive and threatened her life before making his escape.
Simply unacceptable.
Daphne had gathered up her silk ball gown and followed the miscreant down the stairs and out the door, but she’d quickly realized that even she couldn’t run him down in dance slippers. Glancing around, she’d spotted a trim high-perch phaeton stopped in traffic, with a young man in a many-caped greatcoat at the reins. Surely she was looking at a Corinthian, those sporting types who even drove their own carriages. Leaping up beside him, she’d pointed toward the fleeing felon, Emily’s beau hard on his heels. “After them! That way!”
Anyone else would have demanded an explanation, but Wynn had called to his horses, expertly maneuvered them away from the press of traffic, and set off in pursuit. The wind pressing the fabric back against her, she’d clung to the side of the carriage as they thundered down the street.
“Faster!” she urged. “No one gets away with threatening my sister!”
“I fly, my Amazon!” he cried.
The perfection of the moment tingled along her skin. Or perhaps it was the night air.
“I’ll get you as close as I can,” he called over the rattle of tack. “But if I stop, he’ll have time to escape.”
“Don’t stop,” Daphne urged him. “I’ll jump.”
“You are amazing, madam,” he said. “I only wish I could help.”
“You’re helping,” Daphne promised. “There!”
He slowed just enough to allow her to leap off, and she landed on the spy and knocked him to the ground. Even as she gathered herself up, the Bow Street Runner arrived to take the Frenchman into custody.
“Much obliged, Miss Courdebas,” he said, touching two fingers to his forehead under his thatch of russet hair. “You have the makings of a fine Runner.”
Coming from him, one of the youngest members of that elite police force, she was honored. As he led the man off, she turned to find the phaeton standing nearby, waiting.
“How can I thank you?” she asked her valiant driver.
He climbed down from the coach and limped toward her, and she realized that he was lame.
“Only one way,” he said, removing the top hat that had miraculously stayed on his head during their wild ride. “Tell me your name and promise me you’ll receive me when I call.”
Daphne stuck out her hand. “Daphne Courdebas, daughter of Lord Rollings.”
“Wynn Fairfax,” he replied. “Distant cousin to Lord Darby.” He took her hand, grip firm and sure.
“Good to meet you,” she’d said. “Feel free to call any time.”
There hadn’t been a day since that he hadn’t stopped by, if only for a moment.
“So what’s the problem this time?” he asked now, turning his horse to come parallel to hers as they trotted down the path. “Another French spy to capture? Jewel thief to apprehend? Murderous plot to foil?”
She’d told him all about their adventures. He was a good listener. Very likely the injury to his leg required him to sit and listen to any number of people. Either that or he found her voice a sleep tonic.
“Missing art treasures,” she confided. “Just off the coast of Somerset, in an ancient manor riddled with secret passages.”
“Perfect,” he said. “When do we leave?”
Daphne reined in Hortensia so fast he had to circle back to her. “Wynn, you’re brilliant! You must come with me and play my suitor!”
*
Wynn felt as if a clod of sand had flown up and hit him in the face. Play her suitor? What did she think he’d been doing the past month?
He would always remember the night Daphne Courdebas had thrust herself into his life. Since his injury when his horse had fallen taking a jump at Eton, everyone had treated him as if he were permanently damaged. They seemed to think his arms and mind had been shattered along with his left knee. She’d expected him to be capable, and he’d surpassed his wildest dreams. His heart had been hers from that second.
His mother, on the other hand, had been aghast when he’d proclaimed his infatuation.
“Daphne Courdebas?” She’d shuddered as she’d sat in the perfectly appointed sitting room, not one of her graying hairs out of place, not so much as a wrinkle on her lavender silk gown. “She’s a hoyden, forever thrusting herself into public notice with her wild antics. I would never trust my son to her.”
“Then it’s a very good thing it’s my decision,” he’d said, earning him looks of surprise and admiration from his three sisters.
No one argued with his mother, not his sisters, not the staff, not even the vicar, not since his father had died eight years ago. Wynn generally went along with her dictates: no need to raise a fuss and upset her. But where Daphne Courdebas was concerned, he knew his own mind. He was not likely to meet another woman of her capabilities, beauty, and drive. Any man would be proud to stand beside her.
Oh, he knew he’d need his mother’s permission to wed in England, as he was only eighteen, like Daphne. But there was always Scotland. He thought Daphne would approve of an elopement, even though they might scandalize Society for a time. Amazing how just thinking about her made him ready to brave anything.
Still, he wasn’t willing to accept her vision of him as just a friend.
“Why do you need anyone to pretend to be your suitor?” he asked her now as they rode along the track. “You have dozens, from what I can see.”
She waved a hand, the gesture wild and free. “None exclusive. The sporting set seems to chase after every girl they find interesting. No, it must be you. You’ve come over often enough that even Mother would believe you are courting me.”
Her icy-eyed mother already suspected as much, even if Daphne didn’t. Lady Rollings had made it very clear that she’d taken his measure and found him lacking. Very likely she was hoping for a title for her celebrated daughter.
Or at least a man who was whole.
“I’d be delighted to help,” he assured her. “But I haven’t been invited.”
“I’ll arrange it,” she promised. “It isn’t as if you’ll get a better offer for a summer party.”
“In a manor riddled with secret passages,” he agreed. He ought to take umbrage on any number of points: that she hadn’t realized he was serious in his pursuit of her, that she thought he’d drop everything to help her. But Daphne, he’d learned, was singularly focused. She’d meant no harm.
And if he went with her, perhaps he’d have an opportunity to prove the depth of his affections for her. Even a lame man might solve a mystery.
“So you’ll come?” she asked, tone soft and beseeching, eyes the color of cornflowers staring at him. Those pink lips were pursed just so, as if she waited for his kiss. How could any sane man refuse?
“Of course,” Wynn said. “What else would a suitor do?”
Chapter Two
It took a little effort, but Daphne managed to convince her mother to allow her to ride to Brentfield with Wynn in his phaeton.
“But you must travel directly in front of us,” her mother had insisted, “so that we can render aid if necessary.”
“So she can keep an eye on you, she means,” Ariadne had murmured to Daphne. “You are welcome to ride with Sinclair and me.”
And watch her sister and her betrothed bill and coo? No, thank you. “Wynn prefers to drive,” Daphne had confided. “And you know he’ll let me take a turn at the reins.”
Ariadne had smiled in understanding. That was the nice thing about having a sister only a year younger—Ariadne was also a friend. At times, though, Daphne wondered why they had so little in common. Certainly they did not resemble each other, for Ariadne was curved where Daphne was lanky, and her sister’s light brown hair was straight where Daphne’s had a good deal of bounce.
Then too, Ariadne excelled at more cerebral pursuits. She remembered every bit of the plays, poetry, and prose she so frequently read. Daphne was pleased she’d managed to memorize parts of Lord Snedley’s guide to proper behavior earlier that year. She’d hoped she might at last meet the standards of propriety her mother set. Later, she’d learned that her sister had penned the popular book under a nom de plume.
That discovery had hurt. She and Ariadne never kept secrets from each other. Ariadne had apologized, but just last month, she had hidden her involvement with the intelligence corps. That was a requirement of the assignment, but still. Her sister’s omissions proved to Daphne that the two of them were growing apart, and this betrothal with Sinclair had only made matters worse. Her sister had come across the handsome intelligence agent while she and Lady Emily had been investigating blackmail notes that kept appearing in Priscilla’s pocket. Ariadne had been intrigued from the first and had gone out of her way to track Sinclair down. The two had even pretended to be engaged for a time to flush out a French spy. And now they truly were engaged.
“It’s as if I’m suddenly on my own,” Daphne told Wynn as the two of them tooled along a country road, headed for Somerset. Normally, she would have taken pleasure in the rolling green hills that were perfect for riding and the meandering streams that were perfect for boating. Now her problems seemed to loom larger than the Mendip Hills in the distance.
“I know what you mean,” Wynn replied, gaze on the winding road ahead, which cut through fields where sheep roamed. “After the accident, my friends never seemed to know what to say to me, as if I wouldn’t w
ant to hear what they were doing if I couldn’t join them. Eventually, they stopped coming to visit.”
“Well, they weren’t very good friends, then,” Daphne said. “I will never abandon my friends, whoever they marry.” She shifted her muslin skirts on the bench, hoping to keep off a little of the dust puffing up from the horses’ hooves. Her mother insisted on white—white muslin for the day, white silk for the evening. The color bored Ariadne beyond tears, but Daphne didn’t normally mind. At least her mother let her have more vibrant colors for her riding habits! She could hardly wait to pull one out of her trunk and ride off across the Brentfield estate.
They talked of many things then, from favorite subjects in school to plans for the future. Wynn wanted to be an architect. She’d seen some of his sketches; he was quite good. But most of all, she just enjoyed talking with him—she could tell him anything, and he never chided her, even when she couldn’t quite determine whether she was the Amazon or the Society belle that day. Her mother was forever complaining about how Daphne moved or what she said, while Daphne’s suitors always watched her if as waiting for the next audacious thing she would do or say. With Wynn, as with her other friends, she could simply relax.
They arrived at Brentfield the next day after an overnight stay in Swindon. She couldn’t help smiling at the way Wynn gaped at the massive house. Brentfield Manor had been patterned after Kensington Palace, built from rose-colored brick with wings stretching east and west from the three-story main block. All the windows and the porticoed porch were edged in white. The drive led up over a white stone bridge arching the stream that fed a reflecting pond. As soon as Wynn reined in, an army of footmen and grooms descended on them, taking charge of baggage and horses. But Daphne’s gaze was all for her former art teacher, now the Countess of Brentfield.
In the five months since Daphne had last seen her, Hannah had changed little, and a great deal. She was still a few inches shorter than Daphne, and she had kept the style of braiding her long black hair around her head. Her wide chocolate-colored eyes were tilted up in obvious pleasure. But instead of her dark teacher’s frock, she wore a fashionable lustring gown the color of violets, and she held herself confident, poised, as if she knew who she was and where she belonged. Daphne envied her that.
