by Regina Scott
She dipped a curtsey. “Lady Brentfield. Thank you for inviting us.”
Hannah’s rosy lips quirked. “That is quite enough of the Lady Brentfield nonsense. I’m still not accustomed to it, and I never use it with friends. I am Hannah, and you are very welcome in our home, Daphne.”
Daphne grinned, rising. “I’m so glad.” She turned and motioned Wynn forward. “Hannah, may I present Mr. Wynn Fairfax, a particular friend of mine.”
Hannah raised her brows as if Daphne had said something intriguing.
Wynn offered her a bow. “Your ladyship.”
She nodded as he straightened. “Mr. Fairfax. Any friend of Daphne’s is certainly welcome here. Just know that this is the first time my husband and I have entertained, so you must tell us if we can do anything more to make you feel at ease.”
“Such congenial company and pleasant surroundings would put anyone at ease,” he assured her.
Daphne giggled. “Oh, you haven’t spent enough time in our company. Something interesting always happens when the four of us and Hannah get together.”
“David is determined that this house party will be quite different from the last you spent at Brentfield,” Hannah promised, twinkle in her eyes. “But I know you will help solve that problem I posed to you all.”
Daphne nodded. “Certainly!”
Hannah smiled her thanks. “If you go inside, our staff will see you to your rooms. I regret that Mr. Asheram has taken leave of us, and most of the staff are new. You’ll likely know the house better than they do. I’ll greet the rest of our guests, and David and I will join you shortly in the Blue Salon. He’d have been here himself, except he was called to the village on urgent business.”
Daphne wasn’t sure why the earl would be called to Wenwood, the little village to the west of the estate, but she was certain David would handle the matter with his usual aplomb. She’d warned Wynn on the way to be prepared for the open manner of the soft-spoken Yank who had found himself the last heir of Brentfield.
Wynn offered her his arm as if to escort her to the house. Silly gesture. She was perfectly capable of climbing the white stone steps by herself. As if he knew her thoughts, he leaned closer and whispered, “I am your suitor, remember.”
Oh, right. They were supposed to be courting. With a blush, she lay her hand on his.
But as they started up to the double doors that led into the circular rotunda, she glanced about once more at the magnificence that was Brentfield. She could just catch a glimpse of the stables, where riding mounts would be standing ready to take her flying across the fields, and the woods that flanked the gardens behind the house.
Something moved along the edges, a man hurrying deeper into the shadows of the trees. Very likely it was no more than a gamekeeper doing his duty. But Daphne couldn’t help feeling as if someone was watching them.
*
Wynn had once visited his distant relatives the Darbys, who lived not far from Brentfield, but he had never realized how Brentfield Manor dwarfed his cousin’s impressive home.
Everywhere he looked, he saw grandeur and refinement, exactly the sort of house he hoped to someday build. The ceiling of the circular entry hall was easily three stories and surmounted by a glass dome that streamed light down to the marble floor. Each wall boasted artwork that might have graced one of His Majesty’s palaces. Wynn was led to a room in the east wing, having been assured by the footman that the house had been recently renovated. If the elegant bed hangings and polished wood furniture were any indication, Lady Brentfield had exquisite taste. But then, Daphne had told him, she had been an art teacher and portrait painter before marrying the unconventional earl.
After changing out of his travel dirt into the navy coat and buff trousers of a gentleman, he followed the helpful footman back to the Blue Salon, where the company had assembled. He paused in the doorway, admiring the architectural features: the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a vista out across the fields, the wood-framed hearth flanked by massive cerulean vases of an earlier century; the open beams on the high ceiling. The color scheme was equally elegant, with gray-blue walls behind a dozen or so armchairs and sofas patterned in blue and white. Graceful statues filled the corners, and the paintings were cool oceanscapes.
“Miss Pritchard, your former literature teacher, sends her regards,” Lady Brentfield was telling the girls as he crossed the threshold.
Daphne, her sister, and their friends were clustered around the countess on one of the sofas and surrounding chairs, their white, pink, and yellow muslin gowns reminding him of tulips in the spring. Wynn knew Daphne’s friend Priscilla Tate was accorded a great beauty, but he found her lustrous, wavy blond hair and emerald eyes a bit overpowering. Lady Emily, daughter of the Duke of Emerson, on the other hand, was too dark for his tastes, in looks and demeanor.
Daphne was the perfect woman, as far as he was concerned—bright, energetic, cheerful, and oh-so-talented. He was the luckiest of men to have found a place at her side. Now if he could just convince her to allow him to remain there, for all his life.
“I also received a note from Acantha Dalrymple this morning,” Lady Brentfield continued. “You remember her.”
By the looks on Daphne and her friends’ faces, they remembered but not kindly.
“It seems she is to be married,” Hannah continued undaunted.
“Really?” Priscilla drawled, doubt in each syllable.
“To whom?” Lady Emily asked with a frown.
The countess smiled. “Mr. Horatio Cunningham.”
Ariadne’s mouth hung open.
Daphne patted her sister’s hand. “I know you once hoped to attract his attentions, but he was never good enough for you. You are far better off with Sinclair.”
Wynn’s gaze veered to where her intended, Lord Hawksbury, was standing by the hearth conversing with Priscilla’s betrothed, Nathan Kent, and Emily’s guest, Sir James Cropper. Hawksbury, who had asked them all to call him by his family name of Sinclair, had raven hair and a powerful build; Kent had brown hair and a friendly face; and Sir James had russet hair and a cocky attitude. They too had donned the requisite navy coats and buff trousers, though Sinclair and Sir James favored boots while Kent wore practical shoes. No doubt Wynn should join them, but he was tired of the pitying looks that always seemed to accompany discussions on the ton once anyone recalled his infirmity.
He glanced back to Daphne and her friends in time to see Lady Emily’s look darken. She too seemed to have found her classmate’s betrothal troubling. Then he remembered Daphne mentioning that Sir James had yet to declare himself.
His carefully tied cravat suddenly felt over-tight. One day soon he would declare his feelings to Daphne, and he was none too sure of her answer.
The best he could hope was that he could commend himself to her on this trip, one way or another. And he could start by determining where this mystery was leading them.
Chapter Three
Daphne spotted Wynn in the doorway and beckoned him closer. The other gentlemen might be clustered around the wood-wrapped hearth, but they were already spoken for. After her gaff earlier, she was determined that she and Wynn would look like a courting couple, which meant he ought to be near at hand.
Besides, she wanted him to hear the answer to the question Emily had just posed about why Hannah had asked them all here. Daphne scooted Ariadne over on the sofa to make room for Wynn.
“You will, no doubt, think me overly cautious,” Hannah said, artist’s fingers clasping together in the lap of her lavender silk dinner gown. “But after the trouble we had earlier this year, I do not like taking chances, and neither does David.”
They all nodded. Daphne had told Wynn as much as she could about her and her friends’ first trip to Brentfield in March, when it began to appear that someone was trying to kill Lord Brentfield and make off with the art treasures the estate boasted. Only Emily’s insights had pointed to the culprit.
“And have there been accidents this t
ime?” Emily wanted to know now.
“No,” Hannah admitted. “But things are missing.”
Daphne frowned, glancing around at the opulence. “How can you tell?”
Hannah blushed. “Well, you see, there is an inventory. When David and I returned from our honeymoon, I wanted to explore the collection. So we started at the top of the list and soon realized we could not locate some of the pieces.”
“And you checked the secret passages,” Emily pressed.
“First thing. They were clear of artwork, as far as we could tell. David is still concerned about the safety of the passages, so we couldn’t check them all. But the footmen tell of knocking and hammering noises only to find nothing moved or changed.”
“Have you considered a haunting?” Ariadne asked, finger tapping against her muslin gown as if she longed to write the scene even now. “All the trappings are there: an isolated house, a lonely couple, the dark of the moon.” She shivered in obvious appreciation.
Daphne refused to shiver. “I think your staff is lily-livered. Why didn’t the footmen pursue the matter, track the noise to its source?”
“Likely because few are as brave as you,” Wynn put in.
Oh, but he was doing well. All her friends were smiling at him. Daphne beamed as well. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Fairfax is quite right,” Hannah said. “You certainly would have chased after the noise. But I cannot berate the footmen for lack of courage. They did their best. As soon as they started after the noise, it would stop. Our new butler, Mr. Harrop, even instituted nightly patrols for a short time, but they saw nothing untoward. Besides, the house creaks and moans at the best of times. And we have had workmen in to repair things. That may have been what the footmen heard.”
“But you don’t believe that,” Emily challenged.
Hannah shook her head. “I cannot. Not when priceless art went missing sometime during my honeymoon.”
“We’ll discover the truth,” Daphne promised, rubbing her hands together. “I can hardly wait.”
Unfortunately, she had to wait longer than she liked. Lord Brentfield came in just then and had to be introduced to the gentlemen and offer his greetings to Hannah’s friends. A tall, slender fellow with soft brown hair and blue eyes that sparkled with mischief, he made sure to compliment each lady, setting more than one to blushing with pleasure.
“And our valiant Amazon,” he said as he bowed over Daphne’s hand. “Perhaps I can find you a dragon to slay.”
Ariadne sighed as he turned to speak to Hannah. “He was doing so well until that comment. Amazons do not slay dragons.”
“I warrant Daphne could,” Wynn said.
“Don’t overdo it,” Daphne cautioned in a whisper as the others conversed with the handsome earl. “You needn’t agree with everything I say.”
“Why not?” he said, smile gentle. “I generally do agree with your sentiments. But if it would please you more, I can start a fight.”“Tease,” she said with a shake of her head.
Just then, her mother and Lady Minerva, Emily’s aunt, came down and the introductions began all over again. Both ladies wore dark dresses as befitted their role as chaperone, though Daphne thought her mother’s burgundy gown brought out the red in her blond hair while Lady Minerva’s black bombazine made the gray-haired spinster look funereal. It didn’t help that she kept gazing at Daphne and Wynn with narrowed eyes as if she suspected they were up to something.
Daphne tried not to bristle. Lady Minerva looked at everyone that way.
More concerning was the scowl on the butler’s face when he came in to announce dinner. Daphne remembered Mr. Asheram, the regal, dark-skinned gentleman who had served as more than a butler when they had visited in the spring. He’d been stern, but with an undercurrent of wry humor. In contrast, Mr. Harrop was a bruiser: tall, muscular, with a heavy brow under his gray hair, a hawk nose, and a rock-like jaw. He looked from one guest to the other as if noting strengths and weaknesses before following them in to dinner in Brentfield’s vast dining room at a damask-draped table that could accommodate thirty.
A dainty porcelain basket at each place setting contained a card that named the occupant of the chair, and Daphne looked eagerly for her spot. Unfortunately, Hannah had evidently tried to seat her guests according to rank, as etiquette demanded, but that left Emily and Sir James far apart and put Wynn between Priscilla and Lady Minerva.
“Trade,” Daphne whispered to Priscilla, knowing Hannah would forgive her for changing the scheme a bit. Priscilla promptly found a charming excuse to put Wynn between the two of them instead. That left Priscilla next to Emily’s acid-tongued aunt, and, by the look Priscilla cast Daphne, she knew she would have to pay for the favor later.
Still, the meal went well, with much wit and merriment despite the prim nods from her mother near the head of the table. What interested Daphne more were the warm looks David and Hannah kept sharing from their places at opposite ends of the table. Now, there was love, to be able to converse with only a meeting of glances, a soft smile, while the world went on about them. Perhaps someday she’d have that kind of love.
If any gentleman could be persuaded to see her as a woman!
“So, what did you think of Lady Brentfield’s story?” Wynn murmured beside her.
The candlelight reflected in his dark hair, which was more neatly combed than usual. For some reason, she wanted to reach over and muss up the thick locks.
“I think we must help her learn the truth,” Daphne responded, attacking the salmon instead. “Living in doubt cannot be pleasant.”
“Agreed.” He took a mouthful of the peas in cream sauce and chewed thoughtfully. “What do you advise? Patrol the corridors as the butler tried? Lay a trap?”
Lady Minerva leaned around Priscilla. “Did someone say something about traps?” She glanced at Priscilla with a raised gray brow. Priscilla ignored her.
“Oh, is that not how someone caught this marvelous salmon?” Wynn asked, glancing around the table. “My compliments to your chef, Lady Brentfield.”
That got everyone praising Hannah and David on the quality of the food, and the conversation veered onto safer ground.
“I take it this investigation is to be a secret?” Wynn murmured to Daphne under cover of reaching for the salt.
Daphne nodded. “My friends and my sister know why we’re here, but my mother and Lady Minerva must remain in ignorance.”
“For their safety,” Wynn surmised.
“No, because they would try to stop us,” Daphne told him, laying into her food once more. “Or, worse, insist that this is a task for gentlemen. I cannot abide that.”
He reached out and patted her hand. “Someone already filleted the salmon, Daphne. You do not need to beat it into submission.”
She felt her face heating. “Forgive me. I do know my manners. It’s just that we came here to stop a thief, and here we are observing all the social niceties instead.”
“I would think thieves strike at night,” Wynn said, forking up some of the flaky fish. “We can certainly lay our plans by day.”
There was that. But already she could see her mother frowning at her down the table. Either she too thought Daphne’s eating habits too bold or her conversation too limited to Wynn. Mr. Harrop set another plate of fish down next to her with a steely-eyed look, as if thinking she had had more than her fill.
“I doubt we’ll have time to talk this evening,” she murmured to Wynn. “Keep your eyes and ears open, and meet me at the stables at seven tomorrow.”
*
Wynn was at the stables at three quarters past six. If there was one thing he’d learned about Daphne, it was that she was rarely late for an engagement. She did not seem to carry a pocket watch, and he’d known her to suddenly curtail an act as if she knew she must be elsewhere, so it seemed as if she had an inherent sense of time. Accordingly, he was already up on one of Lord Brentfield’s fine steeds when she arrived in a riding habit of a blue that matched her eyes, plumed
shako of a similar color riding on her hair.
“Did you hear anything, see anything, last night?” she demanded as the groom went to fetch a horse for her.
Wynn shook his head, tugging down on his own navy riding coat. “I slept soundly. You?”
She puffed out a breath that set the curls on either side of her face to bouncing. “Nothing, worse luck.” She frowned at the docile brown mare the groom led out. “That cannot be my horse.”
“Certainly not, miss,” he assured her as if he hadn’t intended the horse for her.
She waved off the second mare as well, earning her a puzzled frown from the fellow.
“Perhaps something more challenging,” Wynn suggested. “Miss Courdebas is a bruising rider.”
She beamed at the white stallion the groom brought out next.
Soon Wynn was cantering beside her across the fields that ringed the manor, heading for a line of trees in the distance. The sun was already warm on his back, the breeze soft against his cheeks. Birds called from the garden. He thought he caught the scent of lavender.
“Now can we discuss the investigation?” he asked as they slowed the horses to a trot.
Daphne glanced around as if expecting to see her mother or Lady Minerva bearing down on them. “Yes, I think we’re safe.” She turned the horse to ride parallel with the trees, and Wynn brought his mount alongside hers.
“I liked your idea of a trap,” she admitted, the sunlight turning her hair to gold.
“Do we know enough to choose the right bait?” he mused.
She frowned, glancing his way. “What do you mean?”
“A trap pulls in the unwary,” he explained. “It offers something worth risking capture. We don’t know who’s stealing the art. What bait could we offer to tempt them?”
