by Regina Scott
She chewed on her lower lip a moment. “You’re right. Oh, but I cannot like it. Miss Alexander, er, Hannah is such a sweet person. I will not allow someone to worry her like this.”
That was one of the things he admired about her, her unstinting devotion to those she loved. Would that he should inspire such devotion!
“A patrol might be wise to start,” he suggested as she veered closer to the trees, the shadows of the leaves crossing their path. “We could each take a particular part of the house.”
“Have you seen the size of the house?” Daphne shook her head, setting the feathers in her hat to waving. “I don’t think we have enough people to cover it all. We should have invited more guests to this house party.”
From out of the woods came a howl, loud, angry. Daphne’s stallion shied, but his borrowed mount reared, forcing him to clutch the pommel to stay in the saddle.
“Wynn!” Daphne cried, reining in her own trembling horse.
He couldn’t manage an answer as the mare came crashing down. Though he tugged on the reins, the creature insisted on bolting for the stables for all she was worth.
His last sight of Daphne was her staring at him open-mouthed as another man rode out of the woods and started toward her.
Chapter Four
All Daphne could see was Wynn, jerking in the saddle as his horse dashed for Brentfield. Putting a heel to her own mount’s flank, she pelted after him.
He was a good rider. She knew that. But a strange horse and unfamiliar surroundings could unnerve even the best horseman. She was sure he’d recover shortly, but it was best to stay close just in case.
And it made for an exhilarating ride.
She let the stallion have his head across the field, the cool air rushing past her face, the sound of thundering hooves filling her ears. She was an eagle, diving to the sea; a porpoise skimming the waves of grass. All Society’s expectations, all her own frustrations, were nothing compared to the feeling of freedom.
Then something flew past her, heavy and dark, and she realized another fellow had entered the lists. His greatcoat flapping behind him like the wings of a bat, he veered his powerful horse across her path. What was he doing? Couldn’t he tell she had a purpose? Daphne turned her mount to avoid a collision.
To her surprise, he came abreast and reached out as if to take the reins from her.
“It’s all right,” he called. “I’ll save you.”
Daphne jerked away from him, sending her horse farther to the south. “Save yourself, sir. I’m fine.” Clucking to the stallion, she urged the horse after Wynn.
But the stranger would not desist. Now he kept pace with Daphne as if determined to ensure her safety. Daphne resolved to ignore him. Up ahead, she spotted Wynn’s horse, standing riderless. Her heart started pounding, harder than the exertion required. Had he been thrown? Was he hurt? What should she do?
She reined in a few feet away and slid from the side saddle. Turf flying up, the stranger reined in as well.
“Wynn!” she cried, hurrying forward, then pulling back as the other Brentfield horse shied away from her.
Wynn hobbled around it, holding the halter. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”
Daphne deflated. He was safe. He was whole. By the look on his face, the horse’s reaction had merely frustrated him. Yet how odd that the thought of him injured made her pulse race faster than when she galloped her horse.
The stranger leaped from the saddle and strode forward. “You are not fine, sir. You’ve obviously injured your leg. Allow me to assist you.”
Wynn colored as he straightened. “It’s an old injury, sir. Unless you are an amazingly gifted physician, I doubt you could be of much service.”
The fellow stilled. “Hang on, don’t I know you? William Fairchild, isn’t it?”
By the way his jaw tightened, Daphne thought Wynn was gritting his teeth. “Wynn Fairfax. And yes, I remember you, Sheridan.”
Sheridan grinned. He was rather handsome when he wasn’t attempting to commandeer her horse. A fine example of a Corinthian, he was long-legged and broad-shouldered, with short-cropped blond hair and sharp gray eyes. His tweed greatcoat lay open just enough to reveal a tailored bottle green coat and chamois trousers tucked into gleaming boots festooned now with the grass of the field.
“Be a gentleman, Fairfax,” he ordered, “and introduce me to your charming companion.”
Wynn narrowed his eyes behind his spectacles, but did his duty. “Miss Courdebas, may I present Mr. Brooks Sheridan. We were at Eton together.”
Mr. Sheridan took her gloved hand and bowed over it, his grip as sure as his manner. “Miss Courdebas, a pleasure. Any woman who can manage her horse so well under trying circumstances has my everlasting admiration.”
“Not so very trying,” Daphne said, retrieving her hand. “I knew Wynn would be fine. The worst part was when you tried to grab my reins. Rather rude, actually.”
She thought she saw Wynn hide a smile even as Mr. Sheridan blinked in surprise.
“My apologies, madam. Allow me to say that had I known I was up against an Amazon, I would never have dared to interfere.”
Amazon. It was a common sobriquet applied to her. It meant a woman of uncommon valor and athletic abilities. While she knew she dared what some other girls might fear, she thought any number of other ladies might have earned the name, had the gentlemen just paid more attention.
“I suggest you listen for cries of ‘help’ and ‘mercy me’ before attempting a rescue in future,” Daphne told him. “Or perhaps ‘I am an idiot on horseback.’ Failing that, I’d leave the lady to her own devices. She might surprise you.”
“You certainly have,” he said.
Wynn laughed, then turned the noise into a cough.
Sheridan looked his way. “So what brought you to Somerset, Fairfax? Visiting relatives?”
“I have the honor of escorting Miss Courdebas to a house party with the Earl of Brentfield,” Wynn replied as their horses, now calmed, bent their heads to nibble the grass. “These are his lands.”
He almost made it sound as if Mr. Sheridan was trespassing.
The Corinthian struck his hand to his forehead. “I thought those trees marked the dividing line between Prestwick Park and Brentfield. But when I saw Miss Courdebas struggling with her horse—”
“Ahem,” Daphne said, scowling at him.
He inclined his head. “That is, when I mistakenly thought I saw Miss Courdebas struggling with her horse, I could not sit idly by. I only wish I had an excuse to tarry in the area, for I find it of uncommon beauty.” He gazed at Daphne for a long moment, and she suddenly realized he was flirting.
He liked her. As a woman.
She beamed at him. “A shame indeed. It’s a wonderful area for riding, and Lord Brentfield has his own archery field and bowling lawn. I warrant a gentleman like you could do both justice.”
He smiled, showing straight white teeth in a face that hinted of being kissed by the sun. “Ah, a lady after my own heart. I’d be delighted to partner you in any sport, my dear.”
Now his voice had taken on a decidedly husky quality. She’d rarely heard it from the fellows thronging her sitting room, but she knew it was meant to put a lady into instant transports. Better and better.
“Too bad you must leave,” Wynn put in. “But we wouldn’t want to detain you.”
She wanted to detain him. Handsome, well spoken, bruising rider—why wouldn’t she want to know more about Brooks Sheridan?
“I have it!” she cried. “You can join us!”
*
Wynn’s stomach sank even as Sheridan’s smile widened. The fellow was the same sort of gentleman who routinely looked down on Wynn for his injury. And he certainly didn’t need the Corinthian cozying up to Daphne.
Especially when Daphne showed every indication of wishing to cozy back.
Her cheeks were pink now, her blue eyes sparkling. She tucked an errant strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear as if self
-conscious of her looks. She seldom did anything like that in his company. He wanted to pick her up, throw her on the horse, and ride off with her before Sheridan agreed to her offer. But he knew his leg would not stand up to the challenge, and neither would his friendship with Daphne.
“You are too kind, Miss Courdebas,” Sheridan was saying in that deep voice that set the ladies to sighing. “But I could not impose on Lady Brentfield.”
“He will make us odd numbers at table,” Wynn pointed out, then cringed inwardly. He sounded like a waspish dowager!
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Daphne said, to both of them it seemed. “Lady Brentfield is a particular friend of mine, and there are dozens of bedchambers to spare. Ride back with us, and we’ll ask.”
He took her hand and bowed over it once more. “Your servant, Miss Courdebas.” Releasing her, he strode for his horse, then paused to glance back at them. “Need any help to remount, Fairfax?”
Heat flushed Wynn’s face. “No, thank you.”
Sheridan nodded, then grinned at Daphne. “I know better than to ask you, Miss Courdebas.” He put his foot in the stirrup and vaulted into the saddle.
Daphne sighed. It wasn’t a huff of annoyance at the display but an exhalation of appreciation. The heat that had brushed his face seemed to lodge in his chest.
“Sure you don’t need a hand up?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said with a smile. Taking the reins, she led her horse to a rock jutting out of the field and stepped up on it to push herself into the side saddle. With a nod to him, she clucked to the stallion and began ambling back toward the manor.
“What a woman,” Sheridan said as Wynn led his horse to the rock to mount the same way. “I hope my pursuit of her won’t diminish our friendship, Fairfax.”
Friendship? They had no friendship. Sheridan hadn’t even remembered his name correctly. Wynn eyed him. “Not at all. But don’t expect me to wish you luck, for I intend to capture Daphne Courdebas’s heart myself.”
Sheridan gathered up his reins. “It seems we are rivals then. May the best man win.” With a nod, he turned his horse and rode after Daphne.
Wynn followed suit. No doubt Sheridan thought himself the better man, and Wynn feared Daphne might agree, at least for the moment. But he was not about to concede the field.
Sheridan might be good looking and exude a certain charm, but he had been a lazy scholar and a cunning gamester at Eton. Perhaps because he had attended the elite school on scholarship, he had done all he could to ingratiate himself with the more affluent students from powerful families. All had agreed that Sheridan was a great gun, a good fellow. By the way he had so-subtlety endeared himself to Daphne, it seemed he had not lost the knack of landing himself in the pudding.
He certainly poured on the butter sauce when they reached Brentfield. The rest of the company at the house party was out on the north lawn, strolling about. The reflecting pool made the soft white of the ladies’ muslin gowns look like so many clouds drifting in the summer sky. Sheridan immediately set about complimenting the ladies as Daphne introduced him to them. Lord Brentfield called Wynn over to where the earl and Sinclair were conversing.
His lordship tipped his chin toward the newcomer. “A friend of yours, Wynn?”
Sinclair was frowning, but at the earl’s use of Wynn’s first name or the stranger in their midst, Wynn couldn’t know. Daphne had told him about her former art teacher’s husband. David Tenant had been a leather worker in Boston before learning he had inherited the titles and estates of Brentfield. Daphne claimed he had refused to change his character or manner to fit in with Society’s dictates. Even now, he wore a tweed coat and brown trousers that might have belonged to a country shepherd rather than a man of property, and the breeze ruffled his brown hair which was unconfined by a top hat such as the other men wore. Still, Wynn couldn’t help liking his frank, open manner and easy way of speaking.
“We attended school together,” he told the earl, glancing to where Sheridan was bowing so deeply to Hannah that Wynn might have thought the little dark-haired lady was the heir apparent to the throne. “We did not spend a great deal of time together.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Sinclair put in. “Rumor has it he was offered a place in Lord Hastings’s intelligence corps but politely refused.”
Interesting. Wynn knew that Sinclair himself was rumored to be a member of the intelligence corps. He’d certainly been part of the investigation of the French spy the night Wynn had met Daphne. But that Sheridan had refused to join that exalted company puzzled Wynn. It would have seemed a natural use of his talents, convincing others to spill their secrets for king and Country.
“Then he’s a member of the aristocracy,” Lord Brentfield surmised.
“He is accepted,” Sinclair agreed, with enough of a lift of his dark brow that Wynn was reminded Sinclair’s father was not only titled but a famous Parliamentarian, highly revered by Society. “His parents died when he was young. I believe he was raised by a spinster aunt under duress.”
Now Sheridan was attempting to commend himself to Lady Rollings, if the way Daphne’s mother was simpering was any indication. Still, Wynn couldn’t help a momentary feeling of kinship for the fellow. His own father had died of consumption when Wynn was ten. For a time, it was feared his mother and sisters might have contracted the disease as well, and Wynn had suddenly found himself facing the fact that not only was he now the man of the family but potentially the last member of the family standing. He wouldn’t have even had a maiden aunt to raise him. How hard must it have been for Sheridan, raised in a household where he always felt beholden?
“What say you, gentlemen?” the earl asked, his own blue gaze on Sheridan and the ladies. “Should we extend an invitation to Mr. Sheridan to join our little party?”
Sinclair shrugged his powerful shoulders. “The more the merrier I say, my lord. Fairfax?”
They were both regarding Wynn. Here was his chance to tell them to send the fellow packing. Why should he encourage any additional competition for Daphne’s hand?
Yet what sort of man feared competition?
“Certainly, my lord,” Wynn said. “And I commend your hospitality.”
Daphne laughed then, the joyful sound carrying across the still waters of the pond. Sinclair and Lord Brentfield smiled before the younger man excused himself to go find Ariadne.
Lord Brentfield took a step closer to Wynn. “And I commend your generosity, Fairfax. Not many men would encourage a rival. But then again, perhaps our Daphne already knows the gentleman she prefers.”
That, unfortunately, was exactly what Wynn feared.
Chapter Five
After a quick consultation with David and the taciturn butler, Hannah extended an invitation to the fascinating Mr. Sheridan. He promised to return shortly with his things after thanking her ladyship and Daphne with great charm and wit on the north lawn.
“Even though we are all spoken for,” Ariadne said, swishing her white muslin skirts as she watched him ride off toward the far wood, “it never hurts to have another presentable gentleman about.”
“Indeed,” Priscilla agreed, head cocked so that her fashionable chip bonnet pressed her golden curls against her creamy cheek. “Just because you’re full doesn’t mean you can’t admire the cakes on display.”
“I for one would prefer to know what’s inside that cake,” Emily put in with a frown, hands brushing her navy skirts. “What do we know of Mr. Sheridan? What is his purpose for rusticating in the area?”
Daphne frowned as well. “You begin to sound like Lady Minerva.”
Emily blushed, glancing to where her elderly aunt and Daphne’s mother were strolling together. By the few words that drifted across the lawn, Lady Minerva was apparently attempting to school Daphne’s mother on the finer points of raising willful young women. Lady Rollings’s countenance was growing redder by the moment. Ariadne excused herself to go intercept the pair, and Hannah and Priscilla moved to join
their gentlemen where they were studying the reflecting pond as if with every intention of either fishing or diving in.
“Forgive me,” Emily murmured to Daphne, hand going to rub her forehead inside her feathered bonnet. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Daphne brightened. “Oh, was Ariadne right about the haunting? Did you see a phantom?”
Emily shook her head. “No, though an apparition would have been preferable to my dreams, which were nothing short of bleak.” Now her gaze darted to where her Jamie was speaking with Sinclair. Ariadne’s betrothed had expressed keen interest in the Runner’s profession and had singled him out for conversation as they all moved about the lawn in the summer light. Daphne could only wonder if Sinclair thought to enlist the Runner’s services in some case of espionage.
Emily did not look so certain. Indeed, if Daphne had been writing about the scene as Ariadne was wont to do, she would have said her friend was pining. All Emily had ever wanted to do was paint. She’d thought joining the Royal Society for the Beaux Art, the premiere group of aristocratic painters, would be everything she could desire. And then she’d met her handsome Runner, and all else had paled in comparison.
“Shall I go tell Sir James you wish to speak to him?” Daphne asked.
Emily lowered her gaze to her gloved fingers as if wishing she had a paintbrush and canvas even then. “No. I would prefer he join me because he wishes it, not because I wish it.”
She knew the feeling. How nice that Mr. Sheridan actually showed interest in her as a woman, not simply because of her athletic feats. He seemed to genuinely admire her. She could hardly wait to become better acquainted.
But as she followed Emily toward the group by the pond, she realized her friend was right about their new guest. Mr. Sheridan had asked what brought Wynn to the area, but he had never mentioned what had brought him to Somerset. If he lived nearby, he would hardly need to stay at a house party. And if he had been staying with friends, would they not be miffed when he defected to Brentfield?
