by Regina Scott
She had no time for further thought, for Lord Brentfield broke away from the others to meet Daphne and Emily. He smiled at them both, giving a nod that made the sunlight gild his brown hair.
“Ladies, I understand Hannah set you a goal for this visit.” His intense blue gaze moved from Emily to Daphne, more solemn than she had usually seen. “I wanted to assure you that there is no need for you to investigate. I have the matter in hand.”
Daphne’s spirits dipped. Emily raised a brow. “So you know who took the missing artwork.”
His smile saddened. “We know who stole art from Brentfield before Hannah and I married. I’m fairly sure these more recently discovered losses were merely part of the original thefts.”
They were getting perilously close to discussing Priscilla’s Dreaded Family Secret. Even though Lord Brentfield was one of the few who knew the particulars, Daphne swallowed her words to prevent speaking overly loud and alerting the others.
“And your certainty has nothing to do with rushing to Wenwood yesterday while your guests were arriving?” Emily challenged.
He started, then colored like a boy caught with his fingers in the sugar bowl. “The magistrate is looking into rumors of smugglers in the area. He needed assurance of my cooperation, which of course I gave. He seemed to think I might actually be abetting the scoundrels. I promised him that just because I come from America doesn’t mean I condone revolution.” He winked at them. “Now, let’s enjoy this party.”
He turned and clapped his hands, calling everyone to his side. With the pond offering his reflection, he looked particularly striking in his navy coat, his grin conspiratorial.
“Good morning,” he greeted then. “Let me say again how happy Hannah and I are to have you here with us. Rest assured we have many activities planned for you over the next few days. The footmen are setting up a tournament on the bowling green for this morning, and I hope you’ll join me for a ride through our delightful woods this afternoon. Then we’ll have a string quartet play after dinner for dancing.”
They all exclaimed at that, thanking him and Hannah and talking excitedly of what was to come. It sounded marvelous to Daphne, but she could see Emily watching their host with narrowed eyes.
“He acts as if he’s invincible,” she murmured to Daphne as David continued outlining his plans for the party. “Did he learn nothing from his last bout with danger?”
“But surely this is different,” Daphne protested. “When we were here at Easter, we could see the accidents befalling him and those around him—poisoning, fire, falling objects. Nothing like that is happening now.”
“Worse luck,” Emily muttered.
Daphne refused to be swayed. She had been excited to solve Hannah’s riddle, yet the fields and sunshine were calling. Rumors of theft may have brought them to Brentfield, but it very much sounded as if a house party would make them stay. And she greatly looked forward to it, especially now that Brooks Sheridan would be joining them.
*
As he listened to the many activities Lord Brentfield had planned, dread crawled its way down Wynn’s spine. He had every expectation that he could acquit himself well on a ride through the woods, and bowling might be manageable, but dancing? He could drive four-in-hand, shoot accurately to fifty paces with gun or bow, and even box with his lame leg, but dancing had proven impossible. Therefore, he had no hope of holding Daphne in his arms, should Lady Brentfield be so bold as to order a waltz, and, worse, he would have to watch as Sheridan twirled her around the room.
There had to be something he could do to further his cause before the Corinthian undercut him. After all, he knew Daphne better than most. Surely he could find some way to endear himself to her.
Accordingly, he stuck to her side for the next while, even after Sheridan returned and joined the group on the lawn. She had changed out of her riding habit and was in fine looks, her slender figure outlined by the filmy white muslin of her day dress, her hair peeking out from inside a white chip bonnet with a spray of flowers along the crown. He could imagine taking her in his arms, waltzing her across the grass.
Well, yes, imagination was a fine thing. He needed more.
He followed the others around to the east lawn, where Lord Brentfield had erected two sets of nine wooden pins in triangles, with a stable boy and footman alongside. Each of the guests took a turn heaving a wooden ball down the grass toward them. It reminded Wynn of the board game of nine pins, only on a much grander scale.
With two lanes, the ladies lined up on one and the gentlemen on the other. After each had had a turn, the lowest scorers bowed out. Lord Brentfield and Sir James proved particularly adept at the sport, but Wynn refused to be daunted. He bested Sinclair in the second round, Sheridan (with great satisfaction) in the third, and Lord Brentfield in the fourth. The Bow Street Runner eyed him as they stepped up for the final match.
“I’d think you were the one with something to prove,” he murmured, weighing the ball in his hand.
Wynn glanced to where Daphne was handily defeating her friends round after round. “I believe I am.”
“I know the feeling.” He pulled back and let the ball fly. All nine pins went down.
“Oh, a palpable hit,” Sheridan declared. “You’re done for now, Fairfax.”
Daphne glanced over and met Wynn’s gaze. Her smile assured him she had complete confidence in his skills. She fully expected him to be the best.
And so he would be the best. He took aim, imagined Sheridan’s grinning face on the pins, and threw.
The pins went flying in all directions, and not one remained standing.
“Ho, ho,” Lord Brentfield said, rubbing his hands together. “We have a competition, gentlemen. Set them up, lads, and let’s try again.”
With Daphne having taken the winning shot on her lane, the ladies clustered around the gentlemen as well, chatting excitedly.
Sir James eyed Wynn. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? The winner must have a prize.” He glanced back at the other guests. “A kiss from his chosen lady.”
Several of the ladies giggled. Lady Emily was regarding Sir James fixedly. Wynn’s heart threatened to leap from his chest it beat so hard.
“I think the ladies should agree to that,” Lord Brentfield said with a laugh. “Well? What do you say, my dears?”
Hannah motioned the women closer, and fair heads bent to dark. Wynn could hear whispering, more giggles. They straightened.
“We agree to the challenge, my lord,” Hannah said, light shining in her dark eyes.
Wynn drew in a breath and focused on the target. The footmen had set the nine pins back into place, but farther away than before. Sir James cocked his head as if calculating. Then he drew back his arm and threw.
Eight of the nine pins went down.
The crowd cheered, and he stepped back as the stable boy ran the ball back to Wynn. He didn’t dare look at Daphne. Every muscle in his body tensed as he curled back his arm. The ball flew with his prayers, speeding down the lawn even as his breath caught.
All nine pins went down.
He stared at them a moment as the others cheered, clapping him on the back, extolling his skill. None of that mattered. He turned, gaze seeking Daphne’s.
She was regarding him, teeth dug into her lower lip, eyes bright. Did she find it as hard to breathe as he did? She didn’t move as he crossed the ground toward her, each step like a mile. His leg protested, and he ignored it. All that mattered was this moment.
Her.
He bent his head and kissed her.
Chapter Six
Daphne closed her eyes as Wynn’s lips brushed hers. She certainly didn’t want to stare. Wouldn’t her eyes cross with him so close? She’d always wondered where people put their noses when they kissed. And …
Oh. My.
She felt as if stars were exploding inside her, the way Mr. Congreves’ rockets burst over the Thames to brighten the night sky. Every part of her tingled.
She open
ed her eyes as Wynn pulled back, his gaze wide and smile lopsided.
“How did you do that?” she asked.
Brooks Sheridan came over and clapped Wynn on the shoulder, nearly oversetting him. “By skill and calculation, I warrant. Impressive showing, Fairfax. Well done.”
Why would he know how well Wynn kissed? Oh, wait, he was talking about the bowling. Completely oblivious to the feelings surging through her, the other men were congratulating Wynn as well, while the ladies called their appreciation. It was all part of the game. Daphne managed a smile as her mother came to collect her, look stern.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking about the kiss as they all trooped inside to change into their riding clothes for the afternoon’s activities. Did all kisses feel so impressive? Did every meeting of lips set off such a reaction inside? Her mother seemed determined to prevent kisses for her daughters until after they’d wed, so Daphne couldn’t apply to her for education. She clearly needed advice from someone who had more experience in such things.
She changed quickly into her favorite riding habit, the green velvet wool one with gold braid across the chest and a domed hat, then slipped down the corridor to Priscilla’s room.
Her friend was sitting at the dressing table while a maid finished arranging her hair under the blue shako riding hat with its white ostrich plumes curling down over the brim. Something of Daphne’s intent must have shown on her face, for Priscilla took one look at her in the mirror and dismissed the maid.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, turning on the little padded stool.
“You must have kissed any number of boys,” Daphne said, seeing no need for roundaboutation. “Are all kisses earth-shaking?”
Priscilla eyed her. “It depends on the gentleman.”
Daphne nodded, venturing closer across the thick floral-patterned carpet. “I expected as much. Some are naturally more skilled than others, I suppose, just as they are at riding or bowling.”
Priscilla’s perfect pink lips curled up. “I take it Mr. Fairfax is as skilled in kissing as he is on the bowling green.”
“Well,” Daphne said, face heating. “Yes.”
Priscilla rose, figure showing to advantage in her fitted, Wedgwood blue riding habit. “I’ll tell you a secret.” She leaned closer to Daphne and lowered her voice. “I find how one enjoys the kiss has less to do with the gentleman’s skill and more to do with how one feels about the gentleman.”
Daphne frowned as Priscilla straightened. “But I don’t feel anything for Wynn outside friendship.”
Priscilla trilled a laugh. “Then perhaps Mr. Fairfax is particularly gifted. A shame I am betrothed, or I could test that theory for you.”
Perhaps not such a shame, Daphne thought as she and Priscilla collected the others and headed down to the stables. The thought of her beautiful friend kissing Wynn made her feel all wiggly inside, as if someone had dropped a spider down the back of her habit.
She could not help studying Wynn as he accepted the groom’s help to mount the chestnut gelding that had been brought out for him. He didn’t look any different than usual in his navy riding coat with the black velvet lapels. He held the reins with as little effort, had an admirable seat. But when he offered her a smile as if noticing her scrutiny, she felt her face heating once more.
“And which will you choose, Miss Courdebas?” Mr. Sheridan asked as he gathered the reins on his own horse.
The elderly groom from the morning, who had just led out a docile-looking gray mare, took one look at Daphne and directed the horse to her sister. She was pleased to find herself once more on the white stallion.
The trees made dappled shadows like a lace veil on the ground as they set off through the woods. The path was wide enough to ride two abreast, and couples naturally paired up, with Lord Brentfield and Hannah at the front and Daphne’s mother and Lady Minerva at the back as if to keep an eye on everyone. Sir James looked the least at ease. Daphne supposed he likely had little call to ride in his profession, but Emily slowed her pace to allow him to keep up.
Daphne knew she should partner Wynn, if for no other reason than that they were supposed to be courting, but she found herself more interested in watching Mr. Sheridan. He sat his horse with laudable ease, quickly outpacing the others and disappearing around a curve in the riding track. With an apology to Wynn, she urged her horse forward to catch him, but when she rounded the bend, he had disappeared.
How odd.
Daphne glanced in all directions, gaze seeking any movement among the trees. Leaves trembled in the breeze; something small rustled the bushes on her right. A shadow clung to the trunk of a tree.
Daphne started, then peered closer. Surely that was a man pressed back under the overhanging branches. There was something familiar about the broad shoulders, the tall shape. But before she could determine how she knew him, he darted behind the trunk.
“Lost something, Miss Courdebas?” Mr. Sheridan asked, coming out of the woods behind her.
Daphne turned as best she could in the side saddle to meet his gaze. “Apparently not, for here you are. Who’s your friend?”
He lifted a brow. “My dearest friend is sitting right before me, and looking rather fetching, I might add.”
It was a sweet sentiment, but Daphne’s gaze was drawn to where she’d seen the other man. The shadow had vanished, and she could not say that it had ever been associated with Mr. Sheridan. Indeed, she almost had the feeling the stranger had been watching the rest of the cavalcade, the first of which was beginning to catch up with her and her guest.
Daphne and Mr. Sheridan fell in line behind their hosts. He chatted charmingly, making Daphne smile and Hannah laugh. It wasn’t until they had returned to the stables that she realized she had forgotten all about Wynn.
“Did you enjoy the woods?” she asked as he climbed down from his mount.
Wynn glanced to where Mr. Sheridan was kissing Hannah’s hand in thanks for the ride. “The view proved unexpectedly disappointing.”
Daphne was just glad to find when they changed clothes and regrouped for dinner that Hannah had rearranged the seating, very likely to accommodate the presence of Mr. Sheridan. Daphne and Priscilla sat on either side of their hostess, with their beaus on the other and the newest guest farther down the table. Talking to Wynn about nothing more momentous than pigeon pie and roast beef went a long way to restoring her balance. She would have liked to ask him if he’d noticed anything odd in the woods, but she didn’t want to discuss the matter with her mother and Lady Minerva at hand.
As Lord Brentfield had promised, a string quartet was tuning up as they all adjourned to a long gallery at the back of the house after dinner. The space had damask-draped walls of an ocean blue, with a dais at one end for the musicians. Comfortable armchairs lined the walls, and a crystal chandelier sent light sparkling in all directions.
Mr. Sheridan approached Daphne straight away, bowing before her. “Miss Courdebas, I hope you’ll favor me with a dance.”
He was so impressive in his evening black—tailcoat, breeches, white Marcella waistcoat, and perfectly tied cravat. Her hand was in his before her lips opened to voice agreement.
The lady chaperones, Wynn, Emily, and Sir James sat out the first set, leaving four couples to take to the polished wood floor. It was a simple country air, with much hopping back and forth, just the sort of dance Daphne favored. The appreciation shining from Mr. Sheridan’s gaze as he took her hands to skip up the line warmed her. She could have gone on long after the notes faded.
Lord Brentfield went to invite her mother for the next set, and Sir James offered for Lady Minerva, who refused him with a sniff of her long nose. He grinned as he offered his arm to Emily instead, making her aunt’s eyes narrow. Mr. Sheridan stepped in and offered to sit out with the steely-haired chaperone, earning him a nod of approval. How nice that everyone had a chance to dance if they wished.
Everyone except Wynn.
He sat near Lady Minerva along the wall, smiling
pleasantly at the dancers, but he didn’t fool Daphne. She knew how badly he wanted to join the fun. She could see his evening shoe tapping against the floor as the music started again. The only time he attended balls in London was when he was escorting her. She made her way to his side and plunked down next to him.
“Lord Brentfield isn’t trying to be hurtful,” she murmured as the dancers bowed and curtsied to their partners. “Very likely he didn’t think about your injury when he arranged this.”
“And for that I bless him,” Wynn said. “I’d rather no one think overmuch about my injury. I try not to.”
Daphne watched as the partners took hands and spun around each other. The swirl of Priscilla’s filmy white skirt made her look as if she was dancing on air.
“What would you like to be doing?” Daphne asked. “Other than dancing?”
He shot her a grin. “Exploring those secret passages you promised me.”
Daphne grinned back. “Me too, but it seems Lord Brentfield is determined to entertain us in other ways.”
Mr. Sheridan leaned around Lady Minerva to eye them. “Did you say secret passages?”
“Apparently not,” Lady Minerva snapped. “Or Lord Brentfield wouldn’t have to resort to hopping about like a popinjay to keep us busy.”
He looked abashed and leaned back.
“At least there’s riding,” Daphne called in commiseration.
Wynn rose. “But not tonight. I think I’ll turn in early. Your servant, Miss Courdebas, Lady Minerva, Sheridan.” With a sharp bow, he started for the door, limp more pronounced than usual.
It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have to feel left out. She was certain Lord Brentfield had a game of chess in the library. Perhaps she could challenge Wynn to play. Daphne rose and hurried after him.
*
If Wynn had been confident his leg would hold up, he would have stalked off in high dudgeon. It had been difficult enough watching Sheridan ride beside Daphne, her laughter at his quips floating back on the warm summer air. Then Wynn had had to watch the two dance together, delight shining on their faces. Knowing he could never have the experience was too much. Might as well clear the field.
