by Regina Scott
But she was very glad to see Sir James taking Emily aside, leading her down the garden until they were not far from the thatched hut. Even Mr. Harrop was sulking about the area as if determined the gardens should bow to his command like everything else. Perfect! If Daphne needed help, all she had to do was call.
She glanced back at the manor in time to see the gentlemen begin spilling out of the house, and each lady moved to claim her partner. Priscilla smiled so sweetly at Mr. Kent that he nearly missed his step gazing into her eyes. Sinclair brought Ariadne’s hand to his lips for a kiss that set her to blushing. Lord Brentfield met Hannah halfway and lifted her up to spin her around, making her laugh.
Oh, but she needed to talk to Wynn!
Setting her face resolutely for the hermit’s hut, she determined to finish this conversation with Brooks as quickly as possible, so she too could join her love.
Her love. She could imagine Wynn taking her in his arms, smiling at her, touching his lips to hers, and setting off the fireworks. She could only hope to set off a few in him. Eagerness fueling each step, she positively pelted down the grass and up to the open doorway of the hut, barely taking note of the ivy crawling up the sides, the well-worn path to the door.
She stepped over the threshold, eyes adjusting to the shadows inside. Apparently Lord Brentfield did not have a hermit at present, for the rope bed against one wall lacked a pallet, and the hutch on the opposite side was empty.
So was the room.
Daphne frowned. Well, this was silly. What was Brooks about, begging her to come down here when he had no intention of meeting her? She spun on her heel, ready to stride back up the lawn. Oh, but she’d give the fellow a piece of her mind when she next saw him. She took one step and heard something creak behind her. Before she could wonder at the noise, someone seized her from behind.
“Silence now, missy,” said a voice as rough as the hand pressed against her lips. “I understand you’re a bit of a fighter, but a bullet will stop you as quickly as another. Now, just do as you’re told, and you may live to tell the tale.”
Chapter Eighteen
A few miles from Brentfield, Wynn called to his horses to pick up their paces. He knew he was taking the country lane too fast. His mother and sisters would have exclaimed in dismay, covered their eyes with their hands, and begged him to slow. Daphne would have gloried in the rushing wind, the pounding hooves, the sway of the conveyance.
He slowed the horses. There would be no more rides with Daphne, no more races on Rotten Row, no more secret fencing matches behind the coaching house. A gentleman did not do such things with another man’s wife.
Wynn frowned into the twilight, the trees closing in around him. Now that he considered the matter, he couldn’t think of a married woman who drove her carriage faster than advisable or raced her horses. Oh, there might be a willful widow or two, but by and large the wives of the ton helped the poor and unfortunate, kept their households, raised their children, and organized gatherings like balls and routs. Certainly that was what his mother, Lady Rollings, and Mrs. Tate did. While he thought Daphne would make a marvelous mother, he could not see her happy being confined to traditional roles alone.
And he could not see Sheridan allowing his wife any other roles.
The road widened ahead, the hedgerow falling back on either side to offer a vista of rolling green hills. He drew the horses to a stop. So long as Daphne was happy, he might have been willing to step aside, return to London, lick his wounds, and regret what he had lost. But could Sheridan truly make her happy?
Anyone comparing Wynn and the Corinthian would likely have named Sheridan the superior catch. In the eyes of the ton, he was better looking, more powerfully built. He was also more charming with less effort. And he had no physical impairment. His family was not as well situated or well connected as Wynn’s, but, if Sheridan came into some property as he had said, that should remove any concerns about his ability to provide for Daphne. And Daphne’s family was certainly well connected on its own.
He knew what Daphne’s parents must expect in a husband. He’d heard his mother expound on the topic often enough with his sisters.
“Good breeding will tell, my dears. A gentleman is known by his deeds.”
What were Sheridan’s deeds? He might have been polite to a fault, but he had done nothing to encourage Daphne. Indeed, at times he had gone out of his way to discourage her. That wasn’t the sort of husband who could make her happy.
Perhaps Wynn had something more to offer after all.
All his life, he’d kept quiet, stepping aside so as not to raise a fuss. He’d believe those the deeds of a gentleman. Daphne deserved more. She deserved a man who would encourage her, support her, stand beside her come what may.
He could be that man.
Determination burning inside, he turned the horses and headed back toward Brentfield Manor. Daphne may not realize it, but she needed to be rescued, and he was just the man to do it.
*
He urged all speed from his team going back, but night had fallen by the time he reached the gate house. Odd that the wrought iron gates were wide open this late. Had someone left for the village?
So as not to inconvenience the staff, Wynn drove his phaeton around toward the stables beyond the west wing rather than pulling up in front of the house. Only a few lanterns burned along the stable yard, but something flickered among the trees at the edge of the garden, a will-of-the-wisp, here now and gone. It was something out of a child’s bedtime story. He could only hope Daphne’s feelings for him were of greater substance.
“Any luck, sir?” an elderly groom asked, hobbling out to take charge of the horses. Wynn didn’t recognize him from earlier in their visit, but perhaps he was given a lighter duty in deference to his age.
Wynn climbed down from the box. “Luck? Luck with what?”
The groom nodded toward the phaeton. “Weren’t you with the others when they went off after the eloping couple?”
He felt as the air evaporated out of the night. “Eloping couple? Who?”
“Two of Lord Brentfield’s guests,” he said. “All the gentlemen went chasing after them. Took Samuel and Steven along with them and called me out of a good night’s sleep to watch things here. I thought perhaps you were the first one back. Likely the ladies will want news.”
“I’ll go speak to them at once,” Wynn promised. Then he turned for the house.
Stupid! He’d thought to elope with Daphne himself. Why hadn’t he considered the fact that Sheridan might try the same tactic? ‘Plans in motion,’ the fellow had said. Surely this was their plan.
His gut twisted worse than his knee as he approached the back of the house. Should he request a horse, race after them himself? What were his chances of catching Lord Brentfield and the others, much less Daphne and Sheridan? And if she was willing to risk scandal to wed the fellow, what hope did Wynn have of convincing her to marry him instead?
The will-of-the-wisp looked far less charming as he reached the stairs to the terrace. The flickering light only mirrored his wavering convictions. Daphne deserved a man of strength and courage. Were those traits in him as feeble as the light?
Which would not go out.
Wynn frowned, pausing with his good leg on the first step. It wasn’t unknown for strange lights to appear in the woods. He’d read a scientific paper that claimed the sight was caused by swamp gas lit by the moon. Poachers with hooded lanterns were just as likely. So were the lights in Lord Brentfield’s garden now of natural make, or human?
Or was it possible Daphne and Sheridan hadn’t left the property after all but were merely waiting for cover of darkness to make their escape?
He pulled away from the stairs, pressed his back to the shadow of the house. A shame Sinclair was gone. Rumor had it he was on Lord Hastings staff as an intelligence agent. He’d know how to cross that stretch of lawn without being seen.
Or Sir James. As a professional thief taker, he must have had to tra
vel through the darkest parts of London unnoticed. Even Kent would have had to learn how to move silently to keep up with his cousin the duke.
As it was, Wynn could only keep low, waddling across the grass to prevent detection. Every step, his leg begged him to stop. He grit his teeth, feeling the cramp threatening. When it came, he forced himself to keep moving despite the lightning bolt that shot from his knee to his hip.
Finally, he reached the cover of the wood. Hugging the trunk of one of the larger trees, he shook out his leg, willing it to relax. When he could bear the pain without panting, he peered around the tree.
The ground had been gradually falling. Ahead, by the light of the moon, he saw a hut of some sort, with a ring of trees at its back. No doubt the landscape designer had found it all quite picturesque, a place for contemplation, repose.
Thieves had found other uses for it.
For what else could the men with the hooded lanterns be? They moved from the hut to the waiting wagons, bearing casks and crates. The moonlight flashed on the gilded frame of a painting one carried. Was that where the tunnel under Brentfield Manor led, to this hut?
But surely not all this had come from the manor. The cook would have complained about so many supplies missing, or, if the cook was part of the gang, Lady Brentfield would have questioned the cost of replacing the materials.
“How much more?” one of the teamsters asked, reining in his fretting horses.
Another fellow wiped a hand along a brow where sweat glistened in the moonlight. “Not much, just a few more bottles of champagne from the last run.”
Champagne? The bubbly wine came from France, and the importation of bottles was strictly enforced. Wynn’s mother lamented the fact every time she held a fancy dinner. He’d heard a tutor at Eton say that half the drink consumed in England came by way of the Free Traders.
Which meant these men were smugglers.
That’s why he’d found a rock from the sea on the back terrace! The fellows must have been using the hut to stash goods before taking them off to sell. He should return to the manor. Lord Brentfield might be gone, but surely a footman could be sent to the village to raise a force to catch them. Then again, who knew how many of the villagers were connected to the smugglers? It wasn’t unheard of for entire parishes along the coast to be in league with the Free Traders.
Even as he debated his next move, something rustled the trees nearby. Wynn hunkered lower, thinking another smuggler had come to swell the ranks. But the person who slunk past his tree was none other than Mr. Harrop, head twisting from side to side as if he feared capture. Surely his place, his duty, was either in the house protecting his mistress or out on the road with Lord Brentfield. His presence here could only mean one thing.
The butler was in league with the smugglers!
Wynn knew he had to tell Lady Brentfield. He waited until the butler had slipped around the edge of the clearing to back away from the tree. But the smuggler holding the horses said something then that froze Wynn in his tracks.
“What about the girl? They say she’s some kind of Amazon, all strong and fearless. Can’t be safe to leave her tied up like that. What if she breaks free?”
Wynn clutched the tree, leaning closer to hear the answer. They had to be talking about Daphne. But how could she be here if she’d eloped with Sheridan?
“One of the receivers wants her,” the other said. “He’ll make sure she doesn’t talk.”
Wynn’s fingers knotted on the wood.
He counted the men, growing sicker by the minute. A good dozen, even without the butler’s help. He wasn’t even sure where Mr. Harrop had gone. Wynn couldn’t take them all on. He needed help to save Daphne.
And there was only one place to get it.
*
Perched on a crate, Daphne strained against the rope her captor had used to bind her hands. The hemp wasn’t very strong. Already she could feel the strands separating. Perhaps the fellow and his cohorts hadn’t had anything better. They clearly didn’t think a girl could break free.
She was determined to prove them wrong.
Maybe it was her precarious situation, maybe her frustration at being so easily subdued. Either way, for once, her brain remained focused even though all she could do was sit, her feet bound as well, and a rag covering her eyes. They’d left her mouth alone at first, but her shouts for help had earned her a rag around her lips too.
No matter. Once her hands were free, she’d remove the rest. All she could think about was Wynn. He’d wonder at her disappearance, worry for her safety. He might do something bold and brash and get himself captured too. For his sake, she must remain clear-headed, stone-hearted.
She had to think and not just react. She must be her best self and forget all notions of propriety. What mattered was getting back to Wynn.
And so she listened hard to everything going on around her. She’d caught a glimpse of her surroundings before being blindfolded, which made her wonder why they’d even bothered. She’d learned the hut hid a trap door that gave into a storage room where barrels and crates were stacked awaiting transport. Now she could hear footsteps and grunts as men carried off the plunder.
At least, she thought they were men. There was no swish of skirts that usually accompanied a lady’s movement. And she was certain she caught the scent of brine and lavender, an odd combination that left her puzzled.
Even more puzzling was why they wanted her. If her captor hadn’t sprung from the trap door, she wouldn’t have known it was there. They might have waited until she’d left and gone about their business. She’d tried asking before they’d gagged her but had received only a terse, “Never you mind” in answer.
With a snap, the last strand gave. Daphne shook off the rope and yanked off the gag.
“Ack.” She ran her tongue over her lips as she pulled up the blindfold and set to work on her feet before the next fellow returned.
Glancing around, she saw that the room was nearly empty now. It wasn’t a natural cave as she’d first supposed; in the light of lanterns hung on hooks, she could see that those rock walls had been carefully constructed, the mortar firmly placed. Had this been intended as a room to store supplies for the garden? A secret meeting place for lovers? Did Hannah and Lord Brentfield even know it existed?
Ah! She was free. She threw the rope off her feet. Now, to escape and keep Wynn safe.
Before she could move, she heard footsteps coming closer. Twitching her skirts over her feet to hide the lack of bonds, she pulled down the blindfold and pulled up the gag, then tucked her hands behind her. Perhaps the fellow would take a load and leave. All she had to do was wait him out.
But there was something different about these footsteps. They were furtive, hesitant.
“Daphne.”
She recognized the deep voice even in that throaty whisper.
“Daphne,” Brooks said again, shuffling closer. “Forgive me. I arrived at the hut too late to stop the fellow from kidnapping you. I’ve been watching for my chance to rescue you ever since. I think you’ll want my help this time.”
Daphne reached up to remove the gag. “Not really, but it was thoughtful of you.”
She pulled off the blindfold in time to see him rear back, staring at her. Daphne hopped off the crate. “What are you waiting for? Let’s get out of here before they come back. Wynn might need me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Wynn returned to the house to find the women clustered in the Blue Salon. They all hopped to their feet at the sight of him in the doorway. It was clear they thought he had gone with the others supposedly chasing after Daphne and Sheridan, for they begged for news.
Wynn held up his hands as they surrounded him, voices clamoring. “Ladies, please. Listen to me. Daphne has not eloped, but she is in danger.”
“What are you talking about?” Lady Rollings demanded, twitching her muslin skirts out of the way to get closer to him. “I was delivered a letter from Mr. Sheridan claiming that he and Daphne had elop
ed to Gretna Green in a hired carriage.”
“Heading toward Wells,” Ariadne put in. “Exactly as I would have written it.”
Lady Emily narrowed her eyes. “And I wondered at the time why he would tell us their direction.”
“He’s a fool,” Lady Minerva said. “I told you there was something wrong with that boy.” She scowled at Wynn as if it were all his fault.
“I cannot tell you Sheridan’s intentions,” he said to them all, “but I am certain Daphne is still on this estate. I spotted smugglers at the edge of the garden. They appear to have stashed goods inside a hut there.”
“What!” Lady Brentfield cried, hand going to the chest of her own muslin gown.
“There is more,” Wynn told her. “I believe Mr. Harrop may be aiding them.”
“Why should we be surprised the butler did it?” Ariadne demanded.
Lady Brentfield’s hand fell even as her head came up. “I cannot believe it of him. David chose him for his particular skills, and one of those is loyalty. Have you proof of your accusations, Mr. Fairfax?”
Wynn shook his head. “All I know is what I saw, your ladyship. He was heading through the woods, directly toward the smugglers. Why would he be out on the grounds when you clearly have need of him here?”
Hannah pressed her lips tight together as if to hold back harsh words.
“Still, we know more than we did,” Ariadne put in.
“The smugglers must be our thieves,” Priscilla agreed.
Lady Emily frowned. “Perhaps.”
“And Daphne discovered them,” Ariadne declared, glancing around at them all. “Because only she could.”
Wynn nodded to Daphne’s sister. “I believe they are holding her captive. If we hope to free her, we all must lend a hand.” He turned to his hostess, who stood listening intently. “How many male servants do you employ, Lady Brentfield?”
“Not enough, I fear,” she answered. “We are still short-staffed. We hired temporary help from the village for the party, but they have been going home to sleep each night. David took the footmen, the coachmen, and three of the grooms with him, so perhaps we might have four left if you leave out Mr. Harrop and instead factor in the valets and the stable boy.”
