Love and Larceny (9 page)

“Nonsense,” Lady Emily said, voice strident.
“Lady Brentfield no longer lives at the manor.”

Wynn could see the butler regarding her
thoughtfully.

The footman shrugged. “Just saying what some
believe, your ladyship. All I know is that Lady Brentfield had an
accident here, and no one ever saw her again. You tell me what
happened to her.”

Daphne hopped to her feet. “I can tell you.
She’s alive and well and living outside London.”

Brooks Sheridan stared at Daphne. “The
dowager Lady Brentfield is in London? Why hasn’t she been seen this
Season? How can I pay my respects?”

Oh, would she never learn? She’d sat too
long, and her brain had gone numb so that she forgot herself.
Daphne could see Sir James, Emily, and Wynn all gazing at her with
varying degrees of disappointment. Mr. Harrop was scowling once
more. Another word on the subject, and she’d spill Priscilla’s
Dreaded Family Secret.

“I believe Mother will be looking for me,”
she murmured. Then she turned away from their censure and hurried
from the room.

But she refused to join Ariadne and the
others in the orangery. She needed movement, air. She strode down
the corridor, muslin snapping at her ankles. Oh, these horrid
fashionable skirts! Her riding habits had so much more room to
move. For how could she think without moving?

Where was that door to the outside? She felt
as if the paneled walls were drawing closer, the ceiling lowering.
Why couldn’t she just escape?

“They continued the interview,” Wynn said,
falling into step beside her as if he was meant to be there. His
boots flashed with his steps, limp pronounced. She forced herself
to slow.

“I’m glad my mistake didn’t cost Emily the
information she was seeking,” Daphne said, gaze going to the
carpeted floor.

“Indeed no. In fact, I think her questioning
will go easier now that we can dispel any rumors that the dowager
Lady Brentfield has passed on and might be haunting the place.”

Daphne blew out a breath. “I shouldn’t have
spoken. I hope you know I’m not an idiot, Wynn. It’s just this
sitting about fills my head with fog. I feel as if I’m slipping
away. Do you think I might be mad?”

She chanced a glance his way to find a soft
smile on his face. Somehow, that made the last few minutes more
bearable.

“You’re not insane,” he told her, pausing at
a painting of horses thundering across a field. “You were born for
adventure. The rest of the world must seem terribly tedious
compared to that.”

“Not always tedious,” she assured him, making
herself stop beside him. “I enjoy talking with my friends,
listening to a music recital. But sooner or later it’s as if
someone dims the lights, and I simply cannot find my focus. Mother
says I just need discipline. I have discipline—I learned to ride
and dance and follow the rules of good Society. But I cannot seem
to pay attention at all the times expected. It is a great source of
frustration for me.”

“I understand a bit about frustration,” he
said. “Before the accident, I loved jumping—hedgerows, streams,
fences. I felt as if I were flying.”

Daphne knew the feeling. “I’m so sorry you
fell, Wynn. That must have been awful.”

He had not spoken much about the accident.
She thought it must be painful to recall it. Yet how could he
forget when every day his leg reminded him?

“At the time, I didn’t even feel it,” he
murmured. “I was more concerned about my horse.” His gaze was on
his boots. “She had to be put down.”

“Oh, Wynn.” Daphne put a hand on his arm,
chest hurting.

“And then the physicians told Mother I would
never walk again.” His voice was as tight as the muscles under her
fingers. “You should have heard her sobbing, Daphne, that her son
would be a cripple, confined to bed or chair for the rest of his
life. I refused to be that person.”

Daphne squeezed his arm. “And you aren’t. I
often forget about the matter entirely.”

He glanced up, eyes as blue-green and deep as
the ocean. “So do I, when I’m with you. Daphne—”

“Daphne!”

She turned at the call to find Emily hurrying
up to them. Wynn’s hand fell away.

“Forgive me, Emily,” Daphne said, trying not
to cringe at the look on her friend’s face. “I didn’t meant to
blurt it out that way.”

“Forgiven,” Emily said, face flushed. “But
you must be more careful. Particularly around people who do not
know us well.”

“Like Mr. Harrop,” Daphne agreed with a
nod.

“Actually, I was thinking of Mr. Sheridan,”
Emily replied. “He appears to wish to help me and Jamie
investigate, for he’s asking entirely too many questions, of us and
the staff. I called a recess, but he shows no inclination of
finding other pursuits. Can you entice him away?”

Daphne thought Wynn stiffened, but she
couldn’t help her grin. “Watch me.” She started back the way she
had come, then paused when she realized Wynn wasn’t beside her.

Looking back, she saw him standing where
she’d left him, gazing after her. For someone who was always so
open and free with his opinions, his face seemed still, shuttered,
as if his own light had dimmed.

“Coming?” she asked.

For a moment, he hesitated, and she couldn’t
imagine why. Had she diminished his opinion of her by her
confession? No help for that now. The horse was out of the stable,
and there was no putting it back. But somehow, she would have
thought Wynn would be the last person to judge her for her
whimsy.

To her relief, he nodded. “Of course, Daphne.
What would you have of me?”

“Ask the groom to bring round your phaeton,”
she said. “We’re going to take Mr. Sheridan for a ride.”

*

Squiring Sheridan about the countryside would
not have been Wynn’s first choice of ways to spend the morning, and
just when he’d found the nerve to tell Daphne how he felt about
her. He’d sooner put the fellow on the next mail coach to London,
preferably on a chilly outside seat. Besides, Sheridan looked
entirely too satisfied as he led Daphne to the phaeton, where Wynn
sat at the reins.

Daphne had taken the time to put on a bonnet
with ivy clustered on the crown and a green velvet spencer that
hugged her curves. She grinned at Wynn as she approached. Maybe if
he thought of Sheridan as nothing more than a footman he could stop
gritting his teeth.

Apparently Sheridan had the same thought.
“Nice of you to play coachman, Fairfax,” he said with a smile that
looked more like a smirk to Wynn. The fellow released Daphne’s arm
to hop up into the passenger seat, then held out his hand as if to
help Daphne in beside him.

Daphne, sweet Daphne, ignored the fellow.
“Give me a hand, Wynn,” she said, reaching up while gathering her
skirts as she stepped up onto the fender.

Wynn reached down and pulled her up onto the
driver’s bench beside him. It was a bit of a squeeze, but he
wouldn’t have traded places with the prince. He could almost feel
Sheridan’s chagrin as the Corinthian settled himself in the back
alone.

“You will let me drive part of the way to
Wenwood, won’t you?” Daphne asked as Wynn maneuvered the carriage
out of the stable yard.

He grinned at her. “And what will you give me
for my trouble?”

She apparently thought a moment, brows knit
inside her silk-lined bonnet. Then she brightened. “I have a new
bow. You may use it when Lord Brentfield brings out the archery
targets tomorrow.”

He knew his face must match Sheridan’s for
chagrin.

Their passenger barked a laugh. “I’d hold out
for higher stakes if I were you, Fairfax.” He leaned forward,
putting his face between them. “I’d ask for no less than another
kiss from those perfect lips.”

Daphne blushed. For someone so bold, her
cheeks turned the most delicate color of pink, like the inside of a
seashell.

“And what would you do to earn a kiss?” she
demanded with a toss of her head.

“Walk to the ends of the earth,” Sheridan
promised.

“I’ll pull over,” Wynn said. “You can start
now.”

Daphne laughed.

Wynn slapped the reins, springing the horses
forward, and Sheridan fell back into his seat.

Unfortunately, he refused to stay there.
“Have you visited this part of the country before, Miss Courdebas?”
he asked, edging forward once more as if to hear her answer over
the rush of wind.

Daphne obligingly swung in her seat to look
at him, and the curve of her body brushed Wynn’s arm. He struggled
to keep his focus on the road.

“My friends and I attended the Barnsley
School for Young Ladies not far from here,” she explained. “That’s
how we met Lady Brentfield. She was our art teacher.”

Sheridan nodded. “Ah, I thought I’d heard
rumors to that effect. And did Lord Brentfield come upon the pair
of you painting the countryside and fall madly in love with her? I
know the country air can influence a fellow that way.”

Wynn was highly tempted to shove him back in
his seat again, but by the way Sheridan’s hand was gripping the
back of the bench, he expected as much.

Daphne remained oblivious. “No. We met him at
a house party here when he first became earl, and he and Miss
Alexander hit it off straight away. It was terribly romantic.”

“I imagine life with you would be just as
romantic,” he said in that ridiculously deep voice. Didn’t Daphne
notice that he sounded like a puffed up bullfrog, croaking on the
pond as if he were king of the world?

“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan,” she said. “That is
very sweet of you.”

“Sweets for the sweet,” he insisted.

Wynn wanted to gag. Instead, he reined in,
and Sheridan jarred forward to smack his nose on the seat back.

Refusing to acknowledge the growl behind him,
Wynn handed the reins to Daphne. “I believe you wished to drive,
Daphne.”

In polite company, he should not have used
her first name. That was the prerogative of the betrothed, the
happily married. By rights, Daphne should have taken him to task.
But she was all too focused on his gift, for she grinned at him as
she accepted the reins.

“Yes, please, Wynn.”

He could only hope that Sheridan had taken
note that she’d used Wynn’s first name as well as she threaded the
leather through her gloved fingers and clucked to his team, which
set off once more. They rolled down the country road at speeds his
family and hers would likely have found shocking. Even with his
well-sprung carriage, he was bouncing on the seat. He put his arm
around Daphne’s waist to keep from falling.

But he was falling. One look in those blue
eyes, and he was lost. One smile, and he too would have walked to
the ends of the earth and counted any pain from his leg well worth
it. The moist air rushed past his face, and he thought he caught
the breath of the sea. Daphne’s smile was brighter than the day. He
felt free, alive.

“I say, you’re magnificent, Miss Courdebas,”
Sheridan said, pushing himself up from the seat. “I can see why
Fairfax prefers to have you drive.”

One more word from the fellow, and Wynn might
have to challenge him to a duel.

“What brought you to the area?” he asked
Sheridan, remembering Lady Emily’s concerns earlier. “If you were
staying with family, I’m certain they must be missing you. Perhaps
we can drop you somewhere.” Preferably off a tall cliff.

“You’re not the only one with friends in the
area,” Sheridan replied, edge to his voice. “But there’s no need to
be concerned. I’ll be seeing them soon enough.”

“Yes, the party is only until Monday,” Daphne
offered as if she had no idea of the tension between the two men.
“Then it will be back to London.” She glanced over at Sheridan.
“Will you be returning to London as well, Mr. Sheridan?”

Wynn hated that her voice hinted of
interest.

“If I can settle some business matters here
in Somerset,” Sheridan assured her. “I have come into some property
and should realize its potential soon. When I do, I will be in a
position to seek a bride.” His gaze locked with Daphne’s. “I hope I
may call on you then, my dear Miss Courdebas.”

My goodness!
Daphne’s face felt warm,
and the rest of her was quickly following suit. Was Brooks
Sheridan—an honest-to-goodness top-of-the-trees Corinthian—saying
he wanted to marry her? How was she to answer?

“There’s a curve coming up,” Wynn advised as
if he had no idea of the monumental nature of the occasion. “You’ll
need to slow, or we’ll tip.”

He was quite right. She could see the bend
ahead, trees clustering on either side to form a delicate green
canopy. She made herself focus and pulled back on the reins to slow
the horses just enough to navigate the curve. Then the horse’s
hooves were clattering over the bridge across the River Wen, the
rocky depths sparkling in the sunlight, and the carriage rolled
into the village.

She had to go more carefully then. Sheep
grazed on the green, and children darted among the surrounding
cottages. She would never forgive herself if she struck another
being. She was merely glad the conversation returned to more
commonplace subjects so she could keep her mind occupied with
driving.

As Wynn asked Mr. Sheridan about
acquaintances at Eton, she turned the phaeton around the green. Two
plump ladies coming out of the only shop in the tiny village
stopped to watch them pass, and she caught sight of Mr.
Wellfordhouse, the rector, walking in the churchyard. They’d
visited him last spring and attended services in the stone church
on Easter Sunday, so she knew he was a friendly gentleman, and not
very old for his position. Seeing her, he waved, sunlight making
his chestnut hair dance with red. Daphne waved back with her free
hand.

She turned the team for the west, running
along hedgerows thick with trees. Sunlight striped the way. Why had
she never noticed the daisies blooming along the verge, the sway of
the branches overhead? The very air smelled clean and fresh and
new. She’d finally found a fellow who saw her as a lady, as a
potential wife, and she wanted to crow with delight.