Love and Larceny (12 page)

“He did,” Daphne told them. “I was with him
when he fell.” She swallowed, remembering. “In fact, it’s my fault
he went through the plaster. I pushed him.”

Ariadne stared at her. “Whatever did he do to
earn your wrath? Call Hortensia a slug?”

“Refuse to teach you to fence?” Emily
guessed.

Daphne hung her head. “No. He kissed me.”

“Bravo, Mr. Fairfax,” Priscilla said. “I
never knew he had it in him.”

Neither did Daphne. She could not understand
why, every time his lips touched hers, she quite forgot herself.
Perhaps it was only because she lacked Priscilla’s experience.
Perhaps a kiss would grow less exciting with time.

Perhaps pigs might fly.

“Regardless,” Emily said, “he has made our
work more difficult. Anyone who wasn’t aware of the secret passages
will hear of them now, once word of this accident gets out. Worse,
whoever has been using them will be all the more cautious. We have
lost our advantage.”

Daphne sighed. “I’m sorry, Emily. I should
have told you about last night but it kept slipping my mind. Wynn
found an entrance to the passages near his room, and he followed it
to one near mine. We thought if we could locate other tracks in the
dust, we would determine the path the thief was taking. Only we
never found any steps but our own.”

Emily cocked her head. “That alone is
telling. So if the thief isn’t using the passages above the rooms,
how has he been moving through the manor unseen?”

“And what is he doing with the art?”
Priscilla asked. “You’ve seen Wenwood. There is nothing by way of
shopping. Where would one dispose of such treasures? I can’t see a
Constable hanging over a fisherman’s hearth.”

Ariadne brightened. “Then perhaps the thief
isn’t selling the art. Perhaps his plan is to empty the place of
its treasures to reflect badly on Hannah and Lord Brentfield. Some
other hostess may be jealous of her place in Society.” She tapped
one finger to her lips as if considering who would be so
dastardly.

“The plot would make an excellent novel,”
Priscilla said, earning her a grin from Ariadne. “Unfortunately, I
sincerely doubt anyone is jealous of Hannah’s place in Society. She
still isn’t received by a good number of hostesses because of her
genteel background, not to mention the fact that she paints.”

Emily coughed. “Yes, well, the imagination of
the
ton
is notoriously limited, except when it comes to
scandals. Our imaginations, fortunately, are not so lacking. Hannah
says she discovered that more art was missing when she compared the
house’s offerings to the inventory. We have only one way to know
whether the thefts are ongoing. Tomorrow, we will enlist every
guest and each available staff member to inventory the house again.
If there is something further missing, we need to know what and
when. That should help us determine who and how.”

Daphne fidgeted on the bed. “Very wise, I’m
sure, but won’t enlisting their help alert Mother and Lady Minerva
to our investigation? And what of Brooks? Are we ready to allow him
to help?”

Her sister’s face fell while Priscilla’s grew
solemn.

Emily waved a hand. “I suspect my aunt
already knows. It’s not easy to keep things from her. But as for
your mother and Mr. Sheridan, I would prefer we keep them in
innocence.”

Ariadne wiggled her lips a moment, then
brightened. “I have it! We can make a game of it. Lord Brentfield
can put up some prize and hide it in one of the rooms. Whoever
finds it wins. Everyone loves a treasure hunt.”

Priscilla smiled. “Perfect.”

Daphne and Emily chorused their agreement,
and they all slipped back to their rooms for some much-needed rest.
How nice to have a moment with her friends. It almost felt like
things had never changed. But one glance at the wall by her
dressing table, and Daphne remembered her other concern.

Would Wynn be all right? And would he forgive
her for her part in his injury?

*

Wynn wasn’t sure which was worse, the aches
from his bruises or the person who had been assigned to nurse him.
Dr. Praxton had examined him, proclaimed him very fortunate, and
advised him to rest for a day or two. Wynn hadn’t intended to stay
in bed longer than it took for the doctor to leave the room. But
Lady Minerva had had other ideas.

“I know how to deal with invalids,” she’d
declared, taking the chair the footman had drawn up to the bed. Dr.
Praxton had allowed Wynn to walk to a room just down the corridor,
leaning on two footmen. His bad leg had protested, but no more than
usual, which eased his concerns. A helpful maid had brought his
things to him as well.

“I am not an invalid, madam,” Wynn had told
her.

“That’s what they all say,” she’d said with a
laugh sounding suspiciously like a cackle. “Right up to the moment
they succumb to their injuries.”

He had no intentions of succumbing to his
injuries. He lay back on the bed and squeezed shut his eyes, hoping
she might leave him be. The room was so quiet, he fancied he could
hear her breathing. How could he sleep knowing she was waiting for
him to die?

But even as he concentrated, he heard another
noise in the distance, fast, firm, hard.

Wynn opened his eyes with a frown. Lady
Minerva was watching him.

“Do you hear hammering?” he asked.

She cocked her head like a bird. “Do
you
hear hammering?”

Yes, he did. He couldn’t have mistaken it.
Surely Lord Brentfield wouldn’t have started repairs in the middle
of the night. The rest of the rooms around this one were inhabited
by the lady guests. He couldn’t see any of them except Daphne being
willing to take up a hammer. So who was making that noise?

He levered himself up on his elbows, trying
to pinpoint the source.

Lady Minerva shook her finger at him. “You
lay down, or I’ll call that butler. I warrant he’ll know how to
keep you in bed.”

Wynn ignored her. The sounds had faded away,
and once more the room had grown quiet. With a sign, he lay back
down and attempted to get some sleep.

Unfortunately, when he woke some hours later,
Lady Minerva was still there, watching him, and she seemed a bit
disappointed to see him awake. She must have left to change at some
point, because she was wearing her black bombazine rather than the
pink flannel. He felt a little like a worm with the raven bending
overhead.

And she would not hear of him rising.

Neither would anyone else. Lord and Lady
Brentfield came to check on him. Daphne’s sister brought him a book
to read. Miss Tate delivered copies of the
Gentleman’s
Quarterly
. Lady Emily offered to paint the moment of his fall.
Even Sheridan paid him a visit.

“That’s the ticket,” he said with a cuff to
Wynn’s shoulder that seemed to echo in every scrape and bruise.
“You lay here and lap up the attention while the rest of us
work.”

He knew from Lord Brentfield that they were
going to inventory the house. It was supposed to be a game to find
two little golden eggs, one for each partner, but he thought he saw
the truth behind the ruse. Lady Emily was trying to determine what
else might be missing. Wynn had offered to check the rooms
surrounding his, to no avail.

But worse by far was Daphne’s reaction to his
injuries. She came in last, as if afraid to see the extent of his
wounds, and stood beside Lady Minerva’s chair, lower lip
trembling.

“Oh, Wynn,” she said, lovely blue eyes
pooling with tears, “can you ever forgive me?”

“Don’t do it,” Lady Minerva advised Wynn.
“Suffering is good for the soul.”

He didn’t think suffering was good for much
of anything. “There’s nothing to forgive, Daphne. You didn’t mean
to make me fall.”

“Of course I didn’t!” Her hands were worrying
before the fetching blue cambric gown she was wearing. “You are my
dearest friend.” She threw herself down on her knees beside the bed
so that her face was level with his as he reclined. “What can I do
to make it up to you? Bathe your forehead with lavender water? Brew
you a posset of rose hips?”

“Watch it, girl,” Lady Minerva muttered.
“That’s my role.”

“I don’t need a posset or your pity,” Wynn
said. “I fully intend to climb from this bed as soon as I can
convince this old harridan to leave.”

Lady Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “What good are
spinster aunts if not to tend the lame and sick?”

That did it. He threw back the covers and
swung his bare legs off the bed. “I, madam,” he said, rising to his
full height, “am not lame.”

They ogled him. Very likely neither had ever
seen a man dressed only in a nightshirt that fell no further than
his knees. Aware of their gazes, he strode to the wardrobe. His leg
twitched, threatened to seize up on him. He refused to listen.

Daphne recovered first, hurrying after him as
he threw open the doors of the wardrobe.

“No, Wynn, wait! You must rest! The doctor
said so.”

“And the doctors all said I would never walk
again,” he countered, choosing trousers, shirt, and waistcoat. “I
didn’t fall to their fears then. I don’t intend to now. If you wish
to help, fetch me a valet.”

Daphne nodded, but, as Wynn turned, he saw
that Lady Minerva had swiveled her chair so she could watch him,
eyes avid. “And find her something else to do,” he added.

“Very well,” Daphne said, putting a hand to
his arm. “I doubt Lady Minerva will listen to me. I’ll ask Mother
to come take her away. Now please, be careful. I don’t want
anything else to happen to you. You are too important to me.” She
pressed a kiss against his cheek, then hurried out the door.

Wynn found himself sitting down on a nearby
chair, hard.

“Sure you don’t need my services?” Lady
Minerva demanded. “You’re paler than blanc mange.”

He grinned at her. “Madam, at the moment, I
could waltz from this room with no help from anyone.”

“That’s what they all say,” she grumbled.

Daphne had to own that it was good to see
Wynn up and about by that afternoon, though she very much doubted
she would ever forget the sight of him in his nightclothes. Who
knew men had such shapely legs? Or was Wynn the only one? She would
have to look more closely at the fellows in their evening breeches,
although she had heard of gentlemen who padded their stockings to
give themselves a more manly line.

She had had hopes that she might partner him
or Brooks for the inventory, but her mother grabbed her and refused
to let go. So she was forced to watch Wynn go off with Nathan Kent
to check the armory, which she was certain would be far more
interesting than the portrait gallery to which she and her mother
had been assigned.

“Do not think your sighs will move me,” her
mother said as they started down the long room. Against each wall,
Tenants from ages past gazed balefully out at her from their gilded
frames. She knew just how they felt, stuck some place she had no
interest in being.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, stopping beside the
nearest portrait.

“And do not think I believe your apparent
complacency,” her mother continued, glancing down at the paper they
had been given, which listed the room’s contents. “You could always
be counted upon to heed my advice, until you met Mr. Wynn
Fairfax.”

Daphne grimaced. “I wouldn’t blame Wynn. I’m
more likely to lead him astray than the other way around.”

Her mother’s mouth was prim. “And what sort
of husband would that make, tied forever to his wife’s bonnet
strings?”

Daphne tried to envision Wynn stuck against
her bonnet and giggled. A look from her mother made the laugh die
in her mouth. “At least he’d never complain. He likes me.”

Her mother sighed, lowering the paper. “Oh,
my dear girl. Are you truly so blind? Unless I miss my guess, Mr.
Fairfax has no intention of settling for your friendship. He loves
you.”

Well, certainly her mother would think that.
That had been the entire purpose of their charade, after all, to
convince people Daphne had a real suitor. Daphne hadn’t been doing
a tremendously good job since Brooks Sheridan had arrived on the
scene, but still. She opened her mouth to tell her mother as much,
then realized she couldn’t without giving away the game.

“Yes, you may well gape,” her mother said,
returning to the inventory. “Perhaps that knowledge will help you
see his actions in a different light. Now, then, describe the
portraits to me, and we will confirm that all are present. And keep
an eye out for those golden eggs. They could easily be tucked into
one of these massive frames.”

Daphne proceeded to describe this Tenant and
that as her mother dutifully checked off the paintings. But faced
with such a mundane, slow-moving task, her mind wandered off on its
own.

Could her mother be right? Did Wynn really
love her? She certainly could see his actions in that light, now
that her mother had raised the issue like a lantern. He had kissed
her—once in front of everyone and once alone in the dark of the
secret passage. From what she knew, friends did not kiss. He had
also been overly concerned about her falling. And he’d wanted to
tell her something important when he’d first come to her room last
night. Had he been about to confess his love?

Her heart started beating faster at the
thought. Her and Wynn, together forever. Riding, driving, fencing,
laughing. Raising a family. He’d make a marvelous father—so patient
and kind. It was all tremendously easy to picture. Indeed, she was
surprised she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“That apparently is all of them,” her mother
said, turning from the portraits. She handed the sheets to Daphne.
“Take these to Lord Brentfield and see if we can be of further
assistance.”

“Yes, Mother,” she said, feet carrying her to
the door even as her mind carried her off to a future of smiles
over breakfast and kisses before bed. She was so lost in her
thoughts that she found herself downstairs at the back of the house
near the doors to the terrace.