Love and Larceny (16 page)

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 travel 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.”

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 eloped 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.”

“Send for them,” Wynn said, and she hurried
for the bell pull. “But we’ll need more, and we don’t have time to
alert the village, if indeed they would help against what might be
some of their own.”

Lady Rollings was rubbing her hands back and
forth. He wasn’t sure she even recognized the nervous gesture.

“Then where can we find more men?” she
asked.

“I intend to fabricate them,” Wynn told her.
“From each of you.”