Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (24 page)

Lord DeWilde hurried down the overgrown path toward them. "It's all right now," he said. "The infamous Danger Hounds are secured in their kennel."

"The Danger Hounds," Sydney murmured. "Goodness, not the very dogs that hunted down Squire Elliot in
Sinner from the Netherworld
? Not the bloodthirsty dogs who did their master's evil bidding?"

"What evil bidding?" Jeremy asked.

"I don't know," Sydney said. "I was too frightened to read that part."

Freddie looked around the grounds. "We're not going to get ate, are we?"

DeWilde raised his brow. "Not by me."

An hour later they were comfortably ensconced before a cheerful fire in a large gaslit drawing room. The middle-aged housekeeper, Mrs. Chynoweth, served hot tea and scones with clotted cream.

Sydney sat on a black silk sofa, her second cup of laudanum-laced tea in her lap. Lord DeWilde had sent for a physician. He must have suspected she was in pain even though she tried to cover it.

"I expect Peter is halfway to the Lizard by now," Jeremy said, slouched on the sofa in his rumpled suit with his cravat twisted to one side.

Freddie reached for another scone. The hound, planted in the middle of the carpet, growled in warning. Freddie drew his hand back to his lap. "Peter will fetch us, won't he, Sydney?"

Sydney was staring across the room at Lord DeWilde. His dark hair was brushed back onto his shoulders. He seemed to be looking into the fire. But every now and then, Sydney caught him studying her with an intensity that made her toes curl. Which, of course, she wouldn't have noticed if
she
hadn't been sneaking peeps at him and wondering why he'd kissed her in the first place and why she had read so much into what was probably an impulsive gesture on his part.

Handsome man, she thought with a sigh. The laudanum had begun to take effect. Brilliant writer. Why does he live alone in this broody old house? Does he have a wife? Her thoughts were blurred. She started to close her eyes only to open them wide and look directly into his gaze. Awareness jolted through her like an arrow.

He gave her a slow personal smile. No one else in the room noticed it, thankfully, but it set Sydney's nerve endings on fire. She wriggled back against the sofa.

And sent her teacup frying to the floor.

"Oh, goodness."

"It's all right," DeWilde said, not quite suppressing a grin.

Sydney leaned down to get the cup, feeling a blush creep up her neck. "I hope our shipwreck hasn't disturbed Lady DeWilde," she said impulsively.

Conversation stopped. Lord DeWilde's head lifted from the hearth. Audrey shot her an annoyed look. Sydney, after all, was not really one of them. She was a professor's daughter, practically of the working class. Trust her to put her foot in her mouth.

"Alas, there is no Lady DeWilde," Rylan said, looking more amused than saddened by this announcement.

Sydney felt rather stupid, but she felt relieved too. "Well, I—"

Freddie's voice interrupted her, undoubtedly saving her from saying something even more socially unforgivable. "I said, 'Do you think Peter will come and fetch us?
¹
"

All of a sudden Sydney looked down and saw that the dog had settled itself at her feet. "Well, hello," she said softly. "You're not really a big beast, are you?"

DeWilde smiled. "You've made a friend, Miss Windsor. Consider yourself honored. That hound would rather bite off someone's head than behave."

"I like animals," Sydney said.

And that animals liked her didn't surprise Rylan. She'd had that same effect on him. He'd probably run and fetch a stick if she asked him.

"That dog is a demon," Freddie whispered. "And you never did answer my question about Peter."

Sydney tore her attention away from DeWilde's face. He made her feel so self-conscious. "Peter?" she said, trying to rebalance her empty saucer on her good knee.

"Peter, the Duke of Esterfield," Audrey said sharply. "Peter, your beloved and betrothed, your One and Only. You do remember him, Sydney?"

"Gadzooks," Freddie said. "Do you think a spar thwacked her on the skull?"

Sydney noticed something flicker in DeWilde's eyes. A cold glitter of regret or disdain, she didn't know, but it told her he didn't approve of her engagement.

"Of course I remember Peter," she said in a crisp voice. "And, yes, he'll probably fetch us." She bit her lip, and added, "If he thinks of it, that is. He isn't exactly known for his charitable instincts. We have a better chance of being rescued by my father. Papa will probably swim here to rescue me."

Silence fell over the small group. DeWilde pretended to poke at the fire. Sydney knew he was pretending because the fire was perfectly fine as it was. He was pretending just so he wouldn't have to look at her again. She stared, rapt, at his brooding profile and thought again of his eyes and the wonderful stories he wrote that frightened and uplifted her at the same time.

Mrs. Chynoweth came in to clear away the dishes. She brought in Lord DeWilde's outercoat and cane, her voice low with concern. "Must you go out again tonight, my lord? Samhain is almost here, and there are dangerous wicked spirits in…"

Sydney lost the end of the sentence. She was eavesdropping and couldn't very well ask the woman what sort of wickedness Lord DeWilde might encounter. Where
was
he going this late at night anyway?

It seemed to be a regular ritual. The hound was already at the door, whining to get out.

"Where's he off to at this hour?" Freddie whispered in her ear.

"No doubt he's a practicing necromancer," Sydney said dryly.

DeWilde turned at the door, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. Shadows hid his expression from Sydney. Yet she knew he was looking straight at her. "I have business on the moor and won't be back until after dawn. Mrs. Chynoweth will see you to your rooms. And Miss Windsor, don't be alarmed if the physician arrives late tonight. He has a long ride to reach us. I do not think your injury is serious, but one must be careful. If you wish to write a letter to your papa, I will have it posted in the morning."

Then he was gone, leaving Sydney staring at the door with a strange compulsion to follow after him and the realization that her life was about to be changed forever.

The worst part was, she couldn't wait to learn how.

Rylan galloped across the bleak moonlit moor. He cantered around the circle of standing stones, the black dog running at his side.

If he could ride off his anger, he would have to keep going until the sun rose and he rode to the lonely cliffs of Lizard Point.

The Duke of Esterfield.

He bellowed a string of curses into the air.

The beautiful woman he coveted belonged to one of the biggest swines in all of England. Charming on the outside, Peter was one of the most amoral and unprincipled men Rylan had ever met. Yet most people did not see Peter's dark side. They were besotted by his wealth and boyish charisma.

He could see why Peter had fallen in love with Sydney, defying convention to marry a woman beneath his class. Sydney was in a class of her own, and wasn't black attracted to white, the perverse to the pure?

Oh, Rylan knew plenty about Sydney's betrothed. He'd avoided any personal association with Peter, though, aside from almost killing Peter's cousin in a duel.

It hadn't exactly made them best friends.

What nasty secrets Rylan knew about Peter had come from researching a private club of noblemen that had recently sprung up in London and was rumored to be based on the Hellfire clubs of the previous century. Not that there were any Black Masses or murders, but there was a lot of drinking and seducing of young women and the lewd behavior that Prince Albert bemoaned.

Rylan felt sick at the thought of Sydney falling into the hands of a man who would defile her innocence.

He slowed his horse, and his anger simmered down into resolve. The matter was settled. She wasn't leaving his house. He didn't know yet how he'd keep her, but he'd figure it out. A man didn't write tales of the Wondrous and Terrible without having a devious mind, and Rylan's plot twists left his readers biting their nails to the quick.

He came to the base of a hill where a bonfire blazed and cloaked figures danced in a circle, chanting into the night.

Witchcraft. Demons. Supernatural wonders. He had set out to prove that there was no such thing as magic. Yet the heathen rituals he had witnessed here in no way resembled the cruel tendencies of human nature.

He slid off his horse and moved into the shadows of the hill where he could watch the pagan ceremony.

Rylan was really beginning to believe there was no real magic to be found. Only the fantasies and imaginings and wishful thinking of deluded people. He'd traveled the world over searching for proof, for inspiration. The closest he'd come to magic was the sight of Sydney Windsor washed up in his cove and spilling her tea on his carpet

He leaned against a boulder and stared up into the undulating flames before he opened his saddlebag. It held a meat pie, pen and paper, a pistol. He had to smile. The weapon had been packed by his housekeeper, who was concerned that a Samhain spirit would possess her master's soul. Or that the villagers might rough him up if they caught him observing their secret practices.

He wasn't worried about his life being threatened at all. He'd won a wrestling match against the three strongest men in the village his first week here. Hell, he'd barely exerted himself. And since then he'd not only commanded respect but made some new friends.

Mrs. Chynoweth kept warning him that the strange goings-on after midnight on the moor were another matter. She said even the gentlest souls were subject to bewitchment. And how did anyone know it wasn't Lady Tregarron or Squire Pendarvis dancing about for the devil under those silk hoods?

Rylan wasn't worried about supernatural things either. Interested, yes, for research purposes.

He was more worried about how to break the news to Sydney that she wasn't going to be the Duchess of Esterfield after all. He hoped she didn't have her heart set on living in a big manor house or on attending royal functions.

If he could ensnare her with magic, he'd do it in a second. For now, though, he'd have to fall back on the age-old spell of male-female attraction.

Fortunately, he thought with a grin of pure arrogance, there appeared to be more than enough of that between them. Sydney hadn't taken her beautiful eyes off him all evening, and if they had been alone, he would have satisfied her curiosity in more ways than one.

"What kind of business could DeWilde have on the moor?" Freddie wondered aloud.

"Perhaps he's going to dance naked with a coven of witches," Sydney said irritably. "The man is a writer. Who are we to question where he finds inspiration?"

Jeremy stood from the sofa and stretched. "As long as he didn't use
us
for his research. Anyone else for bed?"

Audrey looked across the room. "Miss Hiccough is. She can barely keep her eyes open. Go on up, Sydney. We'll wait here until the doctor arrives."

"Just in case it's Dr. Frankenstein," Freddie said, throwing his arms up to limp around the sofa with a hideous grin. "In case he wants to perform a nasty operation on our hapless Miss Windsor while she lies, drugged and helpless, in the body snatcher's bed."

Sydney didn't argue. She was too drowsy to tell them they were behaving like proper idiots. They'd just argue back that it was time she started behaving like an aristocrat and not a social mushroom, seeing that she would become a duchess in two short months.

"A duchess," she said to herself as she limped from the room. "Can you believe I'm going to be a duchess?"

Mrs. Chynoweth appeared out of the shadows, mumbling under her breath. "You could believe anything, miss, after living with Lord DeWilde for over a year."

The doctor came and went, having examined Sydney's knee under the eagle-eyed supervision of Audrey and Mrs. Chynoweth. Sydney slept, strangely relaxed in the unsettled atmosphere.

The doctor told Audrey at the door, "She's to stay off it for a week. Apply liniments of deer grease twice a day. Dulse tea will improve her circulation. It's good for constipation, too."

"I am sure Sydney will appreciate that very much," Audrey said in a tart voice. "Are you sure she can't walk?"

"No weight on that leg for at least two days," he said. "She'll be feeling the pain of it in the morning."

"Two days," Audrey murmured. "It will be too late then. Oh, poor Sydney. There's no hope to save her, it would seem."

As soon as the doctor left, Audrey hurried back downstairs where Jeremy and Freddie were helping themselves to liberal amounts of his lordship's port and sausage pies.

Freddie sprawled across the sofa with a bottle balanced between his bare feet. Jeremy was examining the bag of Celtic runes he had found on the card table.

Freddie yawned in boredom. "What does his lordship do for proper entertainment? This ain't rustication. It's embalmment. This place is as lively as a crypt."

Audrey swept into the center of the room, bristling with agitation. "The doctor just left. We have a genuine crisis on our hands."

"Has Sydney gone fatal on us?" Freddie asked in alarm.

Jeremy's mouth dropped open. "Good God. I didn't know a knee injury could turn deadly. Well, not that quick anyway. What are we going to tell Peter?"

"Sydney is perfectly fine." She paused for effect. Then she looked around, lowering her voice. "Our host is another matter. He isn't what you think. Or whom."

Freddie bunked. "He isn't a DeWilde?"

"He is a DeWilde," Audrey said, glancing uneasily at the door. "But there are three brothers—Valentine, Geoffrey, and Rylan. Valentine and Geoffrey are invited everywhere, but Rylan, well, the name Rylan DeWilde is synonymous with scandal. The man does just as he pleases."

Jeremy tossed the runes on the table. "As long as he's a DeWilde, I don't see what all the drama is about."

Audrey compressed her lips. Sometimes she couldn't believe what a clot he was. "He almost killed Peter's cousin Edgar in a duel last year over a shopgirl who claimed she was carrying Edgar's bastard."