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.
Daphne shook her head. Silly. Lord Brentfield and Hannah had set up headquarters in the library, which lay in the opposite direction down the corridor behind her. Her feet had carried her toward the stables by habit.
Or wish.
But much as she would have loved a gallop across the fields, she truly should stay inside and help. Everyone else was doing so. She could hear voices overhead and down the corridor now—Priscilla and Ariadne in the Blue Salon, Sir James and Sinclair in the sculpture hall, Emily and her aunt in the dining room. Somewhere beyond her hearing, Wynn and Nathan Kent were likely playing with swords and crossbows.
Who partnered Brooks?
Her mother had dragged her off so quickly, she hadn’t had a chance to find out. Perhaps he was helping Mr. Harrop do something manly, like check the casks of wine in the cellar or the foils in the fencing salon.
As if conjured by her thoughts, the Corinthian flitted past the doors to the terrace. Where was he going? Surely there were no priceless works of art on the outside of the house. He couldn’t think to find the eggs there. Why wasn’t he helping the others?
Only one way to find out.
She left the list on a table near the door and followed him.
*
“May I say,” Nathan Kent told Wynn as they heaved a breastplate back into place on a suit of amour, “that you have my admiration for your pursuit of Miss Courdebas. Now that’s a dashing young lady.”
For once, Wynn could not muster any jealousy. It was clear the Nathan Kent, personal secretary to the Duke of Rottenford, was bellows to mend for the beautiful Priscilla.
“Yes, she is,” he said, dusting off his hands. “I am the most fortunate of men.”
And he did feel fortunate at the moment. Though there were plenty of uninteresting bedchambers and withdrawing rooms sprinkled about the manor, Lord Brentfield had set him and Kent to inventory a far-more-fascinating room. Suits of armor stood guard along either side, with battle axes crossed above them and swords shining from glass cases. A bronze vase on either end held a cluster of pikes and lances, all ready to defend king and Country. He didn’t need a golden egg to encourage him. He couldn’t wait to see what lay in the various wooden chests and cabinets.
“Did she really beat Chas Prestwick in a race down Rotten Row?” Kent asked as they moved on to a glass-front cabinet that held jeweled daggers.
“She did indeed,” Wynn told him. “By a horse length. I saw it.”
“What pluck.” Kent shook his head. “Priscilla isn’t the sporting type. Not that I mind, you understand. Still, it must be nice to have a betrothed who can join you in all your pursuits.”
“Eight daggers, all as described,” Wynn reported, and Kent checked them off before turning toward a rack of evil-looking maces. He seemed a level-headed fellow, thoughtful, with brown hair and eyes and a slender build. He was, by all accounts, the brains behind the duke’s efforts. And, against all odds, he’d won the hand of the fair Priscilla. Would he be willing to offer advice?
“Daphne is a good friend,” Wynn allowed, running a hand down the shaft of one of the maces. “But there are times I fear she sees me as nothing more.”
“Ah.” Kent checked off the maces and ventured toward another cabinet comprising doors of identical sizes. “I had a similar problem when I first realized my feelings for Priscilla. She had hopes for my cousin, the duke. Naturally, I felt reluctant to declare how I felt in such circumstances.”
“Naturally,” Wynn agreed, opening a drawer to display a pair of pistols with silver etching on the barrels. Kent checked them off the list.
“So, what did you do?” Wynn asked, closing the drawer and opening another.
“I let her think I cared nothing for her,” Kent said, checking off that set of pistols as well. “It caused us both a great deal of heartache.”
Wynn knew the feeling. “And yet here you are, betrothed.” He shut the drawer.
“Because I learned she cared for me. Knowing she returned my love, I could not be silent. We told my cousin together. And, as you said, here we are.”
Could it be so simple? If he told Daphne how he felt, would he discover she felt the same way? Wasn’t the possibility worth the risk of embarrassment should she truly see him only as a friend?
He threw open the bottom drawer, then frowned at the empty space. “Was there supposed to something in this one?”
Kent consulted the list. “A pair of pearl-handled dueling pistols along with a velvet pouch containing powder and shot.” He glanced up. “According to this, they were cleaned by the under footman a week before we arrived.”
“So who felt the need for arms?” Wynn asked. “And why?”