Eloquence and Espionage (20 page)

“Good morning, Miss Courdebas.”

Daphne looked up to find a gentleman
approaching, astride a silver-gray gelding. Gentlemen were always
approaching her, to challenge her to a race, to beg her for a dance
at the next ball. Though they crowded her sitting room as well, not
one had been moved to offer marriage. She was deemed a great gun, a
good sport, one of the boys. She still felt alone.

Except with Wynn Fairfax.

She smiled now as her new friend reined in
beside her. Wynn always looked slightly startled. Perhaps it was
the way his hair, as dark as hot cocoa, tended to fly around his
firm-jawed face. Perhaps it was the wide sea-green eyes that
blinked behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Either way, he returned her
smile now as he patted his horse’s powerful neck.

“You’re out early,” he commented.

“A great deal on my mind,” she confided.

“And it’s easier to think astride,” he
replied.

“Exactly!” Daphne beamed at him and watched
his cheeks turn pink. It was amazing to think that a gentleman
might be embarrassed by her appreciation and not the other way
around. It was equally amazing how well he understood her when
they’d known each other only a month.

She would never forget the night they’d met.
She had accompanied Ariadne and their friends to the hallowed halls
of Almack’s, that exclusive ladies’ club. Ariadne had been there
because she had fallen in with the intelligence corps and had been
tasked to identify a French spy. But the spy had taken her captive
and threatened her life before making his escape.

Simply unacceptable.

Daphne had gathered up her silk ball gown
and followed the miscreant down the stairs and out the door, but
she’d quickly realized that even she couldn’t run him down in dance
slippers. Glancing around, she’d spotted a trim high-perch phaeton
stopped in traffic, with a young man in a many-caped greatcoat at
the reins. Surely she was looking at a Corinthian, those sporting
types who even drove their own carriages. Leaping up beside him,
she’d pointed toward the fleeing felon, Jamie hard on his heels.
“After them! That way!”

Anyone else would have demanded an
explanation, but Wynn had called to his horses, expertly maneuvered
them away from the press of traffic, and set off in pursuit. The
wind pressing the fabric back against her, she’d clung to the side
of the carriage as they thundered down the street.

“Faster!” she urged. “No one gets away with
threatening my sister!”

“I fly, my Amazon!” he cried.

The perfection of the moment tingled along
her skin. Or perhaps it was the night air.

“I’ll get you as close as I can,” he called
over the rattle of tack. “But if I stop, he’ll have time to
escape.”

“Don’t stop,” Daphne urged him. “I’ll
jump.”

“You are amazing, madam,” he said. “I only
wish I could help.”

“You’re helping,” Daphne promised.
“There!”

He slowed just enough to allow her to leap
off, and she landed on the spy and knocked him to the ground. Even
as she gathered herself up, Jamie arrived to take the Frenchman in
custody.

“Much obliged, Miss Courdebas,” he said,
touching two fingers to his forehead under his thatch of russet
hair. “You have the makings of a fine Runner.”

Coming from him, one of the youngest members
of that elite police force, she was honored. As he led the man off,
she turned to find the phaeton standing waiting.

“How can I thank you?” she asked her valiant
driver.

He climbed down from the coach and limped
toward her, and she realized that he was lame.

“Only one way,” he said, removing the top
hat that had miraculously stayed on his head during their wild
ride. “Tell me your name and promise me you’ll receive me when I
call.”

Daphne stuck out her hand. “Daphne
Courdebas, daughter of Lord Rollings.”

“Wynn Fairfax,” he replied. “Distant cousin
to Lord Darby.” He took her hand, grip firm and sure.

“Good to meet you,” she’d said. “Feel free
to call any time.”

There hadn’t been a day since that he hadn’t
stopped by, if only for a moment.

“So what’s the problem this time?” he asked
now, turning his horse to come parallel to hers as they trotted
down the path. “Another French spy to capture? Jewel thief to
apprehend? Murderous plot to foil?”

She’d told him all about their adventures.
He was a good listener. Very likely the injury to his leg required
him to sit and listen to any number of people. Either that or he
found her voice a sleep tonic.

“Missing art treasures,” she confided. “Just
off the coast of Somerset, in an ancient manor riddled with secret
passages.”

“Perfect,” he said. “When do we leave?”

Daphne reined in Hortensia so fast he had to
circle back to her. “Wynn! You are brilliant! You must come with me
and play my suitor!”

*

Wynn felt as if a clod of sand had flown up
and hit him in the face.
Play
her suitor? What did she think
he’d been doing the past month?

He would always remember the night Daphne
Courdebas had thrust herself into his life. Since his injury when
his horse had fallen taking a jump at Eton, everyone had treated
him as if he were permanently damaged. They seemed to think his
arms and mind had been shattered along with his left knee. She’d
expected him to be capable, and he’d surpassed his wildest dreams.
His heart had been hers from that second.

His mother, of course, had been aghast when
he’d proclaimed his infatuation.

“Daphne Courdebas?” She’d shuddered as she’d
sat in the perfectly appointed sitting room, not one of her graying
hairs out of place, not so much as a wrinkle on her lavender silk
gown. “She’s a hoyden, forever thrusting herself into public notice
with her wild antics. I would never trust my son to her.”

“Then it’s a very good thing it’s my
decision,” he’d said, earning him looks of surprise and admiration
from his three sisters.

No one argued with his mother, not his
sisters, not the staff, not even the vicar, not since his father
had died eight years ago. Wynn generally went along with her
dictates--no need to raise a fuss and upset her. But where Daphne
Courdebas was concerned, he knew his own mind. He was not likely to
meet another woman of her capabilities, beauty, and drive. Any man
would be proud to stand beside her.

Oh, he knew he’d need his mother’s
permission to wed in England, as he was only eighteen, like Daphne.
But there was always Scotland. He thought Daphne would approve of
an elopement, even though they might scandalize Society for a time.
Amazing how just thinking about her made him ready to brave
anything.

Still, he wasn’t willing to accept her
vision of him as just a friend.

“Why do you need anyone to pretend to be
your suitor?” he asked her now as they rode along the track. “You
have dozens, from what I can see.”

She waved a hand, the gesture wild and free.
“None exclusive. The sporting set seems to chase after every girl
they find interesting. No, it must be you. You’ve come over often
enough that even Mother would believe you are courting me.”

Her icy-eyed mother already suspected as
much, even if Daphne didn’t. Lady Rollings had made it very clear
that she’d taken his measure and found him lacking. Very likely she
was hoping for a title for her celebrated daughter.

Or at least a man who was whole.

“I’d be delighted to help,” he assured her.
“But I haven’t been invited.”

“I’ll arrange it,” she promised. “It isn’t
as if you’ll get a better offer for a summer party.”

“In a manor riddled with secret passages,”
he agreed. He ought to take umbrage on any number of points--that
she hadn’t realized he was serious in his pursuit of her, that she
thought he’d drop everything to help her. But Daphne, he’d learned,
was singularly focused. She’d meant no harm.

And if he went with her, perhaps he’d have
an opportunity to prove the depth of his affections for her. Even a
lame man might solve a mystery.

“So you’ll come?” she asked, tone soft and
beseeching, eyes the color of cornflowers staring at him. Those
pink lips were pursed just so, as if she waited for his kiss. How
could any sane man refuse?

“Of course,” Wynn said. “What else would a
suitor do?”

~~~

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Regina Scott started writing novels in the third
grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually
sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing.
Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have
traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including
Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has over two dozen
published works of warm, witty romance.

She and her husband of more than
twenty-five years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington
State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott has dressed
as a Regency dandy, driven four-in-hand, learned to fence, and
sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course.
Learn more about her
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