Chapter 2
Sir Westcott Twisden was taller than any man here, true, and he wasn’t exactly a lumbering ox. He managed the steps of the dance quite adroitly. He managed polite conversation as well.
In the moments they came together, he told her he owned an estate in the far north and had escorted his grandmother to London where he attended to business and met up with Reggie.
Upon Reggie’s invitation, Sir Westcott had come further south to Brighton to await the return of his stepmother and her new husband from their honeymoon on the Continent.
His new stepfather was a prince of a fellow, a retired army man who’d been Reggie’s commanding officer.
He’d wanted to await them because his stepmama was expecting a happy event.
That had been said with a puzzled grin that had her wondering if Sir Westcott was simple. Or if he didn’t understand how happy events came about.
“Has me thinking about setting up my own nursery.”
In the midst of performing a Hole in the Wall cross, his gaze held hers, the look in his darkening eyes so earnest, so intense, her face heated again.
They came together, and she stomped on his toe.
His eyes sparkled, his grin held steady, and he was blissfully silent for the rest of the dance while inside, her nerves were skipping and leaping.
When the dance ended, he tucked her hand over his arm. “Where shall we walk while we wait for the next dance?”
“Perhaps we can find you another partner.”
“Who won’t step on my toes? Surely, that was a reprimand. Perhaps you thought I was being too forward? I’ve always been told not to rush my fences.”
“More advice from your stepmama?”
“She’s a gem. You’ll like her. Loves to paint buildings. Pictures of them, that is, not the walls. Miss Dunsford, I would like to court you. Is there anyone whose permission I should ask?”
Lang was coming their way. Sir Westcott opened his mouth.
“Don’t you dare raise the subject with him,” she said.
He turned his gaze down on her.
Down on her. A tingle ran through her. Next to him, she felt small, in the best possible way.
His eyes glinted again. “I know that Reggie will want to call on you and pay his respects. I’ll tag along when he does.”
She dragged Sir Westcott away and introduced him to the first group of young ladies they encountered.
“Save a waltz for me,” he said, and stepped out with a new partner.
She didn’t speak with him again until the waltz. That glorious waltz had her wondering if perhaps she would like him to court her.
But it didn’t keep her from noticing Lang’s long conversation with Crofton.
* * *
Breakfast at Highcross Keep, the Dalrymple family estate, was a singularly masculine meal, preceded every morning by an invigorating ride with Reggie and his great uncle Quinton Dalrymple.
Reggie’s older brother was away in London with the only lady of the house, their mother, who preferred the shopping in London to what she could find in Brighton.
Wes had met the fashionable widow, Mrs. Dalrymple, in London.
He’d been happy at first about her matchmaking endeavors.
But though he’d met a few pretty girls, and a few jolly ones, no one had caught his fancy for more than a quarter hour.
There were no country girls among the misses he’d met in London through the summer, leastwise none who wanted to go as far afield as Westmoreland.
Miss Sybil Dunsford might not wish to go that far afield either, but she was definitely a country girl. He’d learned last night that Sybil was actively involved in the work of the farm left her by her father.
Sybil. Did anyone besides Reggie call her Sybie?
Wes filled his plate from the sideboard—eggs, rashers, kidneys, beans, and toast with marmalade. Reggie’s family kept a good table.
Grellin, the Dalrymple butler, hurried in and whispered something to Reggie, who laughed out loud.
“No need to whisper, Grelly. Tell everyone.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Cook has heard from the apothecary’s boy who was delivering Mr. Quinton’s, er—”
“Yes, yes,” Reggie said. “Uncle Quinton’s purge medicine. We all know about his ailment.” He beamed a smile at Wes. “Captain Moonlight has finally struck again.”
Wes set his plate down awkwardly, sending a piece of bacon flying. “About demmed time.”
“Promised you a highwayman,” Reggie crowed.
“You also promised me a ghost.”
Reggie waved Wes’s comment away. “Who was the mark, Grelly?”
“The miller, Mr. Crofton.”
Crofton. Wes’s brainbox had been so full of Sybil Dunsford, other introductions had washed over him. “Was he there last night?”
“Big fellow,” Reggie said. “Built like a side of beef. Hair—what he has of it—pulled back in a queue.”
“Yes. I remember. He left before you could introduce me.” Wes picked up his fork and attacked the plate. After their waltz, Sybil had hurried over to this Crofton, who at the time happened to be bending her brother’s ear.
The conversation had seemed intense, and Crofton called for his carriage soon after.
On his way to see what was being discussed, Wes had been pulled aside by Reggie to meet other attendees. By the time he’d freed himself, Sybil had left also.
“Anyone hurt?” Reggie asked.
“Not as was reported.” Grellin picked up the coffee urn and sent the footman off to refill it.
“The apothecary’s boy heard that from one of the Somerville servants, who received a report of the robbery from the farrier,” Grellin said.
“Sir Peter was planning to pay a call on Crofton. The guests for his house party will be arriving soon. That is all I know. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just have this platter refilled. ”
Reggie, his mouth filled with sausage, waved the butler away.
“Demmed dutiful magistrate you have here,” Wes said. “I suppose he’s either really concerned about the safety of his lady and the guests coming for his house party, or he’s bored.”
Reggie swallowed and took a sip of his ale. “Dutiful. Been more than one highway robbery lately.”
The thought crossed Wes’s mind that Sybil had left around the same time as the victim. She might have been in danger.
“Curious, though,” Reggie said. “Seems like t’only ones robbed are ones you might say deserved it.”
“What do you mean?”
Reggie shrugged. “Crofton’s been picking up land here and there, besides the barns and storehouses he owns hereabouts. Known to fill them sometimes when the moon is dark.”
“He’s a smuggler?” Wes asked.
Reggie nodded his answer, having just forked in some beans.
“Of course, he’s a smuggler.” The gravelly pronouncement came from Reggie’s uncle, who entered and strode to the sideboard.
“A swindler as well. He just cheated Lewis out of an old manor house near Devil’s Dyke Grange.
Crofton bought out loans from a thieving banker friend in Brighton before the fellow cleaned out the deposits and scarpered.
Crofton’s capital isn’t coming from his mills.
It’s from good French brandy. Gin from the low countries, and…
” He waggled his eyebrows. “Silk so fine it would make a lady agree to anything.”
Reggie sputtered and sent Wes a wink.
“Yes, Reginald. You may laugh in your inelegance, but the ladies appreciate fine gifts. In my day…” He shook his head.
“Ah well, mark my word. On any given night, you’ll find a line of pack animals crossing the weald, both two and four-legged ones, carrying merchandise right along the Devil’s Dyke. ”
Devil’s Dyke was a nearby land feature, a great, long valley. Reggie, with his usual nonsense, said it had been dug by the devil himself. Wes had seen it, but only from a distance.
“I’d like to see this Devil’s Dyke up close.”
Reggie’s eyes gleamed. “Said you wanted to call on Sybie.”
“Sybil Dunsford?” Uncle Quinton’s eyes gleamed. “I once spent an intoxicating interlude with a girl as tall as her. Perhaps I should ride along with you.”
“Not after taking that physic the apothecary sent,” Reggie said. “Sybie’s place is right there, Wes. Devil’s Dyke Grange.”
“Crofton’s her neighbor?” Wes tossed down his napkin. “I’ll get my hat.”
Reggie laughed. “It’s a hop, skip, and a jump. No hurry. Eat up. Might not get tea and biscuits there.”
* * *
“I told you not to come, Uncle Quinton.” Reggie reined up near the older man who was doubled over his saddle and groaning.
Devil’s Dyke Grange lay within sight of the three riders, in a curve of the valley sheltered by trees. Reggie had pointed out the flintstone house and the outbuildings, structures so weathered they almost blended in with the browning slopes and dark shadows.
“They’ll have a privy there,” Wes said. Now that he was so close, he was anxious to see Sybil Dunsford again in the flesh.
That conversation she’d had with Crofton, now that he’d had time to recall more, had looked serious. Was she involved with the fellow’s schemes?
And if she was, what did that mean for a possible courtship?
Quinton steered his horse to a chest-high clump of thick bushes. “Can’t wait,” he called over his shoulder. “Come and hold my mount, Reginald.”
Reggie shrugged. “Go on, Wes. We’ll catch you up.”
While his horse picked its way down the grassy slope, Wes contemplated his meeting with Miss Sybil Dunsford and how to approach the topic of smuggling.
If she was, in fact, in league with the smugglers, it couldn’t be that dangerous. Would she let him come along? He’d like to see for himself what all the excitement was about.
The muddy, rutted lane leading up to the manor house bore the imprints of hoofs and wheels.
The path skirted a small brook that passed close to the farm buildings and splashed off at an angle toward Brighton and the sea.
As Wes drew nearer, he heard shouts and loud voices, and he quickened his pace.
* * *