The Music Box (12 page)

“Emotional support is not something I turn to Lucinda for.”

“I see.” Gaby pondered that for a moment, her expression intense, those startlingly blue eyes searching his face. “Yet you turned to me. Which leads me to wonder if you honestly believe I can help or if you are making this request entirely for my benefit—a cloaked attempt, courtesy of you and Aunt Hermione, to ease
my
dilemma?”

A half hour ago Bryce’s answer would have been different. But now he had no trouble uttering the truth: “Both.”

Relief flooded Gabrielle’s face, and her palm relaxed beneath his. “Very well. In that case, I’ll go.”

“Thank you.” Bryce was stunned to find he was as relieved as she.

“Bryce.” Her tone was solemn, fervent. “What you did tonight—confiding in me about the true circumstances of your birth—must have been extraordinarily difficult. Even if your lineage means nothing to you, sharing yourself is obviously not something you do often or readily. I’d like to thank you by offering you the same.” She withdrew her hand, gathering up her skirts and taking two steps away. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She darted off before Bryce could reply, and he watched her go, lounging against the tree and wondering what she was about.

He hadn’t long to wait.

A scant five minutes later, Gaby reappeared, breathlessly making her way through the trees to where Bryce stood. “Here,” she announced. “The most precious thing I have to share.”

Bryce glanced down, slivers of moonlight illuminating the delicately crafted object that Gaby proffered, its mother-of-pearl surface gleaming like the finest porcelain, its gilt trim shimmering like spun gold.

“It’s Mama’s music box,” she whispered, caressing the tiny stone atop the lid before opening it, releasing the tinkling strains of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” “Isn’t it beautiful?”

An uncustomary knot tightened Bryce’s chest. “Yes, Gabrielle, it is.” He reached out, gently caressing her cheek with his forefinger. “And so are you. Thank you for sharing your music box with me.”

Gaby smiled, utterly aglow at his reaction to her treasure. “You’re welcome.”

“Chaunce … listen.” Hermione sat upright at her dressing table, putting down the face powder she’d been applying to create the chalklike skin pallor she’d worn all week.

“I hear it, madam.” Chaunce crossed over to the slightly open window, throwing it wider and giving a self-satisfied nod. “So that
was
what Miss Gaby dashed to her room to collect. I thought it might be.”

“You do realize whom she’s playing it for—that she’s still with Bryce.” Hermione jumped to her feet, joining Chaunce and peering into the night sky.

“I do indeed, my lady. And if my sense of direction remains accurate, I’d say they were standing amid the grove of sycamores where Miss Gaby’s woodpecker makes his home. A most private spot for a chat.”

“Not just any chat, but an intensely crucial and personal one,” Hermione added, leaning forward against the sill, eyes sparkling as the music box melody continued to play. “Oh, Chaunce, this is going even better than I dared hope!”

“I quite agree.” The butler straightened, smoothing his mustache before clasping his hands behind his back. “And I must say, I’m delighted. Not only for Miss Gaby and your nephew, but for myself as well.” A haughty sniff. “I don’t mind mixing dose after dose of lemon water each day, but sneaking into your chambers in order to refill your cosmetic pot with that odious white mixture—really, my lady, that’s too undignified for words. Were it being done for anyone but you …”

“But it is for me, Chaunce,” Hermione interceded with a winsome smile. “And you know why I can’t ask Dora to do it. No one must suspect that my illness is anything but genuine—not yet.”

“I understand. Still, I do hate to see you mask your radiant complexion with that … substance.” He glanced at the dressing table, giving a repugnant shudder. “No, madam, as far as I’m concerned, our plan cannot come to fruition quickly enough to suit me.”

“I quite agree.” Hermione patted Chaunce’s arm, her gaze returning to the direction from which the music emanated. “Don’t despair, my dear friend. I have a feeling I’ll soon be making a sudden and miraculous recovery.”

G
ABY PUSHED THE FOOD
around on her plate, willing her uncooperative stomach to settle.

She had agreed to come to Whitshire for Bryce’s sake, but in the two hours since they arrived, he seemed to have adapted far better than she. True, he had yet to tell Thane his real identity, but the two men had taken to each other at once—effortlessly on Thane’s part, more reservedly on Bryce’s. They’d exchanged niceties, shared a brandy, then escorted the ladies in to dinner, where Mr. Averley joined them, with the understanding that Lady Nevon would require some private time after dinner with her new legal adviser and Thane. For the past hour and a half the discussion had centered around business, investments, and legal estates.

In a way, Gaby was relieved. True, she felt like a fish out of water, but at least she wasn’t expected to participate in the conversation. That gave her the opportunity to confront the unsettled feelings she was experiencing being back here—feelings that were far more intense than she’d anticipated, given that she’d never so much as set foot in Whitshire’s dining or drawing rooms. In fact, during the five years she’d lived here, she had entered the main house solely for meals and even then had come in through the rear, her movements restricted to the kitchen and the servants’ dining quarters. To her recollection, she’d never even seen the elegant rooms she was frequenting tonight. She would not have forgotten plush Oriental rugs, opulent furnishings, and glittering chandeliers such as these. So why were her insides tied in knots?

Perhaps it was the painfully remembered faces of those servants who had been at Whitshire thirteen years ago and had escaped the fire: Couling, the solemn butler, Mrs. Fife, the cook, and Mrs. Darcey, the kindly housekeeper who’d found Gaby’s unconscious body and who’d rocked her in her arms during those first horrifying moments when Gaby had realized her parents were gone. Odd, how these three servants—together with Mr. Averley and one or two familiar-looking footmen and maids—no longer resembled the towering giants her five-year-old eyes had perceived them to be. Now they were mere mortals with slowing steps and graying temples, greeting her with a touch of uncertainty and a reserve that was typical of people who hadn’t seen each other in years. Unsure of Gaby’s status, they bowed hesitantly, murmured about what a lovely, mature young woman she’d become, then scurried off to resume their duties.

God forgive her, but all Gaby could think about was how lucky these people were—how lucky
she
was—to be alive. Why couldn’t her parents have been equally lucky—had the evening off on that fateful night or been anywhere other than in their chambers when the fire blazed through to claim their lives?

Bile rose in her throat.

“Is the mutton not to your liking, Gabrielle?”

Thane’s voice interrupted her rampaging emotions, his blue-gray eyes filled with concern.

“Pardon me?” Gaby had no idea what he’d asked her. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

“We’re boring you.” A smile curved his lips, and Gaby was struck at that moment by how very much Thane and Bryce resembled each other. The hard aristocratic features, the dark coloring, the disarming smiles—yes, there was a definite family likeness. Even their builds were similar: both men were tall with broad shoulders and powerful stances. But their eyes were different, not only in hue but in intensity as well. While Bryce’s eyes were deep and probing, Thane’s were more aloof, less enigmatic.

Brothers, yes. But different men with different backgrounds.

“No, of course you’re not boring me,” she replied. “Please, go ahead and talk. I’m concentrating on my dinner.”

“Which you’ve scarcely touched,” Hermione said gently. She leaned over, squeezing Gaby’s hand. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” Gaby suddenly found herself the center of attention, which was the last thing she wanted.

“Forgive us, Gabrielle. Of course you’re bored.” It was Bryce who came to her rescue, his penetrating gaze appraising her from across the table. “A discussion of my legal accomplishments hardly makes for fascinating dinnertime conversation.”

“The fault is mine.” Averley, the stout, ruddy-cheeked Whitshire steward, laid down his fork with a cordial smile. “I’m the one who has kept Mr. Lyndley talking about himself. It’s just that I’m extraordinarily impressed with his obvious business acumen and his outstanding credentials.”

“You sound surprised, Averley,” Hermione noted aloud. “I know you’re protective of my interests, but certainly Bryce’s reputation precedes him. Delmore and Banks, and Newsham and Satterley—two of London’s most prestigious soliciting firms, both of whose names are undoubtedly familiar to you—are constantly clamoring for his services. Articles verifying that fact have been written up in all the newspapers, as have many of Bryce’s court appearances, not to mention the superb advancements he’s made in married women’s property law—”

“Hermione,” Bryce interrupted, his lips twitching with amusement, “perhaps Mr. Averley doesn’t commit small newspaper articles to memory. I respect the man for worrying over your financial well-being. If he has concerns, let him voice them. After which”—he inclined his head in Gaby’s direction—“we’ll change the subject to something more interesting than business.”

With a terse nod, Hermione resumed eating, her every motion conveying disapproval of Averley’s tactics.

Averley was far from oblivious to that disapproval. Shifting uncomfortably, he refilled his wineglass, casting a rueful glance at Bryce. “I believe I owe you an apology, Mr. Lyndley. My intention was not to make you feel as if you were being interrogated or judged. Of course I’ve read of your fine contacts and your legal achievements. I also know what an excellent judge of character Lady Nevon is. I’m just a very cautious man.”

“No apology is necessary,” Bryce assured him.

“Still, I’d like to offer you an explanation. A very frank one, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I prefer candor to evasion.”

“Good.” Averley lowered his glass to the table. “Then I’ll be blunt. The truth is, I’ve known Lady Nevon for many years. Yes, she’s a fine judge of character. However, she’s also incomparably loyal to those who work for her. One of the responsibilities assigned to me by the late duke was to ensure that his sister’s compassion didn’t compromise her business interests. Thus, when her message arrived at Whitshire yesterday, stating the surname of her new business and legal adviser, I was plagued by the possibility that her commitment to you stemmed not from her awareness of your credentials but from her longstanding ties to your parents. I’m delighted to learn just how wrong I was.”

Bryce’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I didn’t realize you knew my parents.”

“I didn’t. Not personally, that is. But I am quite familiar with them as a result of Lady Nevon’s glowing descriptions. According to her, your father was an exemplary valet, indispensable to Lord Nevon until the day he died. And your mother was a highly respected, extraordinarily efficient housekeeper. I recall what a difficult task it was to replace her when she and your father moved to the cottage where you were born. In any case, Lady Nevon made it no secret that she held your parents in the highest regard. It stood to reason she’d feel the same way about their son. Hence my concern.” Averley cleared his throat, feeling Hermione’s less than subtle glowering stare. “Nevertheless, I’ve exceeded my bounds and upset Lady Nevon with my overprotectiveness.”

“Your commitment to Hermione is admirable,” Bryce replied, in an obvious effort to diffuse Hermione’s annoyance. “No offense was taken.” He swallowed the last bite of his mutton. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s move on to another topic.”

“I think we should defer dessert,” Hermione announced suddenly, easing back her chair. “I’d like to have that chat with Thane and Bryce now.”

Gaby blinked at the abruptness of Hermione’s decision, although she well understood its cause. Clearly Mr. Averley’s choice of topics had provoked her aunt further, making her all the more determined to get on with a reunion she believed would permanently obliterate any doubts about Bryce’s place in her life.

Very well
, Gaby concluded.
ʼTis time to make my exit.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she began, laying her napkin on the table. “I’ll use this time to stroll the grounds.”

“No.” Bryce came to his feet, shaking his head as he did. “I’d prefer you join us.”

Slowly Gaby raised her head, met his gaze.
For whose sake?
she wanted to cry out.
Yours or mine?

Perception registered on Bryce’s handsome features. “It would ease my mind if you didn’t go off on your own. After all, the grounds of Whitshire span countless acres, and it is getting dark. So, for both your sake and mine, please stay.”

“I spent many childhood hours dashing about the grounds of Whitshire; I won’t get lost,” she assured him, her legs already trembling at the prospect of wandering back to the spot where she knew they would take her. What’s more, she was sure Bryce had guessed her destination and was attempting to spare her the pain that would result from going there alone. She swallowed. Perhaps he was right.

“Your dashing about Whitshire’s grounds—now
that
is something I do recall,” Averley remarked with a faint reminiscent smile. “You were a tiny slip of a child, Gabrielle, but you caused the rest of the staff immense anguish on a daily basis by disappearing from your quarters time and again, only to be found tending to one animal or another somewhere on the estate, usually in the woods, the barn, or the stables.”

An answering smile touched Gaby’s lips. “Your memory is accurate, sir. And I needn’t ask why, at least not with regard to me. I can remember at least three occasions when the servants had to abandon their chores for a full day to comb the grounds of Whitshire in the hopes of recovering me. While I, in turn, unaware and unbothered by the havoc I was wreaking, was blissfully chasing after a rabbit, a fawn, or a bird. I can’t imagine I made your job easy.”