Tangled Destinies Page 3

  “Is it not rare for an unmarried woman to be knowledgeable about childbirth?”

  “It is, my lord, but I have helped with the birth of my—with births in my family. Though I admit I have never been an—ah—active participant before.”

  He nodded, evidently accepting my explanation. “Do you know her name?”

  Chapter Four

  I gulped. Swallowed. Goosebumps rose on my arms. Unable to bring myself to face the enormity of the truth, I avoided the issue. “Adara, my lord. She is from Athens.”

  “And where was she was going?”

  “My lord . . .” Words failed me. I had accepted responsibility for the orphaned newborn, but a dilemma now loomed before me. A dilemma that washing away Adara’s blood, filling my stomach, and several hours of agitated thought had not solved. What was right? Telling this man he had just been superseded by his older brother’s child? Or avoiding the issue—denying responsibility for the babe and once again sneaking off into the night? I would, of course, leave the papers behind and let the earl—

  Horror struck me. Leave little Hartley’s fate to the man most likely to wish him at the far ends of the earth?

  The only other alternative—not revealing the child’s paternity—was also quite impossible. I could not place a possible heir to the Marquess of Winterbourne into the care of the parish.

  So, in the end, my choice was no choice at all.

  “My lord, at the time of the accident I knew only that she was from Greece. But since then I have found papers she was carrying in a hidden pocket.” I retrieved the leather pouch from my own pocket and handed it to him.

  The gray eyes sparked as he saw the letter with his father’s name on it. I admired his steady hands as he unfolded the marriage certificate and read it. (No doubt being able to read the Greek as well as the English.!) I began to suspect there was more to this nobleman than just a handsome face. “You have read this?” he said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “You understand its meaning?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His eyes met mine across the desktop. “I will, of course, have to investigate the validity of these papers. Meanwhile, the child will stay at Winterbourne. Are you able to give us a few days of your time, Miss Scarlett, while we find a nurse? Naturally, you will not go without remuneration.”

  I swallowed a hot denial of accepting money for such a service, fortunately recalling in the nick of time the role I was playing. Nell Scarlett would be delighted at the thought of being paid, and Lucinda Neville was in sad need of a place to hide.

  “I admit to feeling a certain responsibility for the babe,” I said with what I hoped was a display of only moderate interest. “And nothing is so urgent that I cannot stay for a while.”

  “No family awaits you?”

  “Alas, my lord, circumstances have reduced me to finding employment. I was on my way to Bath to register with an agency there.” I congratulated myself on a nice manipulation of the truth.

  Once again, the gray eyes flickered. Hopefully, he was registering the possibility of extending my employment and not what so many gentlemen seemed to think when they saw me.

  More likely, both.

  “You are well-spoken, Miss Scarlett, surely a woman of gentle birth?”

  Blast! Although I had revealed myself to Mrs. Randall during the long tense hours delivering young Hartley, I had hoped . . . Clearly, there was no going back.

  “I have dedicated myself to a life of independence, my lord,” I returned with what I hoped was cool dignity.

  “May I point out that independence and the life of a governess or companion are seldom compatible, Miss Scarlett.”

  “Then shall we say, independence from my family?”

  His answer was a rueful laugh. “Good enough. I shall have the nursery prepared and pay my alleged nephew a visit tomorrow.”

  Alleged? Could the marriage lines be any more clear? But Athens was far away and—ah!—he suspected a forgery.

  I suddenly realized the earl had narrowed his eyes at me, as if his investigation had already begun. With me. The person with a murky past, who might well be in league with those planning to pass off a bastard, or some totally unrelated child, as the future Marquess of Winterbourne.

  Oh dear. Silent too long, I burbled the first words that came to mind. “What will your household say, my lord, when you install a stray babe in the nursery?”

  “Probably that it is mine,” he shot back.

  I clapped a hand over my mouth, eyes down to hide both shock and a ripple of amusement.

  “Miss Scarlett.” The snap of the earl’s tone had me looking up, eyes wide. “I beg your pardon, but it’s not as if you are a chit just out of the schoolroom. But yes, you are quite right. A story is needed, one we can agree upon.” He paused a moment before decreeing, “Winterbourne is graciously sheltering the child born beneath its roof until his English relatives can be found, and you have kindly offered to oversee his care until he can be restored to his family.”

  Nothing like the truth to add authenticity, I thought, as I agreed to his tale.

  “And speaking of searches,” he added, leaning forward, suddenly intent and somehow menacing, “I will be launching an extensive investigation into this matter. Until that time, the babe’s possible identity must remain a secret between us. I assure you, your compensation will reflect your willingness to hold your tongue.”

  “But the letter—”

  “My father is an invalid, and I fear the shock of discovering he may, or may not, have a grandson, could send him to his grave.”

  “I understand,” I murmured. And I did, although I could not help but be suspicious about the earl’s motives. I very much feared little Hartley needed me even more than I had thought he did.

  My noble, and possibly conniving, host stood, and to my astonishment, proffered a bow. As I popped to my feet, he added, “For now I send you to a much-deserved rest. You did nobly today, Miss Scarlett. Whether the child is a Deverell or not, you are the heroine of the hour. I bid you good-night.”

  I clamped my jaws tight to keep my mouth from dropping open. “T-thank you, my lord,” I stammered. Sketching a curtsy, I fled.

  Oh, dear Lord, I thought as I dragged myself up the stairs, this has to be the strangest day of my life. And to top it all, I had no idea if I’d fallen on my feet or into the briars.

  I eagerly accepted Ivy’s offer to help me undress, as well as her willingness to stay the night in a well-upholstered chair near the cradle. I fell on the bed and slept for the first time since the night before I felled my brother-in-law with an ash shovel.

  I came awake to pain, a moment of confusion, before the sheer horror of the events of the past day came rushing back. If I squeezed my eyes shut and lay very still, would it all go away? Certainly, the pain did not. Even without moving a muscle, I ached from head to toe.

  I could not will the carriage accident away, nor the dead mother—who may have died from my incompetence. Nor my possibly dead brother-in-law, for whose injuries I was most certainly responsible. And then there was Baby Hartley, who I seemed to have brought into the lion’s den, possibly at the risk of his life. Adara, Adara, I am most grievously sorry!

  And just how could you have made things happen any differently? my inner voice demanded.

  By not felling Geoff with a shovel!

  By not having the voluptuous looks of a courtesan rather than the pale, thin beauty so prized by London’s ton. By not having long strawberry gold curls, green eyes, full lips, and bosoms that threatened to spill out of the skimpy bodices fashionable at the moment. (My dressmaker had been adding an extra two inches of fabric to my bodices since I was sixteen.) My waist was small, my hips rounded. In short, no matter how drab my gowns, how full my caps, or unassuming my demeanor, it was impossible for me to hide from a knowledgeable male eye.

  Though goodness knows I’d tried.

  My body jerked in response to my fit of temper. I moaned. And th
en the full depths of my incompetence washed over me. The baby. Hartley. I, his guardian, had not so much as taken a peek toward his cradle!

  I gritted my teeth, shutting out the pain as I rolled over and forced my fingers to pull back the bedcurtain. I looked toward the fireplace. Scowled, looked again.

  No cradle. No baby.

  Ignoring the pain, I swiveled to the other side of the bed, throwing that curtain back as well. All I saw was the desk, a chaise longue, and a window with the draperies still shut. Hartley was gone.

  I was far too strong-minded to think I had imagined the events of the last thirty-six hours. I had fended off Geoff, run away, befriended a girl from Greece, been in a carriage accident, delivered a baby, and engaged in a more than odd conversation with the Earl of Thornbury. I was likely complicit in keeping Hartley from his grandfather. And now the babe was gone, and that too must be my fault. Foolish Luce—Nell!—sleeping while her charge was being whisked away to God alone knew where. Or why.

  “Ah, miss, you’re awake.” Josie, the pleasingly plump maid who had led me to the earl’s study last night was standing just inside the door, beaming at me as if all was right with the world. Which it most definitely was not.

  “Where is the baby?” I demanded.

  “Gone to the nursery, miss. No need to worry. Safe as houses, he is. Flora Russ, the wet nurse, come, and the babe’s learning to suck this very minute. After all that happened yesterday, no one wanted to wake you. But I’m right sorry if you was upset. I can see where finding him gone might have given you a turn.”

  I flopped back against my pillows, tears welling up and threatening to roll down my cheeks. I should have had greater faith. With the exception of the earl’s command to keep the marriage lines a secret, I had encountered nothing but kindness since I’d walked through the door. I had no right to assume the worst.

  But someone had to. For the secret I’d been asked to keep loomed large, affecting the lives of everyone on the marquess’s far-flung properties, as well as the immediate family. Someone had to care about Hartley, not just the babe who might, or might not, be the rightful Earl of Thornbury.

  Which reminded me of something the earl and I had not discussed last night. If we were to keep the babe’s identity a secret, we could not call him Hartley. His father’s name. The entire county would be atwitter within forty-eight hours.

  But when I’d dressed, managed a bite or two of breakfast, and dragged myself up the stairs to the nursery, I discovered that the earl had solved the problem. It seems I had told him the mother was from Athens and wished to name her son Nicholas, a good Greek name. I was so happy to see the babe blissfully asleep in his cradle, his tiny fingers curled into fists, a mop of straight black hair covering his slightly elongated head, that I accepted the situation as it was. In fact, here on Winterbourne’s fourth floor I felt safe for the first time since running away. Nicholas and I were sheltered, shut off from the world. If only we could stay like this forever.

  Guilt seemed to fade away in this large, comfortable room with the sun shining through dormered windows, bright paintings on the wall, a cheerful fire burning to ward off the chill of a late spring morning. Two strays—Lucinda Neville and Hartley Deverell—had taken on new identities. We were Nell Scarlett and Nicholas . . . Nicholas what? Demetriou, I supposed. That seemed safest. For the moment.

  Today. Tomorrow. Next week. That’s as far ahead as I could imagine. Just one goal—that the babe and I survive. Nick and Nell against the world.

  But, of course, with the ultimate title of Marquess of Winterbourne at stake, it was not going to be that simple.

  Chapter Five

  The round-the-clock care of a newborn does not generally lend itself to a peaceful routine, yet somehow we managed it. Mrs. Randall showed me the chest of drawers full of infant gowns and clouts, evidently carefully preserved from the last generation of Deverells to use this room. And since Winterbourne’s housekeeper tended toward the loquacious, I quickly discovered I was correct. Hartley, Lord Thornbury, and his brother, Lord Anthony, had once romped here, as had their younger sister, Jane, now happily married to an earl and setting out to fill a nursery of her own.

  The sun, shining through four dormers in this corner room, revealed a few gray hairs in Mrs. Randall’s dark brown hair, and that her eyes were as sharp and all-seeing as I would expect of a woman entrusted with the care of a household as large as this one. Fortunately, they were also kind. My bedchamber, but a step off the large main room, was more than satisfactory. Not a sign of silk or satin, fine paintings, or elaborate furnishings—but commodious and pleasing to the eye. Again, the word “safe” popped into my mind. Nothing bad could happen to me here.

  Young Hartley-Nicholas’s room was next to mine, with a convenient pass-through door between. Beyond that, I was told, were several more bedchambers, one now occupied by the wet nurse. Undoubtedly, one of those rooms had once been home to . . . Anthony? That was what Mrs. Randall had called the present Earl of Thornbury, had she not? The alleged Earl of Thornbury, I corrected with a grimace. The earl who refused to give his father the letter addressed to him. The lying, conniving younger son, who seemed to be conspiring to keep secret the name and identity of the babe now living in Winterbourne’s nursery.

  “Beg pardon, miss.” Ivy’s voice cut through my reverie. “The wet nurse’s put the babe in his cradle and is waiting in the nursery to meet you.” Ivy, the maid with a passel of younger brothers and sisters, was as lean and spare as Josie was well-rounded. Fortunately, her temperament did not match her sharp-faced look. I had liked her on first sight and found my opinion unchanged this morning. Hastily, I followed her back into the corner room next door.

  Oh dear God! I stared, I admit it. Not the hearty country woman I had expected but a girl years younger than I. Seventeen at the most. Visions of myself at that age tumbled through my mind. So young, so very young. And to compound my shock, she was clutching a babe of six to eight months, while looking as if she expected me to send her packing.

  “I be Flora Russ, miss,” she declared, with more than a touch of defiance. “And this here’s Dulcie.” She glanced down at the sleeping child. “The other mothers with new babes have husbands and other children to care for. Dr. Hobart said that left only me.” Flora gulped a breath and forged on. “Nobody wants me, you see. My ma was happy to see me gone, and my pa ain’t spoke to me since he found out about . . . her.” A wistful smile flitted over Flora’s face as she once again looked down at the baby in her arms.

  “I see,” I said. And I did. The beautiful little girl was a bastard. As if that would make any difference in her mother’s milk! And I knew enough about love to know how hot passions ran, how very easy . . .

  I also identified with Flora’s overly generous physical endowments. We shared the curse of eye-catching face and form. Sometimes “No” did not work. Sometimes the only effective rejection was a shovel to the head.

  Evidently Flora had not had one handy. Or she had actually loved the miserable miscreant who had abjured all responsibility—

  Not that I had the slightest idea of what really happened to the poor girl, but my sympathies were all with her. None of the male species rated high with me at the moment.

  “I am so grateful you were able to help us,” I said. “Thank you for coming!” Blue eyes wide, Flora gaped at me. Even Ivy looked startled by my warm welcome. “I am certain that among the three of us we shall manage very well.”

  Both women beamed, bobbed identical curtsies, and went about their business.

  Curtsies. I was a perfect stranger, playing at nursemaid, but they had curtsied to me. Some atavistic instinct? Or simply my speech, my carriage, my ease with giving orders? Lucinda Nellwyn Neville, a lady to the core. In spite of all the whispers, the glances askance, the sly satisfaction that I was no longer competition in the marriage market.

  “Good morning.”

  I gasped, my body visibly jerking before I dropped into a low curtsy to greet the
visitor.

  “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to startle you.” Anthony, Earl of Thornbury, eyed me like a specimen in a jar. “I believe I said I would pay the nursery a visit this morning.”

  “You did, my lord,” I murmured as I rose to my feet, “but I fear my mind was elsewhere, and I did not hear you come in.” I flashed my best social smile—the one with all the right muscles but no warmth.

  Dismissing my existence, he stalked to the cradle and stood, looking down, his face an inscrutable mask. Did he see any family resemblance? Was there one? Or had Adara played us all false, placing a cuckoo in the Deverell nest?

  Surely not.

  To my surprise, the earl knelt down, examined the baby more closely. What could he find in the countenance of a newborn? Particularly as I suspected the Earl of Thornbury’s life had encompassed very few infants.

  He laid a long-fingered hand against the sleeping baby’s cheek. Ah! It was clearly several shades lighter than the Mediterranean skintone of the child now known as Nicholas. A shade as foreign as the shock of straight black hair that crowned the baby’s head. Though not the blue eyes, which Ivy had assured me would likely darken with time.

  The earl stood to find me hovering only feet away. Instantly, he settled back into his role as lord of the manor. Even though we both knew it was likely he was not. “You have everything you need?” he asked. “The wet nurse is satisfactory?”

  “A lovely nursery, my lord. Rest assured Nicholas will be well cared for. And yes, I find Flora Russ quite satisfactory.” In spite of my emphasis on the babe’s false name, which had slipped out of its own accord, I did my best to appear innocuous. Accommodating. Nick and I needed this place. Neither pride nor fear could be allowed to pry us from this spot.

  “I initiated queries this morning,” Thornbury said, “both locally and to the family solicitor in London. Answers may take some time. I trust you will be able to stay?”