Tangled Destinies Page 5

  In icy tones, and with as much dignity as I could muster, I replied, “My lord, I assure you I have been offered opportunities for both marriage and . . . the other. I am content to remain as I am.” A towering falsehood, but pride demanded my response.

  “You prefer the lure of Lesbos?”

  I gasped, genuinely shocked, even as I was forced to admit it was a perfectly reasonable question. Except gentlemen simply did not speak of such things to ladies.

  They do to women passing themselves off as nurses and calling themselves Nell Scarlett. To women who look like you yet seem to have no interest in men.

  I lifted my head, looked him in the eye. “Though it is none of your business, my lord, I lost someone in the war. And now, if you will excuse me . . .” I bounded to my feet, slipped past him, and headed for the path through the maze at a pace so brisk I was almost running. And naturally, as upset as I was, I was lost by the third turning, rounding a corner to find nothing but impenetrable hedge in front of me. Dead end. I paused, more breathless from panic than from the distance I’d run. I spun around. Yew branches poked me in the back, loomed above me on each side. No way to go but back the way I’d come. Back to where the earl was undoubtedly lurking, waiting for the mouse to venture out of its hole.

  I tiptoed, listening for the slightest sound of someone else moving through the maze. Nothing. Yet he was there, I knew he was. Stalking me. Enjoying every moment of it. Long familiar with every inch of the maze, Thornbury was poised to pounce on the foolish girl who could not seem to escape an outward façade that attracted men like flies to honey.

  The girl who knew too much.

  A bolt of a different kind of fear shot through me. I slid to a halt, shaken to my core. Perhaps this hunt was not what I thought. Not the earl indulging himself in a game of cat and mouse with his nephew’s nurse, but something more sinister . . .

  I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. My stomach roiled.

  Steady, steady. Panic will do you no good.

  Ha! All the logic in the world wasn’t going to get me out of this maze.

  Ahead of me was an intersection with two choices—right or left. Once again I strained to hear any telltale sign of the earl’s passing—leaves rustling, the snap of a twig. Nothing. I chose the left, moving stealthily toward the next corner, a good ten feet away. With an unsettling mix of wariness and hope, I peeked around the hedge. . . and saw nothing but ten-foot walls of yew. No matter which direction I looked, more dead ends! Heart pounding, I dashed back the way I’d come, rounded yet another corner, kept on running. Right, left, left. I was panting, my breathing harsh, my throat parched—but surely I must be on the correct path at last. Another turn, and I ran headlong into something unyielding.

  Not as prickly as yew.

  The Earl of Thornbury’s chest. He laughed, gripped me tight, and kissed me soundly.

  I whimpered. Though, to my horror, not from the revulsion I’d felt when Geoff kissed me. Incredibly, my panic was swept away in seconds as the warmth of his lips, the solidity of the body pressed to mine seemed to offer shelter instead of ravishment. He even smelled wonderful, an intriguing mix of all male and a fragrance that might have lingered from his shaving lather . . .

  Appalled by what I could only term my shocking weakness—an urgent wave of physical attraction I thought I had routed out of my life after losing Brant—I jerked away. Surprisingly easily, for Thornbury’s grip had never been ruthless. I would have no marks like the ones Geoff left on my arms, the ones everyone attributed to the carriage accident.

  Eyes locked, we stared at each other for a moment before he grasped me firmly by the hand and led me out of the maze. At the entrance he paused, looking back toward Winterbourne. “A bargain, Nell,” he said. “I will endeavor to behave myself if you will agree to keep our secret.”

  A great temptation, but I had a responsibility to Adara, as well as to the babe.

  “My lord, I understand that you must investigate the babe’s claim to be a Deverell, but I cannot keep quiet forever. If his birth is legitimate, he is the heir to Winterbourne.”

  A thin smile curled the earl’s lips. “Beautiful, intelligent, and courageous,” he murmured. “A pearl without price.”

  “Mockery does not become you, my lord.”

  “Have you not heard? I am the family scapegrace, the gadfly, the rake? Mockery is but one small portion of my arsenal.”

  A moment of silence while I considered the ramifications of words I suspected were a threat only slightly more veiled than Metcalfe’s. I was to keep my silence. Or else. At that instant any fantasies I might have entertained about that kiss exploded into myth, as I realized “or else” could include anything from rape to death.

  I bobbed a curtsy and fled toward the house as if the hounds of hell were after me. In truth, they might have been preferable to the man who called himself Earl of Thornbury.

  In the days when my world still shone with innocence, a boy would occasionally snatch a kiss—singular moments of delicious wickedness I hugged to myself, savoring them in privacy. But as the looks I’ve come to despise began to develop, the boys became more bold, their hands more wandering, their lips lingering too long. For the first time I knew disgust. And fear. All dissolving into bliss when I met Brant at an assembly. Imagine, little Lucinda Neville attracting the attention of a lieutenant in the army! He was home on an extended leave before his regiment sailed to the Peninsula, and I had dazzling visions of following the drum. Whither thou goest and The devil take the hindmost. At seventeen one has the audacity to combine such phrases into a single thought.

  After my parents had so handily put an end to my dreams, I had been kissed by no one. With the exception of Geoff, whom I refused to count. And Anthony, Earl of Thornbury, whose kiss would likely be seared into my mind forever.

  Brant, always respectful, had never kissed me like that. But then he had intended to marry me. Thornbury? Marriage was undoubtedly the last thing on his mind.

  My tumbling thoughts progressed no further, as the fragrance of basil, oregano, and rosemary wafted up from the kitchen garden, warning me I was approaching the house. I was panting, perspiration dripping toward my eyes, even though the day was not overly warm. I stopped, struggled to wipe all traces of consternation from my face before taking another step. I straightened my bonnet, smoothed the folds of my skirt, and opened the door.

  “Miss Scarlett,” Mrs. Randall cried, descending on me as if she had nothing better to do than wait for my return. “May I introduce Babock who is butler here?”

  Babcock, a thin-faced, silver-haired gentleman, who seemed old enough to have been with the house since before the present marquess ascended to his title, looked down his nose at me in a manner that reminded me of Mr. Metcalfe. Not surprising, as I had long since discovered that men regarded me in two entirely contradictory manners. Those who were instantly intrigued by my looks and those who considered me a harlot on sight. Clearly, Babcock belonged to the latter group.

  I curtsied, which Lucinda Neville, would never have done, and said, “I hope having the nursery occupied has not upset the household too greatly, Babcock. I assure you I will make every effort to stay out of your way.”

  All I received for my efforts was a “Humph!” and a wave of his hand, sending me on my way. It occurred to me that Babcock, Mrs. Randall, and the entire kitchen staff likely knew that the earl had followed me into the maze. Mortified, I turned and ran up the servants’ stairs, not stopping until I burst onto the fourth floor landing. I hastened to my room, thumped myself down on my bed, and quivered. With anguish, embarrassment, guilt, fear, and . . . something else. Mortification far beyond the speculation of servants. I had not fought, kicked, squirmed . . . not made so much as a single effort to pull away from the earl for how long? One full minute? Two? Truth was, I had forgotten what it was like to be held in a pair of strong arms. Arms that had been firm but gentle, his lips the same . . . taking, promising, bending me so easily to his will
that I had broken the kiss from sheer panic. From horror at behavior that threatened, for the first time in my life, to become wanton.

  Half days or no half days, I would not leave the fourth floor. Here in this aerie far above the rest of the household I would stay, surrounded by Flora, Ivy, and Nick.

  Safe.

  Looking back from the wisdom of age, I now know that women can be just as foolish as men, but during those early days at Winterbourne I was inclined to subscribe all the ills of the world to the males of the species. Under the sloped ceilings adjacent to Winterbourne’s vast attics, accompanied by Flora and Ivy, with Josie bringing up our meals, and occasional visits from Mrs. Randall, I was able to forget the outside world, the constant threat of exposure, my worry over Nick . . .

  Except . . .

  However small, Nick was male. And a great source of anxiety. I had brought him into this world. I cared what happened to him. Somehow I had fallen into the role of mother and guardian. Beside that, my own cares faded into oblivion. Or should have.

  Unfortunately, no matter how altruistic my intention to sublimate my own needs to Nick’s, my fears refused to go away. Was Geoff dead or alive? Was I being hunted by Bow Street? By my parents? Did anyone care? And what about Thornbury? There was a menace I didn’t need on top of everything else!

  As if in answer to my prayers, the weather turned foul—not the placid mizzle so common to an English spring, but sheets of rain lashing the roof and streaming down the windows, the wind rattling even the sturdy dormers in the nursery wing. I welcomed it. In this weather no one would urge me to leave the nursery, take a walk, smell the flowers, enjoy the fresh spring breeze.

  Unless the earl, similarly confined to the house, decided to alleviate his ennui by a climb to nursery . . .

  Fool! The nursery might be isolated, but it was not the maze. Nothing untoward could happen in the presence of Flora and Ivy. And yet . . . somehow I found that thought cold comfort.

  Unlike most storms, which passed in a matter of hours, this one refused to go away. It seemed to have blown in off the Irish Sea with malevolent intent, as if determined to inundate the gentle Cotswolds with a never-ending waterfall of rain, while doing its best to level our trees, wash out crops, and turn meandering streams into raging torrents. On Day One, when the storm descended on us in the early afternoon, it had seemed exciting, an ally to my cause. By Day Two it took on an ominous note. Candles in the nursery at noon? Ridiculous! In spite of our best efforts to remain cheerful, gloom enveloped us. Even the fireplace reflected our low spirits, sputtering continuously as it attempted to burn in spite of the deluge finding its way down the chimney. By nightfall we had all fallen silent, heartily sick of the pounding rain and howling wind.

  We went to our rooms early. I confess I had formed the habit of keeping the door between Nick’s room and mine closed, so I could sleep through his night-time feeds. Dear Flora, what a Godsend she’d turned out to be.

  Ridiculous as it was, a wave of guilt swept over me.

  And what good would getting up do when you have no milk to give him?

  Nonetheless, perhaps it was nagging guilt that caused me to wake later that night. Or was motherhood a state of mind instead of an accident of birth? Or had I simply heard something out of the ordinary? I’ll never know, but I came awake with a start, eyes wide open, clutching the coverlet. The wind still howled, though not quite so loud, and the rain seemed to have lost some of its vigor. So why . . . ?

  I wanted to turn over, go back to sleep, but something nagged at me. Something “not right.” With a disgusted huff I twisted around, my hand patting the small table beside the bed, searching for candle, tinder, and flint. When light blossomed, I dragged my feet over the edge of the bed, glared at the closed door between my bedchamber and Nick’s as if I would find a sign telling me all was well, go back to bed. Except, of course, there was nothing there but solid English oak.

  No sense putting on a robe or slippers, I was only going a few feet. I pried myself off my bed and opened the door. Cold wind swirled around me, lifting the hem of my nightgown, sending chills up my spine. The sound of rain boomed in my ears; lace curtains billowed at an angle horizontal to the floor. I rushed to shut the wide-open dormer window, raindrops splattering in my face and soaking through my thin muslin nightwear. Cold and dripping, I dashed to the cradle. Incredibly, Nick was asleep, though even as I watched he began to smack his lips, his face drawing up into the scowl that presaged a demanding howl for food.

  His top blanket, however, was cold and damp. Anger compounded my guilt. How long had the window been open before I woke? How much cold, damp air had entered Nick’s lungs? I grabbed him up, rushed him to my own bed and tucked him in, then quickly returned to his room to gather up fresh garments and blankets. By the time I had him wiped dry and changed from the skin out, a red-faced Nick was demonstrating a very fine pair of lungs. Flora came rushing in, full of apologies for failing to hear his cries. I had no choice—I had to tell her what had happened. As she listened, she picked Nick up, sat down in the chair near my fireplace, and put him to the breast.

  Eyes wide, she said, “But, miss, who would do such a thing? I hope you know I never—”

  “Of course not,” I assured her. “As I trust you know I would never be so careless.”

  “Not careless, miss. Not in this weather.”

  And there was the bold-faced truth. From a girl not yet eighteen. No one would open a window to a howling gale.

  “I hate to wake Ivy,” I said, “but I suppose I must. Perhaps she saw or heard something we did not.”

  But Ivy, as appalled as Flora and I, had nothing to contribute to the mystery. And I believed her. When Nick had drunk his fill, Ivy and I carried the cradle to Flora’s bedchamber before returning to our rooms, leaving Nick with the person most essential to his well-being, his wet nurse.

  Sleep was, of course, out of the question. That window had not opened itself. And there was no way of knowing if Nick had survived what appeared to be an attempt on his life. Would he soon take ill and succumb to an inflammation of the lungs?

  Sitting propped up on a pile of pillows, I kept watch, even though common sense dictated that the menace was long gone. At least temporarily. Slowly, inexorably, predawn crept past the closed draperies, banishing the inky black of night to reveal lurking shadowy forms I knew were perfectly ordinary furnishings but which had somehow taken on a sinister cast. And in that vague gray light I finally faced what had lingered beneath all my dire thoughts since finding Nick’s room open to the elements.

  The nursery at Winterbourne was no longer safe. Not for Nick. Not fo me.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s said that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  If only that were my problem.

  If men scorned me, I would not be a runaway hiding in the Winterbourne nursery. But then I never would have met Adara. Or Nick. Nor Anthony, Earl of Thornbury.

  Useless speculation. My present fury blew the thought away on a gust of wind as strong as any we’d suffered in the past two days. Morning had brought sunshine sparkling off the raindrops still clinging to every leaf, flower, blade of grass, wooden arbor, or marble bench. Flora’s assurance that Nick seemed none the worse for being exposed to a damp whirlwind did nothing to abate my fury. Unless one of the nursery staff—my trusted friends—had turned killer, someone had stolen into the nursery last night and, wishing the attempt on Nick’s life to seem an accident, opened the window in the hope that the elements would do the job.

  And the only person I could go to for help was the person most likely to have ordered the attack. Or done it himself. And yet there was no one else I could turn to, no one else with the power to deal with the problem. After forcing a bit of toast and tea past my clenched jaws, I told Flora and Ivy not to let Nick out of their sight for even a moment, took a deep breath, and marched down the main stairs, my determination growing with each step.

  Not surprisingly, as I rounded the first
floor gallery, Babcock appeared in the hall below. I paused, taking in his scowl with grim satisfaction. Silently, I dared him to tell me I should be using the servants’ stairs. As he would undoubtedly tell me I had no reason to see the earl. But he said not a word, merely waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, as if he would bar the nurse from this part of the house before the Winterbourne state rooms could be contaminated by my presence.

  Head high, I swept along the length of the gallery, descending the final flight to the ground floor with what I hoped was the dignity of a Princess Royal. “I wish to see the Earl of Thornbury,” I declared. “Where may I find him?”

  Babcock blinked. Actually blinked. And I thought I heard a hiss of breath before he offered a slight bow and said, “This way, miss.”

  How was I ever going to stay hidden if Miss Lucinda Neville kept insisting on charging to the fore? I could not get rid of her, however, for Lucinda had some modicum of power; Nell Scarlett did not.

  “Miss Scarlett, my lord,” Babcock intoned before shutting the door to the earl’s study on his way out.

  The earl’s all-too-personal smile faded as he took in my exhausted face and drooping posture. Indeed, my stiff-necked pride seemed to have departed with the butler. “Good God, Nell, is something wrong?” If he was acting, he should consider Drury Lane after he lost his position as heir. Truthfully, Thornbury was a great puzzle, but as acting head of household, he had to be told.

  I wanted to rant, rave, accuse . . . but I forced myself to objectivity. Until I had a better idea of what was going on, I must walk a precarious, possibly zigzag, line between protecting Nick, protecting myself, and doing what was morally right. It was possible little Nick, no matter how much I cared about him, was an imposter and the man in front of me the rightful Earl of Thornbury.

  Holding my emotions close, I recounted the events of the night. “I have questioned Flora and Ivy, my lord. They heard nothing, and I am absolutely certain neither would wish any harm to the baby. Nor would either think that opening a window wide during a gale could be anything but a disaster.”