Tangled Destinies Page 7

  After a soft sigh of frustration, I tucked Nick into his cradle, called Ivy back to watch him, and returned to brooding in my room. On top of the dramatic events nagging at me, Lady Winterbourne’s house-party was rapidly approaching. Meaning a great likelihood of guests who might recognize me.

  Chapter Ten

  Over the next few days, as life in the nursery returned to as much serenity as possible when living with a newborn, I discovered a facet of my personality I had not known before. I quite enjoyed ruling the roost. Queen of my own little kingdom, I was sole arbiter of Nick’s life, commanding Flora, Ivy, even Josie when she was in our aerie. And, to my astonishment, on the few visits Mrs. Randall could spare from the frantic pace she’d set for preparing Winterbourne for the house-party, she spoke to me with the deference of a housekeeper to a gentlewoman. An impoverished gentlewoman, but with respect nonetheless.

  A heady experience. My strong will had not spared me from being ordered about by father, mother, sisters, their husbands, and an extended family of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and older cousins. Foolish Luce. Wanted to run away with a line officer who had nothing to live on but his pay. Someone must take her in charge. And so they had. In a cacophony of scolds, advice, and attempts to keep me so busy I wouldn’t notice, Brant had been seen off to the Peninsula without the girl who insisted she wished to follow the drum. And when worse came to worst, it was decreed that work would keep me too busy to grieve. Too busy mourn the loss of the love of my life. A great fallacy, as all their efforts had done was solidify my determination to mourn forever.

  Now . . . sitting on a well-padded seat beneath one of the nursery’s dormered windows, I gazed out at the gardens and the maze and wondered about young Lucinda Neville, who had so cloaked herself in grief that she was unable to live anything more than a shadow life. Somehow when she’d fought back against Geoff, run away, changed her name, she had metamorphosed into a new person. Perhaps the person she was always meant to be. If not married and chatelaine of a fine house, I was at least the woman in charge of Winterbourne’s fourth floor.

  I liked it. Just as, in spite of all my misgivings, I was coming to like the second son of the house.

  “Miss, Miss Scarlett?” Josie, evidently directed to my alcove by Ivy, suddenly popped into view. “Ah, there you be, miss!” she declared, hands on her ample hips. “Lord Thornbury wishes to see you, Miss Scarlett. This very minute.”

  My vision of being queen of all I surveyed exploded on the instant. Whether Nell Scarlett or Lucinda Neville, when Thornbury called, I hastened to obey. “Thank you, Josie. Is he in his study?”

  “Yes, miss. A visitor just left, and he called for you straight way.”

  Having just risen to my feet, I sat back down hard as my legs gave way. Visitor? What visitor? A Bow Street Runner—I was sure of it!

  Yet Josie said the visitor had left. I fastened on that glimmer of hope, pushing back a frantic urge to descend the servants’ stairs, exit via the kitchen door, and keep on going.

  With nothing but the clothes on my back? Idiocy. I would take my chances with the earl. And, besides, I could not leave Nick to his fate in a household where someone wished to see him dead.

  As Ivy bolted the door behind us, I told Josie to return to the preparations for the house-party, I could find my own way to the earl’s study. For a long moment I stood in the corridor, watching until she disappeared around a corner. I was free, no maid, footman, butler, or Deverell in sight. I could escape . . .

  Turning my back on temptation, I sucked in a determined breath and made my way to the Earl of Thornbury. When I was seated across from him, undergoing a piercing examination from gray eyes far too sharp for the indolent wastrel he was alleged to be, I shivered. He knew something he had not known before—I was certain of it.

  “I entertained a most interesting visitor this morning,” he said.

  Bow Street. I would hang!

  “A fine young gentleman on long vacation from Oxford. A Mr. Timothy Neville.”

  My surprise was so great I could not hold back a sharp gasp. Timothy here? But why?

  “It seems he has a sister who was visiting an older sister not far from here when she disappeared. The family is naturally concerned, and he has taken it upon himself to discover what has happened to her.” Thornbury raised his eyebrows, regarding me with a look of bland inquiry.

  “Most unfortunate,” I murmured, even as my brain screamed that no mention had been made of Geoff.

  Was it true—my family cared? Or were they looking for me only to drag me back into the fold before I brought further disgrace to the Neville name?

  “I liked the boy,” the earl was saying. “After we had conversed for some time, I believe I detected a hint of mystery beneath the obvious. A grimness about an incident that might have precipitated his sister’s departure in the middle of the night.” Again, a pause, the inquiring look.

  When I remained speechless, Thornbury continued. “The missing girl is a Lucinda Neville, daughter of Baron Neville of Nether Westcote. She is hard to miss, I’m told. Her—ah—striking good looks tend to attract every eye.”

  My voice dull with the pain of discovery, I asked, “What did you tell him?”

  “That I sympathized with his family’s plight and would be certain to contact him if such a person should cross my path.”

  My eyes, which had been fixed on my lap, jerked up to meet his speculative gaze. “My lord?”

  “You are Lucinda Neville, are you not?”

  “Yes, my lord.” I swallowed hard, as confused as I was terrified. Why had he kept my secret?

  Because I had kept his?

  “May I ask why you ran from your sister’s house in the middle of the night?”

  So I told him. He interrupted only once, to assure me that if Viscount Sandridge had been killed or badly injured, the entire Cotswolds would have known about it. A murderess I was not. I bit my lip, nodding my gratitude for his reassurance, before giving him a more detailed version of my meeting with Adara on the coach, the accident, of being impressed into service as a midwife. “You can see,” I said as my tale wound down, “why I was happy to stay at Winterbourne. I was—am—in sad need of shelter.”

  Thornbury scowled at his desktop, his lips barely moving as he muttered,“I am taken with a strong urge to ride to Sandridge Hillcrest and beat its owner to a bloody pulp.”

  “I believe I bloodied him quite enough, my lord.”

  A bark of laughter. “Well done, Nell. Or should I call you Lucinda?”

  “For the foreseeable future, I must remain Nell,” I returned without hesitation. It was, after all, the only way I could remain at Winterbourne.

  “But what of your family? It is not kind to let them think something dire may have befallen you.”

  True. I had told myself no one cared, least of all my younger brother who was at an heedless age. And yet . . . “You say Timothy seemed genuinely concerned?”

  “Very much so. He is spending his entire long vacation searching for you.”

  I ducked my head, knuckles to my mouth as I considered the problem. “Would it be possible,” I said at last, “to have a letter posted at a distance—Bath, perhaps—so I may reassure my family that I am safe, but there will be no hint of where I am?”

  Thornbury smiled. “I can do even better. A letter enclosed with a communication to my solicitor can be posted from London. That is about as anonymous as one can get.”

  I so forgot myself, I clapped my hands together, beaming at the earl in perfect accord. “An excellent plan,” I cried.

  “So you will remain with us, Nell? Keep watch over young Nick?”

  “I will, my lord, indeed I will. And thank you!” I bolted from my chair, executed my best curtsy, and exited the room in the best spirits I had known in months. Years. Since before my family kept me from following Brant to war.

  I had not killed Geoff. I was starting a new life. However humble at the moment, the promise was great.

&nb
sp; Except that I had vowed to protect a baby someone had tried to kill. And the only person who would gain from his death was Anthony Deverell, second son of the Marquess of Winterbourne, alleged Earl of Thornbury.

  Although Mrs. Randall was running from pillar to post making certain Winterbourne was properly prepared for an influx of houseguests, she was not so frazzled that she failed to pop into the nursery long enough to check on Nick’s health and admonish me to take my half days. Preferably outside, she declared, as now that my bruises had faded, I was pale as a blancmange. What good was I to the nursery if I had to take to my bed?

  Reluctantly—and only after solemn assurances from Flora and Ivy that they would not let Nick out their sight—did I venture down the stairs, though only after hearing the bolt slide home on the far side of the nursery door. I managed a smile for the kitchen staff as I passed through, even bright good-mornings to the gardeners, but my heart pounded and my knees shook as I passed the long wall of yew that marked the side of the maze. I would not look, I would not look. But memories of my fear, the chase, that searing kiss came roaring back, threatening to overwhelm me. I should have turned the other way when I came out of the kitchen. I should not be torturing myself by retracing the footsteps of my first walk.

  I hurried on, fixing my gaze on the blue of a pond beyond the maze, the rise of an arched bridge that surely indicated the presence of one of the delightful small streams that meandered through the Cotswold, adding to the area’s famed beauty. And sure enough, not more than thirty yards beyond the maze, a ribbon of rippling water came into view, framed in waving grass, wildflowers, and just enough rocks to give it character while remaining a peaceful, gurgling stream, its deeper pools and eddies likely filled with trout. For the first time I was grateful to Mrs. Randall for forcing me out of my fourth floor aerie.

  I climbed the ramp up to the bridge, where I paused in the middle, leaning against the wooden railing, absorbing the sound of the water, the hum of dragonflies, the faint flit of bees diving into the flowers along the bank. The flash of a shiny tail beneath the clear water. Ah . . . there was beauty in the world. I might have forgotten, but it was still here, waiting to assure me there would be better days to come.

  Might be.

  Disgusted with the doubting Thomas inside me, I turned in a slow circle, taking in the full panorama of the scene around me. On my left, Winterbourne rose in all its golden glory, a magnificent structure, worthy of an English marquess. Behind me, the stream bubbled toward the bridge, after bursting out of a copse of trees that looked as if they had been there forever. And on the far side of the bridge—perhaps some fifty yards away—was the picturesque sight of a flock of sheep calmly grazing on lush green grass. And yet none wandered toward the stream. Odd, that. My curiosity piqued, I set off at a brisk pace toward the sheep. Ah! The ha-ha was so cleverly built I was almost upon it before I saw it. The ground had risen gradually from the stream to this high point, where the earth had been cut away and walled in stone, making a good six-foot drop down to the land where the sheep were grazing. The whole point to a ha-ha was to preserve a sweeping view from a great house, while walling in the sheep so they would not wander into the owner’s private park. I gave the landscape artist credit for a job well done while making a mental note never to wander out here in the dark.

  “A nasty drop.”

  I gasped, swinging round so fast I would have tumbled over the edge if Thornbury had not grasped me hard about the waist. “Beast!” I hissed. “I could have broken my neck!”

  “But I was here to save you,” he returned blandly, finally setting me away from him, though his smile remained predatory.

  “You cannot follow me about. There will be talk.”

  “Not any more than always follows me about.”

  “Of course you would think only of yourself!” My voice rose to an unbecoming shriek. “My reputation means nothing at all.”

  His gray eyes, pellucid with an innocence I knew to be false, flicked over me. “But you are merely an employee. Paid to serve.”

  I longed to bolt for the house but knew I could not outrun him. And besides, my legs, my whole body, were shaking so hard I was pinned to the spot. It was Geoff all over again, and not a weapon in sight.

  “Nell, Nell . . .” Thornbury’s fingers gripped his forehead, shadowing his face. “I beg your pardon. You are such an easy tease, an action quite unworthy of me. You may return to the house without further ado. I have but come out to do some fishing.” He waved his hand toward the stream. “You will see my fishing pole, bait box, and fish basket as you go by.”

  I turned my head away, tears welling in my eyes. When a woman is attracted to a man, fear and hurt should not rear their ugly heads.

  “Nell, truly I’m sorry. Look at me.”

  Although his tone was more urgent, I could neither accept his apology nor do as he asked. I should say something, but the words would not come. I took a deep breath and set out for the bridge.

  He had not lied. The fishing pole, bait box, and fish basket lay on the bank above the stream. Steadfastly, I continued on to the house, hoping Mrs. Randall would not scold me for my foreshortened walk.

  Fortunately, she was far too busy to notice. The full impact of nearly falling over the ha-ha did not hit me until I was alone in my room, where I collapsed into a shivering wreck. So easy, so very easy for Thornbury to startle me into falling . . .

  Yet he’d saved me.

  This time.

  Had it been a warning?

  Again the question—was Thornbury the rake everyone thought him, or were there far greater depths to Anthony Deverell than anyone imagined?

  Clearly, my life might depend on knowing the answer.

  Chapter Eleven

  My hopes for serenity in the nursery, as well as a slide back into anonymity for myself, soared as four whole days passed without incident. I was, in fact, learning that ennui was part and parcel of spending all my time cocooned on the fourth floor. But inevitably—by the measuring stick of my life of late—our peace could not last. In the early afternoon of the fifth day, there was a pounding on the nursery door of such urgency that I feared the house was on fire.

  Or the Runners had come for me.

  Since Ivy was playing with Nick and Flora occupied with feeding Dulcie, I was the only one left to answer the summons. At the sight of Josie, her face red and ample bosom heaving from the long climb, my worst fears lessened. Nonetheless, questions shot from my mouth, even though I could clearly see the poor soul was panting and unable to catch her breath. “What is wrong? Tell me at once!”

  “Miss . . . oh, miss,” she managed at last, “nuthin’s wrong. Just the first guests be arrivin’. Two carriages comin’ up the drive—ye c’n see them the front windows.”

  I clamped my lips tight over the angry words exploding in my head. Steadying myself with a hand to the door frame, I sucked in a breath, saying from between clenched teeth, “You have roused the nursery, frightening us half out of our wits, to tell us guests are arriving for the house-party?”

  Her great brown eyes, filled with the wonder of offering the nursery brigade a fine treat, regarded me with puzzled innocence. “But, miss, it’s ever so grand. A sight for sore eyes. You’ll not want to miss it.”

  Utterly defeated in my attempt to indicate the enormity of her disruption of the nursery for such a reason, I stifled a sigh and said, “It was very good of you to come tell us, Josie. Perhaps you would be kind enough to inform Flora and Ivy of the treat in store. And then you may show us how to find our way to windows overlooking the drive.” It pains me to admit that on second thought, anything that broke the even tenor of our days in the nursery was perhaps almost as exciting as Josie thought it was.

  Evidently I was not the only one who had begun to find the confines of the nursery a tight fit. We were quite a parade as we followed Josie down a series of narrow corridors to the front of the house. Winterbourne’s male servants had once lived here, Josie informed me, b
ut these rooms had not been used since the expansion of the west wing.

  Fortunately, the room with the best view of the front entrance boasted two dormers, making it possible for four women and two babies to squeeze onto the padded window seats for a view of the graveled drive. Although I felt a twinge of embarrassment over playing voyeur to Winterbourne’s guests, my discomfort did not last past the sight of the first passengers descending from the imposing traveling carriage at the foot of the broad front steps.

  I stifled a gasp as I saw two very familiar faces, Lord and Lady Trevor, my honorary aunt and uncle. Aunt Trevor had made her come-out the same year as my mother, and they had been fast friends ever since. She was my godmother, and I had been allowed to address her as Aunt Trevor for as long as I could remember.

  But what was she doing here? Since her two daughters were long since married, I could only suppose she and Uncle Trevor were part of the “leavening” invited by Lady Winterbourne so her machinations to find a bride for her son would not be quite so obvious.

  The Trevors’ luggage was soon unloaded, their coach and four off to the stables, freeing us to turn our attention to the second coach now pulling up to Winterbourne’s main entrance. Indrawn breaths of wonder echoed from Ivy and Flora as the full splendor of the coach was revealed. Shining black with stark white trim, the horses the same shade as the coach. An elaborate crest on the door indicated a nobleman of some rank. We were, therefore, astonished to see descending from the coach a very young lady, winsome and unimposing. Indeed, she looked as if she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Thornbury would roll her up, hook, line, and sinker, in a matter of moments. Poor child.