The earl leaned back in his chair, his sharp gray eyes narrowed on me. “You are alleging that some unknown person entered the nursery last night and opened the window?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You are alleging attempted murder. Murder intended to look like an accident.”
My voice was steady as I repeated, “Yes, my lord.”
“And you have come to me, even though you are aware I am the only person with a motive to do away with the child.” It wasn’t even a question, just a statement, although he obviously expected an answer.
“My lord, you are in charge at Winterbourne. It was my duty to inform you.”
“Ah . . .” A spark flashed from those penetrating eyes. “But you have reservations.”
“My lord, I know not what to think.”
An eyebrow lifted, a rueful smile curled his lips. “Most sensible, Nell. You are to be commended for your honesty. And now . . . let me assure you there will be a bolt on the entrance to the nursery wing before nightfall. Be certain you use it! And the babe is never to be left alone until this matter is settled. I have considerable doubt about the authenticity of his mother’s marriage lines, but it is possible he is the heir to Winterbourne. And, I assure you, I am not monster enough to wish to see him dead.”
I wanted to believe him, truly I did. I suppose that’s why I had come to him. Not just because he was acting head of household but because I felt something in him that said, in spite of his reputation, he would not stoop so low.
And if I were wrong?
There was no running away. I had Nick to protect—nor could I do him the grave disservice of removing him from any chance of inheriting Winterbourne.
I stood. “Thank you, my lord. I will do my best to see no harm comes to Nick.” Surely a double-edged remark. A promise and a warning. Stiffening my spine, I marched out and up the central staircase under the watchful eye of Babcock and two footmen. Only recalling after I reached the fourth floor that I needed to apprise Mrs. Randall and Josie of the latest developments and enlist their aid in keeping Nick safe. Nothing like a strong high dudgeon to keep my brain from functioning properly! Ah well, now that I was back in the nursery, I would send Ivy down to the kitchens with a request for Mrs. Randall and Josie to come to us.
I took Nick from Flora’s arms, seated myself in the rocking chair, and hung on tight, hoping the gentle movement would soothe me as well as the baby. Truth was, however, we were under siege. Barricaded in Winterbourne’s fourth floor, afraid to go out.
Afraid even if we stayed in.
The bolt on the sole door to the nursery wing was in place in less than two hours. Alas, I felt only marginally safer. Babies are so small, so fragile, so easily injured; verifying information from Greece a time-consuming process. However would we manage to keep Nick safe?
For five whole days nothing untoward occurred, other than a daily visit from Thornbury to check on Nick’s welfare. The first time he came after the incident, I granted him grudging respect for making the effort. Subsequent visits were a surprise. Was he attempting to discover our weaknesses, find another way to do away with our Nick? Yet never by so much as the flicker of an eyelash did he indicate any emotion other than a mild interest in the baby’s health and the bland disinterest in the rest of us that marked the attitude of an aristocrat to his servants. Truthfully, I found it a bit disconcerting. Men pursued me or found me an object of disgust. They did not ignore me.
Particularly after kissing me with soul-shattering intensity!
Miserable maw-worm! He was playing games with me.
And then, just when I dared hope my life had settled down to smooth sailing, the inevitable happened. Josie burst through the nursery door, gasped for breath, and announced, “Miss, oh miss, her ladyship wants to see you. At once.” The somewhat roly-poly maid huffed a breath, rolled her eyes, and continued. “She’s in the morning room, miss, with Mrs. Randall, and she’s not best pleased. She just found out, you see. About the baby, you, Lord Anthony—the earl, I mean . . .” Stricken by the implications, Josie snapped her mouth shut, regarding me with wide, anxious eyes.
Oh dear. I had long since decided that Lady Winterbourne was too absorbed in her plans for a grand house-party to pay attention to anything else going on in the house.
I was wrong.
I glanced down at what I was wearing. The brown gown again, the plainest of the three in my meager wardrobe. “Josie, please inform Lady Winterbourne I will be down directly, as soon as I have changed into something more suitable.”
“Oh no, miss. You must come now. She’s waiting. Ye c’n practically see the steam rising. Not like a tea kettle, miss. More like one of them pump engines on the canal.”
Oh. No matter. It was far from the first time I had received a scold, nor would it be my last.
It could, however, be my last at Winterbourne. And what would happen to Nick?
By the time I’d followed Josie down the long flights of stairs, I had decided it was a case of “any port in a storm.” When she paused before the entrance to a sunny room at the rear of the house, I whispered, “Josie, find the earl and tell him what has happened. Immediately!”
Solemnly, she nodded. “Yes, miss.” We stepped into the beautifully appointed room with French doors open to the garden. Josie announced, “Miss Scarlett, my lady,” before bobbing a curtsy and disappearing out the door. I could only hope she was off to find Thornbury.
Lady Winterbourne, though likely teetering on the edge of fifty, was still a handsome woman, showing every evidence of having been a diamond of the first water when she made her come-out in London. Her warm brown hair, a shade passed on to her younger son, showed no visible sign of gray. Her figure was remarkably slender for one of her years, her carriage imposing. She was, in short, a woman well aware of her exalted status and thoroughly comfortable in her role of Marchioness of Winterbourne.
But when I saw the shock on her face, I realized it was a good thing I had not changed to a better gown. The last thing Lady Winterbourne had expected of a nurse was a voluptuous young woman with a mass of strawberry blonde hair escaping from beneath her white cap.
“Merciful heavens! Has my son stooped so low as to install his doxie in my attics?”
I cringed. I admit it. “My lady, surely Mrs. Randall has explained—”
“A greater bit of nonsense I have never heard. A carriage accident, a deceased foreigner, a babe of unknown origin granted access to my home? Is it yours?” she demanded, turning on me with a righteous fury that stoppered my protest. “This tale an attempt to foist a bastard on our family?”
Too close, far too close to the truth. But what could I say? My lady, I encountered a pregnant woman from Greece on the coach when I was running away after killing my brother-in-law.
“My lady!” Mrs. Randall drew a deep breath and bravely came to my defense. “That is not what happened. As I told you, this young woman delivered the Greek woman’s baby and has graciously consented to act as nurse until the child’s family may be found.”
Lady Winterbourne drew herself up, swept a regal hand in my direction. “Look at her! Can you do so and not believe she is a trollop?”
“Mama!” The villain of the story appeared in the doorway, miraculously transformed into a knight in shining armor. My knight. Thank you, Lord.
Or was Thornbury just waiting for a good excuse to get rid of me? To sever Nick from his protector? After all, the position of nurse in a noble nursery could not be that difficult to fill.
“Miss Scarlett, you may return to the nursery. I will explain the situation to my mother.”
“Mrs. Randall has already done so,” the marchioness declared, “and I do not believe one word of such a nonsensical tale!”
Thornbury turned to me. “Go, Miss Scarlett. I assure you there will be no need to pack your bags.”
I held his gaze, challenging him to tell his mother the truth—that the babe in the nursery was quite possibly her grandson. His lips cur
led in a quizzical smile, and I realized he was not yet sure what he was going to tell her. The alleged Earl of Thornbury, a prevaricator trapped in his own web of deceit. I bobbed a curtsy and fled.
Chapter Nine
I raced up the narrow servants’s stairs, gasping for breath as I pounded on the locked door. After quickly ascertaining that all was well, I slipped past Ivy and went directly to my bedchamber, where I finally allowed my knees to buckle, dropping me onto my bed.
There was no way around it. No matter what Thornbury told his mother, I was finished. I did not look like a nurse, I did not speak like a nurse. I was an affront to Lady Winterbourne’s standards. If I was not considered a menace to her son’s morals, then he would be deemed a menace to mine. (If, that is, Lady Winterbourne thought I had any morals to begin with!)
I might as well start packing.
A perfectly horrid thought. I couldn’t. And not simply because I feared for Nick.
There! I’d admitted it. That niggling twitch deep inside . . . an awareness, however appalling, that it was possible for another face, another body, another voice to insinuate themselves into my memories of Brant. To the point of threatening to topple my lovely boy from the pedestal on which I had placed him for so long.
Lieutenant Brant Kitteridge, nudged over by a rogue. A thought so lowering, I cringed. Yet Brant was gone, and at an age younger than I was now. He would not come again. I had thrown myself into mourning in the same manner I approached the rest of my life—with heart, soul, and fierce determination. For six years I had been martyred by misery, as blind to joy as a dray horse blinkered against London traffic. My heart frozen, my tongue tart, I plunged into an uneasy role of noble self-sacrifice. I like to think I did not go so far as to wallow in my grief, but there’s no doubt I was far from the spirited young woman I once had been.
Until I’d swung an ash shovel at Geoff’s head and fled into the night. And now . . . I was a possible murderer, hiding from my family and currently acting as watchdog to a babe who was likely a bastard but just might replace Anthony, alleged Earl of Thornbury, as heir to Winterbourne.
An odd twist of fate. If it were not for Adara’s death and the secrecy, the menace surrounding Nick, I would be grateful for being jarred out of the rut my life had become. It was high time I learned to live again.
Reality was, however, that I still felt more safe on the fourth floor of Winterbourne than anywhere else. Leaving meant exposing myself like the fox at a hunt, with who knew how many riders and hounds sending up a hue and cry, all thirsting for my blood. I had once been in at a kill, witnessing the dogs tear the poor fox apart. Sickened, I had never ridden to the hunt again. Yet another reason for my family to heap scorn on my head.
That is not all.
And there it was again—the whisper of my inner voice, reminding me of the all-too-feminine weakness that came with cracking open the armor of my grief. Brant, forgive me! When Thornbury kissed me, for the first time in six years I felt something I thought gone forever. An awareness, a stirring of my senses. Breathlessness. Warmth. Security.
A fleeting moment, but oh-so-tempting. My common sense kept hissing warnings, to which my head concurred, even as the drumming of my heart overwhelmed the ideals I’d held so dear. Suddenly, I wanted to stay at Winterbourne, not just for Nick, not for safety, but because I wanted to discover if the daughter of a baron and the son of a marquess—
He’s a rake, a wastrel, a good-for nothing . . .
No, he’s not. I like him!
There! I’d said the horrid words. And knew myself for ten times a fool.
Furious with my moment of dithering, I bounced to my feet and walked into the nursery’s main room, today as bright and sunny as anyone could ask for. Flora was just finishing a feeding, and I took Nick from her, settling into the rocking chair and making the nonsensical cooing sounds one does to babies. He blinked at me, his slightly owlish trusting gaze fixed on my face. Oh my. The slight green tinge to his blue eyes—eyes that were not going to darken. Lady Winterbourne’s eyes.
Imagination, Luce! His mother was Greek; the eyes will darken.
Somehow I didn’t think so. A niggling thought whispered through my brain. If Thornbury lost his title . . . if he were only Lord Anthony . . .
He’d still be so far above a baron’s disgraced third daughter that my fantasies could only shame me. But shame, however undeserved, was an old friend, so why not indulge while I could? There were, after all, few other pleasant thoughts I could indulge in at the moment.
The quality of the room’s silence changed. From comforting to . . . heavy, frozen? Ominous. A prickle skittered up my spine. I raised my eyes from Nick’s infant solemnity to discover the nursery had been invaded. I had been so lost in thought I had not heard the knock on the outer door or noticed Ivy leaving the room to slide aside the bolt.
Shifting my grip on Nick, I stood, managing a curtsy as best I could. “My lady.”
“Leave us.” At Lady Winterbourne’s command, Flora and Ivy dashed for the corridor, so anxious to be gone they bumped into each other going through the door. In other circumstances it would have been amusing.
The marchioness strode forward, peering at Nick from the distance of a good three feet, as if she expected to find a demon instead of a well-formed infant boy. Scowling, wary, she slowly moved closer. Nick, sensing hostility, squirmed and fisted his fingers, matching her scowl for scowl.
“He is not ill-favored,” she said at last.
I could not be certain that Thornbury had told her truth, but why else was she here? In any event she deserved to know. I seized the bit between my teeth. “Perhaps I am wrong,” I ventured, “but I believe he has your eyes.”
She leaned closer, her frown lines deepening as she examined Nick’s face. “If he does,” she snapped, “it’s because he is Anthony’s bastard. Never will I believe Hartley would so forget his position as to marry without his father’s approval. And a foreigner at that.”
“I am so sorry, my lady, but I spoke to his mother at some length. She told me quite clearly that the babe’s father’s name was Hartley.”
“No! I will not have it.” Her tone was adamant. The rejection of a woman who was so accustomed to having her own way that if a situation was unacceptable, it simply could not be true.
“My lady, it is possible the babe is a bastard, but I am quite convinced that he is the child of your elder son. I can see no reason why Adara would lie when death was imminent.”
“Ha!” Lady Winterbourne’s gaze swept the nursery. “And why should her bastard be thrown on the parish when he could have all this?” she declared, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
“A point well taken, my lady, but I saw the marriage lines. Your son’s signature—”
“A forgery,” the marchioness declared. “Which Anthony—Thornbury—will undoubtedly prove.”
“Which will not make the babe any less your grandson.”
She glared at me. “You are shockingly forward, girl. What is your family?”
Gulping back the hot words on the tip of my tongue, I struggled to grasp that elusive cloak of subservience so ill-suited to my temperament. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but it’s right fond I am of young Nick.”
To my consternation, Lady Winterbourne’s eyes went wide; a bark of laughter escaped her. “My dear girl, whoever and whatever you are, it is not a servant, so stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” My mind a blank, I hung my head.
“Mrs. Randall speaks well of you, and my son refuses to let you go, though why you should wish to stay in this situation if the child isn’t yours is beyond my comprehension. Is this some wild scheme to attract my son’s attention? For if it is, you have certainly managed it. Well, speak up, girl. I won’t have such goings-on beneath my roof.”
“My lady . . .” I faltered. What to say . . . what, if anything, might appeal to her sympathies? And how far I’d fallen—from a tiny fib abou
t my name to errors of omission, to concocting an outright lie. “My lady, I confess I am hiding from an importunate suitor. I know I have an obligation to be obedient to my family, but I simply could not do it. Wealth, no matter how great, is not worth being shackled to a man old enough to be my grandfather!” I allowed my voice to rise on the final phrase, hoping to excite her pity.
“Merciful heavens, child, you have been reading too many novels. Every female with the slightest pretense to nobility knows she must marry for title, land, or money. Marry to advance her family’s interests. Sacrifice is expected of us.”
“Did you?” I demanded, considerably disgruntled, as my dramatic tale seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.
“I,” declared the Marchioness of Winterbourne, “had the good fortune to find an attractive man of wealth and title, to whom I had no objection.”
For several moments we stared at each other over the now sleeping baby, still cuddled in my arms. “You will take care with Thornbury,” she said at last, evidently conceding the possibility I might not be a harlot. “He has an eye for women, and I would not wish you to come to harm beneath my roof.”
Not at all what I expected a mother to say of her son. Speechless, I blinked, almost as owlishly as Nick.
“Men are all too capable of offering false promises,” Lady Winterbourne added. “As I fear my Hartley did with the poor girl from Greece.” Another admission I did not expect. “Do not let Anthony bamboozle you into a similar situation.” She turned and sailed toward the door, where she paused to deliver a parting shot. “Take care of the babe, Miss Scarlett. We are relying on you.” And with that she was gone, leaving me trembling with the enormity of it all.
For as long as I could remember, my parents had railed about my being born with a will far too strong for a female. And goodness knows, I’d proved the truth of their scolds time and time again. But if I were as strong-willed and common-sensical as alleged, I would not be so thoroughly rejecting Lady Winterbourne’s warning. At least not without giving it serious consideration. Yet my brain was screaming, Balderdash! Hartley married Adara. And as for his brother . . .? Well, he was not above playing games—I’d already discovered that. But offer false promises . . . ? I thought not. And in his favor, it seemed he’d told his mother the truth, if a trifle belatedly.
Tangled Destinies Page 6
