The sun, the pond, the trees, the ducks, the rowing boats all went away. Time stood still as the implications of what he’d said jolted through me. When I recovered my power of speech, I could not stop the words that tumbled from my mouth. “Are you saying you could be Nick’s father?”
Frowning he stared at me, as if not quite able to understand my words. “Nick?” he repeated, clearly puzzled.
“We call the baby Nick,” I explained. “He is not yet christened.”
“Ah.” As the full import of my original question sank in, the stranger’s face darkened. “No!” he exploded with the kind of vehemence that proclaimed him a descendant of ancient Greek warriors. “I good man. Man of honor. Not touch her!”
“I beg your pardon,” I murmured. Then, well aware of my duty to the family that had taken in both a stray babe and a stray English lady, I forced the all-important question through my lips. “Did Adara marry Hartley, Lord Thornbury?”
The Greek’s frown darkened to a glower; his fists clenched so hard around his cap I feared he would tear it in two. “I not go to wedding. Watch from hillside. Watch them go in church, come out again. Laughing, smiling, dancing into the night, while my soul cried. He kill her, the Englishman. Like bullet from gun, he kill her.”
So many thoughts chased through my head, I had trouble pinning any one of them down. My tongue sat like a great lump between my teeth, while silence enveloped all three of us. It was some time before I began to form a coherent thought. First and foremost, Nick was truly Hartley, Lord Thornbury. Which meant I was holding the heir to Winterbourne in my lap. Yet it was to Anthony—the dispossessed Lord Anthony Deverell—that man from Greece must tell his tale. Immediately. And then what?
More waiting, no doubt, while the courier the Winterbourne solicitor sent to Athens obtained confirmation in writing that the wedding had indeed taken place. But I no longer had doubts. The Greek’s words rang with the conviction of truth. Standing before me was a man with a broken heart.
“Mister . . . I am sorry but I do not recall your name.”
“An-dre-a-dis,” he pronounced with care, and I made an effort to fix it in my mind. It was the least I could do for a man who had followed his love to England, undoubtedly in an effort to be certain she was offered respect by the arrogant English, and planning to step into the breach if she was not.
“Mr. Andreadis, I need you to come with me and speak to the present Lord Thornbury. He is the younger brother of the Hartley Deverell you knew in Greece. He needs to hear your information immediately. It will make a significant difference in the way Adara’s son is treated here at Winterbourne.”
Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. I could well imagine that the last person he wanted to talk to was the younger brother of the man who took Adara away from him, but he recognized the value of the information he carried. He would do this for Adara, for Adara’s son.
Meanwhile, Nick—bless him—had gone to sleep. Together, the three of us made our way back to the house. To my relief, Babcock was below stairs when we arrived in the kitchen, and although I received the impression that being made known to a lithe and darkly handsome Greek found wandering in the Winterbourne park stretched his customary bland façade to the utmost, the butler recovered nicely, informing me that Lord Thornbury was currently occupied with the other gentlemen in the billiard room.
“Send for him, immediately,” I said. “Kindly inform the earl we will await him in his study.”
Babcock goggled at me. The silence from Mrs. Randall and the kitchen staff was palpable. I had just given orders to the butler? I was indeed Miss Lucinda Neville of Neville Manor in Nether Westcote.
“It is unlikely he will stop in the middle of a game, miss,” Babcock pointed out, after only a slight huff of indignation.
“Believe me, he will wish to hear what Mr. Andreadis has to say.”
“Yes, miss.” Babcock turned toward the stairs, his tread slow and deliberate, as if heading to his doom. A stifled noise brought my head sharply around in time to catch a look of amusement from our Greek intruder and a flash of awe from Mrs. Randall.
“Mrs. Randall,” I said, “if you would be good enough to provide Mr. Andreadis with some tea while I return Nick to the nursery . . . ?” The housekeeper, appearing relieved to have something to do in the midst of what was clearly a crisis, nodded to Cook and settled our guest in a chair at the kitchen table. I gave him a reassuring smile, promised to be right back, and whisked Nick back to the safety of his cradle. Fortunate babe, he slept through it all.
“This better be good, Nell. I was winning!” Anthony burst through the door of his study like a whirlwind, annoyance emanating from every pore. He stopped short, staring at Petros Andreadis, followed by a swift glance at me. And he knew. That quickly he knew. Or at least recognized that whatever Andreadis had to say, it would be of significance.
At Anthony’s entrance, we had both jumped to our feet, and after performing the introductions, I effaced myself, stating that I was certain the men would wish to be private. “Stay, Miss Neville,” Anthony commanded. “You are the child’s advocate, and this is about the babe, is it not?”
“Yes, my lord.” When we were all seated, I nodded encouragement, and Petros Andreadis recounted the same tale he had told me.
Anthony listened in silence, only interrupting to ask the visitor if he was Nick’s father. The Greek’s denial was even more furious than when I had asked the same question. The Englishman dared question his beloved’s virtue? May he be forever confined in the lowest level of hell! For a moment I feared they would come to blows. Anthony apologized, Mr. Andreadis, still scowling, finished his story.
The erstwhile Lord Thornbury took the news of his impending disentitlement with remarkable aplomb. At a later date, I would find this troublesome, but at that moment I felt only relief. “We have already sent an emissary to Greece,” he said. “Will he be able to confirm the facts you have told me?”
“Yes, my lord. I tell truth.”
“What are your plans, Mr. Andreadis?” Anthony asked.
“I had hoped . . .” The Greek’s voice trailed into silence. His love was gone, never to return. Clearly, any hope he might have had of being reunited with Adara had been dashed. He shook his head. “I must go home, my lord. For me”—a flick of his fingers—“is left nothing.”
“I invite you to stay here, Mr. Andreadis,” Anthony said, “until this matter can be settled. It seems likely your testimony will be needed to reenforce any marriage lines from a land so far distant.”
“Stay?” Andreadis appeared dumbfounded.
“Here at Winterbourne, as my guest,” Anthony told him. “With a stipend from the estate for your services as a witness.”
“Beg pardon?”
“You will be paid a fee,” I clarified, “for staying in England long enough to testify—tell anyone who asks—what you have just told Lord Thornbury. This is very important because it means the baby will some day inherit all of Winterbourne. A grand title with much land and money.”
“Ah.” Mr. Andreadis took in my words with a growing sense of appreciation, enough to make me uneasy. I could almost see the vision of gold guineas flashing before his eyes. Gold in exchange for a far different story?
So much for undying love.
I left the two men to arrange the transfer of the Greek’s belongings from the local inn and returned to my room, filled with more questions than answers. The information Petros Andreadis brought was of vital importance to the Winterbourne family. Yet how much more strongly might his testimony impact his well-being if he were paid to say whatever the family wished him to say? If his memory of a wedding party outside a Greek church was obscured by a judicious application of gold coins? That testimony, plus the claim by clever English solicitors that any written records of Adara’s wedding were forgeries, and who knew what might happen?
No! I was manufacturing trouble. The priest who conducted the ceremony would not lie. Church records could not be ma
nipulated. Surely.
Anthony would not stoop so low.
But . . . could our new guest be dangerous in other ways?
It was beyond credibility that Petros Andreadis could have sneaked into Winterbourne, made his way to the fourth floor of a house he knew nothing about, found Nick’s room, and opened the window. Nor could I imagine any motive for him to do so. Except possibly that he’d gone mad and wished to destroy the last remnant of a woman who had betrayed his love.
Absurd! There was no hint of madness in him. Petros Andreadis was as steady as the rocky Greek islands from which he came.
Could he have been the man at the top of the stairs? Again, the problem of sneaking into the house, that time while many of its residents were still up and about. And for what reason could I be his enemy? Certainly, I had felt no menace from him at any time since he appeared so suddenly on the dock.
No, the person responsible for the attacks on Nick and me almost certainly had to be a member of the household. Someone who knew his way about. Someone who could come and go unremarked. I said “his” because I was nearly positive the person who had sent me flying down the stairs was male, though in all fairness I’d seen no more than a silhouette outlined against the dimly lit third floor corridor.
What were they talking about downstairs, I wondered—Anthony and our Greek guest? And if it was a scheme contrary to Petros Andreadis’s original tale, where did that leave me?
I did not sleep well.
Chapter 21
The next morning, Mrs. Randall delivered the summons in person. I was to report to Lord Winterbourne immediately. With baby.
Caught. I had avoided the issue as long as I could, hoping it would go away. The marquess was old and ill, perhaps he would forget . . .
It was not to be.
I hastily donned one of my better gowns and coaxed my hair into some semblance of dignity, before climbing the stairs and delivering the news to the nursery, where I found Nick propped against Flora’s shoulder. After he produced one last burp, Flora wiped the milk dribbles from his mouth and handed him to Tompkins while Lily rummaged through the chest of drawers for the nursery’s finest blanket, edged with crocheted lace. When I accepted Nick from Tompkins, I swear that in spite of being mummified right up to his chin, his bright eyes were shining with eagerness as he seemed to sense a new adventure.
The moment we were outside the door, I loosened his bindings, rearranging the blanket until his arms were free and he looked like something other than a oversize cocoon with eyes. “There!” I cooed. “That is much better, is it not?” Nick chortled and waved his fists. Well, at least one of us was happy about this visit to the ailing Lord Winterbourne.
The footman Mrs. Randall dispatched to escort us had waited patiently while I released Nick from captivity, but now proffered a discrete cough. “Miss, we must be going. His lordship does not like to be kept waiting.”
Was I procrastinating? Very likely. Meekly, I followed behind as he led us on the long meandering journey down two flights of stairs and across the house to the wing on the far side.
Whether because we took too long or because the ill tend to be irritable, Lord Winterbourne was clearly in a temper by the time we reached his bedchamber. We could hear him roaring even before his valet opened the door. I offered up a quick prayer that all would go well and stepped into the room. Ah! The cause of the marquess’s distress was instantly apparent. Lord Winterbourne was sitting up in bed, propped against a mound of pillows. His supposed heir—Anthony, Lord Thornbury—was standing beside him, his angry scowl an almost identical match to his father’s.
“Miss Neville,” Anthony snapped, “this visit is inimical to my father’s health.”
Fixing him with the weight of what I hoped were limpid, fully innocent, green eyes, I returned, “My lord, I could not agree with you more.”
“Come here this instant!” Winterbourne shouted. “And bring the blasted babe.”
Redfield, the elderly valet, rushed to his side, his brawny assistant, Gideon Beck, coming off the wall to follow close behind. “My lord, my lord, you must take care—”
“I must not do a demmed thing,” the marquess shot back. “I am Winterbourne. I shall do as I please.”
“Even if it kills you?” Anthony barked.
“Stand back, all of you!” The two valets bowed their heads, dutifully retreating before their employer’s furious gaze. Anthony stepped back one pace, then held firm.
Ignoring his son’s open defiance, Lord Winterbourne beckoned me forward with agitated waves of what appeared to be only one functioning arm. Determined not to be the person who sent him into a second apoplexy, I hastened toward the bed. There was a brief moment when I thought Anthony would refuse to step out of the way. Our eyes locked, and what I saw sent a shiver down my spine. If the marquess suffered a seizure over this, I would be blamed.
Anthony finally stepped back, and I leaned down, presenting Nick so Lord Winterbourne—his grandfather?—could get a good look. For perhaps ten seconds all was well. The marquess glared at the baby with the same scowl he’d turned on Anthony and me. Another imperious wave of his hand, and it was apparent he wanted Nick closer. I had a bad feeling about letting go, but what else could I do? Gently, I placed Nick in his lap. The marquess bent over, studying the solemn blue-green eyes staring back at him. One second. Two. I thought I caught a flash of recognition in the old man’s eyes, but at that moment Nick’s face crumpled. Turning bright red, he broke into the most frantic wailing I had ever heard from him. You would swear someone had just stuck him with a pin. I would not have been surprised to discover his howls penetrated every room in that wing.
I snatched him up, burbling apologies. “My lord, I’m so sorry. I fear you’ve frightened him. He’s not used to strangers.” Yet not a whimper when Petros Andreadis surprised us on the dock. In all fairness to my treasure, I reasoned, on that occasion he had never left my arms.
“Out!” Lord Winterbourne shouted. “Out, I say! Take it away.”
The footman, his ears obviously on the prick, opened the door as both Anthony, the valet, and the hulking Beck hovered over the marquess, attempting to calm him. Tears almost blinded me as we rushed through the corridors on the long way back to nursery. What now? Would Winterbourne suffer another apoplexy? Would he reject Nick out of hand? And if so, where would we go, what would we do?
And then the final blow—the horrid realization that topped all others. Petros Andreadis would take Nick back to his grandparents in Greece. For if his English relatives rejected him, in the eyes of the law that was where he belonged—with his closest kin. In Greece.
When Nick was safely back in the nursery, I went to my room, slumped into the upholstered chair near the cold fireplace and contemplated my sins. Every last one over the past decade, both sins committed and those that never got beyond a gleam in the eye.
Surely this was God’s punishment—I was to be parted from Nick.
And Anthony.
Nick would go to Greece, I to my family. Trapped in the role of spinster sister forevermore.
The minutes dragged by. Nothing happened. No one came to my door to tell me I was dismissed. No Josie or Ivy to tell me Nick had been ousted from the nursery.
No dire news of the marquess taking a turn for the worse.
More than an hour later, when I had freshened my face, smoothed the wrinkles from my gown, and had worked up enough courage to descend the stairs to inquire about my duties for the remainder of the day, I still felt as if my head were positioned beneath the guillotine’s blade. Seconds before the blow from which there was no recovery.
My hand firmly on the banister, my wildly beating heart hidden beneath an icy façade, I kept going. Down to Lady Winterbourne and her guests. Down to God alone knew what.
To mix my metaphors, every moment I expected the axe to fall. Yet except for the usual disdain and hurtful barbs cast at me by the so-called ladies in the party, all was quiet. No hue and cry from the marques
s’s suite, no demand for my instant dismissal. No rumors about the babe being cast onto the parish.
Anthony. Somehow he had prevailed.
Oddly, even as hope soared, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the aging marquess whose wishes had been overridden. How must it feel to have such once-vast power taken away? To have a tiny babe take one look at you and turn purple with fear? Or was it rage? Had Nick sensed the marquess wished him gone from this earth? Because that was what I suspected. The marquess might chafe at having his younger son in charge of Winterbourne, but I was nearly certain he would champion Anthony’s right to inherit the title over that of a weeks-old baby, born of a Greek mother.
“Miss Neville, do you ride?”
What? I blinked at Lady Winterbourne, mortified by being caught with my mind wandering. And in front of a goodly number of the female guests currently gathered in the drawing room.
“Do you ride, Miss Neville? Lady Ariana has expressed a desire to join the gentlemen on their morning ride. Do you wish to be one of the party?”
Ride? I was being offered an opportunity to ride? My spirits perked up on the instant. “Oh yes, my lady, I should like that. Thank you.” I heard a sniff from one of the mothers, most likely Lady Dalrymple, but I ignored it. I had not been on a horse since I arrived at Winterbourne, and I could scarcely wait. How fortunate my habit had been included in the trunk picked up from Sandridge Hillcrest.
As luck would have it, the next morning was not one of the Cotswold’s finest. The day dawned gray and damp from an overnight rain, but the gentlemen who professed to know about such things declared the gloom would burn off before noon—certainly no more rain was to be had. So off we went—Lady Ariana, Lady Cynthia, Lady Pamela, and I. Not all the young ladies had chosen to leave their beds so early, among them, Lady Melinda who had turned quite pale at the mention of riding, declaring she knew it was not at all the thing to be afraid of horses, but she was, and there’s an end to it. She would not go.
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