“Do you think Anthony wishes him dead?”
“My lady!”
“Do you?” she demanded.
I hung my head. “I believe someone is trying to do away with Nick, yet I cannot bring myself to believe it is An—your son.”
“‘Aye, there’s the rub,’” she quoted, surprising me. “Our loyalties are tested, are they not?”
The thought that Lady Winterbourne could share my doubts was truly appalling. My stomach roiled.
She flicked her fingers in dismissal. “Go,” she ordered. “See to the babe. And stay away from my son. I fear Rumor will swallow us whole, no matter what we do, but if you mind your p’s and q’s, perhaps we can keep the roar to a minimum.”
Meekly, I stood, managed a curtsy on shaky legs, and found my way back to my bedchamber, where I plopped into my favorite chair near the window and forced my whirling thoughts back into some semblance of order.
Anthony.
Nick.
Why must I be forced to choose?
By the time I followed Lady Winterbourne into the Deverell pew on Sunday morning, I knew word of my alleged perfidy had spread. So far the villagers had treated me as something of a curiosity—the girl foisted on Winterbourne by that coaching accident. Staying because of the babe, you know. Merciful heavens, a baron’s daughter acting as nursery maid? Yet good manners prevailed. I had been tolerated. But this morning . . .
From the moment Lady Winterbourne began her customary sweep down the aisle, whispers rippled through the ancient church, increasing at the sight of Anthony following in our wake. Unfortunately, the church did not offer high-backed pews that sheltered the aristocracy from the avid interest of the congregation. So there I was, caught between Lady Winterbourne and Anthony, the cynosure of all eyes. No doubt the highly un-Christian jade, hussy, schemer, and worse were the words chasing through the congregation’s minds. With no way for me to refute the accusations.
Except I had been at Winterbourne for more than two months and Nick still lived. If I were a murderess, surely a most incompetent one.
But common sense seemed to have flown on the wind.
As we left church an hour later, I noticed a few people craning their necks in what appeared to be an examination of the others from Winterbourne who had been seated in the rear pews. I frowned, wondering . . . Ah! If they were looking for Petros Andreadis, they would be disappointed. If he practiced any religion, it would be Greek Orthodoxy, very likely considered by staunch members of the Church of England as even more exotic and possibly downright evil than Catholicism. I rather envied Mr. Andreadis his peaceful Sunday morning at Winterbourne; with so few people left in residence; the halls must positively echo with silence.
At that point I noticed matters were worse than I’d thought. Some were actually casting doubtful glances at Anthony. And there I was, once again caught on the horns of a dilemma. I might have moments when I doubted Anthony. I would not allow anyone else to do so.
Idiot!
For once my inner voice and I agreed.
Chapter 26
Although Lady Winterbourne seemed determined to find chores to keep my mind off the controversy swirling around me, I soon slipped back into the habit of spending most of my time in the nursery. Tompkins was not happy, particularly when our attitudes toward rearing infants seemed diametrically opposed. To her, I was an intruder, my ignorant bumbling certain to shatter the rigid routine of the nursery and plunge Nick into the realm of undisciplined brat.
Betrayed. The comfortable nest where I had ruled the roost was gone. I blamed Anthony, alleged Earl of Thornbury. He had brought Nurse Tompkins here.
Worse yet, she eyed me with such hostility, I could only assume she believed every last word of the vicious rumors being circulated so assiduously by Lady Dalrymple and her cronies. Incredible as it seemed, Nurse Tompkins seemed to think I might toss Nick out the fourth floor window the moment her back was turned. Believe me when I say it is well nigh impossible to enjoy a comfortable coze with a baby when inimical eyes are staring at you every moment.
Yet somehow life went on, although I admit to more than a few twinges of the heart when I received a succession of letters—full of indignation and outrage on my behalf—from my sisters, my mother, and Aunt Trevor.
Nasty Dalrymple’s vitriol had reached them.
All offered shelter, although Emilia tempered her invitation by saying she could quite understand if I wished to avoid Geoffrey more than Lord Thornbury. Each, however, urged me to leave Winterbourne immediately. My mother, naturally, was the most adamant. I was to come home at once. My reputation, already fragile, would be lost forever if I remained in this den of iniquity, where quite anything might happen. (These last few words were heavily underscored.)
Poor Mama. I had been such a trial to her. Although I must admit to surprise that she seemed to think my reputation was not already lost beyond redemption.
I replied to each missive with great care. And with appreciation. It seemed I had judged my family too harshly. Frankly, I found it was not easy to justify, even to myself, my decision to remain at Winterbourne. They would understand if I named Anthony as the reason, but that would only reenforce the horrid on dits. But to cite a stranger’s baby, a foreigner’s baby, as the reason? That was totally unacceptable.
In the end, I emphasized my sense of responsibility for a child I had quite literally brought into the world (though thought of that might send poor Mama into an attack of the vapors). I mentioned my need for a time of independence from the family, an opportunity to show that I could manage on my own. All true. Just not the whole of it.
Would they believe me? I could only hope so. Visions of Papa rolling up the drive, demanding I return to Neville Manor on the instant,wafted through my mind. Please, Papa, let me see this through.
Thank goodness Timothy seemed happily occupied tramping through the Lake Country.
As for Anthony, we were avoiding each other again. I was nearly certain he had indeed spoken to James and discovered who put the young footman up to the heinous crime of infanticide. Yet he had done nothing about it.
Which likely meant his father was involved. His mother? There, my mind balked. It was, however, easier to think Lady Frances Winterbourne guilty than accept that the only person Anthony was protecting was himself.
Of one thing I was nearly certain. Anthony was guarding a secret. A secret he most particularly did not want me to know. So . . . after a stressful tussle with the dictates of my heart, I fought my way to suppositions that were the result—I hoped—of logic and common sense.
My original suspicions bore up under scrutiny. Besides Anthony, the persons most likely to want to ensure their younger son’s inheritance over a half-Greek baby, were the Marquess and Marchioness of Winterbourne. As for Lady Winterbourne, I simply could not see her as Lady Macbeth. She was proud, arrogant, every inch the high-born lady, but ruthless enough to order the death of her grandson . . . ? That I doubted.
Lord Winterbourne, however, was a different story. If the motivation was strong enough, I suspected him of being like most men brought up to positions of power. They could find justification for almost any action they wished to take. In the marquess’s case, my speculation was compounded by the possibility that his mind had been affected by his illness. Anthony might have the strength of character to say no to his father, but what about Winterbourne’s staff? The burly valet’s helper, Gideon Beck. Metcalfe, his ever-faithful secretary. Babcock, head of household for so many years. Footmen, stableboys, gamekeepers, staunch tenant farmers. Any and all could have been suborned by loyalty or by golden guineas. As proved by James’s action.
Or had the marquess turned to his only remaining son, demanding he save the title of Thornbury, the position of heir, for himself?
No! That could not have been Anthony who pushed me down the stairs. I would not believe it.
Yet there had to be a reason he would sit there behind his father’s desk and tell me the attempts
on Nick’s life were over, there was no need to discuss the matter again.
Ha! Fine talk. Lull the guardian, sneak behind her back . . .
What a fool I’d be to believe him!
But, oh, how I wanted to.
An uneasy week passed. I did not go to church. God would have to forgive me. I had reached the point where I suspected nearly everyone of wanting to harm Nick. Nurse Tompkins included. Had Anthony not hired her?
Mr. Andreadis? He seemed as innocuous as ever, but even if he did not wish Nick harm, I became more and more certain he wished to whisk him away to his grandparents in Greece. In the midst of this dread thought, I worried that the Deverells had purchased a change in his testimony, that he would now favor Anthony’s right to be Thornbury.
Nonsensical to think everyone my enemy? I knew it, but could not seem to throw off my suspicions. I was comfortable only in the company of my original friends at Winterbourne—Ivy, Flora, Josie, Nick, and Dulcie. And on horseback. My early morning rides on Princess helped keep my sanity.
Since granted permission to ride, I had managed to explore every winding path, copse, and field on Winterbourne’s vast acres. I had a nodding acquaintance with most of the tenants and even recognized the gamekeepers by sight. Fortunately, they seemed unaffected by the rumors that had swept through the village and the homes of nearby landed gentry.
On this particular morning, I was repeating the ride I had first taken with our houseguests on the day Lady Ariana had so artfully come off her horse just shy of the bridge in the meadow. Not feeling in the mood to admire the trout or even the picturesque stream bubbling below, I urged Princess across the bridge and into a gallop on the other side. I needed the wind in my face, the rush of power as Princess surged forward. The feeling of freedom. However false it might be.
All too soon the woods reared up before us, and I was forced to pull Princess back to a walk. I heaved a sigh, patted her neck, and settled to a steady pace up to the top of the hill with the view of Winterbourne in all its glory. Where I sat, taking it all in, the magnificent landscape, the sheep, the maze, the pond, the great house. Ah—if only . . .
Something whizzed by my ear. Princess reared, almost unseating me, and charged down the hill. I was so busy struggling to regain control and dodging tree limbs as we plunged through the copse that it was only when I brought Princess to a halt in the meadow, not far from the bridge, that I recalled the noise I had heard. I was familiar with the sound of shotgun, as well as a pistol. This had been different. No less loud, but sharper. More . . .
A rifle?
Someone had shot at me with a rifle?
Realizing I was totally exposed—and recalling stories I’d heard of just how fast a soldier could reload one of the modern rifles—I urged Princess forward. Obediently, though her sides were still heaving, she settled into a trot. Never had I been so glad to see the Winterbourne stables!
“Take special care with her,” I told the stableboy. She’s had a bad fright.” Then I gathered up my riding skirt, my crop clutched in my other hand, and headed toward the true seat of power. The study occupied by the almighty Anthony Deverell who had told me not to worry. The “incidents” were over.
He wasn’t there.
Of course he’s not here, idiot. He’s lingering in the woods, playing least in sight, rifle in hand.
My legs buckled, plopping me into the chair in front of Anthony’s desk.
The Marquess of Winterbourne’s desk.
My body shook as a battle raged within me, my heart screaming No! while my head screamed Yes!
I’m not certain how long I sat there. I only know Anthony was conspicuous by his absence. At some point I dragged myself to my feet and went in search of Lady Winterbourne. Oddly, although it seemed it should have taken an eon or two to turn my life so topsy-turvy, she was just finishing her daily conference with Mrs. Randall in the morning room. I was arriving right on schedule. She looked up and smiled.
“Oh, there you are, my dear. This is the day I call upon all our tenants and dependents who are ill or in need, and having you by me will be of immense help. Ah!” She had noticed my riding habit. “Do go up and change, Lucinda. I wish to leave as soon as possible. The list is long—”
“Someone shot at me.”
“I beg your pardon.” It was the first time I had seen Lady Winterbourne disconcerted since the day I told her about Nick.
I swallowed, fought for better control, tried again. “While I was out riding, someone shot at me with a rifle.”
“Merciful heavens,” she murmured, blinking at me for a moment before waving limp fingers toward my customary chair beside her desk. “Are you certain?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. I have never been shot at before, but the bullet whizzed by close enough for me to feel its passing. And the noise was loud enough to startle Princess into a bolt. For which I am grateful, as that made us a poor target for a second shot.”
The sunny room was so still I could hear the hum of insects outside the window.
“Have you told Anthony?” she said at last.
“I could not find him.”
Lady Winterbourne closed her eyes, sitting in her dainty desk chair like a painting captured forever for posterity. I very much feared I knew what had turned her cheeks so pale. And in that moment I was certain she had not instigated any of the horrors herself, though she, like me, suspected her husband or her son. Perhaps both.
“I will send for him,” she said at last. “If he is not readily available, we will continue our charitable works as planned. I assure you, Lucinda, the safest place for you at this time is by my side.” Alas, her lovely azure eyes held considerable rue as she said it. A dash of belligerence as well. Lady Winterbourne was not happy.
“And if he is not available?”
“We will get to the bottom of this the moment he returns. And we will still make our rounds.” She squared her shoulders and glared into the distance so defiantly, a vision of Wellington addressing his troops before a battle popped into my head.
I had never liked her better.
Anthony, we were informed by Babcock, had gone to consult on agricultural matters with a landowner who lived some distance from Winterbourne.. He was not expected back until that evening.
A convenient excuse, my inner voice hissed.
Be quiet!
Truth was, my confidence that Anthony would not shoot at me was primarily because I could find no motive. He could quite easily see Nick dead without getting rid of me. And besides, why rid yourself of the woman you were considering for your next mistress?
That was how Anthony viewed me. I could see no way around the stark truth.
Lady Winterbourne and I enacted the role of Lady Bountiful for the remainder of the day, returning so stuffed with biscuits, tarts, bread just of the oven, even gooseberry pie, as well as lashings of tea, that we staggered up the stairs, each supposedly intent on flopping onto our respective beds and enjoying a short respite before dinner.
Except there was one more thing I must do before I could rest. Resolutely, I turned toward Anthony’s bedchamber. To say his valet was startled to find me at his master’s door would be an understatement. Poor man, I do believe he was quite horrified. Chin up, Neville pride firmly in place, I said, “When Lord Thornbury returns, please tell him I must speak with him at once. On a matter of great urgency that cannot wait until tomorrow.”
With that, I turned with as much dignity as I could muster and walked back down the corridor, my whole body shaking from the temerity of what I had done. But I had to see him. Had to tell him. I’d never sleep else.
Foolish twit! my inner voice mocked. Frailty, thy name is woman.
Chapter 27
I fidgeted through dinner, my ears on the prick for the sound of Anthony’s step, even though I knew he was not expected back until later in the evening. I startled at the clink of tableware, shuddered as a footman leaned over me to refill my wine glass.
Someone tried to k
ill me.
Several times Lady Winterbourne was forced to speak to me more than once before I heard her. After a final admonitory glance, she restricted herself to conducting a desultory conversation with Mr. Metcalfe and Mr. Andreadis. Miserable, I toyed with my food, all too aware I was failing to present the stoic façade so much-prized by England’s aristocracy. Lucinda Neville, a disgrace on all fronts.
Pleading a headache, I retired to my room directly after dinner. Where I waited. And waited.
Someone tried to kill me.
Anthony wasn’t going to come.
Guilt. That’s why he could not face me.
Not guilt. Chagrin. He had failed to kill me. Even the most hardened heart might find it difficult to face the woman he had failed to kill that morning.
The clock on the mantle chimed ten.
Someone tried to kill me.
Surely Anthony had come back long ago, was likely in his study. Should I creep downstairs, confront the lion in his den?
Foolish Luce.
Better that than waiting in my bedchamber like a courtesan waiting for her lord and master.
Correction. I was waiting for a summons to his study. I never meant—
Didn’t you? Were you not looking for an opportunity to work your wiles? Ensure your safety in a manner as old as time?
As I was wrestling with that unwelcome thought, a soft tap sounded on my door. My hands shook as I lifted the latch.
Anthony. Eyes glittering. “Well?” he demanded. “What is so important it can’t wait ’til morning?”
I glared straight back. “Someone shot at me this morning. With a rifle.”
He grabbed me by the arm with one hand, latched the door with the other, before whisking me across the room and plopping me down in my favorite armchair. Looming over me, he barked, “Say that again. Explain.”
So I did, my story short by necessity. The shot, Princess’s bolt, my rush to his study. My day with his mother. I left out the terror, the anguish. That he could see for himself as I spoke.
Tangled Destinies Page 19
