When I was done, he simply stood there, glowering at me, silence sliding between us like a snake. Coiling, hissing a warning.
“It could not have been something else?” he said at last. “The snap of a falling branch? The fall of a rock?”
Indignation surged. “I felt the wind past my cheek! Nor am I so stupid as to mistake the sounds of nature for a shot.”
“I beg your pardon. But it is so unthinkable . . .”
“As was being pushed down the stairs.”
Abruptly, he turned away, seized the chair on the other side of the fireplace, and dragged it closer. When he sank into it, I discovered our knees were almost close enough to touch. A shiver that had nothing to do with fear ran through me. Idiot!
“Nell . . . Lucinda.” Gentle fingers lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him. His gray eyes were as limpid as a trout pool. “You have had a bad time of it these past few months. Sandridge, the carriage accident, birth and death. Unexplained accidents . . .” He must have seen the instantaneous protest on my face, for he amended his words. “Very well then, suspicious events—”
Not enough, not nearly enough. “Suspicious?” I cried. “Nick tossed over a wall, myself thrown down the stairs? You dare call that merely suspicious?”
“I beg your pardon. Shall we say ‘inexplicable’?”
“You are pussy-footing, my lord. Beating about the bush in the most despicable manner.”
“No, truly, Nell. I merely wish to point out . . .?” He paused, his handsome face gentling into the kind of solicitude I associated with vicars who had a true calling to the church. An absurdity for Anthony Deverell, who not so long ago had been one of the London’s more notorious rakes. “I mean . . . well, really, Nell, have you ever been shot at before?”
“Don’t you dare insinuate I’m mistaken!”
“Have you?” he demanded, his eyes no longer kindly.
“Have you? If you had, I doubt you’d be so skeptical!”
He threw up his hands, shot to his feet. Paced the room. If he’d had a tail, it would have been lashing.
I addressed his rigid back. “You are protecting someone, are you not? James told you who paid him.” He stopped mid-stride, slowly set down his right foot, to stand frozen, his back still toward me. “Your father seems most likely. His mind is . . . fragile. How could he not prefer his second son succeed him rather than some infant born to a Greek mother of unknown origin?”
“Be quiet!”
“Is that why I’m a target as well? Because I won’t keep quiet? Or is it because I can attest that Nick—whose name should be Hartley—was truly born to the woman who was married to your brother?” Fool, fool, a thousand times a fool! You’re alone with a man capable of overpowering you in seconds.
Shivers shook me as Anthony started toward me. And yet . . . his slow pace, slumping shoulders, his general air of defeat kept me from panic. He dropped back into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
Once again the thought struck me that if this was acting—steering my speculation toward his father and away from himself—the London theater had lost a stellar performer.
“I did speak to James,” Anthony admitted with obvious reluctance, “but he refused to answer my questions. His loyalty was so great I could only assume his motivation was more than money.” He paused, head still bent, unable to meet my eyes. “I wanted to blame the Greek, some outsider, any outsider, but that made no sense. It had to be someone in the Deverell family. Logic also said that the incidents against you and the babe were so outré, they could not be the work of a rational mind.
“Which led me to my father.” His face grim, Anthony looked up at last. “He has not been himself since the attack of apoplexy, but it is hard, very hard, to believe he could stoop to ordering the death of either you or the babe. And yet . . .” He shrugged. “When I tried to question him, he simply slipped away—how much his illness, how much feigned, I have no idea. I spoke to Redfield and Beck. I questioned Metcalfe. They were as bland and unresponsive as if I were talking to myself.”
“I doubt Redfield has enough strength to swat a fly,” I offered, “but Beck and Metcalfe? I would put nothing past them.” I could easily picture Gideon Beck as the giant shadow that pushed me down the stairs. With Metcalfe a close second, even though he was twenty years older and a wraith compared to the brawny Beck. But could either shoot a rifle? And yet . . .
“It makes no sense,” I murmured. “Why would your father—or anyone—wish to do away with me? Am I really such a menace to the outcome of who is heir to Winterbourne?”
The only response to my question was a prolonged silence. “I think it might be something else,” Anthony finally muttered, clearly reluctant to elaborate.
“What?”
Silence.
“Yes, I am Nick’s defender,” I said, thinking out loud. “More and more, I am convinced he is Thornbury. But when a legal yea or nay is expected any moment from the representative you sent to Greece, how can the word of an impromptu midwife matter?”
Anthony sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed so intently on my face, I suspected he was attempting to send a silent message. Something I should know but must be too obtuse to discover for myself. And then he surprised me. “Do you remember my saying there might be two people involved in these attacks? Well, I am beginning to think it might well be so. It is, unfortunately, within the realm of possibility that my father, or someone close to him, wishes to be rid of Nick. But you . . .? Could there be someone who does not care to see that we have become . . . close?”
Merciful heavens! Mouth agape, I stared at him. Did he not realize no one cared what happened to a fallen woman? Even if it was her reputation, not her virginity, that had been lost.
Anthony regarded me from hooded eyes. Insinuating eyes. “Come now, Nell. You’re not a naive innocent. You must know—”
I surged to my feet. “Out!” I cried. “My attention is not so easily diverted. To you I can never be anything more than a candidate for your next chère amie. Therefore incapable of threatening the purity of the Deverell line. So as a motive for murder, that one is pitiful. A chimera of your own invention. Good-night, my lord!”
Mortified, I stared at my outstretched arm, pointing at the door. Surely I could not have made such grandiose gesture, right out of a melodramatic theatrical I had seen at a country fair. I dropped my hand, whispered an anguished, “Please go.”
Anthony, who had leaped to his feet the moment I did, gave me a long look. “You are mistaken,” he said. “I would never offer you such disrespect.”
“You are in my bedchamber—”
“Not for the first time!”
“How dare—”
“Quiet!” His arms trapped me, pulling me close. His lips came down on mine. Claiming. Possessing. Igniting a flame all too ready to be sparked into life.
For a moment—several moments, if truth be told—I was lost, savoring my dreams come true. But I was no longer seventeen, no longer starry-eyed about a world that was benign, free of evil, pain, and death. I pulled my lips just far enough away to whisper, “Go. Just go.”
Anthony stepped back, the flick of his scowling glance piercing what was left of my foolish heart.
And then he was gone, leaving me standing there, my mind as topsy-turvy as it had ever been in my twenty-three years of life. Did Anthony actually think me respectable enough to be a candidate for marriage?
Surely not.
On the other hand, how better to get around the Nurse-Companion-Disgraced Young Miss who was Lucinda Neville than hint at a serious attachment?
You’re a fool, Luce. Ten times a fool. That man is dangerous.
Guilty as charged. I made no attempt to argue.
With the stiff movements of an automaton, I prepared for bed. Needless to say, sleep was a long time coming.
Chapter 28
Nurse Tompkins continued to watch me like a hawk. Precisely as I watched her. On our outings, Nick and I ventured no far
ther than the kitchen garden or the terrace outside the ballroom. Turning our backs on the paths to the grotto, the pond, and the maze, on the rose arbors, the shady vine-covered passages, even the boxwood hedges that marked the formal gardens, we remained close to the house. I, ever watchful; Nick, a bit restless, as if questioning the loss of more varied scenery.
I resumed attending church with Lady Winterbourne and Anthony. The furor instigated by Lady Dalrymple’s accusations seemed to have subsided—evidently, reason had prevailed, although a general wariness lingered. I forced myself to nod graciously, smiled when offered the slightest sign of warmth. If some noted the coolness between Lord Thornbury and his mother’s companion, I could only hope this would confirm the innocence of my position at Winterbourne.
The days dragged on, tension rising as we approached the earliest date on which we could expect the courier—more accurately, the investigator— to return from Greece. One afternoon, while Nick was napping and I was escaping Nurse Tompkins’s inimical stares in the quiet of the morning room, I heard a gentle rapping on the framework of the open door. To my astonishment, Petros Andreadis loomed in the doorway.
“Beg pardon, Miss Neville. Not want frighten you. Talk, please? Important.”
No reason for my heart to beat faster, my throat to go dry. Except Anthony’s warnings, though his motive was dubious at best.
“Please sit down.” I waved Mr. Andreadis to the seat I usually occupied when Lady Winterbourne and I discussed the plans for the day. For as much as half a minute, he studied the strong, sun-browned hands fisted in his lap. Finally, he looked up, his dark eyes serious, and said, “I troubled, miss. Not know who tell. Then I think maybe you. Good to my Adara. Good to baby. Some say bad things . . . but not right. You not want hurt baby.”
“Never!”
“If English lord and Adara married . . . if there is proof”—he emphasized the word, as if proud he had conquered its meaning—“then baby is someday markis”?
“Yes. He would one day be the Marquess of Winterbourne.”
“All this?” Mr. Andreadis waved a hand around the room, toward the window with its view of the gardens, the pond, the maze, and dots of white sheep beyond the ha-ha.
“And more. Lord Winterbourne owns several properties, although this one is the most extensive.”
“And much money.”
“Yes, I presume he has a good many investments as well.”
“A-ah.”
Was Mr. Andreadis just now realizing this? Or was he merely confirming what he had known for some time? But why? There had to be a reason for this conversation.
And at last, here it was.
“Mr. Metcalfe say Greek baby cannot be markis. Only English baby. Big fight, he say, if baby stay here. Much money if I take baby home to Adara’s parents. More money if I swear no wedding.” He paused, running agitated fingers through his short black curls. “Petros Andreadis not need money. Not take if starving! Adara good girl. Good family. No wedding, she no go with English lord. Petros not lie! Not insult my Adara.”
He groaned, pounded a fist on his knee. “But . . . I afraid. For me. For baby. I say I think about it.” Shoulders hunched, he ducked his head, the picture of guilt.
“When?” I asked. “When did this happen?”
“Four times he ask. Four times I say no.”
Merciful heavens. Every word he spoke had the ring of truth. “And you have told no one until now?”
“Naí.”
“Not even Lord Thornbury?”
His head jerked up, his dark brown eyes flashing incredulity. “Thornbury? You crazy?”
A sigh rippled through me. One I hoped did not show. Some said love was madness; perhaps my persistence in wanting Anthony to be innocent in spite of all evidence to the contrary was exactly that.
“I have sometimes wondered,” I said at last, “if the best thing for Nick—the safest thing—might be to send him to his grandparents in Greece. But then I tell myself he must not lose his heritage. If he is Thornbury, he must stay here, live the life of an earl, learn to be a marquess—which is a very high title indeed.”
“Better long life as Greek than short life as Englishman!”
To which, of course, I could have no argument.
I thanked Mr. Andreadis and assured him I would do my best to find a solution. He went off, still looking glum, but I at least had one reason to feel slightly better. I no longer feared that Petros Andreadis was going to give false testimony that might rob Nick of his inheritance. Nor was he a villain. He was, in fact, exactly what he said he was—a man who had loved a woman so much he followed her to a country far away, even after she married another. A form of madness, I supposed, but I preferred to think he was merely looking out for her, and hoping, of course, that the widow would turn to him in her time of need.
So . . . one villain eliminated. One villain confirmed. Metcalfe.
The big question: what to do now?
Confide in Lady Winterbourne? Follow my heart and take a chance on Anthony? Take Nick and run?
Not that offering a bribe to authenticate Anthony’s right as heir to Winterbourne meant that either Mr. Metcalfe or Lord Winterbourne had plotted murder, and yet the alternative—by the process of elimination, Anthony—was too heinous to contemplate.
In the end, for Nick’s sake, I chose Lady Winterbourne. But only after disciplining myself to “sleep on it.” One night to sort the facts, contemplate the ramifications of bringing Mr. Andreadis’s allegations into the open . . .
When morning came, however, nothing was changed. Except that I was heavy-eyed and down-hearted.
At my customary time I entered the morning room, settled myself on the chair next to Lady Winterbourne’s desk, and plunged into the whole of my conversation with Petros Andreadis. The entire time I spoke, she sat there, gazing down at the menus spread before her, almost as if she heard not a word.
As my tale wound to a close and she still showed no reaction, I stated flatly, “This is not a surprise.”
“No.” Just when I thought she would say no more, Lady Winterbourne added, “Nor to Anthony. We did not wish to admit Winterbourne was so far gone that such thoughts could enter his head. His illness . . .”
“Mr. Metcalfe did not suffer an apoplexy,” I pointed out.
“No, no indeed,” she murmured. “But his loyalty . . . beyond all bounds.” Her aristocratic posture slumped, the Marchioness of Winterbourne dissolving into nothing more than a wife and mother caught up in a monstrous crime.
“The attempts at murder,” I asked. “Do you truly believe they were instigated by the marquess?”
“Anthony and I would like to think not, but that Metcalfe would act on his own seems doubtful.”
I asked the fateful question. “You acquit Anthony of any part in this?”
In an instant Lady Winterbourne went from stoic to a waterfall of tears. “Oh, my dear,” she gasped, “I can only pray so. That my husband is not in his right mind I can at least grasp, but that Anthony . . . It is too much, more than I can bear!”
I rushed to close the morning room door, lest her sobs be heard throughout the house. Then I bent down and folded her into my arms, dripping a few tears of my own. If she could not be certain if the ultimate villainy lay with her husband or her son, how could I?
Eventually, we both climbed up to the nursery and, without naming names, confirmed that there was indeed a plot against Nick’s life, and everyone on the nursery staff, including the footman stationed at the door, must be even more vigilant. And at long last, Lady Winterbourne told them that Nick was quite possibly the heir to Winterbourne.
Interestingly, there were more nods than gasps of surprise. I suspected not only the staff but likely the entire village had made their way past the more lurid explanations offered by Lady Dalrymple and her ilk, sniffing out the mystery of the babe in the attic some time ago.
After what sounded suspiciously like a snort, Nurse Tompkins turned to me, eased her customary
scowl, and said, “Beg pardon, miss. I knew there was a threat lurking about, but I turned my eyes in the wrong direction.”
“Most understandable,” I granted, “considering the virulence of the rumors.” We exchanged our first semi-friendly look. Not that I would ever approve her methods in the nursery!
“My lady, my lady!” A footman, whose position was primarily in the entrance hall far below, stood in the nursery door, eyes big with news. “Babcock says to fetch you straight way. Two men just come from London. One of ’em tha one what went to Greece.”
Oh, dear God! The nightmare was about to be over.
One way, or the other.
Chapter 29
The footman led us to the drawing room, presumably because the study could not accommodate the number of people assembled for the occasion. Lady Winterbourne sat on the sofa, waving me to a place beside her. Anthony stood in front of the fireplace, flanked by two strangers. Mr. Metcalfe, who was slumped in an upholstered chair facing the sofa, did not stand when we entered the room. He looked ready to eat nails. Off to one side, Petros Andreadis resumed his seat, rigidly upright in a straight-back chair, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
We all looked to Anthony, and in that moment I hoped Mr. Andreadis lied. I wanted Anthony to be the hero who won through, living to a ripe old age as the sixth Marquess of Winterbourne. Surely Nick would be happier growing up carefree in the land of his mother’s birth . . .
Nonsense! An unworthy flight of fancy.
The trouble was, I loved them both—Anthony and Nick. And only one would be the winner today.
Disgusted with myself, I focused my attention to the introductions. The Deverell’s London solicitor was Mr. Betancourt; the investigator just returned from Greece, Mr. Spurlock. Both had sharp eyes and an air of cool competence that defied argument. Though it was clear Mr. Spurlock—the taller and stronger—led a more active life.
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