The Music Box

by Andrea Kane

  "It's good to see you too, my lady," Bryce returned, his voice raw as childhood memories slammed from past to present at a breakneck pace. "You're looking well-precisely as I remembered you, in fact." He kissed her hand.

  "Hardly. But bless you for saying that." Her lips curved, and she released his hands with great reluctance. "Please, sit. Chaunce will fetch our refreshment. Then we'll talk."

  Nodding, Bryce waited for her to be seated, then lowered himself into a library chair. "I came as soon as I got your message."

  "Yes. I hoped you would." She fell silent as

  Chaunce reentered and placed a tray on the side table. "Shall I pour, my lady?" the butler inquired. "No, thank you, Chaunce. I'll pour." "Very good. Will there be anything else?" "Not at this time. I'll summon you shortly."

  "Of course, my lady." Chaunce bowed. "Enjoy

  your visit."

  Lady Nevon waited until the door had closed behind him. Then she turned her attention back to Bryce. "I have so very much to say to you. I always have, though I never could. But now, with Richard dead ..."

  "Please accept my sympathy on your loss."

  Her brows rose. "Why would you offer something you can't possibly feel?"

  "I beg to differ with you. I do indeed feel sympathy. Granted, it's for you, not the duke. But my personal opinion of him detracts nothing from the fact that he was your brother. The sympathy I'm offering is therefore quite genuine, I assure you."

  A small smile curved Lady Nevon's lips. "You haven't changed, Bryce. You're still as straightforward and honest as ever. And as skilled at driving home your point. 'Tis no wonder no other barrister in England can compare with you. I thank you for your kind wishes. As for my feelings, they're mixed. You, better than anyone, know how very different my brother and I were. I loved him-but I very seldom liked him. To be frank, a part of me feels naught but relief at his death." She inclined her head. "Do I sound like a monster?"

  "No, Lady Nevon. You sound human."

  In reply, she took up the coffeepot, poured two steaming cups. "Lady Nevon. How very formal. Tell me, Bryce, after all these years, do you think you might call me Hermione?"

  "If it would please you."

  "It would." She handed him a cup, along with the tray of cinnamon cakes. "I trust these are still your favorites?"

  "They are."

  "Excellent. My cook has made dozens. Please help yourself."

  Bryce placed two cakes on his plate, lounging back in a posture that was deceptively casual. "Forgive me, my lady, but am I the fly and you the spider?"

  Lady Nevon's lips paused at the rim of her cup. "What on earth do you mean?"

  "Only that you and your staff seem to be making the most extraordinary effort to please me. Am I being led to slaughter?"

  12

  13

  A breath of laughter greeted his assessment. "No, Bryce. I assure you, you're quite safe." Her laughter faded, replaced by a sad, wistful look. "'Tis only that I thought this day might never come, that I might never open my home to you as I have my heart. If I've gone too far ... caused you any discomfort. .."

  "Of course not." Bryce felt a stab of remorse-and more than a twinge of guilt. "I apologize. My comment was rude and ungrateful." He pursed his lips, staring into his coffee. "To be frank, I'm not certain how to act. I owe you my childhood, my schooling, my career-my very life. But your message made me distinctly uneasy."

  "My message, or me?"

  "That depends upon your reason for sending it."

  "I thought as much." Hermione emitted a long, resigned sigh. "You're furious with me." Setting down her saucer, she added, "I don't blame you. I've neglected you all these years, left you virtually alone since the Lyndleys died. My only excuse is that I'm weak. I feared for your life-and my own. I hadn't the strength to combat Richard's reaction had he guessed what I'd done, what I continued to do. So I kept my distance, to protect you-and myself. I'm a coward, Bryce. And because of it, you've had to grow up with only my letters for family. Can you ever forgive me?"

  Bryce shoved his plate aside, amazed and appalled by such unwarranted self-censure. "Forgive you-for what? Sparing me the horrors of being cast into the streets to die like an animal? Secreting me in a place where Whitshire couldn't find me? Giving me two fine parents, a life, and a future?"

  "Perhaps merely for having so heartless a man for a sibling," she replied quietly.

  "Lineage is an accident of fate. I, better than anyone, know that-from firsthand experience. Let's compare my blood ties with my actual ones. Whitshire, the man who sired me, not only refused to acknowledge me but did all he could to guarantee my

  14

  demise-and all so he could be spared the embarrassment of a bastard son. And my mother? She was either too weak, too frightened, or too selfish to keep me. She abandoned me on your doorstep and rushed back to the stage and her flourishing career. So much for bonds of the flesh. Now let's discuss true bonds. The Lyndleys raised me. They were fine, decent people who taught me right from wrong, conveyed to me-by example as well as by word-the importance of hard work, gave me a sense of belonging. They were my actual parents, Hermione-in every way that matters. They still would be, had that wave of influenza not killed them when I was ten."

  "A tragedy I should have relayed to you, along with the rest of the disconcerting truth, in person, not by way of some cold, passionless letter."

  "Your letter was neither cold nor passionless." Bryce visualized the bewildered ten-year-old boy who'd pored over an explanation that had forever altered his life. "It was filled with pain and sorrowand a fervent wish that things could have been different."

  "Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to come to you? To ride to Eton and sit beside you as I explained the details of your parentage, answered whatever questions I could? To assure you, time and again, that you were precisely the same extraordinary young man you'd always been-that nothing and no one could change that fact?"

  Hermione pressed her trembling palms together. "But I didn't dare. Richard's connections extended to every prestigious member of Eton's admissions committee. There was but one man, Edward Strong, I trusted, and that was because he'd been a longstanding friend of my late husband, John. Edward was the person through whom I made all my anonymous payments for your schooling. As for the others-if any of them had seen me, there's not a doubt Richard would have heard about it. My brother was far from

  15

  stupid. He'd have questioned me, delved until he discovered the truth. I couldn't risk it. I also wanted you to have more than my word on your true lineage. I wanted you to have written confirmation, should a situation ever arise in which verifying your true identity would prove necessary or useful. So, along with my letter, I had my messenger deliver all the papers your mother provided me when she abandoned you on my doorstep. I sent all those documents off to you-and then I waited, half praying you'd contact me, knowing full well you wouldn't."

  "You implored me not to," Bryce reminded her, his tone more strained than he intended. "You wrote that we could have no contact other than through your letters. You said you feared for my life if Whitshire were to learn the truth."

  "I most certainly did." Hermione paused. "And if I hadn't? Would you have contacted me had you not been forbidden to?"

  "Probably not." Bryce looked away. "At least not at once. I needed time to make sense of things, to accept the enormous revelation I'd been handed." He swallowed. "Finding out I'd been lied to for ten years was quite a blow-one I had to contend with, and recover from, on my own."

  "I didn't sleep for weeks, worrying over your reaction," Hermione added softly.

  "I got over it." Bryce drew a sharp breath, determined to bring this conversation to an immediate halt. "In any case, you have nothing to apologize for. Certainly not for Whitshire, who committed his sins of his own accord. What's more, he's dead. Therefore he's no longer a threat to either of us. So why are we discussing him?"

  "Why indeed." Hermione studied Bry
ce's expression thoughtfully.

  "Let's get back to your note. Affection notwithstanding, it didn't sound to me as if you were inviting

  me to a reunion. Your tone was terse, strained. So why don't you tell me what's on your mind."

  Hermione smoothed her hair in a light, fluttering gesture. "Goodness, but you're formidable. I wouldn't want to face you in a court of law."

  A comer of Bryce's mouth lifted. "That's as it should be, given the enormity of your investment. You ensured me the finest education and trainingEton, Oxford, the Inns of Court."

  "I paid only for you to attend. The fact that you flourished at each of those fine institutions was your feat and your feat alone." Rising, Hermione glided slowly across the library, in that majestic way Bryce remembered marveling at during her visits to the secluded cottage she'd established as the Lyndleys' home-his home.

  The first and last home he'd known.

  Fetching a volume from the bookshelf, Hermione opened it, smoothing out the pages of what appeared to be a scrapbook of sorts. "You finished at the top of your class, year after year," she cited aloud, flipping through the pages, caressing each one as if it were a precious jewel. "These are letters of commendation from the headmaster at Eton and from countless tutors at Oxford and the Inns of Court. You became thoroughly versed in both law French and law Latin. You were one of the youngest and most avid students to sit at Westminster Hall, and are now perhaps the most eloquent barrister to address the Chancery, King's Bench, and the Common Pleas Courts."

  Again she turned the page, pointing at a newspaper clipping. "You're working toward establishing a General School of Law, which would teach both those reading for the bar and articled clerks alike. You're also making astonishing headway in the area of married women's property law, which would afford women rights they once never dreamed possible." Hermione looked up, proud tears glistening in her

  16

  17

  eyes. "And I have it on the finest authority that you are not only sought after by every respected solicitor in England but that, if the benchers at Lincoln's Inn have their way, you will one day be the youngest barrister ever to become Queen's Counsel-an incredible feat, given your humble origins." A half smile. "Shall I continue?"

  "That scrapbook is a history of my life?" Bryce managed, stunned beyond comprehension. "You've actually- kept records of every step of my schooling and my career?"

  "Indeed I have. And not only through letters from the schools you attended and newspaper clippings extolling your fine legal accomplishments. My investigators have been quite thorough, informing me of all those things not covered by newspaper clippings and letters: your financial security, your connections to all the right people. So, yes, Bryce. I took-take-great pride in your accomplishments. And I follow your life with the utmost care."

  "I see." His throat felt oddly tight.

  "Did you think my only contact with you was

  through the occasional letter I dashed off?"

  "In truth? Yes. Why in the name of heaven would

  you want to ... ?"

  "Because my investment, as you call it, delves far deeper than you realize; it was more emotional than financial. Yes, I paid for your schooling. Yes, I bought your clothing, books, everything you needed to get by. But you're forgetting why I did all that, why I sequestered you in my late husband's obscure little Bedford cottage, selected my trusted servants the Lyndleys to fill the role of your parents while making sure Richard never knew. I did that, Bryce, because I cared about you-as I care about you still. You're my nephew, the closest thing I have to a child of my own. Were it not for Richard's coldhearted stubbornness . . ." Abruptly she swayed, clutching the bookshelf for support.

  "Hermione, what is it?" Bryce was by her side in an instant, seizing her elbow and leading her back to the settee. "Are you ill?"

  "Not ill. Old." A tired smile curved her lips. "Old and very, very weary."

  "Nonsense." A muscle flexed in Bryce's jaw as he settled her in her seat, perched on the settee beside her. "I've never met anyone with more energy than you."

  "You haven't seen me since you were eight, Bryce. Twenty-three years is a long time. I've aged-a lot." She patted his hand. "Which brings me to the reason why I summoned you. I need your help, if you'll agree to offer it."

  "Consider it yours. How can I assist you?"

  Another smile. "You're as gallant as you are intelligent and honest. I've chosen well."

  "Chosen ... for what?"

  "To begin with, to revise my will. I have changes to make, things I want to secure, people I want to provide for. 'Tis imperative that all my papers and affairs be put in order. I'm asking you to take care of that for me."

  "Of course. But what about your customary solicitor?"

  "He's perfectly adequate. In this case, however, I need someone superior, someone I trust implicitly to effect these changes. I need you."

  "I'm flattered." Bryce crossed one long leg over the other. "Very well, Hermione, I'd be pleased to lend my services."

  "Good. Then you'll stay a few days."

  "A few days?" His brows drew together in puzzlement.

  "Certainly. It will take at least that long to review the details. I'll have Chaunce gather up all the household accounts and we can go through them together."

  Bryce studied Hermione's earnest expression closely. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn he

  18

  19

  was being manipulated. But why? What could she hope to gain-unless it was company? Could she truly be lonely, frightened by her weakened condition? If that was the case, Bryce had no intention of denying her what she wished.

  "All right," he agreed. "A few days, then. We'll revise your will and get your affairs in order."

  "Excellent." She beamed, a bit of color returning to her cheeks as she lifted her cup to her lips. "That takes care of my immediate dilemma. Once we've addressed those issues, we can discuss the rest of your duties-those associated with your inheritance of my estate, your overseeing of my home and loved ones." Grandly she gestured toward the plate of cinnamon cakes. "Please have another."

  "What did you say?" Bryce demanded, his every muscle going rigid.

  "I merely urged you to-"

  "Not about the cakes. Before that."

  "Before that . . ." Hermione pursed her lips as she contemplated Bryce's question. "I believe I said we can discuss the remainder of your duties later. Is there some problem with that?"

  "Hermione." Bryce gripped his knees. "Let's stop playing games. Did you just imply you'll be appointing me as beneficiary to your estate?"

  "I didn't imply it. I stated it. Why-is that so surprising? As I said, you are my nephew, whether anyone else is aware of it or not. You're also a brilliant, accomplished, and compassionate man. Knowing you'll be inheriting my home, looking out for those I care for, will grant me peace of mind as my time draws near."

  "So that's what this visit is all about." "Whatever do you mean?"

  Bryce tamped down on his exasperation, his trained legal mind striking out in a pragmatic direction. "Whitshire's son, Thane-he's your nephew, too. And were he your beneficiary, your estate could

  pass down without a shred of scandal. Surely you've considered that?"

  "Of course I have. And you're quite right-as my legitimate nephew, Thane is, in the eyes of the world, the obvious choice. Up till Richard's death, he was my only choice. But that's no longer true, I'm relieved to say."

  "Relieved? Why? Is Whitshire's son untrustworthy?"

  "Oh, no, anything but. Thane is honest, decisive, and intelligent-a most remarkable man. Unfortunately, he's also overburdened with all the obligations associated with the management of Richard's empire, which was evidently more vast than any of us realized. The last thing he needs is another estate-and its residents-to oversee."

  "That doesn't explain your relief that he's no longer the only possible choice of beneficiaries. If he's such a fine man, I would think you'd be ea
ger to turn everything over to him-and terribly disappointed that his other commitments preclude him from accepting."

  "That's why you're the barrister and I'm the wise old matron," Hermione replied, sipping at her coffee. "You think with your mind, and I with my heart. And what my heart tells me-what it's always told me-is that you're the best, the only, choice."

  The only choice?

  That prompted another thought.

  "Your heart seems to have forgotten your niece," Bryce inserted dryly. "Even if, for whatever reason, you've deemed Thane unsuitable as your heir, that still leaves her."

  Now it was Hermione's turn to look surprised. "My niece?"

  "Yes. I met her a short while ago as my phaeton rounded the drive. Gaby, I believe she said her name was. I distinctly heard her refer to you as Aunt Hermione."

  20

  21

  Hermione chuckled. "I should have known better than to think Gaby could wait to meet you when the others did. She has an abundance of curiosity-it's twice the size she is."

  "Actually, she didn't intend to meet me. She was pursuing a rabbit and rushed into my path. She specifically asked that we not make our introduction a formal one so she wouldn't disappoint you."

  "She could never disappoint me," Hermione amended warmly. "Gaby is the most precious person in my life-with the exception of you."

  "Is she related to you through your late husband?"

  "No. She's not related to me at all-at least not by blood. But as you yourself just said, blood ties are not always the most meaningful. I love Gaby every bit as much as if she were my daughter. In fact, I've raised her for thirteen years, ever since she was orphaned at five."