Bromwell put his head in his hands and tried to think clearly, dispassionately, although he felt sick. How much could he trust anything she said? “Why would she tell me about Lord Sturmpole at all if she were guilty? She could have kept pretending she was Lady Eleanor. I didn’t doubt her story, and neither did anyone else at Granshire Hall.”
“That puzzles me, too,” Drury admitted. “I can think of only one possible explanation. She confessed the truth—or part of it—because she didn’t want to deceive you anymore and she truly felt justified in robbing Lord Sturmpole. However, if you knew about her parents’ crime, you would be less likely to believe her version of events—and rightly so.”
Bromwell got to his feet, too agitated to sit. “I should go home. I have to find out the truth.”
“I thought you might feel that way,” Drury said. “I’ve sent word to Juliette to be ready to leave first thing in the morning.” He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and regarded him with sympathy. “Do nothing hasty, Buggy. Wait until we’re sure we have all the facts.”
Chapter Fifteen
There appears to be two primary responses to danger among all creatures—the urge to run or the resolve to stand and fight. I would say the first is the most natural, provided there is the opportunity to flee. The second impulse can be extremely strong among mothers, however, if they have offspring to protect.
Is this urge to save their children at all costs merely instinct, or is it love?
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
Nell smiled at Billings as he and Brutus walked beside her through the woods towards Lord Bromwell’s laboratory. The countess was napping, and the day was fine, if cool, making Nell yearn for the fresh air and freedom of the forest. It was by pleasant coincidence that she met Billings and Brutus shortly after she entered the dim confines of the trees, or so he’d implied, although she seemed to encounter him every time she left the formal gardens to walk in the woods.
She enjoyed his company, especially when he told her some of Lord Bromwell’s boyhood adventures, and she suspected he liked telling the tales as much as she liked to hear them.
Today was no different, for they hadn’t gone very far before he said, “Did you know young Bromwell taught himself to swim?”
“No,” she replied, although it seemed logical to assume he possessed that ability, or he might have gone down with his ship.
“Well, he did, when he about ten years old and home for the summer. He was sure his mother wouldn’t want him to try, so he didn’t tell anybody his plan. Then one day, I’m walking toward the pond and I hear this splashing. Odd sound it was, I thought, so I went to see if there was a wounded duck or sommat like that in the water.
“Instead, I seen him in the pond, his head bobbing along, as he’s going from one side t’other.
“Well, my lady, you could have blown me down with a fa…feather,” he amended. “And then I run over to where he’d end up.
“What the devil are you doing?’ I asked him. He climbs out of the pond buck naked, smiling like he’s just found a pot of gold and says, ‘Swimming.’
“‘Where’d you learn to do that?’ says I. ‘School?’
“‘No, Billings,’ he says pulling on his trousers, ‘I watched the frogs. It’s quite simple, really.’
“Ain’t he a wonder?” Billings concluded with that shy yet proud smile that often came to his face when he spoke of the viscount.
“I suppose his parents never found out about that?” Nell asked.
“Lord no! Although he told the countess he could swim before he sailed.”
“His parents probably thought, as you did, that he was taught at school.”
Billings sniffed. “If you ask me, he didn’t learn anything useful there, just Latin and Greek—and a lot o’ good that done ’im during his voyage.”
“In his book he gives you credit for many of the practical skills that helped them after the shipwreck,” Nell noted, shivering as she contemplated what might have happened if Lord Bromwell hadn’t had such a friend in his childhood.
“Aye, he did,” Billings said, blushing like a bashful girl at her first ball, “but he would have managed regardless. I never knew a boy so clever and at home in the woods, even if he is a viscount.”
When they reached a fork in the path, one way leading to the laboratory, the other off between the shading beeches, ashes and oaks, Billings tugged his forelock. “Well, I’d best be getting over to the pasture. Set some traps there the other day, or rabbits’d be eating the earl’s flowers. G’day, my lady.”
“Good day, Billings,” she replied as the man walked away, the dog trotting beside him.
The more she heard of the viscount, Nell reflected as she continued toward the laboratory, the more there was to admire. To be sure, he wasn’t perfect—he could be stubborn and perhaps too preoccupied with spiders—but on the whole, he was one of the finest, bravest, kindest men she’d ever met.
She reached the stone building and, as she entered, thought again that it really should have a lock of some description. Rumors and the fear of large and poisonous spiders would be some deterrent and there wasn’t anything of value to anyone but a naturalist or scholar within, but she would feel terrible if anything happened to his collection and he would surely feel worse.
Once inside, she strolled along the shelves, studying the jars and their contents. To be sure, she would hate to come upon some of those preserved specimens alive, but they were becoming like familiar faces and she no longer felt abhorrence when she looked at them. Indeed, she’d taken to studying the various living spiders in the building, noting when there was a new web and, as Lord Bromwell had done in his youth, marvelling at the delicate structures. How was it that they didn’t become entangled themselves? And how did they manage to make the threads so evenly spaced?
She paused near the end of the shelves and for the first time noticed something behind two of the jars. Sliding the jars out of the way, she realized it was a dart or tiny, pointed arrow with feathers at one end. She put out her hand to bring it closer—
“Don’t touch that!”
She whirled around at Lord Bromwell’s command, nearly knocking one of the jars from the shelf. “You’re back!”
He strode into the laboratory, looking like a vengeful god. “As you can see. What are you doing here?”
Why had he returned early? Why was he looking at her like that? Why was he speaking so harshly? “I sometimes come here to be alone and look at your collection.”
She clasped her hands as her anxious gaze searched his face. “Has something happened, my lord? We weren’t expecting you to return so soon.”
She thought of his mother, with whom he might have already spoken, and an explanation for his altered behavior came to her. “Your mother told you, didn’t she?”
“Told me what?” he replied with a frown.
He was going to find out sooner or later, so there was no reason not to tell him. “Your mother’s met the real Lady Eleanor. She knew I was an impostor from the start and thought you were lying because I’m your mistress.”
His eyes flared with surprise, although it was quickly gone, replaced by an analytical expression devoid of emotion, as if she were one of his specimens. “Why didn’t she tell me, or my father?”
“She thought you already knew and that we were both hiding the truth from them so that I could stay at Granshire Hall. I told her the truth, about what had happened with Lord Sturmpole, and that I was most certainly not your mistress.”
In the stern line of his lips she saw Lord Bromwell’s iron will, the same force that had kept him on his chosen path despite those who tried to stop him. What brought that to the fore when he looked at her now? “Since she already knew I wasn’t Lady Eleanor, I thought it best to be honest.”
Instead of relaxing, his expression grew even more stern and judgmental. “Tell only what is necessary when it’s necessary, is that your theory? When were you planning to
be completely honest with me?”
“I have been!” she protested.
Except on one point, her conscience chided—the depth and extent of her feelings for him.
“No, you have not.”
She stared at him, aghast. What did he think she had kept back? “I told you everything that happened with Lord Sturmpole, exactly as it happened.”
“I don’t refer to the events with Lord Sturmpole, although what I’ve learned may have a bearing on that, as well,” he said. He nodded at the sofa, addressing her as if he were her employer inquiring about her qualifications. “Please sit down.”
“I prefer to stand,” she said, straightening her shoulders as she faced him squarely. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, my lord, but I have been completely honest with you.”
“Everything you’ve told me about yourself and your history is true?”
“Yes!” she insisted. “I swear it!”
“Including what you said about your parents? That they died of a fever when you were at school?”
“Yes!” Was that the trouble? “I also told you my father gambled and died penniless. Did you learn something of his debts or his creditors?”
A horrible notion came to her. “Was Lord Sturmpole one of his creditors? Is that why he thought he could—?”
Lord Bromwell immediately shook his head. “No…at least, I don’t think so.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some papers. “Drury’s men—and they are very good at ferreting out information that can be relied upon to be accurate—have discovered certain information regarding your parents that differs from that you’ve told me.”
She sat heavily on the bench beside his worktable. “What information?”
“It is true that your mother died of fever.” His manner softened slightly. “Gaol fever, in Newgate Prison.”
“Prison?” she gasped. “What was she doing in prison?”
His visage relaxed even more, becoming less angry and more sympathetic. “She was facing the same charges of theft as your father, who is apparently alive and serving out his sentence in Botany Bay.”
As Nell stared at him, too stunned to speak, not willing to believe she’d heard aright, he handed her the papers. “These are copies of the court record of his trial, conviction and sentence, the manifest of the ship he sailed on and a list of the convicts who survived the voyage.”
As she looked down at the documents, the words on the pages swam before her eyes. Blinking, she looked up at Lord Bromwell. The spiders in their jars behind him began to shift and waver. Then the sheets of paper fell from her lap and spilled onto the floor, and everything around her went black.
Nell slowly became aware of a cool, damp cloth grazing her cheeks and forehead. Then she felt lips where the cloth had been, while Lord Bromwell’s deep voice softly called her name and said he was sorry.
She opened her eyes and discovered she wasn’t dreaming. Covered by a blanket, she was lying on the sofa in his laboratory, and he was seated beside her. A basin of water was on a low stool beside him.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have blindly assumed you’d lied. I should have allowed for the possibility that you had told me what you believed to be true,” he said, lifting the cool, damp cloth from her forehead.
About her parents. Who were not both dead, although she’d been told that they were.
“Are you certain that what you’ve told me is the truth?” she whispered, grasping his hand as if she’d been washed overboard and he was the lifeline.
Lord Bromwell nodded his head. “Drury’s sources are always accurate and there is documentation. According to what was discovered, it’s possible your mother might have been found innocent, but the evidence against your father was damning. Perhaps that’s why he preferred to let you think he was dead.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, wondering if that was true.
And no wonder Lord Bromwell had looked at her as he had when he’d appeared at the laboratory that day, believing that she’d lied. “Did he steal because of his debts?”
“That seems the logical explanation. Who told you he was dead?”
“I got a letter from a vicar in Bristol—or at least someone who claimed to be a vicar,” she amended. How could she believe anyone or anything when it came to her parents now? “He said both my parents died of a contagious fever so they were buried right away. He regretted there was no money for a gravestone. I intended to purchase one after I’d earned the money from Lord Sturmpole, so I put off going there.
“I had no reason to believe what he wrote wasn’t true. I didn’t know my parents were even suspected of a crime, let alone arrested.”
“Do you remember the vicar’s name?”
“Smith.”
Lord Bromwell frowned. “A common name, but we should be able to find out if there was a vicar by that name in Bristol at that time. It could be, however, that your father wrote the letter or had a friend do it.”
To spare her pain and shame. “That could be,” she allowed, remembering her jovial father and pretty mother.
Had they known arrest was imminent when they’d sent her off to school?
“I had no reason not to believe the letter,” she said softly. “My mother, who had been a faithful correspondent, never wrote to me after I received it. Neither of them ever contacted me at all. If they had, I would have gone to them, no matter what they’d done. I would have tried to see them. To think of my mother dying in that awful place—”
She turned away to face the back of the sofa, choking back a sob.
“Cry if you like, Miss Springley,” he said gently. “I certainly won’t hold it against you. You’ve had a terrible shock, and my manner of telling you was inexcusably bad.”
She turned back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t think it would have mattered how you told me. And I’m grateful to know my father is alive, however I heard it. If not for you and your friend, I might never have known.”
“He’s over half finished his sentence,” Lord Bromwell noted. “He has only about three years left, and then he can return.”
As if he were coming back from the dead.
How would her father find her if she was living under another assumed name? How could she find him if she wanted to seek him out in three years’ time?
Lord Bromwell rose, taking the basin to the table. “So, my mother realized from the start you weren’t Lady Eleanor,” he said, clearly determined to talk of something else, “and she truly believed I would bring my lover home to meet my parents under an assumed name?”
She must put her father’s possible return out of her mind for now and concentrate on the present situation. “Because she hoped I was your mistress and would have the power to persuade you to stay in England.”
His eyes widened, and as if even his hair was surprised, that lock tumbled over his forehead again. “What did you say to that?”
“That I was not, and even if I thought I could convince you to stay in England, which I surely couldn’t, I wouldn’t.”
“I see,” he replied as he reached for the kettle and shook it to see if there was water within, his expression as grave as if he were making medicine. “How did she respond?”
“She asked me to stay here as her companion. I fear your father is not the most comforting of men.”
“No,” he agreed as he added more water to the kettle from the pitcher on the sideboard, “and certainly not where I’m concerned.”
He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, telling her—if she had any doubt—just how little power she had over him, regardless of any tender feelings he might have for her.
Which was just as well. “I won’t be able to stay now, of course.”
He glanced at her before he put the kettle on the crane and pushed it over the fire he must have kindled. “Why?”
“My father is a convicted felon, and I’m in danger of being arrested, too,” she reminded him.
“I don’t think yo
u need fear for your own fate. Drury and his solicitor friend are quite optimistic about your circumstances. They think Sturmpole can be persuaded to forgo any charges against you to avoid exposure of his own crimes. They’re not going to leave it at that, though. They both believe we should be able to find other employees who’ve suffered the same experience. We’re all determined to put a stop to the fellow.”
Although she felt some relief, she couldn’t be happy. She doubted she could ever be truly happy again. “I still think it would be better if I leave Granshire Hall as soon as possible, to spare you any difficulties that might ensue from your involvement with me.”
“If that is what you’d prefer.”
Prefer? She had no other choice. “I’m sure your mother can find another, more suitable companion.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured as the kettle began to whistle. “Where will you go?”
Somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter because he would not be there. “Ireland, perhaps. Or America.”
“So far?”
“This from a man who plans to sail around the world again?” she asked, trying to hide her anguish even as she went toward him.
“I suppose it’s different when you’re the one sailing,” he said, turning toward her as if they were connected by a strong, if slender, thread.
Their gazes met and held until he put up his hand as if to keep her away.
“I’ve been planning this expedition for months,” he said, desperation in his voice, despair and determination warring in his eyes, “ever since I returned, getting the best crew and raising the funds to buy the ship. I’ve got the ship and the men I want, and it’s only a matter of paying for provisions and setting sail. I’ve worked and planned for too long to abandon my expedition now. It’s not just about the spiders. We could find new plants that will provide medicines and new foods that can help feed the starving. I want to go, Nell. I need to go.”
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