by Music Box
Laughter rumbled from Bryce’s chest. “Formidable adversaries, indeed. Please assure Screech and Brick that I have no intention of harming you.”
“They know that.” Gaby turned her attention back to him, folding her arms across her breasts and rubbing the silken sleeves of her rose-colored gown. “Animals have extraordinary instincts. They must in order to survive. My two escorts are merely standing guard, just in case.”
Bryce watched the movement of Gabrielle’s delicate hands, remembering the exquisite music they’d created earlier that day. He could well understand why Hermione wanted to protect her. There was something rare and fine about Gabrielle, something that inspired one’s protective instincts, brought them clamoring to life.
“What was it you wanted to discuss?” Gaby prompted, inclining her head in question. “Have you decided to accept Aunt Hermione’s offer, to allow her to bequeath Nevon Manor to you?”
“Yes. But that in itself is not what I want to discuss with you.” Bryce cleared his throat again. “I want to discuss the reason Hermione chose me as her beneficiary.”
“I already know why. You’re a knowledgeable barrister. You’re also kind, compassionate, and a dear family friend.”
“What I am is Hermione’s nephew—not only in heart but in fact.”
Gaby’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”
With a heavy sigh, Bryce stared downward, examining the plush grass beneath his feet. “Neither do I, but I’ll do my best to explain.” A weighted pause. “This is going to be even more difficult than I expected. You see, I’ve never spoken of this before. Not to anyone.”
“The subject is painful.”
“Once, yes. Not anymore. Now the subject is just awkward, like an old indiscretion I’d prefer to forget. Only in this case, the indiscretion wasn’t mine. I was, however, its result.”
“An indiscretion—does this involve a relative of Lord Nevon’s?”
“No. It involves a relative of Lady Nevon’s. The Duke of Whitshire, to be exact—pardon me, the late Duke of Whitshire.” Bryce spoke the words dispassionately, as if they told the story of someone other than he.
“Thirty-two years ago His Grace enjoyed a brief liaison with a very young and reputedly beautiful actress named Anne Parks. Neither of them planned on Miss Parks conceiving the duke’s child. But conceive she did. The question of paternity was a non-issue; apparently, Whitshire was Miss Parks’s first and only lover. In any case, when her pregnancy was discovered, she found herself out of work and out of money. She was frantic. She went to Whitshire’s estate, told him of her dilemma. He had her thrown out, barred from the grounds. She then tried writing to him—several times—pleading for his help. He wrote back, vowing he’d have her jailed if she dared claim him as the child’s father. Evidently she didn’t know where to turn, a dilemma that was greatly eased by a decided lack of maternal instinct. She gave birth to the child, then shifted her problem to the capable shoulders of the duke’s older sister, Hermione, whose benevolent nature was well known to nobility and commoners alike.
“In short, Miss Parks left the newborn babe on Hermione’s doorstep, along with the letters to and from Whitshire as proof that he was the boy’s sire. Hermione was moved—and furious with her brother for abandoning his own flesh and blood. She confronted him. They had a fierce argument, during which he admitted the truth but refused to acknowledge the babe, even in secret, demanding that it be returned to its mother and forgotten. That, however, was no longer an option. The chit had already taken off, soon after to die in a brothel. Upon discovering that fact, Hermione decided to adopt the child and announced this decision to her brother. He became crazed with rage. He swore he’d kill her and the babe if she dared threaten his marriage and his legitimate son by keeping … let’s see … if I recall correctly, his exact written words in describing the child were ‘the coarse urchin bastard.’ He demanded that it be thrown into the gutter or left on the steps of a workhouse, anyplace where it would remain anonymous or die.
“Needless to say, Hermione wouldn’t allow that, even though she was terrified by her brother’s threats and helpless to prevent them. Lord Nevon had passed away several years earlier, leaving her without an ally powerful enough to combat Whitshire. So she arranged for Lyndley, her late husband’s valet, and his wife, her trusted housekeeper, to move to Lord Nevon’s small Bedford cottage and raise Whitshire’s son as their own. This would enable him to have a home, a normal life, two fine parents, and ultimately the best education and future that Hermione’s money could buy.”
“Why do you keep referring to this child as ‘it’ or ‘him’?” Gaby demanded, her voice choked with emotion. “This is not some intangible being you’re describing. It’s you.”
Taken aback by the fervor of Gabrielle’s response, Bryce glanced swiftly at her face—and was stunned to see tears gathered in her eyes. “Very well, then: ‘I.’ And please don’t cry. My scars were minimal, and have long since faded.”
“I don’t believe that,” Gabrielle surprised him by saying. “Neither do you. Just this afternoon you claimed there are some things from which one never fully recovers. Now I understand what prompted you to say it—and why you reacted so fiercely to my mention of Whitshire.” She dashed the moisture from her cheeks. “Have you always known the truth about your parentage? Did Aunt Hermione tell you?”
“Eventually. But not until I was ten. When my parents—When the Lyndleys died of influenza, Hermione wrote to me. She told me everything, sent me the letters that had been left in the basket with me. But she also warned me to stay away from the duke— for my own good. She said that, much as she wanted to see me, it would be a fatal mistake for me to visit her. And she was right. If Whitshire had learned of my existence, he would have destroyed me. Worse, he would have destroyed Hermione. That I couldn’t allow, after all she’d done for me.
“Besides, if I’m to be honest, staying away posed no real sacrifice on my part. My true parents, those who had raised me, were dead, severing whatever connection I had to my past. What point would there be in coming forward? I had no desire even to lay eyes on Whitshire, much less acknowledge him. The only Rowland I felt an allegiance to was Hermione, and that allegiance meant keeping her safe and her life intact. Despite all their differences, she cared about her brother, but she feared him as well. I understood that, and I accepted it. I heeded her advice so that my life and Hermione’s could go on as they were. As for Hermione’s feelings for me …” Bryce swallowed, finally uttering something that had the power to affect him: “I had no idea how strong those were. I knew only that she’d saved my life, given me a future. But I truly believed that she did so out of kindness and charity, not out of any personal attachment. The deep emotional ties she feels for me—the ones you and I discussed earlier—those I learned of only today. I was shocked, and more moved than I can describe. I owe that woman everything. Which is why I’ve agreed to do something that prompted me to reveal all this to you.”
“And what is that?”
“To meet the late duke’s son.”
Incredulity widened Gaby’s eyes—incredulity that was instantly eclipsed by a spark of understanding. “Of course! Aunt Hermione would want you and Thane to become acquainted. That makes a world of sense.”
“Perhaps to you. I, on the other hand, see little point in our meeting, other than to please Hermione. Whitshire’s son has no idea of my existence, and I have no interest in his.”
“Oh, but Bryce, you must.” Gaby moved away from the tree, took the few steps that separated her from Bryce, and gazed fervently up at him. “He’s your brother.”
“That fact is as meaningless as the one which states that Whitshire is my father.”
“No, it’s not.” Gaby shook her head, sending waves of chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders. “It’s entirely different. The late duke was every bit as unworthy as you just described. Thane, on the other hand, is a brother you can be proud of.”
She paused, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, her delicate features drawn as she sought the right words. “I’m not merely saying that in response to your story. My own instincts recognized Aunt Hermione’s brother as a cold and unfeeling man years ago. True, I seldom came in contact with him—certainly not when I lived at his estate. He rarely mingled with the servants, and when he did, it was only to issue orders. But during the thirteen years in which I’ve lived at Nevon Manor, I’ve had ample opportunity to study him. And though I hate to speak ill of the dead, I must confess that the entire household became nervous and unsettled each time he visited—which, thankfully, wasn’t too often. He was impatient, biting, especially to those of our family who were physically incapable of doing his bidding as fast and as well as he liked.
“But the most difficult part was watching the change that came over Aunt Hermione whenever her brother was here. She went from proud and regal to quiet and apprehensive, like a beautiful bird whose song had been silenced. He was never actually cruel to her, but … let’s just say I heaved a sigh of relief each time His Grace’s coach disappeared around our drive.”
A muscle flexed in Bryce’s jaw. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand the differences between Aunt Hermione’s late brother and Thane. I’d never have encouraged you to seek out Richard Rowland; your assessment of him was totally accurate. But Thane is another story entirely. Unlike his father, Thane is considerate and gracious. I don’t think there’s a mean or condescending bone in his body.”
“He sounds noble indeed.”
“Indeed and in fact,” Gaby replied softly. “Whereas his father used to blatantly shun Lily, Jane, and the boys, avoiding any contact with them as if they carried some repugnant disease, Thane always arrived with a smile and a few sweets to dispense. And whereas his father constantly snapped at the servants, shoved his way past them as if they were dirt, Thane made certain to slow his pace, to follow their lead so as not to deprive them of their dignity.”
“If Thane is so bloody noble, why does Hermione claim he’s wrong for Nevon Manor and different from you and me?”
“Because he is,” Gaby answered calmly, in immediate accord with her aunt. “Thane is like the first notes of a sonata. He lacks the fullness, the richness, of the entire piece, without which the onset is merely a prelude, one that brushes the surface, but never really penetrates the heart and soul. Thane has so much potential. Unfortunately, he has no idea how to realize that potential. He isn’t shallow. He’s simply never had reason to unfold, never had occasion to call upon anything more profound than a practiced smile or a brilliant business maneuver. Remember, Bryce, your life has been much richer in experience, much deeper for the pain you’ve withstood—and overcome. Now that I think about it, you have an enormous amount to offer Thane. Why, you could be the very person to inspire him to flourish. Contemplate that prospect. If you were to help Thane grow, to become all he’s capable of being, you’d be enhancing more than just Aunt Hermione’s life. You’d be enhancing your brother’s life as well.”
Bryce sucked in his breath. “I can’t think of him in that capacity.”
“Perhaps one day you will.”
“Have you any idea how difficult—”
“Yes.” Gaby laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “When are the two of you to meet?”
“Tomorrow evening. At Whitshire, given that Thane’s period of mourning has just commenced. Hermione asked him if she might bring her legal adviser to dinner to discuss her affairs with Mr. Averley, the Whitshire steward.”
“And you’re that legal adviser.”
“Exactly.” Bryce covered Gaby’s hand with his, bluntly stating his purpose. “I want you to come with me.”
He could feel her fingers tense. “To do what?”
“That’s the reason I confided the truth to you about my past. Gabrielle, I have an enormous step to take. You have a similar step. For different reasons, we both have ghosts to confront at Whitshire. Hermione would like us to confront those ghosts together.” Bryce’s fingers tightened about Gabrielle’s, and with a jolt of surprise, he realized he meant every word he was saying. “I know your loss was excruciating. And if you truly believe that visiting the estate where your parents died is more than you can stand, I won’t press you. Just know that it would mean a great deal to me if you’d accompany me, to ease my way with Thane. As I told you earlier, you’re the most refreshing person I’ve met in ages. I’m hoping that your warmth, your exuberance, will make an otherwise unbearable situation bearable.”
Gaby swallowed, visibly moved by his words and, it would appear, weighing her decision.
Her reply, when it came, startled him.
“This is a critical and poignant moment in your life, Bryce. Wouldn’t you rather Miss Talbot accompany you?”
“Lucinda?” He shook his head, baffled by the unexpected question. “Definitely not. Lucinda knows nothing about my past or my true parentage. What’s more, I have no intention of enlightening her.”
It was Gaby’s turn to look perplexed. “Why not? Surely having her emotional support would make things easier.”
“Emotional support is not something I turn to Lucinda for.”
“I see.” Gaby pondered that for a moment, her expression intense, those startlingly blue eyes searching his face. “Yet you turned to me. Which leads me to wonder if you honestly believe I can help or if you are making this request entirely for my benefit—a cloaked attempt, courtesy of you and Aunt Hermione, to ease my dilemma?”
A half hour ago Bryce’s answer would have been different. But now he had no trouble uttering the truth: “Both.”
Relief flooded Gabrielle’s face, and her palm relaxed beneath his. “Very well. In that case, I’ll go.”
“Thank you.” Bryce was stunned to find he was as relieved as she.
“Bryce.” Her tone was solemn, fervent. “What you did tonight—confiding in me about the true circumstances of your birth—must have been extraordinarily difficult. Even if your lineage means nothing to you, sharing yourself is obviously not something you do often or readily. I’d like to thank you by offering you the same.” She withdrew her hand, gathering up her skirts and taking two steps away. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She darted off before Bryce could reply, and he watched her go, lounging against the tree and wondering what she was about.
He hadn’t long to wait.
A scant five minutes later, Gaby reappeared, breathlessly making her way through the trees to where Bryce stood. “Here,” she announced. “The most precious thing I have to share.”
Bryce glanced down, slivers of moonlight illuminating the delicately crafted object that Gaby proffered, its mother-of-pearl surface gleaming like the finest porcelain, its gilt trim shimmering like spun gold.
“It’s Mama’s music box,” she whispered, caressing the tiny stone atop the lid before opening it, releasing the tinkling strains of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” “Isn’t it beautiful?”
An uncustomary knot tightened Bryce’s chest. “Yes, Gabrielle, it is.” He reached out, gently caressing her cheek with his forefinger. “And so are you. Thank you for sharing your music box with me.”
Gaby smiled, utterly aglow at his reaction to her treasure. “You’re welcome.”
“Chaunce … listen.” Hermione sat upright at her dressing table, putting down the face powder she’d been applying to create the chalklike skin pallor she’d worn all week.
“I hear it, madam.” Chaunce crossed over to the slightly open window, throwing it wider and giving a self-satisfied nod. “So that was what Miss Gaby dashed to her room to collect. I thought it might be.”
“You do realize whom she’s playing it for—that she’s still with Bryce.” Hermione jumped to her feet, joining Chaunce and peering into the night sky.
“I do indeed, my lady. And if my sense of direction remains accurate, I’d say they were standing amid the grove of sycamores wh
ere Miss Gaby’s woodpecker makes his home. A most private spot for a chat.”
“Not just any chat, but an intensely crucial and personal one,” Hermione added, leaning forward against the sill, eyes sparkling as the music box melody continued to play. “Oh, Chaunce, this is going even better than I dared hope!”
“I quite agree.” The butler straightened, smoothing his mustache before clasping his hands behind his back. “And I must say, I’m delighted. Not only for Miss Gaby and your nephew, but for myself as well.” A haughty sniff. “I don’t mind mixing dose after dose of lemon water each day, but sneaking into your chambers in order to refill your cosmetic pot with that odious white mixture—really, my lady, that’s too undignified for words. Were it being done for anyone but you …”
“But it is for me, Chaunce,” Hermione interceded with a winsome smile. “And you know why I can’t ask Dora to do it. No one must suspect that my illness is anything but genuine—not yet.”
“I understand. Still, I do hate to see you mask your radiant complexion with that … substance.” He glanced at the dressing table, giving a repugnant shudder. “No, madam, as far as I’m concerned, our plan cannot come to fruition quickly enough to suit me.”
“I quite agree.” Hermione patted Chaunce’s arm, her gaze returning to the direction from which the music emanated. “Don’t despair, my dear friend. I have a feeling I’ll soon be making a sudden and miraculous recovery.”
Chapter 5
GABY PUSHED THE FOOD around on her plate, willing her uncooperative stomach to settle.
She had agreed to come to Whitshire for Bryce’s sake, but in the two hours since they arrived, he seemed to have adapted far better than she. True, he had yet to tell Thane his real identity, but the two men had taken to each other at once—effortlessly on Thane’s part, more reservedly on Bryce’s. They’d exchanged niceties, shared a brandy, then escorted the ladies in to dinner, where Mr. Averley joined them, with the understanding that Lady Nevon would require some private time after dinner with her new legal adviser and Thane. For the past hour and a half the discussion had centered around business, investments, and legal estates.
