A frisson ran up my spine. What would happen if I said no? Not that I had any intention of doing so, but I held information the earl did not wish broadcast to the world. If I left, I became an instant liability.
Putting on my most prim and proper façade and summoning my most subservient tone—one that did not come easily—I gritted my teeth and said, “I am at your service, my lord.”
The gray eyes did not flicker. They did not flash fire. They gleamed. With what I very much feared was something between amusement and lascivious anticipation.
Merciful heavens, what had I said? I knew better. I absolutely knew better. I drew myself up to my full five feet, five inches and said, “Good day, my lord.” I should tell him that he was always welcome in the nursery, but the words stuck in my throat. Anything I said after my faux pas would undoubtedly have a double meaning.
He offered a leisurely inspection of my person from the tips of my toes to the starched white cap into which I had attempted to stuff my all-too-blatantly colored hair. I folded my hands in front of my gown, dropped my gaze, and bobbed a curtsy. I didn’t look up until I heard the door click closed behind him.
Drat! My breath whooshed out. I sank into a rocking chair, which was the nearest seat at hand when my legs noodled out from under me. It was true. I’d jumped from the frying pan straight into the fire.
I learned a great deal over the next few days. And nothing at all. Neither Mrs. Randall, Ivy, nor Flora was numbered among the close-mouthed, and I soon knew his poor old lordship was a sad case, struck down by news of his elder son’s death, confined to his bed, with Lord Anthony taking on not only his brother’s title but his father’s duties. And suffering with it, he was. Him being a London dandy what don’t know wheat from barley, though he was allowed to have a fine eye women and horses. And his poor mother—Lady Frances Berrisford, that once was—grief had taken her differently. Obsessed with finding the new earl a wife, she was. To the point she had invited well-nigh every eligible female from Kent to Lincolnshire to the Lake Country to a house-party. Imagine, Ivy declared with a righteous sniff, a house-party in a house of illness! Scandalous, it was. Perfectly scandalous. Or so said the gossiping old tartars she’d overheard at church.
“But just you wait, miss,” Flora added. “They’ll all come. Every last one. His young lordship’s a great catch. All the ladies be after him. The ones as ain’t ladies as well.”
That I could well believe! “And when is this great event?” I asked.
“Third Thursday from now, miss—more’n a fortnight. Cook’s been making up menus for days.”
I could feel the color draining from my face, for it was highly likely some of the guests would recognize me. After my headstrong declaration that I had given my heart to a soldier, my parents had pushed me into a London season, expecting me to get over the nonsense of first love in the non-stop pleasures of the ton indulging itself to the fullest.
I did not. Would things have been different if Brant had not been killed just as the next Season began? I would never know. The family was already in London, but Papa and Mama made no demure when I asked to go home. Even they could see that for me to indulge in gaiety when I was overwhelmed by grief was beyond all reasonable expectations.
I never went back to town, but some would remember me. And then there were the local families who knew me well. Certainly, a number of the Cotswold families had daughters of the right age, rank, and beauty to attract the Earl of Thornbury.
I should have continued on to Bath, as planned . . .
Abandoning the child I had helped into this world? The child who had only I to stand between him and his uncle?
Which, alas, was not the only menace I faced.
I coaxed Ivy into bringing me the weekly newspaper published in Tetbury before it was consigned to supporting the kindling in one of Winterbourne’s vast number of fireplaces. But no matter how diligent my search, I saw nothing about Geoffrey, Viscount Sandridge. Not that he would wish to be in the newspaper, but surely there would be some mention if he had died . . .
Nor was there any mention of a missing gentlewoman, daughter of a baron. No search, no reward offered.
Well, had I not said so? Heaven forfend there should be a scandal!
Miss Lucinda Neville had disappeared as easily as if she’d never been. Swallowed by the earth and nobody cared. Requiescat in pace.
It was four days before I felt able to descend from my aerie in the attic. Or perhaps I was simply hiding, unwilling to admit that my bruises were fading, my aches and pains diminished to occasional twinges. Thornbury did not return, and his mother, Lady Winterbourne, appeared totally indifferent to the tiny orphan who had taken up residence in the nursery. Perhaps no one had told her about her unexpected guests. Or possibly the existence of a foreigner’s baby beneath Winterbourne’s roof did not warrant the notice of a marchioness. Of one thing I was certain—the Earl of Thornbury had not informed his mother she was a grandmother.
On the morning of the fifth day, Josie huffed and puffed her way to the attic to inform me that “Mr. Metcalfe” wished to see me in the estate office at ten o’clock.
“Mr. Metcalfe?”
Josie chuckled. “Ah, miss, a funny one, he is. Mr. Bertram Metcalfe’s been with the old lord since he was a nipper. Fifty, if he’s a day. Keeps the young lord on the straight and narrow, he does. Do this, do that. Sign here, sign there. Plow this field, sow that one. Runs the place, he does, even though he’s so quiet, you’d swear he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
“You’re saying he is the marquess’s secretary,” I ventured, my lips curling into a smile.
“Yes, miss. And Lord Anthony’s—I mean, Lord Thornbury’s—too.
Anthony. I was beginning to associate that name with the sound of doom. I needed to stay as far away as possible from the alleged Earl of Thornbury, for I recognized disaster when I saw it standing in front of me. When it came to danger, Geoffrey, Viscount Sandridge, could not hold a candle to Anthony, Earl of Thornbury. “Josie, if you would be good enough to inform Mr. Metcalfe that I will attend him as requested?”
“Yes, miss.” She flashed one of her good-natured smiles, curtsied, and scurried off. I sighed. It was all too clear there was no way the household staff was going to let me pass myself off as one of them.
Which meant there would be rumors about the gentlewoman fallen on hard times who was currently acting as a nurse at Winterbourne.
Nurse for whom? And why? Gossip would undoubtedly spread with the speed of lightning, growing more grotesque with each repetition. In no time Adara, or I, would have become Thornbury’s mistress, Nicholas the love child he was attempting to keep from his poor invalided father. And poor, dear Lady Winterbourne—hoodwinked just as she was doing her best to find a match for the young scapegrace! If word got out before the house-party . . . My dear, can you imagine!
I steepled my fingers before my face, beginning to realize all the ramifications of the advent of the tiny babe sound asleep in his cradle. It wasn’t just the succession. If Thornbury selected a mate at the house-party, he would be doing so under false pretenses, for it seemed likely he was no more than Lord Anthony Deverell, younger son, uncle to the heir. And his reputation, such as it was, would be further ruined. As would mine. For I was bound to go from noble self-sacrificing traveler to a woman no better than she should be. Encroaching at best. At worst, Lord Thornbury’s mistress and mother of the babe.
Wincing, I tiptoed back to my room, shut the door, and wondered if I was being summoned so Mr. Metcalfe could inform me my services were no longer needed.
Safety had been shockingly short-lived.
Chapter Six
Mr. Metcalfe was a man who appeared to have been born with a scowl on his face. And far more intimidating than I expected of a secretary, even the secretary of a marquess. Of medium height, spare of frame, his brown hair streaked with gray, Metcalfe was, I judged, well over fifty. But the eyes of an indeterminate color staring at me from be
hind a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses were as sharp as they were judgmental. He was, in short, an aging hawk still capable of taking down his prey.
One look, and I knew I was on his menu for today.
“Be seated, Miss ah—Scarlett.” His pursed lips seemed to indicate even my name offended. I sat, meekly folding my hands in my lap but looking him in the eye (or rather into the reflective sheen of his spectacles).
“As an employee of the Marquess of Winterbourne,” he intoned, “you are expected to dedicate yourself to the family’s best interests.”
The challenge of his gaze, the emphasis he placed on those few words left me little doubt about his meaning. He knew. Somehow he knew about Hartley-Nicholas, the petit paquet who threatened a major upheaval in the Deverell line.
“Discretion will be rewarded, Miss Scarlett. Exercising a flapping tongue means instant dismissal. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will receive your wages each quarter day, or at the termination if your service, if that is a shorter period.” He then named a sum that almost took my breath away. I had helped with my sisters’ household accounts often enough to know what a nurse was paid. The money mentioned was four times that amount.
“Mr. Metcalfe, I am flattered, but I doubt even Mrs. Randall receives such a princely sum.”
“That is the amount decreed of the Earl of Thornbury, Miss Scarlett.” The eyeglasses flashed, fixing on my face, as if accusing me of some nameless crime.
My last doubt disappeared. Who but the earl’s secretary would write the necessary letters of inquiry? As long as Lord Thornbury and Mr. Metcalfe stuck to investigating events in Greece and not anything closer to home . . .
But what if their investigations included the fictitious Nell Scarlett? I pasted a look of unconcern on my face, even as my stomach heaved. A search for Nell would reveal no such person had existed before the day of the coaching accident. A mystery the earl would likely find intriguing. Miserable man.
Well, let him look. Let them both look! I would remain as innocuous as milk, never leave my fourth floor aerie, engage with none but those willing to climb the stairs. And, meanwhile, I would invent an entire family history—worthy parents, a passel of brothers and sisters, all suitably bucolic. My father, a country vicar, perhaps, with no more than a modest living. Yes, that would do.
Until I was asked the name of the village. And the earl questioned the validity of a vicar named Scarlett. I could admit to changing my name, but the rest of it? All too easily refuted.
I groaned, feeling doom climbing with me every step to the fourth floor. And then I opened the door on the brightly painted, sun-filled nursery, and my cares fell away. Safe. Once again, safe. I took little Nick from Ivy’s arms and cuddled him to me. The greenish-blue eyes focused on me. Trusting. Content. Or at least that’s how it felt. I wasn’t just his temporary nurse. I was all he had. I was his, and he was mine. Dear Lord, I should have taken him and run the moment his mother died.
Stoo-pid. You’re too responsible, too intelligent for that. This child could very well be heir to the floor you’re standing on.
This child could well be dead long before that day comes!
You will protect him.
How?
“Miss, are you all right?”
Foolish to let my anguish show on my face. I would have to do better. Quickly, I assured Ivy I was merely suffering a lingering twinge from the coach accident. Nick’s eyes were closing, and I tucked him into his cradle, vowing that from now on my behavior would be a model of perfection. There was no way Nell Scarlett was going to rock a boat traveling in heavy seas.
Not long past noon, Mrs. Randall made her daily visit to the nursery. Nick was awake, cradled in my lap, his bright eyes pinned on me with fierce intensity. You know, don’t you, little one, who really cares for you? Total nonsense, of course. A good-natured babe, Nick went as readily into Mrs. Randall’s arms as he did to mine. Or Ivy’s. Though none of us rated the enthusiasm he displayed when Flora picked him up! How foolish I was to think he could possibly single me out from the others.
Luce, the spinster, who had never borne a child. And likely never would.
Hartley-Nicholas was as close as I would ever come. He was mine. Even if his high-in-the-instep relations threw him out . . .
Most particularly, if his high-in-the-instep relations threw him out. It was the only way I could keep him.
“Nell. Nell!” Startled, I snapped my attention back to Mrs. Randall, who had handed Nick into Ivy’s keeping. “You have not set foot out of the nursery since the day you arrived. It’s high time you had some fresh air. Ivy and Flora can manage a few hours without you. Go out, enjoy the sunshine, explore the gardens—they are at the glorious best.”
“And there’s the maze, miss. “The one you can see from here.” Ivy gestured toward the dormered windows on the south side of the house. I also had a bird’s eye view of the intricate pathways in the maze from my bedchamber and had to admit I found it intriguing. I had never had the opportunity to explore a maze. And like Winterbourne’s fourth floor, it seemed a safe haven. Somehow too complex for evil to find its way in. Foolish, yes, but nonetheless the maze beckoned.
Besides, I had no excuse not to venture out. My aches and pains were nearly gone, my bruises fading. All my life I had been accustomed to riding and enjoying long walks. Except on the most blustery or icy days, I loved being outside. But now exposure was my enemy. A thousand accusing eyes would fix on me the moment I stepped through the door.
Idiot! Not in the shelter of Winterbourne’s gardens. And if any eyes dared accuse, I would lose them the moment I stepped into the maze.
“A delightful suggestion,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Randall.” I put on my bonnet and accompanied the housekeeper down the several flights of stairs to the kitchen.
“Straight through the kitchen garden, the knot garden, and on past the roses,” she told me after introducing me to Cook and her helpers. I thanked her and did just that.
Although I knew my certainty that myriad eyes were fixed on me was utter foolishness, my feet insisted on rushing toward the shelter of the maze. But the beauty of the beds and borders around me finally penetrated my panic, slowing my pace to a crawl. There were roses of every known variety, some climbing over tall, white-painted arches in such profusion that I had to gently push branches aside in order to pass through. The scent was glorious. And after the rose garden, an expanse of color stretched before me. My mother’s garden and those of my sisters were but fly specks to this. Everywhere I looked, I saw nature at her best. Geraniums, gladiolas, lupines, iris, delphinium, poppies, tiny pinks and great splashes of peonies—far more flowers than I could ever name. Whatever I might have thought of Lady Winterbourne from the gossip I’d heard, surely the gardens were her province and a great compliment to her exquisite taste.
As I approached the towering wall of yew that marked the outside of the maze, I looked back, enjoying a lingering look at the gardens, with Winterbourne rising behind. I had not noticed the architecture the day we arrived, but now . . .
The house was massive, with wings extending out from each end of the central façade, so that the gardens were enclosed on three sides. Built of the honey-colored limestone generally called Bath stone, it was a handsome house. A seat worthy of a marquess. Oh. My. I had truly fallen on my feet.
If only . . .
Resolutely, I turned toward the maze. Time to lose myself again. Time to take shelter.
A task more demanding than I had expected.
Oh very well, I admit it. Before I sank with a long-suffering sigh onto the white marble bench in the center of the maze, I had muttered a number of epithets overheard in the stables, as well as one or two of my brother’s more colorful phrases. This maze was positively diabolical. I could only wonder at the surely warped mind that designed it!
I heaved a disgusted sigh, then realized how absurd that was. For a half hour or more I had thought of
nothing but defeating the maze’s twists and turns. And now that I had arrived at my goal, I felt not only triumphant but cocooned against the world. I adored this place. I would come here often . . .
Not yours. You’re a stranger passing through. Hunted and alone—
“Good afternoon, Miss Scarlett.”
I froze.
Chapter Seven
By the time I recovered enough to struggle to my feet, the Earl of Thornbury had crossed the few feet of well-scythed grass, and I found myself gazing at his broad chest, a scant two feet away. Far too close to execute anything more than an inclined head and a slight bending of my shaking knees. The hunter had found his prey. Alone, encased in what seemed like miles of impenetrable yew, and far from shouting distance of the house. I avoided looking him directly in the face, but I could easily picture his expression. A mix of sly satisfaction and vulgar intent. I was to be his amusement for the morning.
Cat-like, he seemed to have decided on the slow stalk instead of the quick pounce, for he waved me back to a seat on the marble bench and remained looking down at me, his tall form casting a long shadow over both bench and grass. I shivered, anticipating the worst . . . and was surprised by the reasonableness of his tone when he spoke.
“Most women with your striking appearance and gentle birth,” he offered, “would have used their assets to snabble a husband of wealth and title long since. May I ask why you have not done so?”
“You may ask.”
A bark of laughter pierced the cool stillness in the center of the maze. “A hit, a palpable hit,” the earl conceded. “And yet, if you shun marriage, I cannot help but wonder why you have not considered the opportunity to shine as one of London’s brightest courtesans. Believe me, Miss Scarlett, properly dressed, you would outshine them all.”
Tangled Destinies Page 4