Tangled Destinies

by Bancroft, Blair

  I am ashamed to admit it, but we stayed in place, gawping like peasants at the almost constant parade of elegant guests. In addition to beauties of the first stare, hovered over by their doting mamas and papas, there were a number of young gentlemen—Thornbury’s friends, no doubt—as well as a scattering of couples of an age with my Aunt and Uncle Trevor. I had to give Lady Winterbourne credit for putting together an intriguing miscellany of noble titles, ancient blood lines, wealth, beauty, and dashing reputations.

  “Oo, miss,” Ivy squealed, juggling Nick, who remained complacent as she leaned closer to the window for a better view. “That’s the Earl of Hadlow. And his lady. Come here often, they do. Her ladyship has a most partic’lar eye on Lady Ariana—that’s their daughter—for Lord Anthony. I mean his lordship, the earl,” she corrected hastily.

  Oh.

  Not what I wanted to hear, even though I was well aware of the purpose of the house-party. Luce, you idiot, you’re a fool, ten times a fool.

  “There she is, miss. Lady Ariana. Isn’t she grand?”

  I stared at the elegant London-polished beauty being handed down from the coach by one of Winterbourne’s footmen. Oh. My. Everything about her was top-of-the-trees. From her chestnut brown hair—the current favorite of the London ton—peeking out from under a heavily ruched blue silk bonnet, down to the matching blue halfboots revealed as she stepped to the ground. Her gown was also blue, tucked, pleated, and trimmed in a far more ornate manner than the usual traveling ensemble. But who could blame her? She was here to snabble an earl, a future marquess. And with that face—I grimaced as I took in the perfection of her aristocratic features. Lady Ariana Rutledge was what the ton termed “a diamond of the first water.”

  I sighed. There could be little doubt that Lady Winterbourne had invited the other young ladies as a diversion from her true intentions. Lady Ariana was the chosen one, shining with the brilliance of a hundred candles over her poor single-candle competitors. Sternly, I reminded myself the nursery contingent was here to enjoy a change of scenery. There was no reason I should feel flattened by a great weight of depression.

  As the Earl of Hadlow and his family disappeared from view, a bevy of footmen carting trunks following in their wake, I could not fail to note the irony of the Winterbourne guests traveling with more baggage for ten days than I packed for two months with my sisters.

  As yet another carriage, not quite as imposing, pulled up to the front door. I relieved Ivy of the baby, bending my head to tell him what a good boy he was and direct his attention to the sights and sounds outside. Surely even babies needed more stimulation than the nursery provided!

  When I looked up, the carriage door was already open, or I might have had a bit of warning from the well-known crest on the side. As it was, I nearly dropped Nick, when my sister Emilia was handed down, and I discovered Geoff already on the ground. Impossible!

  Not really. Even though they had no nubile young maiden to present for Thornbury’s inspection, they were not-too-distant neighbors. Yet surely Fate could not be so unkind!

  Thornbury! He’d done it on purpose. Added their names to his mother’s guest list, I was certain of it. But why?

  I’d like to think it was so he could beat Geoff to a bloody pulp, but that seemed unlikely.

  I kissed the top of Nick’s head as I gathered my shattered nerves around me. “It’s high time we returned to the nursery,” I pronounced with blessedly even tones. Hugging Nick tight, I scurried back to the shelter of my little kingdom, having learned that not every break from the mundane is a rewarding experience.

  I wanted to pound on something, preferably the Earl of Thornbury. How could he? Then again, Geoff was Viscount Sandridge, his seat but a scant fifteen miles away. Why should he and his wife not be on Lady Winterbourne’s guest list, even though his household could not a boast any nubile young maiden to enter into the marriage contest?

  My temper cooled a hair. Perhaps Anthony had no part in . . .

  Since when do you call him Anthony? my inner voice mocked. A kiss snatched by an employer does not grant you use of his given name. Not even when you doubt he is Thornbury.

  Brant, I’m sorry!

  But not, I realized with horror, as sorry about my wandering affections as I had been before I was trapped in the maze. Dear Lord, what was happening to me? The single-minded devotion I’d clung to for so long was faltering, the armor around my heart threatening to crack. Goosebumps rose on my arms, confusion churned my soul.

  I tucked Nick into his cradle and then, wholly ashamed of myself, I sank into the rocking chair and contemplated my sins. Geoff might be alive, but I had struck him hard enough to draw blood. I had run away from my family, changed my name, relegated myself to the position of nurse to a babe of mysterious origins. I had allowed a gentleman of dubious reputation to kiss me—

  Not that I’d had any choice! The problem was, I’d liked it. Brant was fading from ever-present ghost into the realm of beloved memory. That could not be right! Yet another sin to chalk up to the not-so-nice person I had become.

  By the time the pounding on the outer nursery door penetrated my bout of feeling sorry for myself, Ivy had gone to unbolt the door, returning with a folded piece of paper. “For you, miss.”

  A glance at the signature revealed the note was from Mrs. Randall—most likely a reminder to keep Nick out of sight. I read the few words; frowned, read them again, shaking my head. It had to be a mistake, for I was being ordered to take Nick outside for “fresh air and sunshine” every day it was not raining. Mrs. Randall would never give such orders on her own. Thornbury? It had to be. But why? Surely he could not have thought the Deverell’s alleged dirty little secret needed fresh air just as myriad noble houseguests arrived on the doorstep. More likely, he was living up to his reputation for preferring to live dangerously—dangling me before people who knew me, waiting to see what would happen. Did he want to see me accused of assault? Or did his private amusement outweigh the consequences to an insignificant nothing like me?

  A brilliant plan struck me. I would delegate Ivy to expose Nick to the fresh Cotswold breezes.

  But of course I couldn’t. I was responsible for Nick. I could ask no one else to accept the burden. And that’s when it struck me. At the moment no one wishing Nick harm could get to him. But if he went outside . . .

  Feet flat on the floor, I stopped rocking, my breath caught in my throat, the rest of me frozen in place. No-o-o, I could not accept it. Not Anthony. He wouldn’t.

  For one of the highest titles in the land? For multiple grand houses, vast amounts of land and wealth?

  Think, Luce, think!

  Lady Winterbourne could not possibly wish for her guests to stumble over a babe garbed in linen and lace in a household where the only Deverell living at home was the ton’s most eligible bachelor. A babe with eyes suspiciously like the lady of the house.

  So who else could have given such an order? Babcock had no reason. The butler simply had nothing to do with the nursery. Metcalfe? The marquess? It seemed unlikely, but who knew how either man’s mind worked? Metcalfe gave me the shivers, and the marquess . . . ? There had to be a reason Thornbury had taken over the running of Winterbourne and the estate’s vast holdings.

  Yet I could not convince myself the order had come from Anthony. And I was forced to admit Nick would benefit from a daily dose of fresh air. Perhaps the order was not inimical at all—merely a kind gesture from someone who had not thought of the inevitable consequences.

  Consequences which included myself. I too would be venturing outside the safety of the nursery. Better to send back a note protesting the order.

  Not if I intended to remain Nell Scarlett. The Nell Scarletts of this world said nothing but Yes, my lord. Aye, my lady. How low shall I abase myself? And woe to Lucinda Neville if her spine was too stiff.

  So . . . I would take Nick out into the startling beauty of the Cotswolds and hope some of its serenity rubbed off on our lives. Which meant I would start
le at every rustling leaf and swaying branch, every fleeting shadow . . .

  We would go out before the household was stirring. Not to the gardens but some place more obscure, where I could hide from what my imagination pictured as a thousand eyes, all staring, avid to accuse me . . .

  Of what?

  Of defending myself?

  Of loving too well?

  And little Nick? Was he heir to Winterbourne or a cuckoo in the Deverell nest—perhaps an innocent pawn in someone’s bold gambit for title and fortune?

  Or was he targeted for murder? I the instrument of delivery?

  Oh Lord, I was truly in the suds.

  Chapter 12

  Poor Nick. Just short of ten the next morning, I looked down at the bundle Ivy had just handed me and almost laughed. He looked more like a trussed-up Christmas pudding—or a ham hanging from the larder ceiling—than a baby about to go for an outing in the second week of July. Silently, I vowed to loose his bindings as soon as we were out of sight of the house. Some might believe in the efficacy of swaddling, but experience had taught me that babies loved to wave their hands and kick their feet, surely actions that encouraged growth and stimulated their minds.

  I hoped this was a time when Winterbourne’s guests were just crawling out of bed or firmly caught up in elaborate rituals of dressing for the many activities planned for them. Ivy had told me of a path through the woods that led to a grotto overlooking the pond—a folly of rocks and greenery, ornamented by a small waterfall. There was a bench, she assured me, with a fine view of the water. Perfect.

  Not wanting to risk Nick’s neck on the precipitous servants’ stairs, I sailed grandly down the main staircase, head high, daring anyone to stop us. Among startled glances from the maids, I caught glimpses of awe and encouragement. From the footmen . . . well, let us say simply that among the usual appraising glances, I saw lips curled in amusement and . . . knowing. Clearly, Nick was not a secret to the staff. Merciful heavens, rumor must be rampant! How many thought Nick mine, Thornbury the father?

  Long before my feet hit the black and white tiles of the main hall, I felt my face turn as scarlet as the name I had so injudiciously chosen for myself. Clutching Nick tight, I rushed toward the green baize door that led to the kitchen area. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I should have chanced the servants’ stairs. Pride, Luce. Pride will be your downfall.

  I lingered in the kitchen only long enough for Nick to be cooed over. Escaping at last, I hastened through the herb garden, eyes on the prick for the path Ivy had described. And there it was. Head down, shoulders hunched, I scurried along, moving rapidly toward the shelter of the small copse rising to the left of the maze and the pond.

  Oh, heavenly shade! As the green leafy canopy closed over us, my steps slowed, I paused to catch my breath. Surely I was making a mountain out of a molehill. One open window did not mean . . .

  Oh yes, it did. And then there was Thornbury. And Geoff. Emilia, Lord and Lady Trevor. Hiding was a necessity.

  For that, I’d certainly come to the right place. If I stopped worrying and simply absorbed the silence, the cloak cast by the trees towering over me . . . this was indeed balm to the soul. Oak, beech, ash, and an occasional horse chestnut surrounded us. To my right, I caught glimpses of the outer wall of the maze, followed by a cascade of drooping willows along the bank of the pond. Lovely! I sank into the beauty, the peace of it all.

  And that was before we came to the grotto. I paused, taking in the sight before me. Tucked into a slight rise of land was a construction of rough rocks—no doubt put together with great care to look as if they had simply tumbled down the hillside. They formed a small cave behind a cascade of water only inches wide. Green plants grew from niches between the rocks, trailing down the sides of the grotto in a manner even the most jaded artist would wish to record for posterity. And near the edge of the small pool at the grotto’s base were two benches of green and white marble, evidently chosen to blend in with the rest of greenery in this remarkable bower. Oh, dear Ivy, thank you!

  For several moments I simply sat there, taking it all in, letting the tensions of the past weeks drain away. Things would get better, truly they would.

  Nick! For a moment I’d actually forgotten I was still clutching the overdressed baby tight against my breast.

  I laid him on the bench beside me and unwrapped his bindings. Instantly, he kicked, waved his arms, and cooed with joy. Apologizing profusely, I picked him up and turned his head toward the waterfall. “Water,” I said. “Pretty.” Nick kicked and waved even harder, and smiled. (And do not, pray, tell me babies don’t smile. Only males who have never taken care of an infant could possibly believe such nonsense!)

  “Merciful heavens,” said a voice filled with the supercilious arrogance affected by all too many members of the ton. “Who might you be?”

  A word overheard in the stables crashed through my head as I jumped to my feet, pressing poor Nick’s face to my bosom, as if sight of him would surely tell all. Hastily, I bobbed a curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lady. I’ll be off then.” Grabbing up Nick’s blanket, I turned toward the far side of the grotto, even though I had no idea where the path led.

  “Stay!”

  My feet skidded to a halt. I turned, keeping my head down. Nonetheless, I could see there were two young ladies, the startlingly beautiful one who had just spoken to me—Lady Ariana Rutledge—accompanied by one of the other noble and nubile candidates for the earl’s hand.

  “Whose child is this?” Lady Ariana demanded. “Or does Lord Thornbury allow maidservants and their babes to walk in his park?”

  I suppose I should have anticipated the question, had a glib answer on the tip of my tongue. But, far from it, I could only stand there, speechless, wishing the grotto cave was large enough to disappear into—and with a tunnel to an exit far, far away.

  “Well, speak up, girl? Who are you and what are you doing here? I am sure the earl will not be happy to hear of your transgression.”

  Finally, my desperation spawned an answer. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I am nurse to Lady Sandridge, who could not be parted from her babe. I assure you I have permission to walk with little Sarah in the garden.” And heaven help me if Lady Ariana mentioned this encounter to Emilia.

  Lady Ariana, obviously disliking to find herself in the wrong, looked down her nose at me and declared, “Be gone, girl. Lady Cynthia and I wish to enjoy the grotto.”

  “Yes, my lady.” I bobbed a curtsy and scurried away, apologizing to Nick as soon as I was safely hidden by the trees on the path back to the house. “We’ll come back, I promise. Maybe we’ll even dip your toes in the water. Would you like that, darling?” More likely, he’d howl like a banshee, I thought with a wry grin.

  Our return to the house was uneventful. I nipped into the narrow confines of the servants’ stairs like a rabbit into a burrow. Clutching Nick with one hand and the banister with the other, I made the long climb to the nursery, although my nerves did not begin to settle until I’d snicked the bolt closed behind me.

  Nick, evidently realizing he had returned to the place where there was nourishment to be had, screwed up his face, rolled his eyes, and fisted his tiny hands, as he worked up to putting his heart and soul into a demanding cry for food. Laughing, I gave him to Flora before going to my room to put off my bonnet and straighten my hair.

  And that’s when the enormity, the idiocy, of what I had done penetrated the false security of the nursery. A storm of possibilities chased through my head: Lady Ariana gushing, What a delightful baby you have, Lady Sandridge, before adding on a confidential hiss, Though I wonder how you tolerate such a creature as nurse!

  Or perhaps, wishing to practice her wiles on Geoff who was always such a willing object of admiration . . . Lord Sandridge, I met your dear little Sarah this morning. Such a lovely baby! But I wonder if your nurse was quite wise to take her to the grotto. So damp, don’t you know.

  I shuddered.

  Obviously, I’d been most unwise. I should h
ave taken a path less likely to appeal to guests. Or settled for a joint stool in the kitchen garden.

  But no, Lucinda Neville had walked the hallowed paths intended for family and guests. Dared enjoy the peace and shade of the woods, the man-made perfection of the grotto. Lucinda Neville and Master Hartley Deverell, heir-not-so-apparent, breathing the glorious, dangerous air of Winterbourne on a sunny summer morning.

  The insidious question sneaked back to haunt me: Who had ordered me to take Nick out of the house? And why? I had assumed it was Thornbury, but what could he possibly gain from exposing Nick to the world? Getting rid of my poor Nick quietly made sense. Waving the family scandal before the ton did not.

  But exposing Nick to the world created opportunities for another “accident.” Or was I the one intended for exposure?

  Melodrama to the extreme! Clearly, I’d read too many novels by Mrs. Radcliffe.

  But what if . . . what if the order had not come from Thornbury? The alternatives were few. No matter Lady Winterbourne’s feelings about a possible grandchild in the nursery, I could not picture her doing anything that would cause a scandal during her precious house-party. So no, absolutely not.

  Mr. Metcalfe? Was he so loyal to the Deverells that he would take it upon himself to rid the family of an embarrassment? Although I had met him only the once, I had little difficulty believing his loyalty to the family could easily triumph over a little matter of right or wrong. But eliminate a baby, the possible legitimate heir to Winterbourne? Surely not. That was too heinous a crime to even contemplate.

  Someone tried. There was no other explanation for the window left open to the storm.

  Babcock, the butler? Mrs. Randall? My thoughts were like straws blowing on the wind—scattered, chaotic—tumbling, tumbling, never alighting on anything of substance.