Tangled Destinies

by Bancroft, Blair

  I paused a moment to look at a darting school of minnows, hoping for a glimpse of a fat trout lurking in the depths of an eddy below. A good day, Luce. You’ve survived the guests. The sun is shining, Nick is happy. All will be well—

  I heard a thud and glanced up to discover James flat on the ground, the wagon rolling, gathering momentum . . .

  Oh, dear God, it was headed straight for the ha-ha. And the six-foot drop to the sheep pasture below.

  Picking up my skirts, I shot past James, who was still lying on the ground, spouting words I had no time to hear. But there was no way I could reach Nick. I was too late. “No-o-o!” Through all my misfortunes, I had never been one to scream. That day, as the wagon sailed off the edge of the wall into nothingness, I did. Stumbling forward, I collapsed at the edge, forced myself to look down.

  There is a God. I’d had doubts when Brant died, and more than a time or two since, but today . . . today I vowed never to doubt again. By what had to be a miracle, the wagon had remained upright while sailing off the top of the wall, landed upright, and was just now rolling to a stop at least twenty feet into the pasture, with a red-faced Nick, still securely strapped in his seat, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  No child who screamed that loudly could possibly be badly hurt.

  “I’ll get him, miss.” And before I could object—James’s fall on perfectly even ground was well worthy of suspicion—the footman lowered himself to the ground below and ran to the wagon.

  “Bring him to me,” I called. James dutifully unbuckled Nick and lifted the squalling infant into my arms, where I promptly fell into all the nonsense we spout when attempting to give a child comfort.

  ““I’m right sorry, miss,” James said as he climbed back up to high ground, where he stood, looking as hangdog as anyone I’d ever seen. “Don’t know how it happened, but all’s well, ain’t it? He be right?”

  No thanks to you.

  Incredible as it seemed, this was no accident, I was certain of it. But James, our trusted James? How could that be?

  Was his loyalty to the House of Deverell stronger than his loyalty to a “furriner”? Or was he motivated purely by money?

  “See that the wagon is salvaged,” I said, none too kindly. “We will speak more of this later.”

  Clutching Nick to my heart, I headed back to the house, assuring him with every step that I would never, ever allow such an horrid thing to happen to him again. As I passed through the kitchen, I snapped to Cook, “Find Mrs. Randall, have her summon the doctor. Nick has had a bad fall.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her mouth gape open before she hastily wiped her hands and scurried off to find Mrs. Randall.

  Up, up, up to the nursery, still murmuring reassuring words. I told Ivy and Flora only that Nick had taken a tumble, the doctor was being sent for. I was encouraged that Nick had stopped crying by the time I was half way up the stairs, but as the three of us gathered round, feeling him from head to toe, he took one look at Flora, screwed up his face and deafened us with the gulping roar that indicated it was time to eat. We looked at each other, tears in our eyes, and began to laugh. Miraculous as it seemed, Nick appeared to be all right.

  Which freed me for my next task. Face grim, I set off to find Anthony, temporary Earl of Thornbury.

  By the time I reached the study, my rage was full-blown. I was shaking. If foiled of my quarry—if Anthony was not in his study—I thought I might explode, much like a cannonball on the battlefield.

  I charged in without knocking.

  Anthony was there. Behind his desk. Slowly rising to his feet, his eyes fixed on what must have been a shocking mix of fury and abject terror on my face. “Ne-ell?”

  “He almost died!” I cried. “Nick. But for a miracle, he’d be dead. Not an accident, I know it wasn’t an accident. James. You have to question him. Someone ordered him to do it, I know they . . .

  “. . . did,” I finished as Anthony, rushing out from behind his desk, lowered me into my customary chair, turning abruptly away to pour a glass of brandy. He thrust it into my hand and waited while I took a cautious sip.

  “And now,” he pronounced with some emphasis, “you will take a deep breath and be the steady female I know you are. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Slowly, I nodded. Anthony returned to the chair behind his desk, saying no more as he waited for me to begin.

  Horror replaced the stern look on his face as I described Nick and the wagon sailing off the ha-ha. But I had admired Anthony’s thespian capabilities in the past. Could I truly be sure . . .?

  For the moment, yes. I needed help. A strong shoulder to lean on.

  A shoulder that could slip away at any moment.

  Silence enveloped us when I finished with a plaintive, “Truly, my lord, James could not have tripped on open ground. Someone put him up to it.”

  “Young men have been known to trip over their own feet,” Anthony offered, “particularly when an attractive female is present.”

  “Do not be absurd. He’s been walking with us for days.”

  Anthony frowned into space, clearly thinking the problem through. “Tell me, was the handle up or down?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The wagon handle—was it dragging on the ground or laid up over the front of the wagon?”

  “How on earth would I know . . .?” My voice trailed off, my brow wrinkling as I forced myself to picture the scene. I had been so horrified, all I remembered was the terrifying vision of the wagon rolling toward the drop-off, sailing through the air . . .

  “Up,” I murmured, as my memory focused on a detail I had not thought I noticed. “It was up, pointing inward. Toward Nick.”

  “Which it would not have been if James had simply tripped and let go the handle.”

  We stared at each other as the reality of a deliberate attempt to kill Nick was confirmed. Or at least as close to it as we could come without questioning James. How any human being could set back the handle of a wagon so it would not trail on the ground, impeding its path, then deliberately send a baby flying toward certain death . . .

  I shuddered.

  “I find it almost impossible to believe,” Anthony admitted, “but I will speak with James. Surely there must be some reasonable explanation.”

  “Ah yes,” I mocked. “James, one of the trusted Winterbourne footmen. So much safer than the mournful Greek.”

  Anthony shook his head. “Ah, Nell, what a sharp tongue you have.”

  I stood and took my leave, well aware the battle lines were drawn. I could not believe Anthony condoned murder, but there was no doubt Nick’s death would be the solution to a very knotty problem. For the Deverell family. And most particularly for Anthony, the designated heir.

  The good news: Doctor Hobart agreed that Nick had suffered nothing worse than bruising where he had been thrown against the leather belt, although he looked at me rather oddly as he said it. I had told him what I told everyone but Anthony—Nick had fallen from the wagon. But of course if the belt had not held, it was unlikely he would have had such a severe bruise. A frisson of warning shivered up my spine. The doctor suspected I had not told the whole, but for the moment was granting me the benefit of the doubt.

  The bad news: later that evening in yet another private meeting in the study, the situation went from bad to worse, my fears exploding into nightmare. James, Anthony informed me, was gone. Before he could question him. Off to take the king’s shilling, his mother said. Though why he should wish to go adventuring she could not imagine, but with the war over she was not so fearful of safety.

  His safety! I came very near pounding my fist on Anthony’s chest. He let James get away.!

  “You never spoke to him?” I said, eyes wide. Somehow I did not think Anthony so incompetent.

  “I’m sorry, no. He was gone by the time I sent for him.”

  I had to admit it was possible. There had been ample time for James to slip away while I was telling the tale to Anthony that morning. And
yet something about his limpid gaze—was that a hint of guilt lurking in the depths of those gray eyes?

  Anthony might not have given the order to do away with Nick, but I suspected he was protecting someone.

  Making a mountain out of molehill again, Luce.

  Someone tried to kill my Nick. I will protect him, no matter who is to blame!

  “The incident is finished,” Anthony declared. “We will not discuss it further. You will, however, watch the child with even greater vigilance. If young Nicholas is truly my brother’s legitimate son, he is the future of Winterbourne. And I am in your debt for all you have done for him.”

  Fine words. Ha! I glared. “You want me to forget someone tried to kill a baby. A baby, Anthony. A baby.” It was only later I realized I had addressed him by his Christian name.

  He could not meet my eyes. Staring down at his desktop, he said, “It is ended, Miss Neville.” A deliberate rebuke for calling him Anthony? “Unless there is more than one person with murder on his mind, the matter is over. All should go smoothly until the legalities are decided.”

  And the earth was flat, the moon made of green cheese.

  As I climbed the stairs to the nursery for one last peek at a sleeping Nick before I found my bed, I could not help but wonder if his words had some merit. What if more than one person wished to make certain Anthony Deverell was heir to Winterbourne?

  Or perhaps the person Anthony was protecting had lied to him? What if all was as it had been before? Nick still in danger of having his life snuffed out before it had scarcely begun?

  Chapter 25

  In the days that followed, Lady Winterbourne demanded little, making it possible for me to spend a good deal of my time in the nursery, where, thank the good Lord, Nick seemed to suffer no lasting effects from sailing over the ha-ha like a bird in flight. My routine settled into a simple round of morning ride, carry out any tasks the marchioness assigned to me, spend the remainder of the day with Nick. Although we continued our daily outings, we never ventured far from the house. The wagon had disappeared, not to be seen again. I did manage several conversations with Petros Andreadis, but never when Nick was present. I would provide no excuse for being dismissed. Each conversation confirmed what I already strongly suspected—Hartley Deverell, eldest son of the Marquess of Winterbourne, had married Adara Demetriou in Athens, Greece. Nick, whose mother wished him to be named Hartley, was Earl of Thornbury, heir to Winterbourne.

  So here I was, the ruined maiden guarding the threatened child, while attempting to cope with my own riotous emotions that refused to give up hope of a happy ending for us all.

  Surely, an impossibility.

  Cling to the good. Cling to the good. Advice not easy to follow, except for those times when I held Nick in my arms or when Anthony joined me on my early morning ride on Princess. But even then, for the most part we rode in silence, tensions of every shape and variety snapping between us like the ball in a rancorous game of tennis. The truth was—and we both knew it—we were damned if we rode together and damned if we made a show of ignoring each other. All eyes were upon us, speculation rampant. Anthony’s failure to offer for Lady Ariana, or one of the other nubile young maidens trailed before him, was being set squarely on my shoulders. “Infatuation” was a word whispered so frequently in Winterbourne’s corridors that I suspected even the kitchen boy and the lowliest tweeny had learned its meaning.

  One consolation—I received my second letter from my brother Timothy. The first had been a hastily written note to say thank God I was safe at Winterbourne. He now felt free to join friends on a long-planned walking tour of the Lake District. He would write again when he had more time.

  And so he had. Not just glowing descriptions of a part of the country that rivaled the beauty of the Cotswolds, but a few words that reenforced what Anthony had told me. My brother had been worried about me. He actually cared.

  I had, perhaps, isolated myself so much from the world that I’d failed to appreciate what was right under my nose. Timothy, Emilia, Rosalind, Papa—possibly even Mama—wanted the best for me, though their notions of what was “best” varied considerably from mine.

  The problem was . . . I might have been the one who was wrong. A lowering thought as I considered all I had missed since shutting myself into a tower less accessible than the fabled Rapunzel’s.

  With a sigh, I re-folded Timothy’s letter and tucked it into the drawer of the dainty desk in my bedchamber. It would appear I needed to readjust my thinking from top to bottom. Not easy for one who had embraced both grief and resentment like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night.

  Fool!

  One morning, more than a fortnight after the house-party that had not served its purpose, Lady Winterbourne was frowning as I reported to the sunny morning room to receive my instructions for the day. She was seated at her desk, a letter in her hand. After waving me to a chair, she remained silent, head down, gazing at the piece of expensive embossed stationery framed by the marquetry inside the drop-down desk-front. One long aristocratic finger tapped the missive. She heaved a sigh. Not a familiar sound. Lady Frances Winterbourne tended to be as decisive as she was arrogant. A marchioness to the bone.

  “Miss Neville. Lucinda.” Another pause, a deep breath. “You have given good service.”

  Dear Lord, she was going to dismiss me!

  “I have no complaints. In fact, if you were truly my companion, I should be happy to give you a superior reference.”

  The “but” that was undoubtedly coming screamed at me.

  “Therefore, I feel I must share with you the contents of this letter.”

  Oh. But what on earth could anyone complain about that Lady Winterbourne did not already know?

  Geoff! Accusing me of assault. That had to be it.

  “Lady Dalrymple writes—”

  What? The queen of gossip had already revealed every juicy morsel of my sins, as well as a few she had only assumed, or made up of whole cloth. What more could—

  “While here at Winterbourne,” Lady Winterbourne said, “Hermione’s favorite theme was the allegation that the babe was Anthony’s by-blow. She made a great effort to paint you the mother, but there were too many witnesses to the contrary. Now . . . “ The marchioness blew out a sigh. “Now it would appear she has heard rumors about our Greek visitor and seized upon them to create a tale that is, unfortunately, all too close to the truth.”

  “Oh, my lady, I am sorry.”

  “As well you might be,” she returned with some asperity. “Her ill will toward you is no secret, but from gossamer threads and thin air, she has fashioned a shocking tale that harms us all. Most particularly you, Lucinda. And I am heartily sorry for it.”

  After the events of the last few weeks, I thought myself ready for anything. I was not. My eyes grew wide with shock as Lady Winterbourne said, “Lady Dalrymple alleges that rather than being young Nicholas’s protector, you are so enamored of my son that you wish to do away with child, thus ensuring Anthony’s place as heir.”

  I could not have heard her correctly.

  “My lady,” I finally managed to whisper, clasping my hands tightly to keep them from shaking, “if I wanted Nick dead, I could have managed it any time these past two months and more. Babies are so small, so vulnerable . . .” Anguished, I stumbled to a halt.

  “Hermione Dalrymple is a vicious woman,” Lady Winterbourne declared. “And dangerous. She leads a coterie of females with nothing better to do than shred the reputations of anyone they have taken in dislike. I fear Anthony will be next.”

  “Not if she still has her eye on the marquisate for Lady Pamela,” I shot back.

  For the first time Lady Winterbourne looked directly at me. “A point well taken.” She shook her head, a sigh once again escaping her. “Hermione saw the handwriting on the wall—that Lady Ariana was the chosen one. That, although no offer was made this time, Ariana Rutledge has not lost her place as the favored one. Hermione, balked of her quarry, seems bent
on wreaking havoc wherever she can. And at the moment she seems intent on driving a wedge between you and my son.”

  Silence stretched between us as I sorted through the ramifications of Lady Winterbourne’s words. Not good. But all I said was, “Thank you for not believing her allegations, my lady. My family—do you think they will hear this nonsense?”

  “As quickly as Hermione can spread her poison.”

  “What . . . what do you want me to do, my lady?” The words were automatic, the result of a strict tutelage in what was expected of a daughter of the nobility. It was, however, very possible I could not do as she wished.

  Lady Winterbourne picked up the letter and proceeded to shred it, sweeping the pieces off her desk into a waste receptacle below. “Nothing at all, my dear, nothing at all. I am told we will have a definitive answer to the puzzle of the child’s birth shortly. Until that time you will continue as you have been, acting as my companion and as the babe’s guardian. When we know . . .” She shrugged. “Time enough then to salvage the reputations of all involved, including my son’s. I have accepted,” she added,” that he cannot marry until we know if he is, or is not, heir to Winterbourne.”

  Although I sincerely doubted anything could be done to salvage my reputation, I meekly accepted her edict. At least I was not about to be accused and hauled off to the assizes.

  But we had not heard the last of Lady Dalrymple’s heinous accusation, of that I was certain. It would grow and spread, infecting the minds of those who did not know me, of those who did know me and were ready for any excuse to confirm their dislike. And eventually, inevitably, reach the ears of those who cared for me. Those who had already been tested my behavior. Would they still see the good in me, or . . . ?

  “Yes, my lady,” I said. “I will try, my lady.”

  She studied me for a moment before saying, “You believe the babe is Thornbury, do you not?”

  “Yes, my lady. I have seen the marriage lines, spoken at length with Mr. Andreadis. I see no reason for him to lie.”