“Mr. Betancourt?” Anthony said. The solicitor quickly summarized the situation, from Anthony’s initial request for confirmation of his brother’s marriage, to his personal selection of Mr. Spurlock for the vital mission. He commended his investigator for the thoroughness and rapidity of his journey to Greece, then stepped back, seating himself in a chair near the fireplace.
Mr. Spurlock nodded to Mr. Betancourt, then turned to his audience and spoke in the sonorous tones of a man giving sworn testimony. He held up a good-sized leather courier’s pouch and declared. “Inside are the documents I have just shown to Lord Anthony.”
Lord Anthony. Not Lord Thornbury. My stomach roiled.
“Firstly,” Mr. Spurlock continued, “there are witnessed affidavits from the captains of both ships, stating that I truly sailed to Athens and back again. I have a statement from the priest who married Hartley, Lord Thornbury, to Adara Demetriou, daughter of a dealer in antiquities in Athens, Greece. There is also a copy of the marriage certificate, witnessed by the priest, Miss Demetriou’s parents, and two others present at the ceremony. It matches the marriage certificate found among Lady Thornbury’s effects, down to the English translations originally written by an Englishman studying the ruins. For the purposes of this investigation, he duplicated his work. He is also one of the witnesses to the wedding.”
Spurlock raised his gaze to our visitor from Greece. “I am told we have an actual eyewitness to the wedding here in this room, a Mr. Petros Andreadis. In the course of my inquiries, I met his father, who is a merchant of considerable substance and good reputation. All I spoke with confirmed that Petros Andreadis followed his widowed love to England, solely for the purpose of protecting her in case she was rejected by her husband’s English family.”
I also have a copy of Lord Thornbury’s death certificate, which was issued after his body was found some three weeks after he disappeared after diving into the sea.” Once again Mr. Spurlock held the pouch high. “I invite each of you to peruse these documents. They are, I assure you, authentic. Miss Neville?” He looked directly at me. “I understand you have been acting as the baby’s guardian. I am, therefore, pleased to inform you there can be no doubt that he is Lord Thornbury, heir to Winterbourne.”
By now we had all anticipated the pronouncement; nonetheless a chill swept the room. I could almost hear the thoughts: Lord Anthony was the true Deverell. Lord Anthony, the one they’d known all his life. Lord Anthony, the one some had been willing to kill for.
As for Anthony himself, not by so much as a twitch did he show any emotion at all. But his loss was great. Stunningly so.
“Thank you, Mr. Spurlock,” he said, adding as if he’d read my mind, “I was not raised to be Thornbury; therefore, the loss is not as great as one might expect.” He offered a wry smile. “Though I have to admit the responsibilities of the past few months have undoubtedly improved my character.”
Nervous chuckles rippled across the room, mine among them. Only Mr. Metcalfe maintained his glower.
“Please”—Anthony waved his hand toward the pouch Mr. Spurlock had placed on the tea table—“examine all the documents. There must be no doubts remaining.”
“If you will excuse me,” I said, “I would like to be the first to tell the nursery staff.”
“Of course,” Anthony murmured. After managing a few words to Lady Winterbourne, who seemed to be suffering from severely mixed emotions, I climbed the stairs with winged feet. Nick, my darling Nick, was the heir!
I stopped dead at the foot of the last flight of stairs, the negatives sparking around me like an explosion of fireworks. I no longer had a place at Winterbourne. Young Hartley Deverell was about to be swept up in all the pomp and circumstance of being heir to one of the greatest titles and fortunes in England. I, the ruined baron’s daughter would be slinking off to Neville Manor or the home of one of my sisters. Leaving not just one but two males I loved à corps perdu.
And that was not all. How could I have been so selfish that I had forgotten Lord Winterbourne? If, as I suspected, he was determined—to the point of madness—to see Anthony his heir, how would he take the news?
Badly, I feared. Very badly.
The wings on my feet vanished. I plodded up the stairs, my eyes misting, joy overwhelmed by the ugly reality of Anthony’s loss and what his father might have done in an attempt to prevent a small half-Greek babe from becoming an English lord.
I could not be glum for long, however. My friends, even Nurse Tompkins, reacted with awe and a tear of two, but it was Josie who interrupted our joy, expressing what we were all thinking, deep down.
“Ah, poor Lord Anthony. He’s a good ’un. ’Tis a shame, it is.”
“It is what it is,” I said a trifle too briskly. “We must accept the laws of the land.” I fought back a wince as the mocking laughter of my inner voice echoed through my head.
“Come, Lord Thornbury,” I said, turning to the wide-eyed babe who, along with Dulcie, had been a puzzled onlooker to the unusual excitement in the nursery. “Let us go out and view your acres.”
“It is nearly time for his nap, miss,” Nurse Tompkins, back to true form, snapped.
“Exceptions must be made for earls,” I informed her. And how was I to rid the nursery of this martinet before I myself was shoved out the door? Nick held up his arms, and I swept him up, lace-edged blanket and all, and whisked him out the door, leaving Tompkins sputtering behind me.
The momentous news had not yet reached the kitchen, and we passed through with no more than the usual smiles and words of greeting. Once out the door, I decided to repeat the first walk I ever took with Adara’s babe, the path to the grotto.
The shady way was as lovely in early fall as it had been in high summer, the leaves beginning to turn, a few already on the ground, rustling as my booted feet passed by. Nick was old enough now to be fascinated by the narrow cascade, gurgling with delight when I put his hand into the narrow band of plunging water.
After several minutes of enjoying the grotto, we wandered down to the pond, where a rustic bench promised a place to rest my feet while we enjoyed the serenity of the view. A place to contemplate the life-changing events of the morning.
Thrusting all thoughts of Anthony aside—I could not go there without breaking my heart!—I concentrated on the good in the situation. The long agony of waiting was over, the matter of inheritance decided for all time. I was holding Hartley Deverell, Earl of Thornbury, heir to the Marquess of Winterbourne. The time of fear was past. The time to move forward into a new future was here.
That had to be good. Good for young Hartley. For Lady Winterbourne—who, I was quite certain, would be able to accept her grandson instead of her son as Thornbury. Good for the Winterbourne estate, which needed the stability of a settled inheritance.
Not good for Lord Winterbourne. Or was I wrong about his wishes? With one so ill, it was difficult to tell.
Not good for Anthony. Or was I mistaken about his desires as well? Perhaps he truly wished to return to his life of dashing young man about town.
Then again, perhaps Lady Winterbourne was as adept at play-acting as Anthony.
And perhaps I was a stupid, interfering idiot, who didn’t know when a crisis was over—
I screamed as Nick was torn from my arms, a hard shove tumbling me off the bench onto the ground. A black-cloaked figure ran the few steps to the pond. Holding Nick high above his head, he pulled back his arm and hurled him into the water at least fifteen feet from shore.
For an instant my mind shattered. I could not take in the enormity of the crime. And then everything went still, my vision as clear as the trout pool under the bridge in the meadow. The villain, sure of his handiwork, had run off. I stripped off my boots and plunged into the water, making a beeline to the place where Nick’s blanket still floated on the surface.
Suddenly, my feet ran out of muddy bottom, began to drift. With water sloshing up to my chin, I started to swim. Though far from expert, I could manage to
stay afloat.
But Nick had not. And I had no idea how to dive beneath the surface. Especially when my gown and petticoats seemed determined to float. I ducked my head, stroked hard with my hands . . . and got no more than a few feet below the surface. Again. I could see him! A small white bundle on the bottom, but I could not reach him. Harder, I had to pull harder, force myself down! I gulped for air and tried again. Yes! This time I was going to make it.
Powerful hands grabbed my ankles, pulling me back up. No-o-o!
I fought Anthony, squirming, pounding. “Let me go! Nick’s drowning!”
A great surge of water erupted around us as Petros Andreadis’s body broke the surface beside us. In his arms, Nick. I gave a great sob and stopped struggling.
Anthony towed me to shore in Mr. Andreadis’s wake, and we all hovered over the baby, who was white and still. “You said you’re the better swimmer,” Anthony barked at the Greek. “Are you experienced in rescue as well?”
“Not baby, but . . .” Andreadis upended Nick, holding him by the feet with one hand. He patted him on the back, shook him a bit. Repeated his efforts.
If Nick died, it was my fault. I had killed him as certainly as if I’d been the one to toss him in the water. My carelessness, my certainty that others would accept Nick’s elevation—
A cough, a wiggle of protest, and water spouted from Nick’s mouth. More coughs as the Greek did a few more pats before turning the babe right-side up and handing him to me. Whereupon I burst into tears. Between heaving sobs, I managed to thank both men, although no words could ever be adequate to express my gratitude.
We rushed Nick back to the house, ordering hot water as we passed through the kitchen. After a quick change to dry clothes, I hovered over Ivy and Flora as they plunged Nick into the hottest water we felt he could stand. He bellowed to high heaven, as if certain we were executing another attempt on his life. The strength and volume of his protest brought tears of joy to my eyes. Unless he developed an inflammation of the lungs, croup, once again our sturdy Nick had suffered no long-lasting harm.
An hour later I was summoned to Anthony’s study. So many questions whirled through my head, I practically tripped over my own feet as I flew down the stairs. “How?” I demanded the moment I cleared the study door, barely taking in that Petros Andreadis was also present. “How did you know?”
“Papa,” Anthony said. “He was taking the news badly, and when his eyes went wide and he clutched my hand, I thought he was having another apoplexy. I’m afraid more than a little time was wasted while I attempted to understand what he wanted. It turned out he was trying to draw my attention to Beck, who he’d seen slip from the room directly after I confirmed that Nick was Thornbury.
“Papa kept waving his hand, gasping, ‘Go, go,’ and I did, though I had no idea what was happening. I met Andreadis near the door to the kitchen—evidently he’d been keeping an eye on Beck on his own. And one of the gardeners told us which path you’d taken. I am so sorry we were late, Nell. So very sorry.”
“You are no more guilty than I,” I assured him after a heartfelt sigh. “I should never have taken Nick out. I should have realized he was more of a target than ever.”
“Still target,” Petros Andreadis said.
“Beck has fled,” Anthony informed us. “And good riddance. We don’t need the scandal of a trial, the inevitable questions about the legitimacy of the title.”
“But surely Beck did not do this on his own,” I said.
“No,” Anthony returned. “Someone else has been pulling the strings. And now that we know Beck is involved, I’ll make short work of finding him.”
“Mr. Andreadis,” I said. “Please tell Lord Anthony what you told me.”
Slowly, the Greek nodded, accepting that he no longer had reason to suspect Anthony of being a villain. His tale of Mr. Metcalfe’s attempts to suborn his testimony were quickly told.
When he was finished, Anthony gazed down at his desktop, allowing silence to engulf us, a silence pulsing with questions. “I had hoped to put this off,” he said at last, “until I’d delved to the bottom of it all, but . . .” He drummed his fingers on his desk, his face crumpling into a brief grimace before returning to the stoic façade he had been maintaining so well.
“I knew of Metcalfe’s treachery,” he said. “From James. But I also recognized Metcalfe’s devotion to my father. I doubted he would act on his own.” Anthony ducked his head, as if his desktop had acquired a sudden fascination.
“But your father warned you,” I protested.
“Only at the last minute, after he knew the babe was his grandson, his true heir.”
I stared, snapped shut my mouth, which had gone agape. Anthony was admitting his father . . .
“I suspect they were all involved—Father, Metcalfe, Beck, James, with Redfield aware of the lot. I promise you, I will find out.” Anthony turned to his guest from Greece. “Andreadis, you have my heartfelt thanks, and the thanks of the family for saving the Deverell heir. We are forever indebted to you. You are free to return to Greece whenever you wish. Please be good enough to leave a direction for the parents of my brother’s wife. I wish to offer my family’s condolences.” The two men stood and shook hands, meeting each other’s gaze eye to eye. Friends at last.
“Miss Neville.” Anthony turned to me. “I have a grueling few hours ahead of me. Please stay with Nick every moment until you hear that all has been settled to my satisfaction.”
I moved back to the attic within the hour, cramping myself into a small room at the far end of the corridor, one most likely reserved for an extra nursery maid or perhaps an overflow of small Deverells. Even though more important matters should have taken precedence, I could not help a grumble or two when I saw Nurse Tompkins sailing majestically in and out of my former room.
To say the remainder of the day was agony was an understatement. I never let Nick out of my sight, even squeezing his cradle into my room for the night. Today’s close call should have put an end to the series of disastrous events, but with villains cropping up everywhere I looked . . .
And nothing had been said about why I had been a target.
I dined in the nursery. Josie informed us Lady Winterbourne dined in her room. No one had seen Anthony or Bertram Metcalfe in hours.
During the long hours of the night, I wrestled with my future. Limited as it was. Nick was about to be surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and title—a guardian, trustees, the luxuries of great wealth. The disgraced daughter of a lowly baron had no place in his life. And I could not cite my promise to his mother, for he was now the apple of everyone’s eye. The darling boy. Thornbury, on his way to becoming Winterbourne.
Perhaps Lady Winterbourne would keep me on . . .
When she wants him to marry Lady Ariana? Are you mad? Out of sight, out of mind, you foolish chit.
The truth hurt.
Yet I managed a smile into the darkness, the darkness shared by Nick. Adara, we’ve done it. Your son has taken his rightful place in this world.
Chapter 30
Halfway through the next morning, Josie puffed her way up the stairs to deliver a brief note: Nell, meet me in the center of the maze at noon. Anthony
My heart leapt, forming a lump in my throat that threatened to choke me, even as a jumble of thoughts whirled through my head.
Anthony and I in the privacy of the maze.
He must consider Nick safe at last.
I was about to learn the whole of the heinous conspiracy.
I was to be given my congé. No, no, that was the “thanks and farewell” men gave their mistresses.
If only I’d had such an intimate memory to take away with me.
Lucinda Nellwyn Neville, how could you think such a thing?
An hour later, I walked gingerly between the towering yew hedges at the entrance to the maze, determined to allow enough time to be ensnared by several dead ends before finding my way to our appointed rendezvous. I managed the twists and turns
better than the last time, however, arriving a good ten minutes before noon.
Anthony was already there, pacing up and down. Since he had not yet caught sight of me, I paused a moment, wondering at his seeming agitation. Had things not gone well? Did matters remained unsettled?
Oh no! He had promised all would be over.
Courage, Luce. You’re jumping to conclusions again.
I walked into his line of sight. He stopped pacing. Smiled. Gestured for me to sit on the marble bench. I did so, gazing up at him with anxious eyes.
His smile faded. “I asked you to meet me here because so many bad things have been spoken of in my study.” A rise of his brows, a curl of his lip. “And almost inevitably, we quarreled.”
All true. I nodded my agreement.
“You should know that my father has slipped into unconsciousness. The doctor doubts he will last out the month.”
“I am so sorry—”
Anthony waved away my sympathy. “It is, perhaps, for the best. Redfield confirms that my father instigated the whole, only balking after being forced to acknowledge the babe was his grandson and legitimate heir. It was Metcalfe himself who opened the window in Nick’s room. Metcalfe who directed James—as heinous a case of misguided loyalty as anyone could imagine.” Anthony, still standing, shook his head. “It was Beck who shot at you, though he acted on his own when he determined to put an end to Nick, once and for all. But after what had gone before, who could blame him for assuming that is what Father wanted.”
“They are all guilty of attempted murder!”
“James and Beck are greedy, amoral, dastardly villains, and we are well rid of them. As for the other miscreants—”
“Miscreants!” A most unladylike shriek, I admit.
Anthony winced, scowled, and returned in his most austere tone, “You’ll pardon me if I hesitate to name the Marquess of Winterbourne, his long-time secretary, and his aging valet dastardly villains.
I opened my mouth to protest, snapped it closed. What, after all, could I say to that?
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