by Music Box
“Explain it? Aren’t you the one who said some things must be felt rather than defined?” Gaby paused, waiting for Bryce to reply. When he didn’t, she softly added, “A man who can make such an evaluation, who can feel the beauty of music, is also a man who can love, both affectionately and romantically.”
“Gabrielle, you’re very young.”
“And you’re very jaded. Did one of the women I mentioned earlier hurt you? Is that why you’re averse to falling in love?”
Bryce stared in utter disbelief. “Hurt me? Of course not. They were delightful companions.”
“So is Crumpet. That doesn’t answer my question.” Gaby studied Bryce’s baffled frown, a dawning knowledge kindling inside her. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it does.” Slowly she rose from the piano bench. “You’re a very complex man, Bryce Lyndley. But I don’t think you’re nearly as removed and analytical as you believe—at least not in all matters. I won’t press you about the secrets you’re guarding. But whatever they are, I suspect they must be quite painful—painful enough for you to erect a wall around your heart that’s as unnatural as it is self-imposed. I hope for your sake you decide to lower that wall, at least long enough for someone like Miss Talbot to enter. From what I understand, love—like music—is magic. Don’t deny yourself that magic. It would be an enormous mistake.” A sudden thought struck Gaby, and she smiled, marveling at what could be a wonderful and ironic twist of fate. “Earlier I told you how glad I was that you’d come to Nevon Manor, how much I believe you can offer our family. Now that I consider it, I believe we can offer you equally as much in return. Perhaps you should consider staying here for a while. Perhaps it would be the best thing not only for us but for you as well.”
Bryce opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he intended to say was cut off by a knock at the partially open music room door.
“Yes?” Gaby called.
“Pardon me, Miss Gaby,” Chaunce said politely, stepping into the room. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your conversation at an inopportune moment. But Lady Nevon wishes to speak with Mr. Lyndley. Now—before the family gathers for dinner.”
“Is Aunt Hermione all right?” Gaby asked anxiously.
“Yes, the medicine did her a world of good, as did her afternoon nap,” Chaunce confirmed. “However, she is still a bit peaked. Thus Mrs. Gordon and I persuaded her to remain in her chambers, if not abed, until the time comes to dress for dinner. She’s there now, awaiting Mr. Lyndley in her sitting room.”
“I’ll see her immediately.” Bryce was still staring at Gaby, his expression unreadable. Abruptly he looked away, walking automatically toward the doorway. “Hermione and I still have a great deal to discuss.”
“Yes, sir,” Chaunce concurred, hands clasped behind his back. “A great deal.” He turned to follow Bryce, his gaze flickering over Gaby in the process.
She could have sworn she saw satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
Chapter 4
“AH, BRYCE. PLEASE COME in.” Hermione gestured for Bryce to enter. Nestled on the velvet settee, her dark skirts billowing out around her, she looked small, wan, and far more frail than Bryce would have liked.
Renewed pangs of worry assailed him, supplanting the brooding humor that had accompanied him from the music room and his unsettling conversation with Gabrielle.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, eyeing Hermione’s pallor and trying to keep his tone light, unconcerned.
“Years younger, now that you’re here.” She smiled, patting the cushion beside her. “Sit with me.” Tipping her chin up, she glanced beyond Bryce, giving Chaunce a businesslike nod. “You may fetch the books now, Chaunce. While you’re gathering them, I’ll finish my chat with Mr. Lyndley.”
“Very good, madam.” With a half bow, the butler took his leave, shutting the door behind him.
Bryce crossed over and lowered himself onto the settee. “You’re still somewhat pale. Did you rest?”
Hermione waved away his concern. “You sound like Dr. Briers. I’ll answer you as I do him: I’ve done nothing but rest all day.” A sigh as she rubbed the fine silk of her gown between her fingers. “As for being pale, I only look that way because of these drab colors I’ve been wearing since Richard’s death. In truth, I loathe them. I much prefer bright hues, especially on a woman my age whose wrinkles already make her look dreary enough. But for the next few months at least …” She paused. “I realize you can’t possibly fathom this, Bryce, but Richard was, for the most part, a dutiful brother. And even those times when I thought him unfeeling, he was still my brother—the only brother I had. If I failed to show some display of mourning, I’d feel as if I were dishonoring him. I suppose in your eyes that makes me a dreadful hypocrite.”
“No, it makes you a devoted sister—in anyone’s eyes.”
Warmth suffused Hermione’s face. “Thank you. You’re a kindhearted man. And not only on my behalf. Cook spent a quarter hour in my chambers going on and on about the miracle you wrought with Peter. She’s never seen the lad this enthusiastic—or this self-confident. Whatever did you say to him?”
“Nothing magical,” Bryce assured her, crossing one long leg over the other. “I showed him some of the legal texts you provided me. We chatted about the Inns of Court. I read him the outlines of a few interesting cases. He took one of the books to his room.” A faint reminiscent smile. “He won’t be able to read much of it, but I don’t think it will matter. It didn’t to me. The first time I held a legal text in my hands, I was at Eton and not much older than Peter. I hadn’t anywhere near a full understanding of what was in that book, but I knew that when I held it I felt like an authentic barrister, necessary skills or not.”
“Well, evidently Peter feels the same way. And you’re the person responsible for his sense of well-being. Just as you’re responsible for his mother’s. Not to mention the other children, who hung on to your every word at lunch; Wilson, who’s been boasting all day that you admired his primroses; my devoted lady’s maid, Dora, who glowingly informed me that you aided her on the staircase when her walking stick faltered; and even Mrs. Gordon, who claims you’ve not left a single track of dirt in the manor—not even after returning from your walk on the grounds.”
Wry amusement lifted Bryce’s brows. “Those were simple courtesies, Hermione, not heroic acts.”
“I beg to differ with you. Why, I understand from Bowrick that you even took time to help him find his spectacles.”
“I passed Bowrick in the hall. The spectacles were in his pocket. The entire exchange took less than two minutes.” Amusement vanished as Bryce’s instincts clamored to life once more. It wasn’t his imagination. He was being fattened like a lamb for slaughter. The ironic thing was that the entire performance was for naught, given that flattery would have as little effect on his decision as would the abundance of attention with which he was being lavished. The answer he eventually gave Hermione would be rooted in something far deeper than his popularity among the staff.
“Hermione, is this deluge of praise meant to influence my decision as to whether or not I’ll agree to act as your beneficiary?” he asked. “Because if it is …”
“I understand Chaunce found you in the music room with Gaby. Doesn’t she play beautifully?”
Bryce considered pressing his point, then changed his mind. For whatever reason, Hermione wanted no part of his explanation, nor was she ready to address the issue of her earlier request head-on. Rather, she seemed set on her own course—a course that included presenting every member of her household in the most favorable light. Very well, he would play this game her way. “Yes, she plays exquisitely.”
“And did the two of you have a nice chat?”
Casually, Bryce draped his arm over the back of the settee, tilting his head and meeting Hermione’s inquisitive gaze. “Indeed we did. We discussed music, the servants, and you. We also discussed Gabrielle herself: her background, her interests, her opinions.”
“She’s a remarkable girl,
isn’t she?”
“She most certainly is.”
“Her background—did she tell you about her parents? How they died?”
“How and where.” Some of Bryce’s earlier pensiveness returned at the memory of what he’d learned, the unexpected link between Gabrielle’s past and his own.
“Then you know how vulnerable she is.” Ignoring Bryce’s reference to Whitshire, Hermione bent forward and massaged her temples, her voice wavering as she spoke. “More than any of the others, I worry about Gaby, about what will become of her when I’m gone. She’s like a beautiful butterfly, Bryce—rare and delicate. And so trusting. It troubles me more than you can imagine.”
“Why?” Bryce blinked, taken aback by the unanticipated course of Hermione’s conversation. He’d expected a citing of Gabrielle’s virtues, not an expression of anxiety over her future. “Why would you worry about Gabrielle’s fate? Everyone at Nevon Manor adores her. None of your staff would ever hurt her.”
“No, they wouldn’t. But can you make the same claim about the outside world?”
“Forgive me, Hermione, but I’m lost. According to Gabrielle, the residents of Nevon Manor are a very sequestered group who rarely venture from the estate.”
“True. But unlike the others, Gaby cannot remain sequestered for much longer. She’s eighteen, Bryce, a grown woman—one who has so very much to give. She needs a life, a husband, a family of her own. And that means leaving Nevon Manor, joining the real and ofttimes unkind world outside our gates. Gaby is totally unprepared for that—which is my fault for keeping her so sheltered. But because she endured what she had, and at so young an age, I wanted her to feel safe, to have a home, security. Now I wonder if I did her a disservice. For despite Gaby’s innate joy of life, despite the limitless strength she finds for others, she’s very innocent and very fragile. It would take only the wrong situation, the wrong man, to shatter her. And if I’m not here to protect her …”
Bryce scowled, unable to refute a word of Hermione’s fervent reasoning. His talk with Gabrielle had revealed her to be precisely the young woman Hermione was describing. And without Hermione as her guardian …
“You’re right,” he inserted quietly, his mind racing to explore possible solutions. “I understand your trepidation. In fact, I’d go so far as to suggest we act upon it.”
Hermione’s head came up. “Act upon it? How?”
“By making provisions for Gabrielle’s future in the will you’ll be amending.”
“That’s precisely the route I was contemplating. It’s also the reason I wanted to chat with you tonight, before Chaunce returns with the household accounts.”
“Do you have a specific proposal you wish to discuss?”
“Yes. I’d like to appoint a legal guardian for Gaby—one who would be responsible for seeing to her future in the event of my death.”
Bryce looked surprised. “Naturally that would be the ideal solution. However, I got the distinct impression there was no one you trusted to fill that role.”
“On the contrary, there is indeed someone—if you’ll agree to do it.”
Bryce jerked upright. “I? You want me to act as Gabrielle’s guardian?”
“I don’t want you to. I plead with you to.” Hermione inhaled slowly, clasping her trembling hands together. “Please, Bryce. I implore you to accept. I have no one else to turn to, not even Thane. He and Gaby have met only a dozen times, and they’re such entirely different people; Thane wouldn’t have a clue how best to pave Gaby’s future. Whereas you, having dealt in a much more diverse environment, having experienced so much of your own suffering …”
Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips as if seeking the right words to convince him. “It would be no more than a minor inconvenience. As my beneficiary, you’d be living at Nevon Manor anyway. And you wouldn’t have to invest a shilling of your own money; I’d leave a sizable trust fund for Gaby, which you would oversee, of course. You could make certain she met the right people, shield her from cruelty and ugliness. The entire staff would help you; as you said, they love Gaby dearly. But they alone are not strong enough, steady enough, to manage this all-important responsibility on their own. I need to leave someone strong at the helm, someone intelligent and insightful who can look out for Gaby, protect her, guide her along the right path. That someone, Bryce, is you. Please—you mustn’t say no.”
Coming to his feet, Bryce stalked the room, hands clasped behind his back. He was numb with shock, overcome by the enormity of what Hermione was asking of him, a request that had escalated from the weighty to the ponderous. To agree to oversee her unorthodox staff would be a massive enough responsibility, necessitating his changing his residence, his priorities, his entire way of life. But this? Taking on a young woman as his ward, introducing her to society, securing her future? For this he had no experience, no preparation, no inclination.
How the hell could Hermione ask this of him?
Because there was no one else. No one to care for Hermione’s staff, no one to see to Gabrielle’s future. No friends, no family. No one.
Being alone, fending for oneself—these were prospects Bryce understood only too well, for he himself had confronted them years ago, the day he’d received Hermione’s letter, learned the Lyndleys were gone, and faced the sickening fact that he was without a foundation upon which to stand, without a supportive hand to grasp.
The pain that had accompanied that realization was not something he’d want anyone else to endure, certainly not one as tenderhearted as Gabrielle.
“You’re sure that Thane …?” he began.
“I’m sure.” Watching the play of emotions on Bryce’s face, Hermione leaned forward, adding gently, “Bryce, this favor I’m asking is quite possibly a mere formality. As you’re well aware, I consider Gaby my own. Bearing that in mind, I fully intend to bring her out next Season, to carefully initiate her emergence into society.” A resigned sigh. “I’d originally intended to do so this Season, but because of Richard’s illness I deferred my plans. Which gives me the better part of a year to persuade Gaby that Nevon Manor can survive without us for several days here and there. She worries so about our family’s ability to cope with change, although I’m more than confident that Chaunce can keep things running with reassuring familiarity during Gaby’s and my occasional forays into Town. I would never desert my family for long intervals. But I do not intend to neglect Gaby’s future. Given that by next spring my mourning period will be very much over, Gaby will be brought out then, at which time I expect a dozen eager suitors to be contending for her hand. Why, she’ll probably be married and a mother before I pass on. Still, I must take the necessary precautions, just in case. Surely, being a barrister, you understand the prudence of my plan.”
“Yes, Hermione, I understand,” Bryce muttered, wishing he could find one bloody flaw in her logic. Unfortunately, there was none. Not with regard to her plea for Gabrielle or her plea for her staff. She loved these people, she was desperate to protect them, and she fully believed he was the sole person to secure their future.
Perhaps he was.
Which incited a most baffling question.
Abruptly Bryce halted, squaring off to meet Hermione’s gaze. “What would you have done had Whitshire not died when he did?”
Hermione drew an unsteady breath. “The truth? I’d been grappling with the idea of contacting you anyway, begging you to come—under an assumed name, if need be, pretending you were my business adviser, my solicitor, anything—and praying you wouldn’t refuse and Richard wouldn’t suspect who you really were. That’s how desperate I was becoming. Then God intervened. He saw a way to bring you to me. I never wished for any harm to befall my brother”—a shadow darted across her face—“except when he cast you aside, at which time I actually wished him in hell. Nevertheless, my anguish went unanswered and Richard’s fate was ultimately decided by a higher being. Still, the timing—his death, my deterioration—I don’t believe it was mere coincidence. In my hear
t I believe God concurred with my wish for you to come back into my life, guide the paths of those I love, and fulfill the role you were never able to claim while Richard lived.”
At the last, Bryce went rigid. “What does that mean?”
Silence.
“Hermione, what else haven’t you told me?”
Hermione’s lashes drifted to her cheeks. “With regard to what?”
“You know full well with regard to what.” Bryce strode forward, stood directly over Hermione, where he intended to remain until he got some answers. “Let’s dispense with the games. I much prefer truth to pretense, as your investigators have doubtless advised you. Well-meaning or not, you have quite a thorough plan mapped out, a plan that puts me at its center but which you’ve neglected to clearly define aloud. Initially you said you wanted me to draw up your will, look over your household accounts, and—as you announced to your staff—act as your business adviser. Then, as an afterthought, you added that you’ve selected me to inherit your home and take on your staff. A few minutes ago you beseeched me to oversee Gabrielle’s future. Now you’re alluding to some other—and I suspect thoroughly inconceivable—role you wish me to play. So I repeat, what else do you intend to ask of me?”
Hermione wet her lips, her pale blue gaze steady on his. “Very well, Bryce, if you want me to be direct, so be it. There is one more facet of my request.”
“Which is …?”
“To meet your brother.”
“My brother,” Bryce echoed, the word tasting bitter and foreign on his tongue.
“Yes—Thane. As I said, he’s a fine man. Different from you, different from Gaby, but decent and kind nonetheless. Richard was the only obstacle standing between you. Now he’s gone. And I want the two of you to meet. Soon—before my time comes.”
There it was again. Hermione’s obscure reference to her failing health.