by Music Box
Amusement curved Bryce’s lips. “I know quite a few people who would take exception to that description of me. Soothing? My colleagues would laugh themselves silly. As for my being able to read your mind, it hardly takes a visionary to do so. You’re not exactly adept at disguising your feelings. Trepidation was written all over your face.”
“Thane didn’t detect it,” Gaby pointed out. “Do you remember what I told you—about Thane being the first notes of a sonata? Well, you’re the entire concert—richly textured and deep. Music, as we discussed, must be felt. Emotions, even blatant ones, must be perceived. Perhaps mine were written all over my face, but it took you to read them.”
A heartbeat of silence.
“While we’re on the subject of emotions,” Gaby continued, deliberately steering the conversation in a direction Bryce would find less disturbing. “I’m so happy things went well for you and Thane.”
“So am I. I think.” Absently, Bryce rubbed his chin. “I didn’t expect tonight to result in an alliance with Whitshire’s son. I’m having a bit of trouble with all this, trying to determine who I am, at least with regard to Thane. We’re total strangers, yet we’re brothers. It’s damned disconcerting.”
“The lack of a defined rapport between you and Thane will amend itself. As for who you are, you know the answer to that. The situation may be unsettling, but the man beneath is unchanged. You’re Bryce Lyndley. You have a challenging new maze to navigate, but you’ll find your way, both here and at Nevon Manor. And who knows? You just might grow a bit in the process.” Gaby’s gravity vanished, twin dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Just as Alice did in Wonderland—and I don’t only mean in the physical sense, when she gobbled up the cake that said ‘eat me.’ ”
Laughter warmed Bryce’s eyes to a velvety green. “Or when she nibbled on the proper side of a mushroom?”
“Precisely.”
“You’re a lot like Wonderland yourself, you know. A beautiful and carefree fairy tale with an inner core of wisdom that one must perceive in order to benefit from. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Wordlessly, Gaby shook her head, a peculiar knot tightening her chest. “No,” she admitted. “Never.”
“A flagrant oversight.” Bryce’s knuckles caressed her cheek. “Consider it remedied.” An odd expression crossed his face, and he dropped his hand to his side. “We’d best get going or Hermione will march down here and drag us to the music room so that Averley can teach me all I need to know.”
“And so you can spend time with Thane,” Gaby reminded him, the reality of the evening ahead eclipsing the warmth of the past few moments.
“That too.” Bryce paused, assessing Gaby carefully, then tucking her arm through his. “Remember, you’re not alone. If the uneasiness persists, we’ll leave. All right?”
“All right.” With a sharp inhalation, Gaby followed Bryce’s lead, walking beside him to the hallway. As they veered toward their destination, she reassured herself that his encouragement and Whitshire’s music hall would provide enough magic to keep her trepidation at bay.
She knew at once she was wrong.
The instant she crossed the threshold, entered the richly decorated music hall, Gaby felt her insides clench—despite the encouraging smile bestowed upon her by Aunt Hermione and the pleasant greetings offered by Averley and Thane.
Her troubled gaze took in her surroundings, trying to fathom the cause for her excessive distress. Whitshire’s music hall was twice the size of the one at Nevon Manor, but it was also as unfamiliar as it was grand. She’d never set foot in here before, of that she was certain. So why was her heart pounding like a drum?
She continued her scrutiny.
The room, which overlooked the southern portion of the estate, boasted gilded moldings and arches, and huge trefoil mirrors divided the long row of windows on the far side of the room. The windows were adorned with gold brocade drapes, tied back with matching sashes so as to allow onlookers an unobstructed view of the grounds. Beyond the glass, acres of greenery stretched out, blanketed by darkness, black velvet broken only by the outline of the stables and the lights dotting the rooms of the servants’ quarters.
The servants’ quarters. Gaby’s mouth went dry as she realized what her subconscious had already known: that she was staring through a window to her childhood—and to the terrifying nightmare that had ended it. No wonder she was reacting so intensely. Why in the name of heaven did the music room have to overlook this particular section of Whitshire?
Avoiding her ghosts was no longer an option.
Walking away from Bryce, she perched on the edge of a mahogany chair, steeling herself to confront what she must. Stiff-backed, she stared outside, vaguely aware of Thane and Averley summoning Bryce to the far corner of the room, equally aware of Bryce complying, albeit with reluctant concern. After that, everything became a vague, faraway blur: the droning of the three men’s voices as they pored over documents, Hermione’s occasional suggestions as she ensured that Bryce’s every question was addressed.
The only thing that was screamingly vivid in Gaby’s mind was her own increasing distress.
Pressing her damp palms together, she focused on the quarters before her, realizing why she hadn’t recognized her whereabouts right away. This entire wing of Whitshire was foreign—an observation that struck her like a blow, even though she knew she should have expected it. Of course the buildings had been redesigned. After all, the fire had destroyed everything, burned to ashes all the structures from Whitshire’s rear entrance to its coach house. Only the stables had been spared, given that they’d been set apart and a great enough distance away, and the wind had blown the fire in the opposite direction.
Tragically, that direction had blazed a straight line to the servants’ quarters, where dozens of innocent people had been devoured by flames, dying before they had a chance of escape.
With a will of its own, Gaby’s gaze combed the darkness, fixed on what now looked to be a section of the coach house, but what had thirteen years ago been the storage room in which she’d slept that fateful night, lulled by her music box, content in the knowledge that the baby robins she’d wandered out to inspect slept, too.
While in the meantime, the blaze had robbed her of everything, everyone, she loved.
She squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to blot out the suddenly vivid images that sprang to mind. The unnatural light that had blinded her upon awakening. The smoke curling slowly beneath the door. The musky smell of burning timber and scorching blossoms. The terrifying feeling that she would never escape—and the blast of fresh air when she had.
The sickening realization of where that wall of flame was headed.
Dear God. This wasn’t difficult, it was unbearable.
Drawing a deep, supposedly calming breath, Gaby was seized by a wave of panic so acute she nearly cried out. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she moved restlessly about the room trying to appear as natural as she could, all the while taking slow, soothing breaths, feeling sicker with each passing second, and more and more as if she were being engulfed by some frightening wave. The harder she struggled, the worse it got.
“Gabrielle, why don’t you play for us?”
It was Bryce’s voice, penetrating her turmoil and bringing her head up. “Pardon me?”
He put down his quill, a troubled frown knitting his brows as he indicated the exquisite Broadwood grand in the center of the room. “I’ve only once had the pleasure of hearing you play. I’d be delighted if you’d do so now; it would add some spirit to the otherwise dry task of assessing tenant records.” He inclined his head in the direction of the piano, giving Gaby an encouraging nod to assure her he knew, at least to some degree, what was going on inside her. “Beethoven would be my preference,” he added gently.
“As I’m sure it would be Gaby’s,” Hermione agreed, her pained expression indisputable proof that she’d completely forgotten what section of grounds Whitshire’s music hall overlooked—an oversight for wh
ich she was now berating herself. Her anguished gaze narrowed on Gaby as she attempted to discern whether or not her niece was capable of seeing the evening through or whether they should abandon this initial and unexpectedly glaring attempt to face her past. “Please, darling, do as Bryce suggests,” she said at length. “It would give me something captivating to listen to while these gentlemen do their tedious legal reviews. If the Broadwood doesn’t lighten your heart, we’ll end our visit and head directly back to Nevon Manor.”
“All right.” Relieved that her aunt had deduced the situation and was willing to leave if need be, Gaby walked over to the bench and sat. Her heart was still slamming against her ribs, but she forced her mind away from it, resting her unsteady fingertips on the keys. The cool ivory felt like an old friend, and her eyes slid shut as she closed out the rest of the world and sank into that peaceful place where only she and the musical tones resided.
A place even the panic couldn’t penetrate.
She began with Beethoven’s Minuet in G, partly because it was Aunt Hermione’s favorite, partly so she could lighten the tension that pervaded the room. After that, she switched to sonatas, playing movements from two or three of Beethoven’s most beautiful compositions, including “Moonlight Sonata” for Bryce.
With a will of their own, her fingers shifted, finding and producing the initial strains of “Für Elise,” bowing her head as she immersed herself in the melody that brought back her parents, her childhood, her memories.
Abruptly she pulled away, her hands shaking as she pressed them to her cheeks, felt the wetness of the tears she hadn’t remembered shedding.
“Gaby.” Aunt Hermione was beside her, gently stroking her hair.
“I’m sorry,” Gaby whispered. “I just—”
“No, I’m sorry.” Hermione wrapped a fiercely protective arm about her shoulders. “We’ll go home now.” She half turned, murmuring, “Couling, would you ask Goodsmith to bring my carriage around?”
“Of course, my lady.”
Surprised at the proximity of Couling’s voice, Gaby raised her head, pivoting about to find out where he was and when he’d entered the room. Her question died before ever emerging.
Couling, Mrs. Fife, Mrs. Darcey, and several other servants hovered just inside the doorway, staring at her with awed expressions. Mrs. Darcey had tears glistening on her lashes, tears she dabbed away with a handkerchief.
“That was beautiful,” she said fervently. “You play like an angel. And forgive me for crying. It’s just that it’s been a long time since I heard that particular melody.”
Gaby swallowed. “You remember?”
“Your mother’s music box? Of course I do. It was her prized possession—and yours. You were clutching it so tightly that night, I couldn’t pry it from your fingers. Any more than I could stop your sobs.”
“Mrs. Darcey,” Hermione commanded quietly.
The housekeeper looked positively mortified. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.”
“You play exquisitely, Gabrielle,” Averley inserted, clearing his throat and speaking in an even tone that strove to take the edge off everyone’s rampaging emotions. “Lady Nevon was right. You are an accomplished musician.”
“Indeed.” Couling was regarding her intently. “I feel as if I’ve just attended a recital.”
“Thank you.” Gaby rose, relieved when Bryce crossed over to assist her, he and Hermione flanking her. “Now if you’ll all excuse me, I really would like to go home.”
“Yes,” Couling agreed. “I’m sure you would.” He gestured to the other servants. “Resume your duties. I’ll summon Goodsmith and fetch the coats.”
“I appreciate your compassion,” Gaby managed, glancing out the windows with a shudder. “I’m sure I’ll be fine once I reach Nevon Manor. Yes, I’m quite sure of it,” she reiterated, giving everyone a bright, reassuring smile.
Somehow no one looked convinced.
Least of all, she.
Chapter 6
BRYCE PROWLED ABOUT HIS bedchamber, sipping at a glass of Madeira and grappling with all that had happened tonight—all that had happened during the past few days—the sum total of which gnawed at him, refused to let him sleep.
Gabrielle had been silent on the carriage ride home, a silence that had disturbed Hermione as much as it had him. He’d wanted to discuss the situation with his aunt, but she’d been thoroughly exhausted herself and he’d restrained himself from keeping her awake to further upset her. Besides, Chaunce and Dora had ushered her directly to bed, although privately Bryce wondered if, in Dora’s case, it wasn’t Hermione doing the guiding rather than the other way around. Regardless, the conversation would have to wait until morning.
Morning—his third day at Nevon Manor.
Bryce scowled into his goblet. He hadn’t intended to be here so long. He had people awaiting him in London, depending on his return, both professionally and personally.
Personally. That brought his musings to Lucinda.
It was the first time he’d thought about her since he’d left London, a fact that sparked a tad of guilt. Not that she’d protested his making this trip. In fact, she’d applauded it, given who Bryce was going to see: the highborn and eminently charitable, not to mention well connected, Lady Hermione Nevon. Lucinda’s eyes had sparkled with pleasure at the thought of such a woman summoning Bryce to her home to discuss the handling of her legal matters. A challenge and a coup, was how she’d described it. Certainly worth sacrificing a few parties for, regardless of how much she enjoyed the London Season.
Imagine how delighted Lucinda would be if she knew the full and actual basis for this visit, what Hermione wanted of Bryce, and what their blood ties truly were.
With a sigh, Bryce made his way to the bedchamber window, rolling the glass of Madeira between his palms. He harbored no illusions about Lucinda’s motives. She yearned for his professional success as fervently as he did, but her motivations were entirely different. It wasn’t that she lacked compassion, only that her compassion took second place to her desire for position and monetary comfort. Bryce couldn’t fault her for that, not given the background from which she hailed. Unlike him, Lucinda had grown up in a sheltered and affluent home, with devoted parents who had groomed her to marry someone of the same ilk, someone who could take care of her. She was accustomed to the finer things in life, and while she wasn’t cold or greedy, she was ambitious about Bryce’s future, although her ambition never extended to asking Bryce to compromise his principles. To Lucinda’s way of thinking, the proper planning could result in his establishing a legal practice that would challenge him, make him feel worthwhile, and at the same time benefit them both socially and financially.
If he acquired clients like Hermione Nevon.
A corner of Bryce’s mouth lifted. Ever practical, that was Lucinda. More than practical, actually. She had a place and a degree of importance assigned to everything in her life. And while her priorities often differed from his, her pragmatism was one of the things that made their association so agreeable. They shared the same organized thought process, the same clearheaded thinking, the same respect for each other’s individual interests. And since those individual interests often took them in different directions, neither intruded on the other’s privacy or demanded an overabundance of the other’s time.
It was a sufficiently undemanding relationship, one that would inevitably lead to a satisfactory future.
Undemanding or not, however, even Lucinda had her limits. And he had told her he’d be back in a day—two at the most.
Well, two was about to become three. And with the magnitude of his commitment to Hermione, three would doubtless become four, five, or six. Hell, he’d be lucky if he saw his town house again before next week.
Yet how could he leave Nevon Manor when so much was still unsettled, when so many people were relying upon his decisions, his help? Especially Hermione, who was leaning on him, counting on him to take car
e of her assets, her family, her life.
He’d promised to thoroughly review all the books Chaunce had given him, to make sure Nevon Manor was in good running order. He’d also agreed to look over Averley’s notes and suggestions as well as familiarize himself with the accounts of all Hermione’s other properties.
And that only covered the less important concern of her monetary assets. Then there was her biggest worry: her family. He’d vowed to her that he would take the time to get to know them.
Staring into the darkness, Bryce contemplated the endearing residents of Nevon Manor, for whom he was already developing an affinity, people who understood the meaning of devotion, cooperation, and family. With an ironic shake of his head, Bryce wondered who the true misfits were—the denizens of the manor or the foolish people who shunned them.
The question was moot. He already knew the answer.
With a fond smile, Bryce recalled his return from Whitshire two hours ago. Goodsmith had followed him from the carriage, finishing his colorful yarn about the time he’d been rushing to Town to visit his sister who was ill, and wouldn’t you know it? He’d sped past the carriage of none other than Queen Victoria, who not only acknowledged his apologetic tip of the hat but, upon seeing his agitated state of mind, gestured for him to pass. Bryce had to agree that Her Majesty was a most gracious lady. Still grinning, he’d turned to find Chaunce hovering in the entranceway, wearing a look of unspoken but nonetheless evident concern over the evening’s outcome with Thane, his astute gaze darting from Bryce to Hermione in an attempt to assess what had transpired. And then came the culmination—and in some ways, the high point—of the evening: Bryce had climbed the stairs to his bedchamber only to discover Peter asleep in the hallway outside, huddled so contented and still that Bryce had nearly tripped over him and the legal text that lay beside him. Upon being awakened, Peter had rubbed his eyes and hobbled to his feet, stammering that he’d come to return the volume he’d borrowed, but that he’d marked a dozen legal phrases he’d tried hard to understand, but couldn’t—and could Mr. Lyndley possibly take a few minutes to shed some light on them for him?