by Music Box
The recollection brought with it a reassuring sense of peace, solace rather than pain.
She missed her parents still, but they were alive in a cherished place inside her heart.
Perhaps Dr. Briers had been right. Perhaps this visit was precisely what she’d needed.
By the time Gaby had restored Maiden to Thomas’s side, she felt wonderfully renewed. Waving as horse and groom headed off to the stables, she had scarcely caught her breath when Mrs. Darcey reappeared to escort her to a rousing game of croquet on the front lawn.
At the game’s conclusion, Gaby sank gratefully into a garden chair, just as Thane had predicted. She was exhausted, probably more from the emotional intensity that had accompanied her to Whitshire than from actual physical exertion. Nevertheless, she was content to settle herself among the flowers, inhaling the late afternoon fragrances and sipping tea with family and friends. Thane had kindly and insightfully invited Mrs. Darcey, Mrs. Fife, and Averley to join him, Gaby, and Hermione for refreshment, knowing that Gaby’s childhood meals had been taken with the staff, not the family.
“These scones are delicious,” Gaby proclaimed, taking a bite. “And the afternoon was perfect—just what I needed.” Her gaze swept everyone around her. “Thank you. Thank you all. You’ve helped bring back so many happy memories—memories I’d lost sight of.”
“We’re glad,” Mrs. Darcey replied earnestly, “because you gave us joyful memories as well. You were a bright spot in our lives, Gaby.”
“Unruly and unmanageable,” Mrs. Fife qualified with gruff affection, “but a bright spot nonetheless.”
Gaby’s lips curved. “I did cause a great deal of trouble, didn’t I?”
“Indeed you did,” Averley confirmed. “I can’t recall how many search parties were organized to find you.”
Thane grinned over the rim of his cup. “I wish I’d been here to see these amazing antics. In contrast, my life at Oxford seems dull and uneventful.”
“Uneventfulness can sometimes be a blessing,” Gaby returned quietly, more introspective than despondent. “That’s something I’ve learned since childhood.”
“More tea. Gaby … pardon me, Miss Gaby?” Couling inquired, appearing at her side.
“Yes, thank you, Couling.” She held out her cup, nodding her appreciation as he refilled it. “I suppose that discovery is a natural result of growing up,” she continued, staring at her saucer but not really seeing it. “We learn that consistency, being safe and loved, is far more inspiring than any unknown adventure. Or perhaps we discover that fact only when—if—our foundation is torn away and we’re lucky enough to find someone who helps us build a new one.”
Silence hung heavy in the air.
With a guilty start, Gaby snapped back to reality, feeling a wave of remorse as she noted all the concerned expressions surrounding her. “Forgive me,” she murmured. Inhaling sharply, she berated herself for sounding so dismal. “I didn’t mean to go on like that.”
“Don’t apologize.” Aunt Hermione rushed to her defense instantly. “Every word you just said was true. We are all fortunate, each of us who’s lucky enough to love and be loved. We must never forget to count our blessings. And you, Gaby, are an incomparable one of those blessings—to me and to all who know you.” She reached out, took Gaby’s hand in hers.
“As are you,” Gaby whispered, her fingers tightening around her aunt’s.
“On that note I think we should return to Nevon Manor,” Hermione announced, as if some sixth sense had advised her of such. “It’s getting late, and Chaunce will worry if dusk arrives without us.”
Dusk? Gaby’s head came up, and everything inside her tightened as she assessed the first wisps of shadows that danced across Whitshire’s lawns.
“Chaunce’s worry notwithstanding,” Aunt Hermione went on, unaware of Gaby’s surge of dread, “we have you to consider, Thane. We’ve kept you the entire afternoon. You must have a hundred business matters to attend to.”
“Not at all,” Thane countered. “Actually, other than some correspondence I need to address, I’m free until morning. At which time I do have an appointment—right after breakfast, in fact.” He inclined his head in Hermione’s direction. “That appointment, incidentally, is with William Delmore of Delmore and Banks.”
“The soliciting firm?”
“One and the same.”
“You sound surprised. Is it unusual for you to do business with them?”
“Not especially.” Thane shrugged. “However, this time I haven’t a clue what this business pertains to. According to the initial correspondence I received from Delmore, he and Father were in the midst of a business transaction at the time of Father’s death. As a result, my signature is required on some final papers. What that transaction was, I haven’t a notion. I suppose I’ll have to temper my curiosity until tomorrow. In any case”—Thane changed the subject, waving away the preliminary issue—“I brought it up because when I wrote back to Delmore, agreeing to see him at Whitshire, I mentioned that I’d had occasion to meet and conduct business with a colleague.”
Aunt Hermione leaned forward, her eyes glinting with interest. “Bryce?”
A grin. “Bryce. Delmore’s response was enthusiastic. In his confirming note he praised Bryce effusively, both his legal skills and his character.”
“I’m not surprised,” Hermione declared, pride lacing her tone. “Pleased, but not surprised.” Her gaze met Thane’s. “Thank you for telling me.”
With a meaningful look only Gaby and Hermione could understand, Thane replied, “Thank you for introducing us. Bryce is indeed an exceptional man.”
“Yes, he is,” Gaby agreed, struggling to avert her gaze from the setting sun. “I—that is, everyone at Nevon Manor misses him a great deal.”
“He’ll be back soon,” Hermione said with the utmost confidence. “Of that I’m certain.” With that, she rose. “Come, Gaby, let’s start for home.”
Thane helped his aunt to her feet while Averley walked around to assist Gaby. “Your day was enjoyable, then?” he asked her politely.
“Yes. Very. You’ve all been wonderful.”
“I hope we accomplished our goal,” Averley added. “As of now I pray all your ghosts have been laid to rest.”
“As do I.” She gathered up her skirts and drew an unsteady breath, inhaling the cool scents of dusk.
The constriction in her chest intensified.
Would nighttime at Whitshire always affect her so badly? she wondered, fighting off the panic that threatened to obliterate the day’s pleasure.
“Is something wrong?” Evidently Averley perceived her tension, and he gripped her elbow as if to offer her support.
“No. I’m just tired. And it’s getting late …” She broke off, knowing she couldn’t begin to explain her increasing dread.
“I’ll see that your carriage is brought around at once.” It was Couling who spoke, and Gaby looked up in time to see him studying her intently.
“Thank you, Couling. I’d appreciate that.”
Ten minutes later, amid a flurry of good-byes, Hermione and a much relieved Gaby climbed into the carriage and were on their way.
A lone figure watched their carriage disappear around the drive. Brow dotted with sweat, the observer retreated into the safety of the trees, mind racing.
Dammit, I didn’t learn a bloody thing except that, whatever the hell the brat remembers, it’s still inside her head. Even after this whole day, it’s still there. But what is it? It can’t be insignificant. If it were just memories of the fire, today would have helped. But it didn’t. So what’s provoking this sleepwalking I’m first hearing about—sleepwalking that apparently started after her last visit here? What is she remembering? Why now? And why is she still drawn to that bloody music box tune?
Stop it, came the silent command. Gabrielle Denning is secondary—at least for now. I’ve got a more pressing problem: Delmore. He’s coming here, to Whitshire. Why? What does he want?
&
nbsp; A bitter laugh. That’s a stupid question. There’s only one reason he’d be coming to see the new duke. Well, that meeting can’t take place. I can’t allow it. Everything would blow up in my face. I’ve got to stop him. William Delmore can never reach Whitshire.
Chapter 11
“DON’T BE DISCOURAGED, MY lady,” Chaunce said gently, handing Hermione a soothing cup of tea. “It may take time for yesterday’s positive effects to show themselves.”
With a weariness that was as sweeping as it was unfeigned, Hermione sighed, leaning back against the settee and sipping at the fortifying brew. “Do you really believe that’s possible?” she asked, giving Chaunce a hopeful look.
“Of course.” Glancing swiftly at the sitting room door to ensure that it was shut, Chaunce placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Miss Gaby had a wonderful time at Whitshire. She spoke of it all evening long. Perhaps she was overtired. Perhaps she had too much excitement for one day. Perhaps one visit is not enough to counter the pain that’s causing her to sleepwalk. Any or all of those circumstances could be responsible for last night’s episode. We mustn’t give up.”
Hermione smiled, patting Chaunce’s hand. “You know me better than that, my friend. I never give up.”
“I’m glad to hear that remains unchanged.” Relief permeated Chaunce’s tone. “In any case, Miss Gaby is sleeping now—restfully. I checked on her a quarter hour ago.”
“That blasted woodpecker had best not awaken her,” Hermione grumbled, eyeing the clock on the mantel. “It’s scarcely eight o’clock. It was half after five when Gaby finally settled down enough to sleep. She needs her rest. With any luck, Screech has given up waiting for her and gone off to cause mischief elsewhere.”
“He has,” Chaunce assured her. “I personally ousted him from his perch near Miss Gaby’s window at six o’clock. He wasn’t pleased, but he did comply.”
At that, Hermione chuckled—her first real chuckle since the hour preceding dawn, when an inner voice had roused her from slumber and urged her from her bed. And with good reason. She’d slipped into her wrapper and made her way down the hall only to see Chaunce guiding a disoriented and thoroughly distraught Gaby back to her chambers.
Another sleepwalking episode. And after the delightful afternoon they’d spent at Whitshire. It made absolutely no sense.
There had to be a way to end this madness. Something had to help Gaby put this agony behind her.
Something … or someone.
“Was there any word from Bryce yesterday?” Hermione demanded abruptly. “Gaby and I were at Whitshire most of the afternoon. Did he make any attempt to contact us?”
Chaunce cleared his throat. “Not directly, no. However, my sources tell me he canceled all his appointments for the latter part of this week, beginning the day after tomorrow. Which leads me to believe—”
“That he’s coming home to us,” Hermione finished for him. “Oh, Chaunce, that would be the best medicine of all for Gaby. She needs him—even more than she realizes. Even more than I realized, until Gaby and I had that little chat the other day. She’s falling in love with him, just as I prayed. And he—”
“Is experiencing similar emotions,” Chaunce reported triumphantly. “Oh, he’s fighting them, to be sure. But without much success. Why, the Wilcox butler tells me that Lord and Lady Wilcox’s ball was but halfway over when Mr. Lyndley made a hasty retreat, and that was after spending a good portion of the evening out on the balcony, gazing off into space. Alone, I might add.”
“And what of Miss Talbot?” Hermione asked, anticipation dancing in her eyes.
“Delivered to her parents’ home unfashionably early. Just as she was on the nights of the ballet, the theater, and, of course, the symphony.”
“Excellent.” Satisfaction laced Hermione’s tone. “Why, I’m feeling stronger already.” Her smile faded. “I just wish I knew what was causing these dreadful episodes of Gaby’s. Last night was heartbreaking. It took your efforts and mine to stop her tears and calm her down enough to sleep. It was as if she were driven by demons, determined to rush from the manor and undo the horrors of that fire. Oh, Chaunce, what if Dr. Briers is wrong? What if the visit to Whitshire didn’t help? What will we do?”
“We mustn’t think that way, my lady. It’s far too soon to reach such a conclusion. Besides, even if Dr. Briers is wrong, we still have our prayers. We also have a splendid hero about to ride to Miss Gaby’s rescue.”
Hermione nodded, interlacing her fingers and pressing them to her lips. “You’re right. I truly believe that.” Her gaze drifted toward the window. “I only wish Bryce would hurry.”
Bryce couldn’t shake the feeling that he was needed.
Frowning, he paused before the offices that bore the sign “Delmore & Banks,” instinctively glancing up and down the street as if he’d been verbally summoned.
All that greeted his perusal was the customary stream of businessmen who strolled up and down this busy section of Fleet Street.
Straightening his waistcoat, Bryce continued on his way, veering up the path to the solicitors’ office door. It had to be his imagination—a feeling aroused by his unending worry over the residents of Nevon Manor. Well, that would soon cease to be an issue. After today’s meeting with Banks, and the next day and a half s frenzied schedule of appointments—all of which added up to four days of work condensed into less than two—he would leave London and return to Nevon Manor.
For more reasons than he cared to ponder.
Stepping inside the waiting area, Bryce turned to approach the clerk’s desk, intending to announce himself and ask if Mr. Banks was ready to begin. Abruptly he halted.
Something was very wrong.
An air of panic permeated the room, although the waiting area itself was devoid of people—unnaturally deserted, given that it was nearing one o’clock. Just beyond the outer office, however, rumbled a blend of distraught voices punctuated by a flurry of motion, which Bryce identified as coming from Mr. Banks’s office.
He turned his head for a closer look.
Hovering in the doorway, grim-faced and intense, were two men whose uniforms clearly proclaimed them members of the London Metropolitan Police. One of them was writing rapidly in a notebook while the other directed a series of questions, obviously of a grave nature, at Banks and his clerk, both of whom were white-faced and visibly shaken, the clerk looking for all the world as if he might swoon.
Whatever was transpiring, it was serious.
“Frederick?” Bryce addressed Banks quietly. “May I be of assistance?”
The bald solicitor caught sight of Bryce and beckoned him forward. “It’s William,” he announced tersely, his voice trembling as he spoke the given name of his partner, William Delmore. “He’s been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Bryce recoiled as if he’d been struck. “When?”
“Sometime this morning. The police found his body. They just arrived—” Banks broke off, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping at his forehead.
“May I ask who you are, sir?” one of the policemen asked Bryce.
“My name is Bryce Lyndley. I’m a barrister. Mr. Banks and I had an appointment at one o’clock.” Bryce’s mind was racing. “How did this happen? Who would do such a thing?”
“It looks like the work of a highwayman, sir. There was evidence of a robbery; Mr. Delmore’s timepiece and pound notes were missing.”
“A highwayman—in broad daylight? Where did this occur?”
“A passerby found Mr. Delmore’s carriage abandoned about twenty miles from here, in Hertford, where he’d driven for an early morning meeting. The local constable was summoned and began a search. He found Mr. Delmore’s body in a section of woods not far from the roadside. He’d been shot, then apparently dragged into the trees, divested of his valuables, and abandoned.”
“Hertford,” Bryce repeated. A sudden inexplicable sense of foreboding clenched his gut, and he turned to Banks. “Who was Delmore going to see?”
“The Duke of Whitshire,” Banks replied, naming one of the two estates Bryce had hoped not to hear. “This nightmare occurred about two miles from the duke’s manor.”
“Dammit.” Bryce sucked in his breath. “Does Thane know about this?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. Word must have spread through half of Hertford by now.” Banks continued to mop his brow, babbling on in a vague, disoriented manner. “That’s right. You’re acquainted with Whitshire. I remember that the duke mentioned you in his last note to William. Something about conducting business together.”
“Yes,” Bryce confirmed tersely. “Frederick, was William carrying an unusually large sum of money?”
A pause. “Not to my knowledge, no.”
“This makes no sense.” Bryce turned toward the older police officer. “Mr. Delmore’s carriage is modest, with no family crest that would lead someone to mistakenly believe he was a nobleman. Why would a highwayman choose to rob him when the Duke of Whitshire lived just down the way? Surely it would be more prudent to wait for the duke’s carriage to pass and be assured of a more profitable haul.”
The officer frowned. “That’s what we’re trying to determine, Mr. Lyndley.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You say you know the duke?”
“Yes. As Mr. Banks just mentioned, I’ve had occasion to work with His Grace. I also handle the legal affairs of his aunt, Lady Hermione Nevon.” Bryce’s mind was racing, an inner voice screaming that something didn’t fit. “Frederick, what business did William have with Thane?”
Banks pressed his damp palms together. “It pertained to the late duke’s estate. You know I can’t divulge specifics without Whitshire’s permission. But I will tell you the matter involved only the signing of documents and not the exchange of money, at least not at this point.”
“Where are the documents William was conveying to Whitshire?”