by Music Box
Jolting upright, Gaby touched her fingers to her lips, the enormity of what had just happened striking home in a rush.
“Aunt Hermione,” she breathed, taking a reflexive step in the direction of the manor. “Aunt Hermione!” This time it was a shout, as Gaby gathered up her skirts and made a mad dash for the door.
She burst into the house like a cyclone, nearly knocking Chaunce down in the process. “Aunt Hermione!”
Her aunt hurried out from the drawing room, moving as quickly as her limbs would allow. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she took in Gaby’s rumpled state and noted Chaunce’s skillful attempt to regain his balance. “Darling? What is it?”
With an apologetic squeeze of Chaunce’s arm, Gaby flung her arms around her aunt. “He loves me,” she breathed, joy rippling through every word. “Oh, Aunt Hermione, he loves me. He told me so.”
Hermione’s hands trembled as they stroked her niece’s hair, and—over Gaby’s shoulder—she and Chaunce exchanged a joyous and triumphant glance.
“Oh, Gaby, how wonderful,” she murmured. “I’m so very, very happy for you.” She held Gaby away, her lips twitching as she assessed the telltale signs of Bryce’s declaration. “I assume you heard this splendid news during your stroll?” she inquired, plucking several blades of grass from Gaby’s gown.
Gaby was far too excited to be embarrassed. “Yes. And, Aunt Hermione, that’s not all. Bryce also said that when he returns from London he’ll have an important question to ask me.”
This time tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes. “Oh, Chaunce, did you hear that?”
“I did indeed, madam.” Chaunce cleared his throat. “And it appears that important question isn’t coming a moment too soon.”
Hearing the protective note in Chaunce’s tone, Gaby glanced down at herself, blushing as she realized how obvious it was that she’d been in Bryce’s arms. “Thank you, Chaunce,” she said softly, her expression tender. “Thank you for always worrying about me. But I assure you that Bryce is the most honorable person in the world.” A twinkle. “More honorable than I am.”
A flush crept up Chaunce’s neck. “I’m relieved to hear that, Miss Gaby.”
“Ah, now it makes sense,” Hermione realized aloud, paying little attention to Chaunce’s puritanical concerns. “When Bryce said he had other business to attend to, I’ll venture a guess that he meant severing his ties to that ice maiden.”
“Aunt Hermione!” Gaby began to laugh. “That’s a dreadful thing to say about Miss Talbot.”
“It’s not dreadful, it’s true. She was wrong for him from the start—as were all of her many predecessors. Only you could awaken Bryce’s soul, permeate that self-protective wall he’s built around himself since childhood. Just as I anticipated, as I’ve always known in here.” She patted her chest where her heart was located, then clapped her hands with glee. “Oh, this is the most glorious news!”
“Bryce does intend to end his liaison with Miss Talbot,” Gaby confirmed. “He feels strongly about closing that chapter on his old life in an honorable way before beginning his new …” Gaby broke off, inclining her head in puzzlement. “What do you mean, just as you anticipated? You sound as if you planned this whole thing.”
“I?” Hermione’s brows arched in innocent surprise. “Don’t be silly, darling. How on earth could I possibly have planned for two people to fall in love? Only fate can do that.”
“True, but then why did you say—”
“Pardon me, my lady, but it’s time for your medicine,” Chaunce interrupted. “Might I suggest you go upstairs and I’ll bring it to you?”
“Of course. Thank you, Chaunce.” Hermione gave him a sunny smile. “As always, you’re indispensable.”
“I’ll walk you up,” Gaby offered.
“Excellent, my dear.” Hermione took Gaby’s arm, moved toward the stairs. “This way you and I can have a splendid woman-to-woman chat while Chaunce fetches my medicine.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Chaunce gazed after them, waiting patiently as Gaby and Hermione ascended the stairs, rounded the second-floor landing, and disappeared from view.
Then he allowed himself one brief self-congratulatory moment, chuckling aloud and rubbing his palms together in exultation. Abruptly he remembered himself, squelching his ear-to-ear grin and clasping his hands behind his back before hastening off to fetch the lemon water from the pantry.
Just inside the sitting room, Marion flattened herself against the wall so as not to be seen, pressing her forefinger to her lips to remind the others to stay quiet. Then, she ruffled Jane and Lily’s heads and gave Peter, Henry, and Charles a proud nod before turning to Mrs. Gordon and the rest of the female staff.
“Thank heavens we listened to the children last week when they insisted this was happening,” she whispered. “They were right.” She glanced at the housekeeper, who was frowning at a smudge atop her own shoe. “Mrs. Gordon?” Marion leaned toward her, righting herself as she stumbled on the edge of the rug. “Will the gown be ready?”
Mrs. Gordon pulled herself up like a British general marching into battle, her twiglike head held high. “Of course it will. Ready and spotless. The purest of whites.”
“I sewed the last of the tiny pearls on before dawn,” Ruth confided in an excited hiss. “Now only the ribbons are left.”
“The remaining yards of satin were delivered on schedule,” Mrs. Gordon announced. “I myself shall attend to the ribbons as well as to all the other last-minute details. The gown will be exquisite—a bride’s dream.”
“As will the veil,” Ruth confirmed. “Wilson has selected only the finest orange blossoms, and the lace you ordered, Mrs. Gordon, is as delicate as Miss Gaby herself. It’s beautiful.”
“Naturally,” the housekeeper replied with a haughty sniff.
“I’ve prepared the menu,” Cook chimed in. “The midday meal following the ceremony will be a feast fit for a king”—a sparkle of joy—“and his queen.”
“That’s what they deserve.” Marion’s round face glowed with pleasure. “Now all we need to do is wait. And,” she emphasized, glancing about the room, “keep all this a secret. Remember our agreement: Lady Nevon and Chaunce deserve to be guests at this long-awaited event. We mustn’t let them know what we’re doing, or they’ll start right in helping. We want them to be as surprised as the guests of honor, don’t we?”
A murmur of assent rippled through the room.
“Tell that to Goodsmith,” Mrs. Gordon informed her sternly. “He does more chattering than all of us combined.”
“Don’t worry about George,” Marion assured her.
“He’s busy polishing the carriage that will be taking Miss Gaby and Mr. Lyndley to the local inn after the reception. Besides,” she added, loyally defending the man she loved, “George knows how important this wedding is—to Miss Gaby and to me. It means equally as much to him. He promised not to say a word to any of them: Miss Gaby, Mr. Lyndley, Lady Nevon, or Chaunce.”
“Then that’s settled,” Cook declared. “Goodsmith would never break a vow to you.”
Even Mrs. Gordon grudgingly agreed with that statement.
“I wish I could do more,” Dora murmured, her creased face lined with regret as she leaned heavily on her walking stick.
“Dora, your job has yet to come,” Marion inserted quickly. “You’ve been Lady Nevon’s personal maid for how long?”
“Over forty years, ever since she married Lord Nevon,” Dora returned, pride lacing her tone.
“And for twelve of those years you’ve sat beside her in the music room, listening while Miss Gaby played.”
“Since the child began taking lessons at six.” A nostalgic sigh. “She played like an angel, then and now.”
“I agree. The point is that you, better than anyone, know which minuets and symphonies are Miss Gaby’s favorites. I’ll need you to tell me each and every one so I can give a list to the musicians.”
“Of course.” Dora’s
narrow shoulders lifted, and a spark of vitality lit her eyes. “I know them all well.”
“Good.” Marion’s smile was tinged with relief.
“Will we be allowed to throw rose petals, Mrs. Gordon?” Lily asked tentatively. “I know they’re messy—but just this once?”
Mrs. Gordon scowled, the word “no” hovering on her lips. Then she noticed the pleading look in the child’s eyes—and her frown magically eased. “Will you promise to keep your shoes clean?” she demanded gruffly.
Both Jane and Lily nodded eagerly.
“Very well, then.” The housekeeper turned to Henry, Charles, and Peter. “But it’s up to you boys to make sure they do. Also, you’ll have to show the guests to their seats.”
“It will be our pleasure, ma’am,” Peter assured her.
“The primroses will be in full bloom,” Ruth announced. “Wilson promised me. He also promised he’d fill the chapel with colorful, fragrant wildflowers. So the room will look lovely for the ceremony, and the garden will be perfect for the party.”
“The whole wedding will be perfect,” Marion concluded. “Just like the bride and bridegroom.”
“It’s up to us to see that it is,” Mrs. Gordon said with a rare show of sentimental fervor.
“I agree,” Marion concurred, looking from one determined face to the next. “Miss Gaby and Mr. Lyndley have given us so much. It’s time we gave them something in return—something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.” An anticipatory sparkle. “And I think we’ve found just the thing.”
Chapter 14
DUSK WAS CONTEMPLATING ITS descent when Bryce walked purposefully into the sitting room of Banks’s London town house. It felt like weeks rather than hours since he’d left Nevon Manor. He was weary, baffled, and restless, and all he wanted was to tie up the loose ends of his life and go home—to Gaby.
He’d made good use of his afternoon in London, though. First, Doctor’s Commons—the sole uplifting visit he’d planned and one that had yielded satisfying results—followed by a chat with the Metropolitan Police. Banks’s house was Bryce’s third stop of the day, with but one remaining: Lucinda.
Both were necessary, neither agreeable.
“Thank you for seeing me, Frederick.” Bryce lowered himself into one of the walnut chairs, declining the refreshment offered him by Banks’s butler. “I realize you’re still in shock. Had this not been important, I wouldn’t have intruded.”
The solicitor sighed, dismissing his manservant and refilling his brandy snifter. He tossed off the contents in a few shaky swallows. “I haven’t gone back to the office yet,” he said quietly. “I know I must— William’s wife needs assistance removing his personal things—but I thought it best I take another day to compose myself. I wouldn’t be doing her any good in the state I’m in. Besides, I told the police they could find me here if they had any questions.” Banks massaged his temples wearily. “What can I do for you, Bryce?”
“I’d like to discuss Whitshire’s yacht.”
“The yacht.” Banks seemed to collect his thoughts. “According to what I heard from Officers Dawes and Webster, that avenue yielded no results. The duke’s son knew nothing of the fact that his father was in the process of selling his boat to William.”
“That’s true. In fact, Thane had no idea that his father owned a yacht, much less that he was selling it.”
“That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too. Tell me Frederick, to whom did William intend to transfer title of the yacht?”
“He didn’t intend to transfer it to anyone,” Banks replied with an element of surprise. “He intended to keep the yacht for himself.” A flicker of realization. “Ah, I see. You thought William might have been acting as an intermediary. He wasn’t. Clearly you didn’t know what an avid sailor he was. He already owned two smaller craft—not nearly as lavish as Whitshire’s, of course, but fine boats nonetheless. He felt honored when the duke opted to consider him a potential buyer for his yacht, especially since the two men had never sailed together. Of course, William certainly would have preferred it if happier circumstances had prompted Whitshire’s decision to sell.” Banks’s shoulders slumped. “Still, deteriorating health or not, the duke couldn’t have made a better choice. William would have taken excellent care of his craft.”
“I’m sure he would have.” Bryce leaned forward.
“Frederick, do you recall when Whitshire purchased the ship? Also, do you know if there was a contract authorizing its construction? And with regard to the title, have you any idea where it is? Neither it nor any other papers pertaining to the building or sale of the yacht seem to be in Thane’s possession.”
Banks frowned. “That does seem unusual, given that the yacht belonged to his late father. The missing title I can explain. I seem to remember William mentioning that Whitshire had forwarded it to him several months ago when they began negotiating the terms of the sale. But as for any related documents, I can’t even hazard a guess. This entire transaction was William’s matter to handle. I had no part in it. With regard to your first question, all I know is that William said something about the craft being in perfect condition, despite being over a decade old. Exactly when it was built—again, I have not the slightest idea.”
“Could you check? When you go back to the office, could you go through William’s papers and locate the title and any other letters or papers pertaining to this matter, maybe even something bearing the name of the company that built the yacht?”
“I suppose so.” Banks blinked, his eyes red-rimmed from grief and lack of sleep. “Why are you pursuing this? What exactly is it you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Bryce replied honestly. “All I know is that I don’t agree with the conclusion of the police that a highwayman was responsible for William’s killing, nor am I certain robbery was the motive. I voiced all my reservations in your office yesterday. There are just too many details that don’t fit: Why would a highwayman choose William as a target when Thane was far richer? Why would he strike in broad daylight? And why wasn’t William’s body left in his carriage—if, in fact, he was shot there? I’ve already stopped at the offices of the police, spoken with Officer Dawes. He informed me that Delmore’s carriage was undisturbed—no bloodstains, no torn leather, no sign of a bullet. To me that suggests William might have been murdered on the roadside rather than in his coach. And if that’s the case …” Bryce inhaled sharply. “Let’s just say I want to make sure that Delmore didn’t know his assailant and that there’s no connection between where he was killed and the papers he was delivering.”
“Yes, you did mention that yesterday, but I was too dazed to pay attention,” Banks said, paling. “Now that I’m focusing better, I realize you’re implying that someone at Whitshire might have committed this crime.”
“I’m speculating that someone at Whitshire might have committed this crime,” Bryce corrected. “Either that or someone knew Delmore’s destination and followed him there. But to get at the truth I need your help. Can I count on receiving it?”
“Of course.” Banks nodded, mopping at his brow. “Whoever killed William, I want him caught and punished. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure that occurs quickly and efficiently, regardless of what it takes or whom it incriminates. I’ll go into the office first thing tomorrow. The title to Wiltshire’s yacht is doubtless among William’s current papers, either on or in his desk. I should locate it without any trouble.” Banks paused, considering the remainder of Bryce’s request. “As for any other documents—documents that date back to the time when the craft was commissioned—those will be a bit trickier to unearth, assuming William had them in his possession at all. Since it’s been more than a decade since the yacht was built, any related papers would be in our storage room, buried in the old, inactive files. I’ll need some time to sort through those—a few days, at least. How would it be if I send for you the moment I finish doing so? By then I will have amassed all the pertinent material.”
Bryce rose. “That would be excellent. If I might impose upon you a bit further, I’d appreciate your sending me two messages: one to my house here in London and the other to Nevon Manor. I’m not sure in which of the two places your note will find me.”
“Consider it done.” Banks shoved aside his brandy snifter and leaned forward to shake Bryce’s hand. “Thank you. I realize your motive is twofold in this matter: you’re propelled not only by your longstanding association with us but by your business relationship with Thane Rowland as well. Still, I greatly appreciate your commitment to discovering the truth.”
“With all due respect, Frederick, my ties to both you and Thane are secondary in this matter. An innocent man was murdered. I want his killer caught. Now. Not only to bring him to justice but to keep him from harming anyone else.”
At that moment, twenty-five miles away, Thane Rowland was preoccupied with his own search for answers.
He stood rigid at the head of Whitshire’s library as some forty servants filed in, looking distinctly concerned by the summons they had received—concerned not for themselves but for the young woman they suspected was to be the topic of this meeting, as she had been of the meeting His Grace had called several days ago: Gabrielle Denning. At the previous gathering, the duke had explained Gaby’s plight, announced her upcoming visit to Whitshire, and elicited their help.
They’d gladly offered it.
Now they waited with varying degrees of curiosity and suspense, wondering if their efforts had paid off, if the delightful child they remembered from years ago had benefited from her day’s outing at the estate, and if the duke had something more to ask of them.
All of them would eagerly comply.
All but one.
“Thank you for coming,” Thane began, flattening his palms on the desk. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by the particular group of you I’ve assembled today, this gathering pertains to Gabrielle. First, I want to thank you all for your kind efforts in making her day here an enjoyable and memorable one. That was, after all, our primary goal.” A sigh. “Unfortunately, it appears Gabrielle’s painful memories are buried deeper than we realized.”