The Music Box (18 page)

“Damn.” Bryce exhaled sharply, praying that Hermione would live forever. The very thought of being guardian to Gabrielle was beginning to send chills down his spine. “First of all, the mating of animals has little to do with the passions of human beings. Second, I’m not the one you should be addressing this type of question to— Who?” he interrupted himself. “Who have you seen those romantic interactions between? And where is it you think they … go … to be affectionate with each other?”

A secret smile. “I’ve seen several people. You’ll see it for yourself when you’ve been here long enough. For one, Goodsmith is dreadfully infatuated with Marion. She’s that warmhearted maid who’s a bit unsteady on her feet. Marion is sweet and amusing, and she’s willing to listen to Goodsmith’s stories for hours on end. Why, on some afternoons when the carriage has been polished until it gleams and there are no other chores for either of them to do, Goodsmith and Marion disappear for an hour or more, and very little of that time, I suspect, is devoted to Goodsmith’s storytelling. The carriage house,” Gaby added, “is delightfully deserted at that time.

“Then there’s Wilson, who can scarcely take his eyes off Ruth, that refreshing young serving girl with the enchanting smile. Oh, I know she’s somewhat dizzy, and often seems a bit vague, but she’s not bothered by the fact that Wilson’s best friend is his shovel. So it all evens out.” Gaby leaned forward conspiratorially. “Whenever Ruth takes a stroll in the garden, Wilson stops what he’s doing to stare at her with a lopsided grin and a besotted expression. Occasionally he joins her, at which point they make their way around to the far side of the stables, supposedly, according to Wilson, to inspect the shrubs he planted there, shrubs I have yet to notice. Afterward he sighs for an hour as he ambles about the garden doing not a stitch of work. Why, he doesn’t even address his shovel during that time. And there are”—a reflective pause—“others at Nevon Manor who are deeply taken by each other.”

“Others,” Bryce repeated woodenly. “And do you know where these
others
meet, as well?”

Gaby grinned, her first broad grin all night. “Of course. What I
don’t
know is the procedure for those outside Nevon Manor.”

“Nor should you,” Bryce returned, making a mental note to speak to Hermione first thing tomorrow about this inappropriate exposure of Gabrielle’s, however limited, to the romantic interludes of the staff. “No proper young lady needs that kind of information.”

“Isn’t Miss Talbot a proper young lady?”

“Of course.”

“I see.” Gaby cocked her head quizzically. “So the two of you are never alone?”

“Exactly.”

“Nor were you ever alone with any of the other women you courted?”

“Never.”

Gaby’s face fell. “Then you know as little as I do about passion.”

“No. Yes. I mean—that’s not what we were discussing.”

“What isn’t?”

“Passion. We were discussing the appropriate mode of behavior for well-bred young women.”

A glimmer of understanding lit Gaby’s eyes. “As opposed to ill-bred young women.”

“Precisely.”

“What about men? Are they divided into similar categories?”

Bryce wondered why he’d ever found arguing at court difficult. He also wondered when in God’s name Hermione had intended to teach Gaby what the world was about, given she was to be brought out next Season. “No. Men are not subjected to the same rules of conduct as women are.”

“I see.” Gaby rested her chin atop her knees, digesting this new information.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Bryce nearly sagged with relief. “Good. Then we can drop the subject.”

“You’re telling me you escort well-bred women about Town, but it’s courtesans you visit when you want to express affection.”

Bryce’s relief vanished. “Gabrielle, I—”

“That’s all right, Bryce. I asked.” Gaby shook her head in baffled amazement. “Although I can’t understand such absurd rules. Wouldn’t you rather be intimate with the woman you love than with a stranger?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Bryce managed. “As for love, you and I have already held this conversation. You know my opinion on the subject.”

“Yes. You don’t believe in love, only in compassion. And, as I told you, I’m hoping our family can change your mind.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Let me ask you something else.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“You said I was the first person with whom you’d shared the truth about your lineage, that you don’t turn to Miss Talbot for such things. What
do
you turn to Miss Talbot for? Exactly what do the two of you share? Not physical intimacy, not emotional intimacy. What, then, is left?”

“Many things.” Frowning, Bryce stared at the toes of his shoes. “We share a number of interests: theater, sailing, the opera. We share a circle of mutual friends. We share similar outlooks, goals, priorities.”

“Isn’t honesty one of your priorities?”

“You know it is.”

“Yet Miss Talbot knows nothing about your past, about what shaped you into the man you are.”

“She knows all that’s important.”

“I don’t understand you, Bryce,” Gaby murmured. “Unless the newspapers have exaggerated, you’re on the verge of proposing marriage to this woman. Don’t you owe her the truth? Further, don’t you
want
to give it to her?”

Bryce’s frown deepened. “I don’t feel I’m being dishonest by relegating my past to the place where it belongs. The details surrounding my birth have no impact on my future, nor would they affect Lucinda’s. So honesty isn’t the issue here. Privacy is. Married or not, I’m entitled to retain some. To my way of thinking, a commitment doesn’t necessitate baring your soul.”

“In other words, you join your lives but not your hearts, your minds, or your spirits.”

Silence.

“You do intend to marry her, don’t you?”

“The subject has come up.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

Bryce rubbed his palms together. “Marriage is a partnership, Gabrielle, not an exhilarating romp or a magnificent symphony. Lucinda is a lovely, sensible woman. She’s also past twenty. Marriage is the prudent, logical step for us to take.”

Gaby looked positively incredulous. “How can you speak of marriage with such detachment?”

“Not detachment—practicality.” Bryce rose. “I think it’s time for you to sleep.”

“And for you to avoid the subject.”

“I believe we’ve said all there is to say.”

“Have we?” Gaby traced the quilted edge of the bedcovers with her forefinger. “If you say so. I happen to disagree.” She tensed as Bryce walked toward the door. “Wait.”

Bryce turned, on the verge of curtly informing her that their conversation was at an end. Seeing the panicked expression on her face, he changed his mind. “What is it? Are you afraid to go to sleep?”

“What if it happens again?” she whispered. “What if I sleepwalk?”

Pressing his lips together, Bryce contemplated that prospect. “Gabrielle, our wisest course of action would be to—”

“Please don’t suggest telling Aunt Hermione,” she broke in, reading his thoughts. “Please. Bryce, have you seen how weak she is? If she learned of tonight’s incident, she’d be worried sick. I can’t and won’t do that to her.”

“Very well.” Bryce leaned back against the closed door, his determination crumpling beneath the pleading look in Gaby’s eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he heard himself say. “I’ll stay in your chambers tonight, serve as your sentry. I’ll pull the armchair over to the door and make it my bed. That way, should you sleepwalk again, try to leave the room, you’ll encounter an immovable object: me. I will then awaken you and send you back to bed. How would that be?”

Gaby’s slender shoulders sagged with relief. “And you won’t breathe a word to Aunt Hermione?”

“Not this time. However,” Bryce added firmly, “should this incident recur—tonight or any night—Hermione must be told. For your safety and for my peace of mind. Gaby,” he said in a gentler tone, detecting the fine tension that had reclaimed her, “I won’t be remaining at Nevon Manor forever, at least not at this point in my life. Nor can I leave knowing you might conceivably hurt yourself—a distinct possibility, should the sleepwalking recur without Hermione having been alerted and given the chance to take the necessary precautions. I know you worry about her; so do I. But remember, she might be physically weak, but emotionally she’s strong. She’d be able to take in her stride what’s happened, as well as to understand its cause.”

“You don’t think it’s over, do you?” Gaby asked in a small, frightened voice. “You think I’ll sleepwalk again.”

“Not necessarily, no.” Bryce shook his head. “I’m trained to consider every angle of a situation, and that’s what I’m doing. But that doesn’t mean I expect the sleepwalking to continue. It’s quite possible, now that you’ve put your first visit to Whitshire behind you and spoken of the night of the fire for the first time, that you’ve quieted your ghosts enough for you to sleep peacefully and undisturbed by memories.”

“I hope you’re right,” she murmured.

“So we’re agreed, then.” Bryce walked around the armchair and shoved it across the room until it blocked the door. “I’ll sleep here and make sure you stay put until morning.”

“Will you awaken me before you leave?”

“Yes. I’ll leave at dawn, before the rest of the house is up and about. I’ll awaken you first.”

“All right.” Gaby nodded. “We’re agreed.” She slid down beneath the covers, snuggling into the pillows like a relieved child. “Thank you, Bryce.”

“You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat. “Shall I wind your music box for you?”

She shook her head, her voice muffled by the pillows. “It’s not necessary. With you here, I’ll be able to fall asleep without it. After all, I’m just trading one soothing melody for another.”

Bryce lowered himself into the chair.

But long after Gaby’s even breathing told him she was asleep, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and pondering the conversation that had just taken place—a conversation that, despite his show of indifference, had struck a profound chord inside him.

A chord that was part of an unfamiliar and strangely disturbing melody.

“I
REALIZE IT’S BARELY
past seven o’clock, but Chaunce said you were up and about. He told me to just knock and come in. I hope that’s all right.” Bryce wasn’t really waiting to find out. He strode into his aunt’s sitting room and perched on the edge of a chair.

Hermione looked up from the settee upon which she’d been reclining, appraising Bryce’s tense stance with some degree of concern. “Of course it’s all right. My door is always open to you. But you look upset. Is something amiss?”

“In my opinion, yes. Quite amiss.”

“Pardon me, my lady.” Chaunce hovered in the doorway, carrying a tray. “I took the liberty of bringing up a pot of coffee and a small plate of cinnamon cakes with a jar of raspberry jelly. This way, should your conversation with Mr. Lyndley take longer than expected, you’ll have some nourishment prior to breakfast.”

“How thoughtful of you, Chaunce.” Hermione managed a weak smile as her butler crossed over and set down the tray. “And what an excellent idea. Tell the others to begin eating without us. Bryce and I will join them as soon as possible.”

“It’s already been done, madam,” he replied.

“You’re indispensable, my friend.” Her smile strengthened a bit. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He turned to Bryce. “That pressing message you wanted me to send has been dispatched. Miss Talbot should have it alongside her breakfast plate.”

“With time to spare,” Bryce commented dryly. “Lucinda doesn’t awaken until close to noon, especially during the Season. Nonetheless, I appreciate your taking care of the matter so promptly. Lucinda needs to know I’ve been detained. She was doubtless expecting me home by now.” Pursing his lips, he looked away, dismissing Lucinda as he considered the all-important issue he was about to address with his aunt.

“Indeed.” Chaunce’s glance flickered over Bryce’s head to meet Hermione’s. “If there’s nothing else …”

“There is,” Bryce interrupted suddenly, his chin coming up. “Chaunce, if you’re not needed at breakfast, would you mind staying for this conversation? I’d like your opinion—a man’s opinion—of the subject I’m about to broach.”

Chaunce’s eyebrows rose fractionally, but he nodded, posting himself beside Hermione’s settee. “As you wish.”

Clearing his throat, Bryce glanced back to Hermione. “This pertains to Gabrielle. She and I had an interesting chat, out of which emerged a rather disturbing fact.”

“Really?” Hermione looked more curious than worried. “And what might that be?”

“Are you aware that several of your staff members are”—Bryce sought the right words, finally choosing the ones Gaby herself had used—“taken with each other?”

“Ah. You mean Goodsmith and Marion.”

“Among others, yes. You are aware of these relationships?”

“I am.”

“Well, so is Gabrielle. One thing I’m sure you’re
not
aware of, however, is that Gabrielle has witnessed, and continues to witness, these couples disappearing for what she describes as private displays of affection.”

Hermione leaned forward, taking up the pot of coffee and calmly pouring three cups. “Chaunce, just a touch of cream. Bryce, black. Me, some sugar for energy I should think,” she murmured.

“Hermione, did you hear me?” Bryce demanded.

“Certainly.” She handed him his cup, along with a plate containing two cinnamon cakes. “Help yourself to the jelly,” she suggested. With that, she turned to Chaunce, waving away his protest and offering him his refreshment. “You wait on me all the time. It feels good to reciprocate once in a while.”

“Hermione …” Bryce began again.

“Let’s get back to your concern over Gaby,” his aunt responded quickly. “What is it, precisely, that she’s seen?”

“Several couples continually slipping off to …”

“To what? Has she actually witnessed any of these sordid displays you’re envisioning? Have these couples been seen in compromising positions—unclothed or groping tastelessly at each other?”