The Music Box (2 page)

At first the young woman’s brows drew together, distress precluding comprehension. Then realization struck and her eyes began to twinkle. “No. Actually, he was quite bare.”

“Ah. In that case, I can put your fears to rest. The scamp who, mere seconds ago, tore across the drive, terrorizing my horses and nearly catapulting my carriage from the road, was definitely white and assuredly bare. My guess is he’s the rabbit you’re searching for. If so, he’s quite intact.” Bryce pointed. “He darted into those woods, right beyond that elm.” Another grin. “Will you be going in after him?”

One dimple appeared in each smudged cheek. “I think not. As long as he’s in the woods, he’s safe. So I’ll let him have his fun. He’ll be scolded later.”

“With a scolding to look forward to, I doubt he’ll return.”

“Oh, he’ll return—when the desire to eat overcomes the fear of reprimand.” The girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “
Or
when he consults his fictitious pocket watch and learns that it’s mealtime,” she added, laughter lacing her tone. Tilting back her head, she regarded Bryce with undisguised interest. “You must be Bryce Lyndley. Aunt Hermione’s been expecting you.”

Aunt
Hermione? Now, that was an unknown scrap of information.

“Indeed I am,” he said aloud. “I’m also at an obvious disadvantage. You know my name, but I haven’t a clue as to yours. Unless, of course, it’s Alice.”

She flashed him another smile. “No. It’s Gaby—Gaby Denning. Nevon Manor is my home.” She backed away as she spoke. “Let’s avoid making this an official introduction. Aunt Hermione would be most upset if she were to learn I’d met you when I was in such a disheveled state. She’s very proud of you, you know. You
and
your accomplishments. She wants all of us to look and act our best when we’re introduced to you. So I’d best hurry inside and make myself presentable. I’ll see you … meet you”—she corrected herself—“shortly.”

With that she darted toward the manor.

Bryce stared after her, amused by the encounter, intrigued by what he’d learned.

So Lady Nevon had a niece. Odd, he’d never known of her existence until now. Then again, he hadn’t exactly been apprised of family matters. Evidently that was about to change, if all Lady Nevon’s niece had just said was true. If what she’d blurted out was any indication of what lay ahead, he was about to meet an unknown number of people, all of whom had been advised to make a favorable impression on him.

Why?

There was only one way to find out.

Taking up the reins, Bryce urged the horses toward the manor.

“Good day, Mr. Lyndley. Lady Nevon is expecting you.” A tall, stately butler opened the door, giving Bryce a lightning-quick head-to-toe perusal that, had Bryce been a tad less observant, would have escaped him. “Welcome to Nevon Manor,” he continued with a practiced bow. Straightening, he held his chin high, his dark hair and pencil-thin mustache impeccably groomed, just barely tinged with gray. “My name is Chaunce. Anything you require, please let me know and I’ll see that you get it.”

“Thank you, Chaunce,” Bryce responded, intrigued once again by the enthusiasm of his welcome, though still baffled by its cause. From the corner of his eye he spied a line of footmen, all darting about in a sudden flurry of motion, some carrying trays, others polishing the wood, all of them casting curious glances in his direction. Dryly, he wondered if they intended to line up and throw rose petals at his feet as he strolled the halls. “I truly require nothing, other than knowing where Lady Nevon is, that is.”

“She’s in the library, sir. I’ll take you there myself, then see to your refreshment.” The butler cleared his throat purposefully. “Correct me if I’m wrong, sir. As I understand it, you prefer coffee to tea. You take it black, no cream or sugar. As for what accompanies it, you fancy cinnamon cakes—with raspberry jelly, of course—rather than scones.” A pause. “Any errors, sir?”

“Not a one.” Bryce inclined his head, a fascinated gleam lighting his eyes. “Tell me, is there anything about me you don’t know, Chaunce?”

“I try to be thorough, sir. Lady Nevon prefers it that way. Now, if you’ll follow me.” The butler gestured grandly, then turned and, hands clasped behind his back, headed down the polished hallway.

Bryce followed, feeling suddenly and uncustomarily off-balance. It took a great deal to unnerve him, which was why he was so bloody good at his profession. Yet now, preparing to face the woman who’d spared his life and ensured his future, he felt oddly uneasy, plagued by an awareness that old demons were on the verge of being confronted.

First a bantering session with a girl straight from the pages of a novel, now this.

For a man who was ruled by fact, rooted in thought rather than emotion, this day was turning out to be most unsettling.

“Yes?” a delicate voice responded to Chaunce’s knock.

“Forgive me, madam,” the butler began, opening the library door a crack, “but Mr. Lyndley is here.”

“Thank God,” Bryce heard her murmur to herself. Then: “Please, Chaunce, show him in.”

Chaunce threw the door wide and gestured for Bryce to enter.

Slowly Bryce complied, wondering if the memory he’d carried with him all these years—of a tiny lady with aristocratic features and a knot of upswept honey blond hair—would match the woman he was about to see for the first time in twenty-three years.

“Bryce.” The elderly matron who approached him, hands outstretched, was a replica of his memory, save the color of her hair—now snow white—and the previously absent lines of age set into her cheeks and brow. “Oh, Bryce.” Tears shone in her pale blue eyes as she drank him in feature by feature, nodding her approval and clasping his hands in hers. “You look wonderful. Tall. Handsome. Even I couldn’t anticipate …” She broke off. “Forgive me.”

“It’s good to see you too, my lady,” Bryce returned, his voice raw as childhood memories slammed from past to present at a breakneck pace. “You’re looking well—precisely as I remembered you, in fact.” He kissed her hand.

“Hardly. But bless you for saying that.” Her lips curved, and she released his hands with great reluctance. “Please, sit. Chaunce will fetch our refreshment. Then we’ll talk.”

Nodding, Bryce waited for her to be seated, then lowered himself into a library chair. “I came as soon as I got your message.”

“Yes. I hoped you would.” She fell silent as Chaunce reentered and placed a tray on the side table.

“Shall I pour, my lady?” the butler inquired.

“No, thank you, Chaunce. I’ll pour.”

“Very good. Will there be anything else?”

“Not at this time. I’ll summon you shortly.”

“Of course, my lady.” Chaunce bowed. “Enjoy your visit.”

Lady Nevon waited until the door had closed behind him. Then she turned her attention back to Bryce. “I have so very much to say to you. I always have, though I never could. But now, with Richard dead …”

“Please accept my sympathy on your loss.”

Her brows rose. “Why would you offer something you can’t possibly feel?”

“I beg to differ with you. I do indeed feel sympathy. Granted, it’s for you, not the duke. But my personal opinion of him detracts nothing from the fact that he was your brother. The sympathy I’m offering is therefore quite genuine, I assure you.”

A small smile curved Lady Nevon’s lips. “You haven’t changed, Bryce. You’re still as straightforward and honest as ever.
And
as skilled at driving home your point. ʼTis no wonder no other barrister in England can compare with you. I thank you for your kind wishes. As for my feelings, they’re mixed. You, better than anyone, know how very different my brother and I were. I loved him—but I very seldom liked him. To be frank, a part of me feels naught but relief at his death.” She inclined her head. “Do I sound like a monster?”

“No, Lady Nevon. You sound human.”

In reply, she took up the coffeepot, poured two steaming cups. “Lady Nevon. How very formal. Tell me, Bryce, after all these years, do you think you might call me Hermione?”

“If it would please you.”

“It would.” She handed him a cup, along with the tray of cinnamon cakes. “I trust these are still your favorites?”

“They are.”

“Excellent. My cook has made dozens. Please help yourself.”

Bryce placed two cakes on his plate, lounging back in a posture that was deceptively casual. “Forgive me, my lady, but am I the fly and you the spider?”

Lady Nevon’s lips paused at the rim of her cup. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Only that you and your staff seem to be making the most extraordinary effort to please me. Am I being led to slaughter?”

A breath of laughter greeted his assessment. “No, Bryce. I assure you, you’re quite safe.” Her laughter faded, replaced by a sad, wistful look. “ ʼTis only that I thought this day might never come, that I might never open my home to you as I have my heart. If I’ve gone too far … caused you any discomfort …”

“Of course not.” Bryce felt a stab of remorse—and more than a twinge of guilt. “I apologize. My comment was rude and ungrateful.” He pursed his lips, staring into his coffee. “To be frank, I’m not certain how to act. I owe you my childhood, my schooling, my career—my very life. But your message made me distinctly uneasy.”

“My message, or me?”

“That depends upon your reason for sending it.”

“I thought as much.” Hermione emitted a long, resigned sigh. “You’re furious with me.” Setting down her saucer, she added, “I don’t blame you. I’ve neglected you all these years, left you virtually alone since the Lyndleys died. My only excuse is that I’m weak. I feared for your life—and my own. I hadn’t the strength to combat Richard’s reaction had he guessed what I’d done, what I continued to do. So I kept my distance, to protect you—and myself. I’m a coward, Bryce. And because of it, you’ve had to grow up with only my letters for family. Can you ever forgive me?”

Bryce shoved his plate aside, amazed and appalled by such unwarranted self-censure. “Forgive you—for what? Sparing me the horrors of being cast into the streets to die like an animal? Secreting me in a place where Whitshire couldn’t find me? Giving me two fine parents, a life, and a future?”

“Perhaps merely for having so heartless a man for a sibling,” she replied quietly.

“Lineage is an accident of fate. I, better than anyone, know that—from firsthand experience. Let’s compare my
blood
ties with my actual ones. Whitshire, the man who sired me, not only refused to acknowledge me but did all he could to guarantee my demise—and all so he could be spared the embarrassment of a bastard son. And my mother? She was either too weak, too frightened, or too selfish to keep me. She abandoned me on your doorstep and rushed back to the stage and her flourishing career. So much for bonds of the flesh. Now let’s discuss true bonds. The Lyndleys raised me. They were fine, decent people who taught me right from wrong, conveyed to me—by example as well as by word—the importance of hard work, gave me a sense of belonging.
They
were my actual parents, Hermione—in every way that matters. They still would be, had that wave of influenza not killed them when I was ten.”

“A tragedy I should have relayed to you, along with the rest of the disconcerting truth, in person, not by way of some cold, passionless letter.”

“Your letter was neither cold nor passionless.” Bryce visualized the bewildered ten-year-old boy who’d pored over an explanation that had forever altered his life. “It was filled with pain and sorrow—and a fervent wish that things could have been different.”

“Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to come to you? To ride to Eton and sit beside you as I explained the details of your parentage, answered whatever questions I could? To assure you, time and again, that you were precisely the same extraordinary young man you’d always been—that nothing and no one could change that fact?”

Hermione pressed her trembling palms together. “But I didn’t dare. Richard’s connections extended to every prestigious member of Eton’s admissions committee. There was but one man, Edward Strong, I trusted, and that was because he’d been a longstanding friend of my late husband, John. Edward was the person through whom I made all my anonymous payments for your schooling. As for the others—if any of them had seen me, there’s not a doubt Richard would have heard about it. My brother was far from stupid. He’d have questioned me, delved until he discovered the truth. I couldn’t risk it. I also wanted you to have more than my word on your true lineage. I wanted you to have written confirmation, should a situation ever arise in which verifying your true identity would prove necessary or useful. So, along with my letter, I had my messenger deliver all the papers your mother provided me when she abandoned you on my doorstep. I sent all those documents off to you—and then I waited, half praying you’d contact me, knowing full well you wouldn’t.”

“You implored me not to,” Bryce reminded her, his tone more strained than he intended. “You wrote that we could have no contact other than through your letters. You said you feared for my life if Whitshire were to learn the truth.”

“I most certainly did.” Hermione paused. “And if I hadn’t? Would you have contacted me had you not been forbidden to?”

“Probably not.” Bryce looked away. “At least not at once. I needed time to make sense of things, to accept the enormous revelation I’d been handed.” He swallowed. “Finding out I’d been lied to for ten years was quite a blow—one I had to contend with, and recover from, on my own.”

“I didn’t sleep for weeks, worrying over your reaction,” Hermione added softly.

“I got over it.” Bryce drew a sharp breath, determined to bring this conversation to an immediate halt. “In any case, you have nothing to apologize for. Certainly not for Whitshire, who committed his sins of his own accord. What’s more, he’s dead. Therefore he’s no longer a threat to either of us. So why are we discussing him?”

“Why indeed.” Hermione studied Bryce’s expression thoughtfully.

“Let’s get back to your note. Affection notwithstanding, it didn’t sound to me as if you were inviting me to a reunion. Your tone was terse, strained. So why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”