The Music Box (28 page)

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?”

“I have them,” Banks responded. “They were retrieved by the police, along with William’s personal effects—” His voice cracked, and he looked away, damp-eyed.

“Would you object if I took those papers to Thane?” Bryce pressed. “I give you my word that I will place them directly in his hands without opening them.”

“We intend to do that, Mr. Lyndley,” the younger police officer inserted. “I’m as interested as you in hearing what the duke has to say about those documents.”

Bryce’s head whipped about, and he regarded the two policemen intently. “I’m sure you are,” he conceded, recognizing that a different tactic was needed. “Let me ask you this—would you object to my accompanying you to Whitshire? Given that I’m well acquainted with both the duke and Mr. Delmore, I might be able to help you determine if there is a connection between Mr. Delmore’s death and whatever business he meant to conduct with His Grace.”

The younger fellow glanced at his partner.

The older man shrugged. “It’s fine with me, although I personally think, it’s a waste of your time. With the missing pocket watch and money, this looks like a clear case of theft. Still, it can’t hurt to investigate every angle. The only problem is, your schedule might not make it possible for you to leave London on such short notice; we mean to be on our way to Hertford within the hour. We have a few more questions for Mr. Banks and his clerk, after which we’ll be heading for the railroad station.”

“I have an idea,” Bryce interjected quickly. “I’ll cancel my appointments, pack a few things, and be back here in an hour. I had plans to visit Whitshire and Nevon Manor for several days at week’s end; I’ll simply rearrange those plans and leave today. This way I can escort you to Whitshire in my carriage and you’ll only have to take the railroad one way.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Fine.” Bryce glanced at Banks. “You’ll give those papers to these officers?”

“Of course.” Banks clasped Bryce’s hand, his unfocused gaze a clear indication he was still in shock. “Thank you, Bryce. I don’t seem to be able to think straight.” An unsteady pause. “William and I have been partners for over twenty-five years, and I just can’t believe …” His voice trailed off.

“I understand.” Bryce felt pretty shaken himself. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

He went back to his office just long enough to dispatch messages canceling his next two days’ appointments—and to send a brief note of explanation to Lucinda. He told her only that Delmore had been murdered and that, as a result of this sudden and unexpected tragedy, Lady Nevon required his counsel, as did her nephew.

As he sealed the note, Bryce’s lips twisted into a wry grin. He wasn’t worried about Lucinda’s reaction. Nothing, he mused, would heighten her satisfaction over the fact that he’d been retained by Lady Hermione Nevon more than the prospect of his being retained by the Duke of Whitshire. Consequently any inconvenience spawned by this unexpected trip to Hertford would be viewed by Lucinda as being well worth the nuisance.

Making a brief stop at his residence, Bryce tossed a few things into a bag—including the two pages of answers he’d provided to Peter’s questions—scooped up Sunburst, and left.

Fifty minutes later, he arrived back at Delmore & Banks, and ten minutes after that, he, the officers, and the documents were on their way to Hertford.

Couling’s eyes widened when he opened Whitshire’s front door late that afternoon to find two uniformed police officers on the threshold, flanking Bryce.

Quickly the butler recovered himself, admitting the three gentlemen. “Mr. Lyndley, is His Grace expecting you?”

“No, Couling, he isn’t.” Bryce indicated his companions. “But this is a matter of some urgency, so would you please advise the duke that we’re here?”

“Certainly.” Without another word, Couling turned on his heel and complied.

Not three minutes later Thane himself came striding down the hall. “Bryce,” His greeting was strained, his ashen expression suggesting that he had indeed heard the news about Delmore. “Come in.” His gaze shifted to the police, his question terse and to the point. “Is this about the murder of Mr. Delmore?”

“Yes, Your Grace, it is.” The older man cleared his throat.

“Thane, this is Officer Dawes,” Bryce said, offering the names he had learned en route to Whitshire. “And this is Officer Webster. They’re investigating Delmore’s death. I had an appointment with Banks earlier this afternoon. That’s how I learned what had happened—and who Delmore was en route to see when he was killed. I took the liberty of accompanying Dawes and Webster to Whitshire. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? I’m relieved.” Thane looked visibly so. “Gentlemen, we can talk in my study.” He led the way, closing the door firmly behind them. “Can I offer you anything?”

“No, sir.” Dawes shook his head and extracted his notebook. “We apologize for bothering you. From what we can see, this was a clear case of robbery. Still, we have to make sure, so would you mind telling us what Delmore wanted to see you about?”

Thane frowned. “I’m not sure I can help you much on that score. All Delmore’s note said was that it concerned a business transaction my father had initiated before his death and that my signature was needed on some papers.”

“Then these must be those papers.” Dawes produced the sealed envelope. Again he shifted uncomfortably. “Would you object to our remaining while you opened them?”

“Of course not.” Thane tore open the seal and slid out the papers. He scanned them, his expression growing more and more puzzled as he read. “According to these documents, Father was in the process of selling a yacht he commissioned years ago. Mr. Delmore needed my signature to finalize the sale.”