The Music Box (36 page)

“I think not.” Bryce caught Gaby’s shoulders, drew her back into his arms. “In fact, I think when I return we’ll need to review some of those places you mentioned where couples go to be alone.”

Gaby giggled. “I’ll take copious notes while you’re gone.”

“Do that.” He tipped up her chin. “I’ll miss you.”

“I hate saying good-bye to you,” she answered fiercely, all traces of humor gone.

The sound of the carriage horses, stamping about impatiently, drifted to their ears.

“Go,” Gaby said firmly, countering her previous admission as she saw the indecision warring on Bryce’s face. “Do what you must. I’ll be fine—I promise.”

“And I’ll be back tomorrow—I promise.”

She laid her palm against his jaw. “I know you will. This time for good.”

Bryce captured her palm, pressed it to his heart as he leaned forward to kiss her. “I love you, Wonderland.”

Then he turned and was gone.

Gaby stood utterly still, gazing after him for a long trancelike moment. Then she strolled over to a solitary oak, leaning against its solid strength and peering through the grove of trees that overlooked the drive. She brushed a windblown tress from her face, watching as Bryce said his good-byes, climbed into his carriage, and urged the horses into motion.

It wasn’t until his carriage had disappeared from view and the sounds of the horses were no longer audible that she reacted.

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.”

D
USK 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.”