The Music Box (44 page)

In the midst of sifting strands of her hair through his fingers, Bryce paused. “You recognized it
before
you lost consciousness? That makes no sense. Whoever attacked you didn’t start the fire until after he’d moved you and trapped your leg in the opening to Crumpet’s warren. So you couldn’t have smelled the flames as you fell. Your memory must be fuzzy on that point.” Bryce frowned, reconsidering. “On the other hand, now that I think about it, you described the events in that same order just after the incident occurred. You said that all you remembered was the masked figure who struck you and the sickening, musky smell of death—
until
you awakened amid the fire. I didn’t ponder the order of events then, but now … I wonder.”

Twisting about, Gaby gazed up at her husband. “Do you think it means something?”

“I’m not sure,” Bryce replied thoughtfully. “But none of your memories have been inaccurate thus far. So my instincts say we shouldn’t ignore what your mind is telling you. And if you’re right, and if the timing of that smell does reveal something about the fire, we’ll figure out what it is. I promise you, we will.”

With that, he kissed the worried pucker between Gaby’s brows, settled her against him. “But not now. Now I want you to rest, at least for a few hours.” She felt him smile against her hair. “After which you may awaken me in whatever manner you choose.”

His teasing words had their desired effect, and Gaby relaxed in her husband’s arms. “In whatever manner I choose? Ah, the possibilities you’ve taught me tonight.” Her eyes widened as a new and wondrous prospect struck—one that eclipsed every iota of ugliness from view. “Bryce …” Her palm strayed to her abdomen. “Do you realize that at this very moment I could be carrying our child? Or, if not, that I could conceive any time from this day on?”

Bryce’s smile vanished, and his voice, when he spoke, was rough with emotion. “Yes, darling, I realize that. And it enthralls me almost as much as it humbles me.”

Tears filled Gaby’s eyes, and she reached up, drew his mouth down to hers. “I want to give you a child,” she whispered. “I want that so much.”

“Gaby …” Bryce’s arms trembled as they brought her against him.

“What’s more,” she confessed breathlessly. “I don’t want our wedding night to end.”

“Nor do I.” He rolled her onto her back, raising her arms above her head, interlacing their fingers as he covered her body with his. “And I did promise to make it last, didn’t I?”

Gaby’s nod was solemn. “Yes, you did.”

With that, the notion of sleep was forgotten.

“T
HAT WAS BREATHTAKING
!ˮ

A full twenty minutes after leaving the concert hall, Gaby was still enchanted, her blue eyes bright with wonder as Bryce steered their carriage toward his town house. “Oh, Bryce, even my most vivid dreams couldn’t conjure up the exquisite blending of sounds, the richness, the emotion …” She turned her glowing face toward his. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Bryce pressed her head to his shoulder. “Watching your face was all the thanks I need. It was like watching a child at her first Christmas.” He kissed Gaby’s shining crown of hair. “Just as the music surpassed your wildest expectations, so did your reaction surpass mine.”

“I’ve never felt more alive, more exhilarated …” She broke off, tossing him a mischievous grin. “At least not during occasions where I’m clothed.”

A husky chuckle. “Which you haven’t been for almost three days, except during our drive to London. I’ve kept you abed nearly every breathing instant.”

“I’ve attempted sleepwalking only twice in all that time,” she pointed out.

“You’ve slept only twice in all that time.”

“Ummm, that’s true.” Gaby smiled dreamily, even the sleepwalking and all its ramifications unable to dim the pleasure of the past three days.

While awaiting Banks’s summons, they’d taken full advantage of their time alone, spending long, lazy hours in Bryce’s bed, talking, laughing, and of course exploring au the dazzling nuances of passion in each other’s arms. Tonight had been their first venture out, and Gaby had been so enthralled by the music and its splendor that it had nearly driven away the anxiety she experienced over making her initial appearance into Bryce’s glittering world. But the episode hadn’t been nearly as frightening as she’d expected. The people had been cordial, even welcoming. By the end of the evening she’d grown quite accustomed to the introductions, the polite how-do-you-do’s. Why, she’d even survived the awkward meeting with Lucinda Talbot and her newest escort during the concert’s brief intermission.

“She’s lovely,” Gaby had whispered to Bryce the instant they were alone. “And extremely gracious, given the circumstances.”

Bryce had shrugged. “That’s Lucinda, always gracious.” He’d taken Gaby’s hand in his. “Thank you for making the situation bearable. You were warm and charming—your usual exuberant self.”

“I can afford to be,” she replied with her customary candor. “I have you.” A twinkle. “However, if you’d actually taken her to any of those private spots I questioned you about, my behavior would have been far less courteous.”

“Speaking of those private spots”—Bryce’s fingers had tightened about hers—“the instant we leave here, we’re returning to my bed. It’s been hours.”

Gaby’s heart had thumped wildly. “Definitely.” She stepped closer, murmuring in a voice only Bryce could hear, “I’m glad we’re moving to your room at Nevon Manor. It’s not only larger than mine, but farther away from the other wings and from Aunt Hermione’s room.” The look she gave him was sheer seduction. “I’m not very good at staying quiet.”

“I’ll swallow your cries of pleasure with my mouth,” Bryce vowed huskily.

“And yours?”

He sucked in his breath. “You’ll do the same.”

“That’s not always possible,” Gaby reminded him, her forefinger tracing a line down the front of his waistcoat. “Sometimes our mouths are otherwise—”

“That did it.” Bryce had drawn her closer, kissed her then and there, in front of anyone who happened to be watching.

All in all, the evening had been perfect.

Gaby’s smile vanished as they approached Bryce’s house and saw the messenger sitting patiently on the doorstep.

“Bryce?” She sat up straighter, peering around to study the man. “Do you think Mr. Banks sent him?”

Bryce, too, had seen the messenger, and his entire demeanor changed. “I assume so,” he answered, bringing the horses to a stop. “Let’s find out.”

Sure enough, the message was indeed from Banks, informing Bryce that he’d spent the entire week poring over old files and had, at last, uncovered all the papers in William’s possession that pertained to the late Duke of Whitshire’s yacht.

Bryce sent a return message, thanking Banks and saying he’d be at his office the next morning at nine o’clock sharp.

The clock in Banks’s office was chiming nine when his clerk ushered Bryce and Gaby in.

“Bryce.” Banks greeted his colleague with a bit more energy than he had the last time, although his eyes were bleak, puffy from lack of sleep. “I just heard about your marriage.” He smiled in Gaby’s direction. “Congratulations. I see now why Hertford held so much appeal.”

“Frederick, this is my wife, Gabrielle. Gaby—Frederick Banks.”

“A pleasure,” Banks said, half bowing.

“I’m happy to meet you, sir,” Gaby replied. “And I’m terribly sorry about Mr. Delmore. Bryce told me how many years you two had been partners. I’m sure this is very difficult for you.”

“It is. Thank you for your sympathy.” Banks turned to Bryce. “I won’t keep you long, since you’ve been married a scant few days. But I knew how eager you were to have those papers.” He offered Bryce an envelope. “In there you’ll find the original title to the yacht, along with the letter that accompanied it when Whitshire forwarded the title to William several months ago. Both those papers are authentic. The title was signed by the builder, conveying the yacht to Whitshire, and the letter of correspondence was penned by Averley, Whitshire’s steward, since the duke was on his deathbed. As I suspected, both those pages were in William’s desk.”

“And the other, older documents you mentioned?”

“That was the tedious part. I had a great deal of searching to do, years of old files to pore over. And I wanted to be thorough, to make sure I found every pertinent letter or document that might aid your investigation. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. The only other papers I came upon were letters between Whitshire’s steward and the builder who constructed the yacht.” A questioning look. “That was what you wanted, anyway, wasn’t it?”

“Definitely.” Bryce tore open the envelope, scanning the pages within, his jaw tightening fractionally. “Robert Smythe. Is that the builder’s name?”

“Yes. He was an established fellow, well past middle years. He retired about eighteen months ago, turned the business over to his sons.”

Bryce tensed. “But he’s still alive, and in England, I hope.”

“The answer to both questions is yes.” Banks pointed at the envelope. “I thought you might want to talk to Smythe. As luck would have it, he lives in a little cottage right in Hertford. The address is written on a slip of paper behind the correspondence. I verified it and, at the same time, requested Smythe’s permission to give it to you. He had no trouble saying yes.”

“We’ll go there immediately. Frederick, I appreciate this more than I can say.” Bryce clasped the older man’s hand.

“You can show your thanks by determining who killed William,” Banks replied. “The police still have no clues and no suspect. So if there’s any merit to your theory that William’s business at Whitshire and his death are somehow connected, find out what that connection is. And then find out who killed him.”

“I intend to.” Bryce caught Gaby’s arm, headed toward the door.

“Again, the best of luck to you both,” Banks repeated. “I hope this investigation doesn’t detract from the joy of your new marriage. I wish you great happiness.”

“Thank you.” Bryce guided Gaby through the doorway, his entire body whip-taut. “I’ll let you know the instant I learn anything.”

In the waiting area he stopped, intently examining the letters still peeking out of the envelope.

“Bryce?” Gaby murmured. “What is it?”

“The date on these letters.
And
the one on the deed.” He shoved all the documents back inside, facing Gaby with a purposeful expression. “Whitshire’s yacht was built in March 1862.”

Gaby’s eyes widened. “Just over thirteen years ago,” she realized aloud. “Two months before the fire.”

Robert Smythe was a gray-haired man with a full beard and a gruff, somewhat wary manner. “What can I do for you?” he asked, having admitted Gaby and Bryce to the tiny sitting room of his Hertford cottage. “Banks said you wanted to see me, but he didn’t say about what.”

“About a yacht your company built,” Bryce supplied. Perching on the edge of the well-worn sofa, he opened the envelope and extracted the title and letters. “Evidently it was quite a beauty. I was wondering what details you could provide me with, about the construction of the yacht itself, the specific details of the transaction—anything.”

“And why do you want to know all this?”

Bryce cleared his throat. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my reasons, at least not at this time.”

Smythe scowled, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair. “I’m familiar with your name, Lyndley. I know you’re a barrister. Well, let me tell you straightaway that my sons and I are completely honest. Always have been. So if you’re looking for anything shady, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Nothing like that,” Gaby assured him in a soothing voice. “This is a personal matter, Mr. Smythe—
our
personal matter. Your integrity is not in question, nor is your family’s. On the contrary, according to Mr. Banks, your reputation is excellent.”

“Yeah, well, he’s right.” Somewhat mollified, Smythe leaned back in the armchair. “This deal you’re asking about—did I oversee it? Or did it take place after I retired?”

“Your signature is on the title,” Bryce told him. “And it definitely preceded your retirement; this yacht was built thirteen years ago.”

“Thirteen years ago?” Shaggy gray brows shot up.

“Lyndley, my company has built hundreds of boats. How the hell would I remember anything about a deal that took place thirteen years ago?”

Bryce had been prepared for this potential problem, and he proceeded with the strategy he hoped would eliminate it. “Mr. Smythe, the boats your company builds—they’re mostly small recreational craft, aren’t they?”

“Small, but well-built, yes.”

“I don’t doubt that. How many elaborate yachts did you construct over the years?”

“More than a few.” The builder’s head came up defensively. “As I said, our reputation is excellent.”

“And, as
I
said, I don’t doubt it. This particular yacht I’m looking into was commissioned by a wealthy, titled nobleman. The duke could have gone anywhere for his yacht. But he chose your company. I think that speaks for itself.”

“The duke?” Recognition—immediate and absolute—flashed in Smythe’s eyes. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’ve had a couple of aristocrats as patrons. But only one duke.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’d say thirteen years sounds about right.” Leaning forward, he added, “Let me see those letters.”

“They’re from His Grace’s steward to you and vice versa,” Bryce explained, placing the papers in Smythe’s palm. “Averley handled all his employer’s business correspondence.”

“Sure—Whitshire, that was the duke’s name.” Scanning the pages, Smythe gave an emphatic nod. “His steward wrote to me, but the duke himself came to supervise the work. He was real lavish with his praise—and his payment. It was nice doing business with him. Always hoped I’d have the chance to build him another boat one day. Not that he’d need it. That beauty I crafted for him was all any man could want. He could hardly wait to sail her away.”

Bryce frowned. Smythe s depiction of Richard Rowland’s enthusiasm for sailing was inconsistent with Hermione’s view.

“You’re certain His Grace meant to keep the yacht for his personal use?” he probed. “Isn’t it possible he intended to buy it as an investment, then sell it at a substantial profit?”