The Music Box (46 page)

She tilted back her head, gazed up at him. “What are we going to do?”

We.
The fact that she could still say that, after all she’d endured—such courage was astounding.

“We’re going to expose Averley for the murderer he is,” Bryce responded. “All we need is a bit of help from Thane and a confirmation from Mr. Smythe, both of which I’ll arrange for immediately. When we’re through with Averley, the only cabin he’ll know is a very small cell in Newgate.”

The critical note was dispatched to Whitshire posthaste. The chat with Smythe was terse and candid—and yielded instant results.

By late afternoon, Bryce’s carriage rolled into the drive at Nevon Manor, where Thane was waiting, the requested items in his possession.

The meeting was short, the outcome decisive.

And the plan was devised.

The new day was just under way when Averley approached the duke’s study the next morning, knocking politely at the door. “You sent for me, Your Grace?” he inquired, stepping inside.

Early morning sunlight drizzled through much of the room, but the far corner was still cast in shadows, awaiting the first blush of day.

“Hmm?” Thane sat hunched over his desk, leafing through some papers and looking thoroughly piqued, while Bryce paced about, scowling at a document in his hand.

Averley cleared his throat. “You did want to see me?”

Thane glanced up, as if noticing his steward for the first time. “Ah, Averley. Yes. I did.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Mr. Lyndley and I were conducting some legal business, and we came upon a document that pertains to a purchase my father made. Supposedly this purchase was made some time ago, but there seems to be a discrepancy about the timing. Given your long-standing position as Father’s steward, we are hoping you can shed some light on the matter.”

“I’ll be happy to, sir.”

Pausing near the French doors leading out to the courtyard, Bryce leaned against the doorframe, still frowning at the document in his hand. “Averley, do you recall when the late duke commissioned his yacht to be built?”

A bit of the ruddiness faded from Averley’s cheeks. “Yacht?”

“Yes. Take a look at this.” Bryce waved the paper in the air.

With an uneasy cough, Averley walked over, skimming the title Banks had supplied Bryce with. “Ah, the sailing vessel His Grace commissioned. You’ll have to forgive my memory, Lyndley. It’s been some time since that transaction occurred. But, yes, I remember it. His Grace contracted Mr. Smythe’s company to build him a rather luxurious yacht. That’s the title transferring ownership of the craft from Smythe to His Grace. I don’t understand where the discrepancy lies. The date is clearly penned on bottom: March 14, 1862.”

“Precisely,” Thane concurred, leaning back in his chair. “But the problem is that all my records—correspondence, old business drafts—indicate that Father was in Scotland on a prolonged venture when this transaction occurred.”

A frown. “That’s impossible, sir.”

“Exactly. Which could only mean that the title is dated incorrectly.” Thane shoved his papers aside, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. “Since your records are far more painstaking than mine, would you kindly check your books and determine when, in fact, Father purchased the yacht so we can amend my papers?”

The slight tension permeating Averley’s stout frame was the only indication that he was unnerved. “Of course, sir. I’ll fetch my records for the entire year and bring them to you at once.”

Bryce and Thane waited until the steward’s footsteps had faded away.

Then Bryce whipped about, yanking open the glass door and beckoning for the man outside to enter. “Well?” he demanded as Smythe stepped into the room.

The builder shook his head in stunned disbelief. “I never would have believed it—always thought myself a good judge of character.”

“Is that the man you sold the yacht to?” Bryce pressed.

“It sure is. He’s older, grayer, and a bit portlier, but that’s definitely the man who called himself the Duke of Whitshire.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’d recognize him anywhere. Like I said, I only had one customer who was a duke …” Smythe broke off, his lips thinning into a grim line. “Or rather, one customer who pretended to be a duke. The bloody bastard.” A deep sniff. “There’s that cologne of his, too. You can’t miss it. Yeah, it’s him all right.”

“Good.” Thane folded his hands neatly before him. “Then we have only to wait for my honorable steward to return.”

Bryce glanced toward the far corner of the room, still untouched by daylight. “Sweetheart, are you all right?” he asked quietly.

Gaby stepped forward for one brief instant. “I’m fine.” Her small jaw was set with purpose. “And I’m more than ready to do my part.”

“Soon,” Bryce promised. “Averley should be back here any minute to report the missing books.”

As if on cue, the steward’s footsteps resumed, a bit slower than last time.

Gaby withdrew into her corner.

“I don’t understand it,” Averley began, reentering the study. “The books for that year are nowhere to be found …” His voice trailed off as he stared at Smythe, his mouth dropping open.

“Hello,
Your Grace
.” Smythe nodded curtly. “I see you remember me.”

With a great deal of difficulty, Averley composed himself. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t believe I do.”

“I’ll refresh your memory,” Bryce offered smoothly. “This is Mr. Robert Smythe, the man who sold you—or rather, you posing as Whitshire—the yacht we were just discussing. Oh, and the books you couldn’t seem to find amid your records? His Grace is holding them in his hands.” He gestured toward Thane, who waved the ledgers in the air. “No surprise that they confirm the date on the title as accurate. So it seems, given the Duke of Whitshire’s whereabouts at the time, that he never did purchase that yacht.”

Smythe corrected him bitterly. “Yeah, he did. He just didn’t realize he’d purchased it.”

Averley shifted from one polished shoe to the other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lyndley. I never met this man before in my life. As for the discrepancy, I can’t explain it. Only the duke can. And unfortunately he’s dead.”

“Yes, he is. And he’s not alone, is he?” Bryce inquired. “William Delmore also died recently. Of course, Delmore wasn’t permitted the peace of a natural death. He was murdered. Tragic, wouldn’t you say?”

Sweat beaded on Averley’s brow. “Yes, very.”

“Banks tells me that Delmore was in the process of buying Whitshire’s yacht when the late duke died. Speaking of which, how is it that you couldn’t remember anything at all about a yacht whose sale you were conducting for His Grace mere months ago? Or have you forgotten that as well?” Bryce held up the pages of correspondence, all written in Averley’s hand. “Would these refresh your memory?”

Averley’s gaze narrowed. “Even if I was handling that sale for the late duke, it proves nothing other than that I was doing my job. As for this person’s accusations”—he gestured toward Smythe—“they’re groundless. And need I remind you that it’s his word against mine. With my impeccable record—”

“A record I’ve thoroughly discredited with the fraudulent entries I’ve discovered in this one-year time period alone,” Thane informed him icily. “Give it up, Averley. We’ve established you as a liar and a thief ten times over. And we have more than enough proof to support our claims.”

“Then there’s the matter of Delmore’s murder,” Bryce reminded him. “We have yet to extract a confession for that.”

“A confession?” Averley’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “To murder? Are you deranged? Rewarding myself with an occasional monetary bonus is hardly in the same realm as killing someone. As for the yacht and whatever other niceties I helped myself to, I more than earned them. And Richard Rowland could well afford them—and a great deal more. The coldhearted bastard never paid me what I was worth anyway. But murder? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Delmore represented a potential threat to all those lovely niceties you just mentioned. He might have deduced the same ugly truth we just discovered—
if
he’d been allowed to reach Whitshire and compare his documents to Thane’s. If so, he’d doubtless have realized that Richard Rowland never bought that yacht. All the doubts and questions would have led to you—and your undoing. You didn’t dare take that risk. So you met Delmore’s carriage as it made its way to Whitshire, summoned him to the roadside under some false but believable pretense, and shot him dead.”

A sardonic smile. “That’s quite a story, Lyndley. Highly entertaining. Unfortunately for you, there’s no way of proving its truth. I don’t intend to admit to anything. Only Delmore could lend merit to your ludicrous accusations. And he’s dead, so he can’t very well incriminate me.”

“Well, I’m not, and I can.” Gaby marched out of the corner, her face flushed, eyes ablaze. “Perhaps you have a more vivid memory of your attempt on
my
life. If not, I’ll enlighten you. You tried to kill me a week ago. Fortunately, you failed. So I’m alive and well—and extraordinarily eager to incriminate you in precisely the way Mr. Delmore cannot. In fact, nothing will give me greater pleasure than to turn you over to the authorities.”

Averley’s whole demeanor changed, his breath coming faster, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You’re bluffing. You have no way of knowing who your attacker was. He was masked, dressed in black.”

“And how would
you
know
that
?” Gaby countered, anger and the need for vindication eclipsing all traces of fear. “I never publicly described my assailant. Only Bryce, Aunt Hermione, and Chaunce knew how he was dressed, which means, Mr. Averley, that you’ve just implicated yourself.” She didn’t wait for a reply but pressed on. “But even if you hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Your mask did nothing to conceal your identity. I recognized you by the scent of your cologne—that special fragrance you import from Paris for you and you alone, except for that one bottle you gave to Mr. Smythe in gratitude for a job well done. And I recognize it from another night—a night on which you murdered dozens of innocent people, including my parents. Do you recall that night, Mr. Averley? Because, luckily, I now do. I remember it all, from your argument with Dowell to his accusations of theft, from your striking him down to the match you lit when you set fire to the coal room. I now remember every moment of the tragic night that has haunted me all these years, the details of which never quite surfaced until the night I returned to Whitshire. Then it all came surging forth, first in my dreams, then in my awareness. You triggered that awareness, Mr. Averley, just as you started that fire. You’re a murderer many times over. And as the one living witness to that night, as well as the one you tried to kill for remembering exactly what happened in that coal room, I will attest to your guilt before every magistrate in the country.”

“Damn you.” Something inside Averley seemed to snap. “I won’t let you do this to me, you audacious chit.” He stalked toward Gaby, fury contorting his features.

Before he’d taken his third stride, Bryce was on him, slamming his fist into Averley’s jaw and sending the older man reeling. “Lay a hand on my wife and you’ll wish you’d died in that fire.” He dragged Averley to his feet, gripping his coat in tight, furious fists. “If you have something to say, say it to me.”

Sweat was pouring down Averley’s face. He was cornered and he knew it, condemned by his own deeds, backed into an admission he’d fought thirteen years not to make. “I didn’t mean to kill Dowell,” he gasped, terrified by the look of sheer animal rage on Bryce’s face. “The bastard was blackmailing me. We each threw a few punches. When Dowell went down, he hit his head on a coal bucket.” A harsh indrawn breath. “I begged him to get up. I shook him, slapped him. When I realized he was dead, I didn’t know what to do. With all those cuts and bruises on him, no one would have believed he tripped. They’d know there was a fight. And they’d know with whom, because my lip was bleeding, my face swollen. Sooner or later they’d figure out what we were fighting about. I couldn’t risk it.” Another shuddering breath. “I never meant for anyone else to die. I couldn’t believe how fast that fire spread. …”

Pausing, Averley shot a bitter sidelong glance at Gaby. “I heard that damned music box playing. I knew she was in there. But she was just a child. I prayed she hadn’t heard anything and, if she had, that she hadn’t understood. When Lady Nevon took her away, I was relieved as hell. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else; I was horrified at the fire, all the lives it had claimed. I just wanted to bury the whole thing, forget it ever happened.”

“Forget it ever happened?” Gaby burst out, her eyes wide with appalled disbelief. “You killed an entire wing of people just to conceal your thefts, and you wanted to erase that crime from your mind as if it had never occurred? How in God’s name could you expect to do that? In truth, you should be haunted by your heinous acts every moment of your life.”

“What about Delmore?” Bryce demanded, his grasp on Averley’s coat tightening. “That wasn’t accidental. That was premeditated murder.”

“It was self-defense,” Averley shot back. “So was getting rid of Gabrielle. If everyone had only stayed away, minded their own business—”

“Then what, Averley? Then you could have disregarded the fact that you’d committed murder? And you could have continued stealing from my family for another decade?” Thane shoved back his chair, leaping to his feet with a revolted expression on his face. “Bryce, I’ve had enough. Couling is in the hallway with Officers Dawes and Webster. They’re awaiting our signal to take Averley away. I’ll summon them.” He stalked over to the door, yanked it open, and waved for the authorities to enter.

“Good.” A muscle was working furiously in Bryce’s jaw, and he flung Averley at the officers with near-violent intensity. “The bastard confessed to everything. Now get him out of my sight.”

Dawes stepped inside, seizing Averley’s arms and locking them behind his back. “With pleasure.” He glanced at Gaby, whose expression was composed, though she looked inordinately pale and shaky. “We have your statement, Mrs. Lyndley. But if we need your verbal accounting—”