Page 75 of The Dreaming Beauty
The words pierced her. Marcus had said something similar in reference to her and his brother right before he had walked away from her. “We shall see” was all she could muster.
* * *
Marcus stood at the corner of the house, watching in silence. Simon held Tansy by the shoulders, and she was gazing up at him. Her bonnet hid her face from him, but he could easily envision her blue eyes melting into soft pools as she looked at his brother. So it was done. Marcus had successfully chased her into his brother’s arms. He’d not had the heart to ask Simon about it, but he had every reason to believe the concept for the party was more than to celebrate Tansy’s birthday, but as way for them to announce their engagement at its end. His chest tightened in a viselike grip, and the growing pit in his stomach made him want to double over. He quickly turned to distract Iris and Aster, his companions in the treasure hunt. He would hate for them to stumble onto this scene and ruin the quiet moment for Simon and Tansy. Even if he wanted to do so himself.
After a few minutes of painful idle chatter in front of the house, frustration, self-loathing, and jealousy mounted internally at a shocking rate. Before his feelings could overwhelm him completely, he made an excuse to leave.
“But you did not finish the treasure hunt,” Aster said.
“Did I not tell you? I am the one who fashioned all the clues.”
“Oh?” Iris said. “I assumed it was His Grace.”
“Simon? No, he was too busy visiting Rose Cottage to take care of it himself.” He tried to laugh off his words, but the truth was doing something for Tansy’s birthday was the only way he could keep himself from riding over to see her himself. With Lord and Lady Cadogen gone before anyone could recognize them—a necessary escape since the town loved to gossip about the baron’s imaginary escapades in Whitfield—Marcus had no reason to delay his own departure. He tipped his hat and said goodbye.
The butler was on duty by the front door, and he held the door open for Marcus just as a voice sounded behind him.
“Your Grace!”
He would not have thought twice upon hearing that title spoken, but this time there was no doubt it was directed to him. He turned to see Nurse Jones hurrying his way. An imperceptible groan escaped him.
“What a grand party this is. The children are loving the treasure hunt. It is so cleverly done.”
Marcus shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “It is good to see you again, but I think you mean to find my brother, not me.”
“Your brother? You mean little Marcus? No, there is no similarity with his dark features and wild temperament. No, you are just like your father, fair and mild-mannered, though your hair has darked some like his did.”
Marcus scrunched up his face. “You’re confused.”
Nurse Jones laughed. “Are you playing games with me? I believe it is you who is confused. I might forget where I put things on occasion, but my memory is unmeasured. I remember every child I have ever nursed, their birth dates, and their mannerisms. You, Your Grace, are the spitting image of your father, and there is no contest about it.”
“The spitting image?”
“Yes, of Lord Melbourne. I know you have seen his portrait a thousand times, as you used to stand in front of it and ask me when you were going to grow as big as your father.”
He squinted, trying to recall what portrait she could mean. He had a vague recollection of Simon’s father’s portrait at the top of the stairs at Melbourne Meadows, but he remembered his mother had moved any traces of him to the attic, saying it was too hard for her to bear. Eventually they had all relocated to the London town house, once he and Simon had gone to school. “Lord Mel-bourne had lighter coloring?”
“Yes.” She studied him now as if he were the one who was mad. “You say you do not know the picture?”
It would still be at Melbourne Meadows, Simon’s other property. It had been years since Marcus had been there himself and was nearly a day’s ride away. He could go there and have his valet meet him at Oxford later with his trunk, though it would be a fruitless errand. Simon’s mother could have had dark hair like his own mother did. These things had easy explanations.
Unlike his nightmares.
His nightmares...
Could they be like Tansy’s dreams, leading him to answers? “Nurse Jones, do you recollect anything else that was specific about me—er—Simon as a child? A birthmark or anything like that?” He had no birthmark, but as far as he knew, neither did his brother. It was a test for the nurse in front of him.
“Not a birthmark, no.” She thought for a moment. “You did have this sweet way of twisting your hair, even as a wee babe.” She chuckled. “I declare, the food I had to clean out of your curls was a constant chore.”
Hair twisting? His heart sank. How did she know about the habit he had never been able to break himself of?
“I cannot explain why Her Ladyship let me or any of the other servants go, attached as you were to all of us, but people do strange things when they are mournin’. We couldn’t even catch a glimpse of you at church, with you all shut in that lonely house for nigh unto two years.”
Confusion clouded his judgment, making it hard to grasp the incoming information concretely. If what the nurse was saying was correct...
No. No, it couldn’t be correct.
But if it was...
