by Jane Feather
"But… but this is the queen's palace." Mary was clearly far from mollified or convinced by this explanation for such incredible, aberrant behavior.
"But Her Majesty is not here to see it," Gareth pointed out a shade tartly. "I see no point in further discussion, madam. The lass is shoeless and we'd do well to ignore the fact."
Mary stepped back, a flush mounting from her neck to flood her cheeks. She turned her shoulder to Lord Harcourt, saying distantly, "You'll forgive me, my lord, but I must return to Her Majesty."
Gareth's response was a formal bow. "I bid you farewell, madam."
Mary walked away without a word for anyone and Imogen chided, "How could you be so sharp, Gareth? You've offended her sadly and she spoke only the truth. It seemed as if you were taking the girl's part against your fiancee."
Gareth brushed aside his sister's anger with a casual gesture. " The deed is done, Imogen, our task is not to draw attention to it. Now, kick those shoes away while I retrieve Miranda and you may take her home out of harm's way."
He strode off after Kip and Miranda, exasperated, but not, he realized, by Miranda's mistake. His sister and his fiancee had made a mountain out of a molehill. It was quite ridiculous, and Imogen, at least, should have known better than to draw attention to the situation. It was only to be expected that Mary would be horrified, given her etiquette-bound, court-oriented outlook on life.
Prudish was probably the word, he caught himself thinking, increasing his speed as he spied his quarry some fifty yards away.
Kip was making casual small talk, but all the while Miranda was aware of his occasional glances. His eyes were shrewd but also slightly puzzled, and she adopted once more the slight rasp in her voice, keeping her eyes lowered whenever possible, and answering only in monosyllables. She greeted Lord Harcourt's approach with undisguised relief, despite her barefoot condition.
"Ah, there you are, milord." She bit her lip at the earl's instant frown. She coughed, rubbing her throat. “The night air is in my throat, my lord," she said.
"Lady Imogen is ready to take you home." He offered his arm.
"So soon," Kip lamented. "I was enjoying your ward's company, Gareth."
"There will be many other occasions," Gareth said with a smile. "Now that Maude has made her debut, she will be often in society."
Miranda shuddered at this promise, but she turned to make a polite farewell to Sir Christopher, still massaging her throat as if to emphasize a hoarseness that might reasonably have made my lord sound rather more French than English.
Kip didn't accompany them as they returned through the shrubbery. He was frowning, wondering what it was about Lady Maude that puzzled him. She looked just as he remembered her, but there was something indefinably different. A sense of the unexpected was the nearest he could come to identifying it. But what could possibly be unexpected about Lord Harcourt's ward?
Lord Harcourt's silence as they walked back to where Lady Dufort and her husband awaited didn't encourage breaking, and Miranda said nothing, wondering what had happened to her shoes, and how she could put them on again without drawing attention to herself. They were too tight to slip into even when her feet weren't swollen.
But there was no sign of her shoes and no one said anything about them as they returned to the water steps where the barge was waiting. She stepped into the barge with barely a flutter of her skirts so that only the most observant eye would have caught a glimpse of a white foot, and took her place on the middle bench, tucking her feet well beneath her.
"You will return with us, Gareth," Imogen stated, settling into a chair just as Brian Rossiter came barreling out of the shadows.
"Gareth, m'boy. We've been waiting this age. Here's Warwick and Lenster, eager for some gaming." The lords emerged into the torchlight, full of boisterous laughter and the pressing invitation to join them for a night of cards and dicing.
"Aye, I've a mind for some sport," Gareth said easily.
"But my lord…" Imogen protested. She was bursting with the need to discuss the evening and all its near-disasters with her brother. "Surely you can play some other time."
There was a short silence, then Gareth said, "I believe I'll play this night, madam. Lord Dufort will escort you and my ward safely home. You can have no need of my escort in his company."
Miles looked longingly at the party on the riverbank but kept silent. Imogen compressed her lips and Miranda watched forlornly as the earl disappeared arm in arm with his friends.
Imogen didn't speak to her on the return trip and Miles's occasional well-meaning conversational gambits fell into a black well of silence until the boat touched the water steps of the Harcourt mansion.
"Well, that was a trial and a tribulation," Imogen declared as she stepped ashore. "But I suppose we should be grateful it didn't become a complete disaster. Miles, give me your arm! What are you waiting for?" She turned with a querulous frown. "I have the headache. It has been a most trying evening."
"Yes, yes, my dear madam. I'm right here." Miles, who had been waiting to hand Miranda from the barge, rushed to his wife's side, leaving Miranda to fend for herself. Not that that troubled her in the least. She was so absorbed in her own dark and turbulent mood she barely noticed anyway.
The waiting porter stood at the wicket gate with his lantern held high and moved ahead of Lord and Lady Dufort to light their way up the path to the house. Miranda, ignored, followed behind, curling her sore toes in the soothing coolness of the damp grass.
The glass doors to the wainscoted parlor were opened as the small party approached and the Duforts passed inside as the porter stepped back. Neither Imogen nor Miles acknowledged the sleepy footman who had let them in, but Miranda gave him a quick smile as she padded past him.
He stared stone-faced at the ground where her bare feet left wet prints on the oak boards.
Lady Imogen swept up the stairs without so much as a farewell and Lord Dufort with a quick good-night scuttled away into the shadowy reaches of the house. The footman, however, was waiting by the door, holding the long candlesnuffer. He cleared his throat expectantly as Miranda walked back to the glass doors.
"Oh, I suppose you want to go to bed. I'll snuff the candles and close the doors."
"It's my task to see that all's closed up for the night, madam. And I must snuff the candles," he said woodenly.
"But his lordship is still out."
"His lordship uses the side door at night. Light is left for him." The man spoke into the air, not meeting Miranda's eyes.
Miranda wondered exactly what the household made of her presence. She guessed that none of their employers had vouchsafed an explanation. The servants could gossip and speculate to their heart's content about the strange situation and the Lady Maude's look-alike, but servants' gossip wouldn't affect the plans of their masters.
There was nothing for it but the gloomy mausoleum of the green bedchamber. At least she'd have Chip for company. With a nod to the footman, she left, gathering up her cumbersome skirts so she could move more quickly through the dark house, lit only by the occasional candle in a wall sconce.
The green bedchamber was empty. No sign of Chip gibbering his delight at her return. Miranda felt even more forlorn than ever. She made her way to Maude's chamber, knocking quietly at the door. There was no answer but it was opened with prehensile fingers and Chip, still clutching the orange dress, jumped into her arms.
Firelight flickered on the wooden paneling and the beamed ceiling but the only sound was Maude's deep breathing from the enclosed bed. Miranda slipped out again, closing the door softly behind her. Chip chattered into her ear and stroked her cheek and patted her head. It wasn't until they regained her own chamber that he noticed the bracelet on her wrist. With a gleeful burst of chatter, he tried to take it off.
"I suppose there's no harm in giving it to you." Miranda unclasped the bracelet and held it out to him, not sorry to take it Off. If it had belonged to Maude's mother, a betrothal gift from her husband, how
then had it come into the hands of Maude's suitor? Had he been a friend of Maude's father? But it was a strange bequest to make to a male friend. Unless it had some deeper significance.
Chip had bounded over to the candlelight and was holding the bracelet up, gibbering with delight at the rich, swirling hues of green and blue in the emerald, the glitter of gold, the roseate glow of the pearls. He slipped it onto his own wrist and bounced back to Miranda, holding up his arm so that the ornament wouldn't fall over his scrawny hand.
"Yes, it looks very pretty on you," Miranda said, laughing, but she took it from him nevertheless, clasping it once again on her own wrist, knowing that if she put it down anywhere, Chip would find it and run off with it. She looked around at her surroundings, the great empty bed in its wooden cupboard, just like a coffin that would swallow her as soon as she climbed into it. She shuddered with distaste and remembering her earlier thirst went to drink from the ewer on the washstand.
All around her the house seemed to be settling for the night, the woodwork creaking, a shutter banging somewhere in the strengthening night wind from the river. She heard a soft footfall in the passage outside. Chip pricked up his ears.
Miranda went to the door and opened it a crack. A servant was walking down the corridor toward Lord Harcourt's bedchamber. He carried a covered tray on the palm of one hand and an oil lamp in the other. He entered milord's chamber at the end of the passage without knocking. It was a full fifteen minutes before he reemerged, without his burdens. He closed the door and came back down the passage, pausing to extinguish all but one of the candles in the sconces. The passage was plunged into darkness, only one pool of pale light fighting the shadows.
Miranda waited until he had disappeared into the yawning depths of the house, then without thinking, in the grip of some powerful compulsion, she hurried on tiptoe along the passage to the earl's chamber. Chip ran soundlessly ahead of her. He knew when to keep silent. The door opened without a creak of its well-oiled hinges, and Miranda and Chip slipped inside.
The oil lamp burned on the dresser, the wick lowered to conserve the fuel. Milord's fur-trimmed chamber robe lay ready on the bed, the heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows, and a tray with a flagon of wine, a basket of savory tarts, and a dish of fruit stood on the table.
The chamber offered a much warmer welcome than her own. Miranda looked around, her heart thudding. She had never felt the urge to trespass before. Never felt the urge to pry, and yet she couldn't help herself. She had to explore this private space, to see what secrets it would yield. The earl's presence was almost palpable, she could almost scent him in the air.
She opened the linen press and inhaled the fragrance of his clothes, all neatly hung, sachets of dried herbs sweetening the air and discouraging moths. His shirts and smallclothes were laid in the deep drawers of the armoire, lavender sprinkled among the layers. She knelt to touch his boots and shoes, pair upon pair of gleaming leather or soft embroidered silk. They were molded in the shape of his foot, as if they had been made on him. But they would have been fitted on him, she knew-the leather or silk cut and shaped to his foot before it was sewn.
She examined the array of vials and jars on the dresser, taking out the stoppers and inhaling the perfumes, dipping a finger into the unguents and fragrant oils, knowing how precious was each drop yet unable to resist the temptation to rub them into her throat, the cleft of her bosom, the bend of her elbow.
The clock striking two shocked her out of her guilty absorption. Her heart hammering against her ribs, she fled to the door, Chip on her heels, and scampered back to her own chamber as if pursued by Lucifer and his fallen angels. In the safety of her own room, she leaned against the door, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as she recovered her breath. The reckless compulsion that had prompted her illicit exploration of the earl's possessions left her weak and shaking now. And filled with guilt and confusion. She passed the back of her hand over her forehead. The skin seemed to burn and her blood was a river in flood, storming through her veins, pounding at her pulses.
"1 can't stay in here," she said aloud and Chip jumped onto the windowsill, regarding her with his head on one side, a question in his bright eye. "Yes, but I'll have to change," she answered. "I can't climb down the ivy in this gown."
Chapter Fourteen
Lord harcourt leaned back against the tavern wall, tipping his stool on its hind legs. He blew a ring of smoke up to the blackened rafters, narrowing his eyes as he took up his tankard of mead. He was drinking deep but it seemed to have no effect on him tonight.
"Your throw, Gareth." Brian leaned forward, squinting against the smoke to push the dice across the upturned ale keg that served as a table.
Gareth took a long swallow from his tankard, set it down, and scooped up the dice. He cradled the bones in his palm, then threw them in a lazy arc across the table.
"Hah! You have the luck of the devil tonight, my friend." Brian swung round on his stool. "Hey, potboy. Over here with that ale jug!"
Gareth brought his stool back onto its four legs. "Nay, I'll drink no more and play no more this night. I've a feeling my luck's about to change for the worse."
"Come, now, Harcourt, you'll not desert us before we've had a chance for our revenge?" Lord Lenster cried. "'Tis most unsportsmanlike to walk off with your winnings."
Gareth merely smiled. "I'd challenge any man to accuse me of lack of sportsmanship, Lenster. But, indeed, I've a mind to seek my bed." He scooped up the shining pile of guineas, dropping them into the leather pouch he wore at his belt.
"You'll not be rushing back at your sister's behest, I trust?" Brian fished a moth out of his tankard, shaking it free in a shower of ale drops. "You give your sister too much rein, m'boy," he continued, peering into his tankard for any more foreign bodies drawn by the candle. " 'Twas the same with Charlotte."
Gareth's nostrils flared, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. He said nothing and Brian, who had spoken without thought, looked up amiably. Then his already drink-raddled countenance suffused with bright crimson. He looked appealingly at their companions, but they all, including Kip, sat stone-faced, staring into the distance, refusing to meet his eye.
"Beg pardon, Gareth, if I spoke out of turn," Brian mumbled.
Gareth stood up and strode out of the low-ceilinged room, away from the tavern and down to the river.
"It's the truth," Brian said to the table at large, half in defense, half in appeal.
"Aye," Kip responded dourly. "And d'ye think Gareth doesn't know it?"
"He seemed less melancholy tonight," Lenster observed, gathering up the dice. "Until you spoke your mind, Rossiter."
Brian mumbled and held out his tankard to the potboy for a refill.
"This marriage between Roissy and Lady Maude means much to him," Kip observed. "It's subject to viewing, of course. But that'll provide no problems."
"No, indeed, a toothsome wench," Warwick muttered into his mead. "Thought she was supposed to be an invalid. Looked very healthy to me."
"Yes, very," Kip responded, tracing the pattern of an ale spill on the tabletop with a finger. "As if she's never known a day's illness in her life."
"Her marriage to Roissy will put the Harcourts back in the forefront of power in the French court."
"Aye, and by the same token, he'll have Elizabeth's most attentive ear here," Kip murmured, as if to himself. "She's ever one to milk those best placed for information from abroad."
"I've long thought it strange that Gareth should choose to stand idle these days, when he used to be so much a force, used to wield so much influence," Lord Lenster mused.
"It was meat and drink to him," Brian agreed. "Before…"
There was no need for him to finish his sentence, and Kip said obliquely, "It's to be hoped his marriage to Mary Abernathy will prove fruitful."
"Aye. And that one'll give him no trouble," Warwick declared. "Pure as the driven snow and dutiful as a nun."
"She'll need to breed strong if
his sister's line is not to inherit."
"But his sister has no line. Lady Imogen shows no tendency to breed. I. doubt Dufort has the balls." Brian grinned cheerfully, his earlier tactlessness forgotten.
"To mount her or sire an heir?" Lenster inquired with a ribald chuckle.
"Either or both." Brian tossed the dice. "What's with you, Kip? You're half asleep in your cups, man!"
"Your pardon, I find myself a trifle preoccupied tonight." Kip smiled but his shrewd eyes remained absorbed and puzzled.
Gareth strode down to the river, his eyes darting from side to side on the watch for footpads. He held his sword half unsheathed in readiness but he heard only the hollow ring of his booted feet on the filth-encrusted cobblestones. A wavering light shone ahead from the Lambeth water steps and he increased his pace, emerging from the muddy lane into the pool of light thrown by a lantern lashed to the bows of a waterman's wherry.
Gareth stepped into the small craft, drawing his cloak about him as he sat in the bow. "Harcourt mansion beyond the Strand steps."
"Aye, m'lord." The waterman plied his oars and the boat moved into the center of the river to catch the running tide. It was close to four in the morning and the water was black, the sky even blacker, and few lights showed from the riverbanks. The small boat swung around a reach and a muffled curse came out of the darkness, sounding to Gareth so close as to be almost in the wherry.
"A pox on ye," the waterman muttered, pulling away from the raft from which two men were fishing for eels. "Why can't ye show a light?"
The only response was a grunted "God rot ye!"
Gareth huddled into his cloak, wishing he'd thought to bring a warmer, longer outergarment. But he hadn't expected to be out on the river at this late hour. And he hadn't expected to be returning in this mood.
Brian had spoken only the truth, but he had no idea, how could he, of the reasons behind the truth. How could Brian know that Gareth recognized in Imogen the same obsessional love for himself that he had felt for Charlotte? Imogen's every waking minute was devoted to her brother's concerns. She lived in and for him. And because he knew the power of such an exclusive love, he could not reject it, as his had been rejected.