by Jane Feather
"Ah." Gertrude examined his lordship closely. "You'll be doing right by our Miranda, m'lord?"
"Gertrude!" Miranda exclaimed.
But if Gareth was taken aback by such a question from such a one as this mountainous lady of the road, he didn't show it. "Of course, madam," he said gravely. "Has Miranda told you of our agreement?"
"Aye, that she has, m'lord," Bertrand said. "An' fifty rose nobles she said you promised 'er." There was a questioning, challenging inflection to the statement.
"That's so," Gareth agreed as gravely as before.
"An' there's no conditions?" Mama Gertrude demanded. "None what 'er family ought to know about?"
Gareth glanced at Miranda, who was looking deeply mortified at this catechism. "None," he said.
"No offense taken, I trust, m'lord," Bertrand mumbled.
"On the contrary. Miranda should consider herself very fortunate to have such a caring family."
Gertrude and Bertrand looked gratified, Miranda taken aback. Maude, her tambourine forgotten, had listened in stunned disbelief to this exchange. The earl was plainly amused by their adventure, not in the least disapproving of the company in which he'd found his cousin. Not even vexed at finding his ward, the Lady Maude d'Albard, playing a tambourine in the streets for the entertainment of a common rabble. It was astounding, a side of her guardian she would never have believed existed. In fact, at this moment, he even looked different. His eyes were laughing, his features softened, no sign of the harsh cynicism that normally stamped his countenance.
"However," Gareth was continuing, "if you could spare Miranda now, she should return to the house. She still has a job to do there."
"Oh, aye, m'lord. She'd best be off straightaway," Bertrand said. "You'd best go back to the lodgin' and fetch that fine gown o' your'n, girl. Gertrude, you'd best go with 'er. An' if 'is lordship would take a drink with a workin' man, then I'd be glad to buy ye a tankard, sir, while we're waitin'." Beaming, he indicated a tavern across the street.
"The pleasure will be all mine," Gareth said easily. "And the drink's on me." Without a backward glance at Miranda, he strolled off with Bertrand.
"My cousin is going to drink with him," Maude said in awe.
"Bertrand's as good company as anyone else," Miranda said, although she was as astounded as Maude. She was less surprised than Maude at Gareth's easy acceptance of the troupe, she'd seen that side of him often enough, although it was new to Maude. But acceptance was one thing, friendly drinking quite another.
Gareth found himself in the company of Raoul and Jebediah as well as Bertrand and, while he guessed that Mama Gertrude was the one he really needed to charm, he set about putting the men at their ease. He needed their absolute trust and acceptance if he was to succeed in what he had determined to do. And if he had the men on his side, then Mama Gertrude might be easier to persuade when he made his appeal.
When Maude and Miranda reappeared, Miranda once more in her tangerine damask gown, they found the earl sprawled nonchalantly on the ale bench, a tankard at his elbow, listening with apparent amusement to one of Raoul's riper stories.
Miranda's puzzlement increased. Lord Harcourt had no need to be so very friendly with the troupe; no need to put himself out so much. And yet he seemed perfectly at ease. Perhaps he just enjoyed low company, perhaps he was entertained by them. That explanation didn't amuse Miranda in the least, but neither was she really convinced by it. It took a mean spirit to make fun of those less fortunate than oneself and Gareth was too generous, too openhearted, for such meanness.
Gareth rose to his feet, tossing a shower of coins onto the stained planking of the ale bench. "Drink hearty, gentlemen. I wish I could stay but I must escort the ladies home before their absence draws any more remark." Amid a chorus of farewells, he offered Maude and Miranda his arms with a courtly bow.
Miranda hung back for a minute. "I'll come back soon," she said. "I'll bring some new clothes for Robbie. Luke…" She sought out Luke, who was standing a little way away from his elders. "Luke, look after Robbie. He gets so tired."
Gareth waited with Maude while Miranda made her farewells. He gave no indication of his impatience, of his cold determination to separate Miranda from these folk as soon as he could. Those links, both emotional and physical, had to be broken if he was to succeed. They would do Miranda no good in the long run, their time was over; she had to forge new links in a new world.
She was preoccupied when she finally joined them and they made their way back to where the urchin still held the earl's horse. Chip pranced ahead of them and Gareth didn't attempt to puncture Miranda's absorption. He felt that she was confused, and if that was so, he was willing to let the confusion do half his work for him.
Indeed, Miranda didn't know what she felt. Pleasure in finding her family again was muted by the feeling that she no longer really belonged to them. She couldn't understand how such a short separation should have worked such changes in her, but she felt so different from them now, so removed. It was as if last night in the garden she had been remade. But the troupe were her family, she loved them, and she owed them her loyalty and her help. Yet she was so powerfully aware of Gareth beside her, of his body, his skin, every hair on his head, as powerfully as if he were a part of her own body, a part of her soul.
How to reconcile two such loyalties? The emotional demands of two such worlds?
"I can't believe my cousin was so agreeable," Maude said, when she and Miranda and Chip were once more ensconced in the litter. "He seemed to be amused instead of vexed. I'd never have believed he could be so pleasant, such good company."
Miranda only nodded. She too was surprised that
Gareth had shown no disapproval of Maude's adventure. It was all very well for herself to take part in a street performance, but for the Lady Maude d'Albard, ward of the earl of Harcourt… it was outrageous. So much so that Miranda was only just realizing it herself. Gareth had had every right to be angry, and yet he'd taken it in his stride.
When they reached the mews, Gareth was waiting for them. "Maude, you had best enter the house by the side door. My sister may have visitors and it would be awkward if you encountered them."
He laid a restraining hand on Miranda's arm as she made to follow Maude. "We shall go in together." Tucking her hand under his arm, he strolled with her out of the stable yard. "I realize that you were trying to give Maude some amusement, but if anyone who knows the family had seen the two of you together today, it would have ruined my plans."
"I thought you had to be a little vexed," Miranda said, sounding almost relieved.
"I'm not vexed exactly. The sight of Maude playing the tambourine was worth a great deal," he said with a light laugh. "Of course it could have been inconvenient if the two of you had been seen."
"Yes, forgive me, I didn't think," she said with a rueful smile. "I don't seem to be able to think clearly at all after…"
It had to come sometime, they couldn't go on pretending it had never happened. Gareth spoke quietly, as desperate to convince Miranda as to convince himself. "Miranda, you have to forget what happened last night. We both have to forget it. God knows, I'd been drinking long and late and was less than clearheaded…"
"I cannot forget," she said, softly but definitely. "It was the most wonderful thing and I could never forget it. I don't want to forget it."
Gareth clasped the back of her neck, holding her hard, speaking with fierce intensity. "Listen to me. It was a dream, Miranda. No more than that. Just a dream. A beautiful dream, but daylight brings an end to all dreams. This one too will fade with the sun."
Miranda pressed her head back against his palm. "No," she said. "No, this one won't." She broke away from him, walking into the house.
"God's blood!" Gareth swore, running a hand distractedly through his hair. She didn't know what she was saying, didn't know what she was doing to him.
"It is astonishing to me that the wench should have such facility in formal dance," Imogen murmured. "Where
could a strolling player have learned to perform such intricate steps with such grace?"
"She's a natural dancer, madam," Miles offered.
Imogen muttered tardy, "I'm wondering if she's not a natural whore. Have you seen how she flirts? And she treats my brother with uncommon familiarity. And he permits it. I don't understand it at all."
Miles stroked his chin thoughtfully, watching Miranda in the galliard. She was exceptionally light on her feet and it was true that her ready smile and melodious voice were bringing her quite a circle of gallants. And Imogen certainly had a point about her familiarity with Gareth. But he couldn't imagine that Gareth was dallying with her.
"Sometimes I think Gareth has no more sense than a baby when it comes to women!" Imogen said, her face dark. "You'd think after Charlotte that he'd have learned to recognize a whore when he saw one."
"I don't think that's just, my dear," Miles said, stung into Miranda's defense. "Miranda is lively and friendly. But she's not like Charlotte."
Imogen looked ready to bite, but to Miles's relief Lady Mary was seen approaching the dance floor. "Imogen, Lord Dufort." She curtsied, her eyes more gray than green this evening against her gown of dove-gray silk. "I was watching Lady Maude. I hadn't realized what a good dancer she is. I seem to remember seeing her at the Christmas revels only last year hardly caring where she put her feet. As lifeless and… well, perhaps not graceless… but certainly lifeless." She fanned herself.
"I daresay Maude's recovery from her various ailments makes a difference," Miles offered.
Lady Mary turned sharp eyes upon him. "It is a most miraculous recovery, my lord."
"You refer to Lady Maude?" Kip Rossiter moved away from the group beside them. "It is indeed a miraculous recovery. And astonishing to me that one who was bedridden or confined to her chamber for so many months of her life should spring forth with all the agility and energy of a butterfly out of its chrysalis. You must give me the name of your physician, Lady Dufort. A man surely to be cultivated."
Imogen's color rose. Kip frequently made her feel confused, as if he was poking fun at her, and yet she could never quite see the joke. But there was danger here, very obvious danger.
"Such bounce she has," Mary commented with less than approval. "Have you noticed, Sir Christopher, how Lady Maude bounces around the floor?"
"Bounce is not the word I would have used, madam," Kip said. "There's a deal more grace in the lady's movements than that implies."
Mary looked a little sour. "I wonder that you don't suggest she cultivate a little more modesty, Imogen. It's hardly becoming in a debutante to be so forward."
"Perhaps she's anticipating her suitor's arrival," Kip suggested. "It is tomorrow that you expect the duke, madam?"
"Yes, by sunset, I believe," Imogen returned from behind her fan.
"I would hate to think that Lord Harcourt's ward could be so immodest as to display herself in such fashion because she's expecting to make a grand match," Mary said. "Indeed, I can't believe that Gareth would permit such a thing."
"I don't believe there's anything immodest in Maude's behavior." Miles spoke up. "She's young, high-spirited, enjoying her first forays into society. I've heard no adverse comments from anyone about her behavior, and, indeed, I understand the queen finds her quite refreshing."
"Bravo!" Kip applauded softly, but his eyes were penetrating. "And I meant no criticism, Dufort, none whatsoever. I was merely struck by how the Lady Maude whom I used to know could become quite so… so… delightfully outgoing," he finished. His bland smile circled the group, then with a bow, he walked away.
"I wonder where Harcourt is," Lady Mary said, a touch plaintively. "I barely see him these days. He's forever talking politics." She laughed, but it was a brittle sound.
"Be thankful, my dear Mary, that your future husband has his interest well in hand," Imogen said. "It's a fortunate wife whose husband looks to his own advancement." Here she cast a baleful look at her own husband.
Miles was too accustomed to such attacks to attempt a defense. With relief he addressed a newcomer to the circle, a battleship in saffron velvet, with a cartwheel ruff that held her head rigid. "Lady Avermouth. How charmingly you look," he said warmly." That particular shade of yellow suits you so well."
The lady bridled with pleasure. Such favorable comment from an acknowledged arbiter of fashion was always welcome.
Imogen smiled with faint skepticism. As far as she could see, the color merely increased the lady's jaundiced pallor. But Miles was an accomplished hypocrite when it suited him and she knew better than to denigrate that particular social skill. Lady Avermouth made a bad enemy.
Miles, duty done, excused himself with a bow and walked away, his skinny shanks covering the distance between his wife and the haven of the card room with remarkable speed.
"Your young cousin is causing quite a stir," the countess observed, looking back to the dance floor. "She has a grace in the dance."
"She has had all the best teachers," Imogen said.
"But even the best teachers cannot instill grace and rhythm in those who don't have it."
"The girl is accomplished enough," Imogen said neutrally.
"I understand the duke of Roissy arrives on the morrow to press his suit?" The countess's eyes gleamed as she prepared to glean as much tittle-tattle as she could.
"He is to visit us for a week or so," Imogen replied. "To complete negotiations for the betrothal contract."
"Such a connection, my dear madam. You are to be congratulated." The countess raised her eyebrows, no mean feat since they had been plucked to a fare-thee-well. "If, of course, it comes off." She tittered behind her fan.
"I can see no reason why it shouldn't," Imogen said haughtily. With a stiff curtsy, she excused herself and moved away with an imperative glance at Mary, who followed her at once.
"Odious woman!"
"Envy, my dear Imogen," Mary said, laying her hand supportively on the pale cream sleeve of the gown that Lady Dufort wore beneath her black silk ropa. Then her voice took on a slight edge. "Entertaining the duke under your roof for two weeks will be an arduous task. I trust Maude realizes how fortunate she is to have guardians who take such pains for her future."
She glanced toward the dance floor again. Maude was smiling up at her partner, but suddenly her head swiveled. Mary followed her gaze to where Lord Harcourt, with a group of men, was emerging from a small chamber off the vaulted hall of Whitehall Palace. Maude's expression was for a moment rapt, her attention entirely devoted to the knot of men, then she turned back to her partner with a distracted smile.
Mary frowned, cast a quick sideways glance at Imogen, and saw that the lady too was watching Miranda, and her expression was far from sanguine. "Has your cousin always been so devoted to Lord Harcourt, Imogen?"
Imogen's mouth pursed. "Maude shows dutiful respect to her guardian."
"Indeed?" Skepticism infused the single word.
Imogen's mouth grew smaller yet. "Gareth is not one to insist on formality with his family," she said. "As you will no doubt discover."
"No doubt." Mary smiled thinly.
As the galliard came to its stately end, Miranda curtsied to her partner. "I beg you to escort me to my guardian, sir." She smiled warmly at the young man who had partnered her. "There is something I most particularly wish to say to him."
The gentleman looked reluctant to yield up his partner, but he gave her his arm and they moved across the floor where couples were gathering for the next dance.
Gareth felt Miranda's approach before he saw her. The fine hairs on his nape lifted, the skin of his back rippled as he sensed her coming up behind him. Casually he turned. She was enchanting in a gown of apricot silk, with a high ruff embroidered with sapphires that set off her eyes and framed her face, accentuating the high cheekbones, the small well-shaped chin, the wide mouth with its long, sensuous lower lip. Her throat, white and slender as a swan's, rose from the lace partlet at the neck of the gown.
&
nbsp; Once again, he experienced a paradoxical sense of dismay, of loss almost. The gypsy acrobat had vanished beneath the poised elegance of the courtier as thoroughly as if she'd never existed. He should be delighted at how successfully she was playing her part, should be delighted at the way eyes followed her approvingly, should be delighted at her escort's besotted simper as he displayed his prize on his arm, but instead the attention she was drawing annoyed him. What did this simpering, affected crowd of courtiers know of the true
Miranda? And he had a most unreasonable urge to wipe the silly grin off her partner's face.
"Milord." Miranda curtsied as she reached him. They hadn't spoken privately since returning from the city that morning, and her eyes held a hint of challenge as they met his. She had no more time for his talk of dreams now than she had had then.
"My ward." He took her hand and bowed over it, his own gaze neutral and calm. The emerald swan on the serpent bracelet swayed gently as he lifted her hand. "You are acquainted with His Grace of Suffolk."
"Yes, indeed, sir." Miranda turned to the duke with another curtsy. "But perhaps His Grace does not remember me."
The duke's thin mouth twitched appreciatively. "I would deserve the pillory, madam, if such were the case."
"Brother… my lord Suffolk." Imogen's thin tones shattered the small smiling circle. She curtsied with rigid back. "I have it in mind to return home. My cousin has need of her rest."
"Oh, but indeed, madam, I am not in the least fatigued," Miranda protested.
Imogen's chilly smile ignored her and remained fixed upon her brother. "Do you accompany us?"
"No, I don't believe so," Gareth said. He caught Miranda's look of chagrined disappointment and deliberately turned away from it, before he could yield.
"Well, I'm afraid there are preparations to be made for our visitor's reception," Imogen continued with a slight sigh, managing to imply a martyr's sense of duty. "So, I must bid you good night, my lord Suffolk. Come, cousin." She flicked her fan at Miranda, rather in the manner of one calling a dog to heel, and moved away, summoning a servant with a lift of her finger.