by Jane Feather
Miranda hesitated for only a moment, then she curtsied demurely and followed her ladyship.
"Inform Lord Dufort in the card room that his wife bids him attend her," Lady Imogen was saying as Miranda reached her side.
The servant scurried off and Imogen stood tapping her foot, flicking her fan. They were standing in the long corridor outside the dancing chamber, and Miranda with desultory interest examined the design on a tapestry wall hanging that closed off a small chamber.
A rumble of voices came from behind the screen and Imogen, her expression suddenly alert, stepped closer. Miranda cocked her head. She recognized Sir Brian Rossiter's booming bass, and his brother's lighter, more reasoned tones. It took her a minute to realize they were talking about her. Or at least about Lady Maude.
"You don't see anything untoward in Lady Maude, Brian?" Kip asked.
"Good God, no. What could be untoward about such a dainty little thing. So bright and lively-"
"Exactly," Kip interrupted. "Bright, lively, full of smiles, and a damnably quick wit. She's not the Lady Maude I last saw. And look how Gareth is in her company. Positively delights in it. Yet he's always said his cousin is a tedious nuisance with her megrims and ailments, her petulant obstinacy and whining complaints. Does that description fit this lass?"
"Well, no, I grant you it doesn't. But devil take it, Kip, if the lass is feeling well again, then maybe she's showing her true colors. Chronic sickness can weigh a body down, y'know."
"Aye" was the monosyllabic and unconvinced response.
Miranda looked quickly at Imogen. Her attention was riveted on the tapestry, and she almost had her ear pressed to it. Her expression was grim.
"Ah, my lady, are you-"
"Shhh." She waved imperatively at Miles as he approached. "Listen!"
He cast a puzzled, slightly comical look at Miranda and came to stand beside his wife. " They're talking of the girl," Imogen hissed.
"Mayhap the girl's excited about her wedding," Brian went on." Y'know how young ladies get with talk of nuptials. And Roissy is a brilliant connection. I expect that's what's livened 'er up."
"No, it's not that simple," Kip said, his voice low and thoughtful. "It's ridiculous, Brian, but I'd almost swear it was a different girl."
Imogen's breath whistled through her teeth and even Miles looked startled.
"Funny you should say that," Brian declared. "That Lady Mary Abernathy said almost the same thing to me. Something about what could possibly have wrought such a change in Gareth's ward. A changed character altogether, she said. But that's just a woman's fancy. She's probably a bit watchful with Gareth being so fond of the wench and all. Probably a touch of the green eye, wouldn't you say?"
"I told you so," Imogen whispered, moving back from the tapestry. "Didn't I tell you so, husband?"
Miles was unsure what his wife had told him but he judged it expedient to murmur an affirmative.
"I knew this would never work. The whole court is talking about the wench… and now here's her suitor due tomorrow." She seemed to have forgotten all about Miranda. "What's to be done, I say? What's to be done?" She set off down the corridor muttering vigorously to Miles, who skipped a little to keep up with her.
Miranda shrugged and followed them from the palace out into the great courtyard where the heavy iron-wheeled coach awaited them.
Sir Christopher was certainly uncomfortably sharp-eyed and it was awkward that Lady Mary should be making such remarks, but Miranda couldn't see that any great harm was done. So long as she continued to play her part, people would become accustomed soon enough to the new Lady Maude d'Albard.
But it became very clear on the way home that Imogen had a different view.
Miranda sat back in a corner and listened at first idly to Imogen's monologue. But after a while, she began to pay closer attention. Lady Imogen's diatribe was going somewhere.
"Something has to be done," the lady muttered into a momentary silence. "Gareth has no idea what he's doing." She looked toward Miranda, shadowed in the corner." That imposter will never pass for Maude."
"But she has already done so," Miles ventured. "Rossiter's questions will cease soon enough… once the novelty wears off.”
"Now that's where you're wrong!" Imogen sat up in triumph, jabbing a finger at her husband. "If they're asking questions now, how do you think people are going to react when they actually see the real Maude? Even people who haven't been asking questions are going to notice the difference. And Rossiter and his like will start prodding and probing… you just see if they don't.
"And if the Frenchman sees her first, then sees Maude, he'll never be deceived. Just look at the girl. How could anyone ever truly mistake a vulgar vagabond for someone as gently bred as Maude?"
"Maude is certainly paler."
"Paler! Is that what you call her whey-faced complexion and her dieaway airs!"
"But I understood you to mean such attributes indicated gentle breeding, my dear madam."
Miranda, despite being the subject of such an unflattering discussion, choked back her laughter.
Imogen didn't seem to have heard, however. "Everything will be for naught!" she muttered, tapping her mouth with her gloved hands, glowering into the dimness. "The betrothal contract will be voided. I can't understand why Gareth doesn't realize this. Why does he persist in this pointless charade?"
Miles prudently kept his opinion to himself and Miranda knew that her own would hardly be welcomed. The carriage rattled through the gates of the Harcourt mansion, drawing up before the front door. Imogen didn't immediately move to alight, however. She sat still tapping her mouth with her fingers, then she announced, "I shall have to take matters into my own hands. Gareth is too soft and I'll not stand by and see him make the same mistakes he made with Charlotte. If he'd taken a stand there, then it wouldn't have been necessary…"
Her voice trailed off and then picked up again. "I always have to rescue him from the consequences of his blindness. And I don't suppose he'll be in the least grateful, but if this venture is to succeed, then it's up to me to do something before it's too late."
She alighted from the coach and sailed into the well-lit house. Miles looked apologetically at Miranda, then said, "I think I'll return to Whitehall, my dear. It's rather early to call it an evening." He leaned out and instructed the coachman to turn around as soon as Lady Maude had been seen into the house.
Miranda was very thoughtful as she entered the house and made her way upstairs to Maude's chamber.
Chapter Seventeen
Miranda entered Maude's chamber without a knock and was for a moment too occupied with Chip's ecstatic greeting to speak to Maude. But finally she had Chip perched on her shoulder, patting her head and whispering into her ear, and she could concentrate. "You're back early?"
"Yes, Lady Imogen decided to leave court in a hurry." Miranda perched on the edge of the table, well away from the blazing fire. "She says she has preparations to make for when the duke of Roissy arrives tomorrow." Her frown was somewhat abstracted. "I'm just wondering exactly what preparations she has in mind."
"What do you mean?" Maude leaned forward on the settle, eyes alight with interest.
"Well, she seems to think that this charade isn't working. And it does appear that there are people who are noticing that I'm rather different from what they remember of you." She told Maude what they'd overheard behind the arras, then said thoughtfully, "I think she intends to compel your obedience somehow."
"She has often threatened thus," Maude said with an obstinate turn of her mouth. "But I have told her that she could break me on the wheel and I will not abjure. And if I do not abjure, I cannot marry a French Protestant."
"No, I'm sure that's so," Miranda said a touch impatiently. "But I wonder if you really know what pressure can be brought upon you if the woman is determined. And I do believe she is utterly determined. Milord is not here at the moment to take your part, and I believe Lady Imogen is ever one to strike while the iron i
s hot." Her clear blue eyes held the other girl's twinned gaze and after a minute uncertainty crept into Maude's eyes.
"I cannot know what I can endure until I am put to trial," Maude said with a clear effort at bravery. "It was so with the saints."
"Yes, but I don't think you're ready to be canonized," Miranda returned with energy. "I think we should change places tonight. Just in case your cousin has some mischief in mind. You sleep in my chamber and I will sleep here."
"But why should you suffer my cousin's wrath?"
"Because I will not." Miranda grinned. "Believe me, Maude, I will prove to be more than a match for Lady Dufort."
Maude looked doubtful, but already Berthe was gathering up her chamber robe and slippers. "Come, my pet." She bustled over to her, enfolding her in the robe. "It's a good plan. The girl was sent here for a purpose and it's not for us to question the Almighty's arrangements. You know that you're far too frail to withstand Lady Dufort's ire. You'll be quite safe in the green bedchamber and I'll kindle the fire. We'll make it quite cozy, you'll see."
"But I can't leave Miranda to face the consequences of my defiance!"
"Yes you can." Miranda bundled her to the door. "You can, because I will not. I understand that you wouldn't wish anyone to suffer in your place, but you must believe that I won't. If anyone is going to suffer it'll be Lady Imogen." "What of Chip?"
"Oh, yes, he'll give the game away if he stays in here with me." She reached up and detached the monkey from her shoulder. "Chip, go with Maude, just for a little while."
The monkey allowed himself to be handed over, tucking himself into a fold of Maude's chamber robe and regarding his mistress reproachfully. She tickled his chin. "It won't be for long."
"Come, come, my pet. We mustn't linger," Berthe said urgently. "Her ladyship could come at any minute." She looked anxiously over her shoulder into the dimly lit corridor. Maude, after another hesitant look at Miranda, allowed herself to be hurried away with Chip.
Miranda unlaced her gown and removed the farthingale and petticoats, bundling them under the bed where they wouldn't be noticed. She extinguished all the candles and climbed into Maude's bed in her chemise, leaving the curtains open so that she could see the door in the firelight. If Lady Dufort was going to arrive bent on mischief, she wouldn't catch her prey napping. Maude's nightcap lay on the pillow and Miranda slipped it over her cropped hair as a final artistic touch.
The clock struck eleven, and then midnight. Miranda was growing sleepy in Maude's cozy feather bed and the fire was burning low. She began to wonder if she was mistaken. Maybe Imogen had thought better of her plan. Maybe her brother had already returned from court. But Miranda was fairly certain that the earl was not in the house. Somehow she was sure that she would know if he was.
The last strokes of midnight had faded into the night when the door burst open and Lady Dufort entered like an ill wind, accompanied by what to Miranda's startled gaze seemed a positive army of women.
Imogen had removed her black ropa and pushed up the sleeves of the cream gown in businesslike fashion. Her little eyes flashed venomous determination as she swept up to the bed, the phalanx of maids at her back. In her hand she hefted a thick blackthorn.
Miranda was still taking stock of the numbers of her potential attackers when her ladyship loomed at the bedside. With one thrust of the blackthorn, Imogen swept aside the covers.
"Seize her to the bedposts," she commanded in throbbing accents.
The maids fell upon Miranda, grabbing arms, legs, lifting her bodily from the bed.
Miranda let out an unearthly shriek and allowed her body to go limp as if she were overcome with shock. Her eyes darted to the door but it had been firmly closed, although she didn't think it had been locked.
"Bind her securely," Imogen ordered. "Arms and legs. You, woman, you have the tapes." She pointed with her stick to the oldest of her minions, a rat-faced woman who attended closely upon Lady Dufort.
"Yes, m'lady." The Woman came forward with what struck Miranda as unbecoming eagerness, thin strips of linen in her hands.
The maids had set Miranda on her feet at the foot of the bed and she hung limply in their hold, offering no resistance. It seemed that Maude was to be tied by wrists and ankles to the bedposts so that Lady Dufort could wield her stout blackthorn without hindrance.
Poor Maude, it would have gone hard with her, Miranda thought, the instant before her body jackknifed in her captors' now-slackened grip. Her arms jerked up, breaking their grasp. Two scissor kicks sent two of her assailants tumbling into the corner of the room. She spun on the balls of her feet, her arms windmilling in a wide arc, catching the rat-faced woman with the bindings across her midriff. With a faint breathy sound of astonishment, the woman fell backward onto her skinny rump.
Miranda bounced onto the bed out of reach, backing up against the headboard, where she stood at bay surveying the general carnage.
Imogen was so startled she gave vent to a banshee's scream of outrage, competing with the cries of the fallen maids.
Footsteps raced down the corridor as servants hurried from all corners of the house, emerging from the closets and attics where they slept, white-faced with terror at a noise that could only herald fire or violent intruders set to massacre the inhabitants of Lord Harcourt's mansion.
The chamberlain didn't pause for a second's reflection at the door to Lady Maude's chamber. The noise was coming from within, and with the air of one about to confront a hostile army he flung up the latch and burst open the door. Behind him, men and women crowded into the doorway, staring at the scene in Lady Maude's bedchamber, their eyes slowly, disbelievingly, following Lady Dufort's wild-eyed gaze and pointing finger to the small figure standing on the bed, arms akimbo.
Gareth, entering the house through the side door, expected to find a sleeping household. He had left the palace earlier than he'd intended. All his attempts to distract himself at the card table and in the usually congenial company of his friends over a decent bottle of burgundy had failed miserably. He ached with fatigue, his temples throbbed, and his mouth tasted of ashes. The previous sleepless night was the obvious reason and the remedy equally obvious. Miranda would be long abed and his household quiet, his own chamber a peaceful, welcoming haven of solitude.
As he emerged from the side passage into the central hall, a confusion of noise billowed down the great staircase. Male and female voices shouting, exclaiming, and above it all his sister's unmistakable rage-driven screaming. It wasn't often these days that Imogen completely lost control, but Gareth knew that sound of old. Imogen was beside herself.
He mounted the stairs two at a time and strode down the corridor toward the noise. Unless he was much mistaken, it was coming from Maude's chamber. The milling crowd at the door parted as he swept through them. "What the devil is going on?"
Imogen turned at his entrance, her finger still stabbing toward Miranda's motionless figure. "It's… it's… the oth… the other one!" she stuttered. "It's not Maude. How did she get in here? She's the devil's tool! A changeling, suckled at a witch's tit!"
At the accusation, the noise around Gareth swelled and people fell back, gasping, staring fearfully at the girl standing on the bed. Gareth said quietly, "Don't be absurd, Imogen. Take a grip on yourself. You can't go around throwing accusations of witchcraft. You know you can't."
Slowly sanity returned to Imogen's wild eyes. She shivered, clasped her arms across her breast, suddenly cold as ice. Her gaze focused finally on the room, on the gaping crowd in the doorway, on her shocked maids. And the realization that she had created this scene penetrated her befogged brain.
Gareth spoke as quietly to the chamberlain. "Send the household back to their beds, Garrison."
"Aye, m'lord." The chamberlain in his furred bed robe turned to the gawping servants. "Be off to your beds. There's nothing here for you to gape at. Be off now." He shooed at them as if they were chickens escaped from the henhouse and with obvious reluctance they obeyed, but thei
r voices, though muted, continued to carry their excited speculation down the corridor.
"Oh, what is happening?" Maude, her eyes fixed and resolute in her white face, ran into the room. "I can't let you suffer for me, Miranda!" Chip, with a high-pitched squeal, leaped from her arms and up onto the bed, where he crouched on Miranda's shoulder and glared down with eyes like black pinpricks.
Imogen gave a low, defeated moan and covered her face with her hands.
"Lady Dufort, I believe your business is with me." Maude stepped in front of Imogen.
"Your heroics are a little late, cousin," Gareth said calmly. "Miranda, please would you get down from there?"
"I'd prefer it if you'd disarm your sister first, milord." Miranda braced her hands against the headboard. "She was going to beat Maude into submission with that great thick stick."
"What?" Gareth took in the blackthorn for the first time.
"You could break bones with it," Miranda continued with something akin to relish. "And she was going to tie her to the bedposts to do it. See the tapes that rat-faced woman has."
Gareth found the object of this accurate description without difficulty. The woman was sitting on the floor with a bemused expression on her countenance, but the strips of linen were still clutched between her hands. As Lord Harcourt's fierce gaze fell upon her, she scrambled to her feet with difficulty, her farthingale swinging wildly as she caught a toe in her petticoat with a harsh, tearing sound.
"She assaulted me, my lord," she declared as if in explanation, her voice frightened, as well it might be under the harshness of his lordship's stare. "She struck me, knocked me over."
"Well, what else would you expect?" Miranda demanded reasonably. "When someone's going to tie you up so you can be tortured, of course you defend yourself."
Maude, her moment of heroism over, gazed in astonishment at Miranda. Her eyes began to brim with laughter as she glanced sideways at Imogen, and with a stifled little sound, she sank onto the settee, burying her face in a cushion.
With a curt gesture, Gareth dismissed Imogen's maids. There was little point blaming them for obeying their mistress's orders. Then he turned back to Imogen.