Griffith tilted his head, brow knit in thought. “I suppose that is a possibility. Although I know much more about him than you do, Miranda, and I’m not sure I’d have let him court you even if this whole misunderstanding hadn’t happened.”
“I never knew you were so high-handed!”
“Yes, you did, Miranda. I won’t let this emotion cloud your memory. I’ve been plenty high-handed over the years. I’ve shown several suitors the door before you received so much as a flower from them.”
“But I still see them. I’ll never see Ryland again!” Miranda lost her battle with the tears and began crying earnestly. She hadn’t yet made up her mind to forgive Ryland, but she hated having the choice removed. Something told her that eventually they would have made peace with each other. Should that have happened, there was the slightest possibility he could have been everything she’d ever wanted.
“You’ll see him again, Miranda.” Trent extended his handkerchief and then discreetly turned his back. “I doubt we could keep him completely away from you unless we locked you up in the country.”
Trent’s words cut through Miranda’s emotion fogged brain. She took a closer look around the room. There was no weapon, no blood, not even an overturned chair. “So . . . he’s not dead?”
“You thought . . . you thought . . . Why did you . . . ? I mean . . .” Trent tried to speak between shouts of laughter.
Griffith shook his head in bemusement.
“Sally said Mother had to get the body out of the house,” Miranda grumbled and crossed her arms over her chest.
Griffith got control of himself first. “Trent punched Marsh and knocked him into the mantel. Set the man out cold. Mother was concerned with getting the unconscious body out of the house without anyone seeing it. His friend was here visiting Georgina, so he said he would see that Marsh got home.”
“Oh.” Miranda felt all kinds of foolish. When would she learn to think things through before letting her emotions jump to conclusions? Of course her brothers hadn’t killed anyone. If she had taken a few moments to think before she reacted, she would have avoided making a total cake of herself.
She glanced quickly at her brothers before easing her way toward the door. “Well, I’ll be . . . going, then. Since we understand each other.”
Griffith raised an eyebrow at her. “I believe you might have some explaining to do. That was quite a scene.”
“Well, I thought you’d killed a man!” Miranda’s hand closed over the door latch. Escape was nearly hers.
“I meant earlier.”
Trent rocked back and forth on his feet, grinning.
“Earlier?” She was lifting the latch. Once in the corridor, he wouldn’t chase her with accusations.
“Yes. I didn’t tell Mother about it, but I think we need to talk. Had it been anyone but Marsh, your reputation would be shattered.”
Had it been anyone but Marsh she never would have had the emotional outbreak in the first place. The latch clicked open.
“Do not open that door, Miranda.”
Air rushed from her lungs. She was tired, her head hurt, and she really didn’t know what she wanted to have happen next. Until she sorted out her own thoughts, she couldn’t answer Griffith’s questions.
A soft knock at the door preceded her mother’s entrance. “Oh, there you are, Miranda. I need to speak with you. Privately.”
She caught Miranda’s gaze and tilted her head toward the open portal. Then she turned on her heel and walked off.
Mother’s tone was menacing. There could only be one meaning behind that stern tone. Miranda glanced at Griffith before fleeing after her mother. She had never looked forward to a lady lesson so much in her life.
Ryland’s first thought was that he was going to be sick. His second was that there was no way he was going to cast up his accounts because he would have to move his head in order to do so. And his head hurt. Twin points of pain radiated torturous pulses across his face and the back of his head. A groan escaped before he could catch it, grating against his ears.
“I was hoping you’d stay out until I got you home.”
Ryland struggled to place the voice. The pain acted as a filter until it sounded like someone was speaking through a long tunnel. As the rest of his brain engaged, he deducted that his bed was too small and it was swaying, which meant he was probably in a carriage. Colin had been at the house, so it was likely that he was the other carriage occupant. Ryland forced one eye open to confirm his suspicion.
Colin sat across the carriage, swaying along with the conveyance, a grin giving tell to the fact that he wasn’t totally sympathetic to his friend’s plight.
Gingerly Ryland raised a hand to feel the damage to the back of his head. He vaguely recalled falling back toward the fireplace after Trent’s last punch. His head must have connected with the ornately carved mantel.
He hoped he’d broken it.
Questing fingers found an enormous bump but not the sticky wetness of blood or the sting of broken skin. That was good. Within a couple of days the headache should cease and he could begin squiring his way around town, trying to pin Miranda into a private conversation that would allow him to explain.
The carriage stopped.
“Thank you, Lord,” Ryland whispered. He had managed to avoid injuring himself very often, but one couldn’t be in his line of work for any length of time and not experience a couple of devastating blows to the head. He hoped this would be his last.
Colin flung the door open and hopped to the ground. “Wait here. Don’t move.”
As if he would even try. Ryland wasn’t fool enough to make things worse unless his life were hanging in the balance. In this case it was just his dignity, and he couldn’t muster up the energy to care about that. A peek at the carriage opening showed a disgruntled footman, standing at attention. No doubt he was miffed that Colin had the audacity to open a carriage door and jump down without the aid of the step.
In a few moments Colin returned with Jeffreys. They tried to be gentle, and Ryland helped as best he could, but his vision was still fuzzy around the edges and his body was still slightly disconnected from his brain. Once clear of the carriage they went down to the servants’ entrance, which was standing open.
Ryland closed his eyes in anticipation of the noise. Once the door closed behind them, the only sound was the crackle of the kitchen fire. He heard the small clink of china followed by a hastily whispered “Shush!” Easing his eyes open he saw half a dozen servants, jobs set to the side, concern marring their faces as they watched him pass.
“Thank you,” he managed to whisper as Colin and Jeffreys approached the stairs. The climb was arduous, but his bed was absolute bliss. Sinking into the feathered mattress, taking all of the strain from his neck, felt better than he could possibly have imagined. Yes, two days of this would have him back to normal for sure.
Chapter 21
Guilt settled in Miranda’s stomach as she watched her sister and mother dither over the right ribbons to purchase. It didn’t matter that they’d already bought out the shops in Hertfordshire, Georgina was determined to start afresh at the stores in London. Their mother was as excited as Miranda had ever seen her, obviously thrilled to have one daughter who found enjoyment in the trappings of the Season.
Miranda had never been as enthralled as Georgina. Even today she’d walked into the shop knowing she wanted a bright green ribbon to trim the hat she was making to go with her new walking dress. She’d walked in, found the ribbon, purchased it, and then waited for the others to finish.
She was still waiting.
Finally Georgina settled on the width and style of ribbon she wanted. There was no question of the color. She hadn’t purchased anything that wasn’t white in well over a year.
Georgina turned to Mother with wide eyes. “Don’t you need a ribbon as well? If you and Lord Blackstone go riding, you’ll need a bonnet that goes with your new afternoon dresses.”
Miranda bit back a groan
as the two floated away from the white ribbons to examine the blue ones.
She strolled deeper into the trim shop, perusing pins and buttons and decorative trims. A collection of beaded lace caught her eye for its unusual blend of elegance and simplicity.
“May I help you with anything, my lady?”
Miranda’s head snapped up at the familiar voice. There was Ryland, standing behind the counter with a tape measure draped around his neck and a pair of scissors poking from his pocket. His back was slouched and he was standing in a way that made him shorter than she was.
His swollen right eye was mottled with purple, red, and blue splotches. She didn’t know whether to commiserate over the pain or search out Trent to commend his skills as a pugilist. “What are you doing here?”
“Talking to you. Also cutting lace, if you wish to purchase it.” He pulled the very trim Miranda had been admiring from the case and sat it on the counter.
Miranda looked around the shop, but no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past ten years, then? Hiding amongst the aristocracy so you can make fools of us?”
“Hiding, yes. Making fools of you, no.” He unwound a length of lace and spread it along the counter.
“What would you consider it, then?” She couldn’t help but run a finger along the beautiful piece of trim.
“Spying. And most of the time I was in France. Occasionally Spain. I even traveled to India once.”
Miranda looked into his face, knowing her surprise must have been written all over her face. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ryland lifted a brow. “Because you deserve to know.”
She swallowed. “When you were at Riverton you were watching us? You thought we would betray—”
“No.” He cut her off with a swift snip of the scissors, even though Miranda had not yet said she’d take the trim.
“Donkey. And Smith,” Miranda said.
Ryland nodded. “And your butler.”
Miranda fiddled with the edge of the cut lace. “If you wanted to talk to me, why didn’t you come by the house?”
Ryland lifted an eyebrow at her. “You aren’t at home.”
It was hard to refute that truth.
“Even if you were, I doubt you’d have agreed to see me.”
She couldn’t deny that claim either. “How did you get back there? How did you even know we’d be here?”
“This is what I do. I’m a spy, Miranda—or at least I was.” He folded the trim and wrapped it in paper. Anyone looking at them would see a clerk—albeit an unconventional one—helping a customer.
She wasn’t sure what to react to, his confession that he’d spent a decade submerged in lies and danger or the revelation that he’d walked away from it. Confusion joined the swirl of hurt, insecurity, and embarrassment.
“You can ask me any question you want.” Ryland folded the ends of the paper together, forming a package as pretty as that of the most experienced store clerk.
“And you’re going to answer them over lace and ribbons? This isn’t normal, Ryland.”
“My life hasn’t been normal for nine years, assuming it ever was.” He placed a different roll of trim on the counter.
Miranda looked at the package, at his easy handling of the trims, his understated appearance. The ease with which he appeared to be something he wasn’t sparked the emotions swirling inside her into a blaze of hurt anger. “If it was all a lie—”
“I don’t lie, Miranda.”
Her eyes narrowed. She supposed if one were going by a very strict definition of honesty, he’d truly been her brother’s valet for those few weeks. But everything else. Had there been any truth in it? “Then you posted my letters? Where did you send them?”
He winced.
It was all the answer she needed. She turned to leave, intending to drag her mother and sister out of the store whether they were done or not.
Ryland dropped a handful of coins on the counter and scooped up the package of lace. The proprietor was finishing with Miranda’s mother and sister as Ryland slipped toward the back of the shop and out the door. The overwhelming stench of the back alley turned his stomach even as the noise echoing from the main street pounded through his brain.
Following Miranda into the shop had not been his original intention when he’d left the house this morning. His bruised eye would keep him from polite society for a few days, at least until the worst of the swelling had gone down, but impatience had spurred him from his bed. Despite the fact that he had officially retired, the entire business with Lambert left him feeling uneasy. He didn’t feel like he could truly pursue Miranda until the situation had been resolved—which was why he was slinking through a London alley instead of nursing his head in the quiet of his bedroom.
And when he’d seen Miranda step from the carriage, he had been unable to resist—but he wasn’t certain their encounter had done any good. So now it seemed clear his best chance with her would be to solve the case he had left behind.
After walking away from spying, he’d asked Archibald, one of his agents turned footman, to follow Lambert. Most of his reports had been incredibly boring. Yesterday, however, Lambert had received a message from a well-dressed footman. It had been a simple matter for Archibald to pick a fight with Lambert in the tavern and pull the message from Lambert’s pocket. He’d stepped away and memorized it before slipping it back in place.
Archibald was still following Lambert. Jeffreys was checking on a few other locations in case the note was written in code. And that was why Ryland was sneaking toward the rendezvous point mentioned in the note to see if anything—or anyone—interesting was there.
Given the fact that whoever had sent the note had used one of his own footmen to deliver it, Ryland was banking on his adversary’s arrogance to keep him from using code in his communication.
Although the choice of a popular tea shop as a meeting point was surprising.
Ryland looked over the alley behind the tea shop. He’d rather be inside the shop, acting as a waiter or even sitting in a quiet corner sipping tea. Unfortunately, the possibility existed that Lambert would recognize him. They couldn’t take that chance.
The shop was on the end of the street, so Ryland eased around the corner, trying to peek into the windows at the patrons. The tables were filled with London’s elite. Even dressed in his finest, Archibald would stick out like a sore thumb. The choice of location wasn’t looking quite as ridiculous as it had earlier.
Ryland watched Archibald stride past the shop, a stack of packages in his arms. Anyone looking would think him a footman taking his master’s purchased goods back to the house.
Ryland dared to ease closer to the front of the shop, watching the interior for any sign of Lambert.
There he was. Walking toward the back of the shop, just past the window.
Ryland wanted to punch something. He was going to have to enter the shop. There was no way around it. He’d have to wait a suitable amount of time, but he had to see who was in that corner.
Archibald appeared at his elbow, having gone around the next section of buildings to come up the same alley Ryland had. “Where is he?”
“In the corner. Where we can’t see.”
“What do you want me to do?”
With a grimace, Ryland watched as Lambert came back into view and quickly walked to the door. Whatever the meeting had been about, it had been short. “Follow him. Try to see if he left this meeting with anything interesting.”
He pulled the package of lace from his coat pocket and stuck it under his arm before strolling around the corner and into the shop. Lambert was gone, but Ryland needed to see who was sitting in the unseen section of the shop.
The whispers began as soon as he entered. He sat and placed his package on the edge of the table before ordering tea from the prompt waiter. A newspaper had been left on one of the seats at his table. Ryland opened it and pretended t
o read while taking in the four tables past the edge of the window.
A man and a woman sat at one table, appearing oblivious to everyone else. Unlikely to be them, but Ryland memorized their faces anyway.
Another table was occupied by a woman and a young girl. Ryland prayed that it wasn’t them. He had no illusions that women couldn’t be conniving, but he hated the thought that anyone would involve a child in their underhanded dealings.
The last two tables held men, sitting alone, drinking tea and reading the paper just as he was. Both looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t come up with their names. Both were dressed in fine clothing with stiff white cravats and expert tailoring. The only thing Ryland could do was commit their faces to memory and hope their fine clothes meant he might encounter them socially. After all, an introduction was the easiest way to learn a name.
The next day, amongst the flowers and poems for Georgina, a small paper-wrapped package arrived addressed to Miranda. She recognized the interlocking edges from the package Ryland folded at the trim shop.
She slid it into the folds of her skirt and smuggled it upstairs before anyone else had a chance to remark on it. She expected a note of some sort but found nothing except the lace.
All afternoon she expected him to come by, but the day passed without Gibson announcing the man.
Miranda couldn’t stop herself searching for him at the ball that night, even though she swore to herself it was only so that she could avoid him. She was still angry, after all, even if a part of her remembered how much she’d missed his letters and the conversations she’d had with him as the valet. The fact that the two men she’d been thinking about were actually one man should have delighted her.
It didn’t. Not completely.
He didn’t show up the next day either. Every question she couldn’t think of while in the trim shop swam through her mind as she suffered through the agonizing anticipation of another afternoon of callers and the harrowing tension of another ball.
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