by Jane Feather
"The very same," the earl of Harcourt said, as dry as sere leaves.
Chapter Sixteen
Berthe had taken her panicked response to Maude's uninformative scribble to Lord Harcourt. Enough sense remained despite her near-hysteria to keep her from running to Lady Dufort with such a tale.
Gareth had allowed the woman's shrill words to tumble around him… Something had happened to Lady Maude since the arrival of the imposter, the changeling. Never before would she have done something like this, left the house without attendants, without even saying where she was going. The other girl had persuaded her, had probably even forced her to go with her. Lady Maude would never have done such a thing of her own free will.
Gareth read Maude's hasty script. It certainly didn't tell him much, but it wasn't difficult to fill in the blanks. The lad, Robbie, would have taken Miranda to her family in the city, and for some cockeyed reason she'd taken Maude with her.
He sent Berthe back upstairs with the calm injunction to keep Maude's absence to herself, then donned riding clothes and went to the mews for his riding horse and the information that the Lady Maude and two companions had taken a litter into the city.
He found his liveried litter bearers taking their pleasure and ease on an ale bench outside the Dog and Partridge at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. From them he learned the direction his quarry had taken, and he rode up the hill toward the church. The sounds of music, applause, and laughter drew him to the grassy square behind the church.
Horseback gave him a vantage point and he could see over the heads of the crowd. He recognized Gertrude, Bertrand, Luke and his little dog, but his gaze was riveted by the sight of his ward, flushed and laughing, her hair escaping its pins to fall in untidy ringlets to her shoulders. She seemed to be playing a tambourine! Holding it above her head, shaking it with all the rhythmic gusto of a gypsy!
For the moment, he could see no sign of Miranda. There was a lad turning cartwheels… But no, it wasn't a lad, it was Miranda. He'd know that lithe body anywhere. He could see even from this distance that she was inflaming the men in the first ranks of the audience, and he knew damn well that it was deliberate. She was playing with them, throwing that wickedly defined body at them, then withdrawing just when it seemed they couldn't help but touch her.
Gareth dismounted, handed the reins to an eager urchin, and pushed through the crowd. Miranda was walking on her hands through the front rows of the audience, flaunting her entrancing little rear tightly encased in those damnable britches. With a leisurely movement, Gareth grasped one slender ankle, halting her progress.
There was a rumble of laughter.
"Milord?" Miranda said.
"The very same." He opened his hand and she flipped upright, shaking back her hair, giving him the wonderful private smile that filled him with mingled apprehension and the deep delight he didn't dare to acknowledge. The crowd began a slow handclapping, expressing their disappointment at the abrupt end of the show. The tambourine player ceased her music, and the performers were for a moment stunned into inaction.
Then Gertrude prodded Luke with the end of her parasol and he jumped forward with Fred, who gleefully began to go through his routine. Chip leaped into the crowd with his hat, collecting for Miranda's performance, and the show picked up again.
"Come and meet my family," Miranda said. "I was helping them out because takings haven't been very good." She slipped a hand into his arm and drew him with her toward the troupe. "Did you see how well Maude played the tambourine? She could have been born to it." She laughed, still exhilarated by her performance.
Gareth realized that it never occurred to her that he might take exception to her morning's work. But Maude was another matter. She was white as a sheet as he approached, her eyes wide with dismay.
"L- Lord Harcourt" was all she managed to say.
"My ward, I see you have some hitherto unrecognized musical talents," he said with an equable smile. "Don't let me stop you."
Maude was astounded. She looked at Miranda, who was smiling, completely unperturbed, then back at her guardian. His lazy-lidded brown eyes were crinkled with amusement, his mouth quirked in a smile. With an expansive gesture, he suggested she take up her instrument again.
"You all right, girl?" Bertrand's gruff voice spoke from behind Gareth. He didn't look at the earl, strolling players didn't address noblemen without invitation, but the oblique question referred to the lord's intimidating presence.
"Yes, of course. This is Lord Harcourt. Milord, this is Bertrand. You probably remember seeing him at Dover. I feel so bad. They were thrown into gaol because of the hue and cry."
Bertrand bowed but his eyes were wary. "Pleased to meet yer 'onor."
"What's goin' on 'ere?" Gertrude sailed over, the plumes in her hair waving frantically. "There's no touchin' of the performers, sir."
" This is Lord Harcourt, Mama Gertrude," Miranda said hastily. Gertrude was no respecter of persons and would think nothing of taking a lord to task if she believed she was in the right.
"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 con�
�tinuing, "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 uncommo
n 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."