The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “Did you speak to the Duke of York?” Richard asked. The king’s brother took an interest in naval affairs. He’d been Lord High Admiral of England until the Test Act, requiring all officeholders to swear allegiance to the Church of England, went into effect the previous year. Then his adherence to Catholicism had forced him out of the office.

  “Briefly.” Cabot grimaced. “He made me no promises but did agree to speak to the king about getting the sailors’ back pay released.”

  Richard cocked an eyebrow. “So why are you still here? I thought you hated these affairs.”

  “I’m enjoying the stir Miranda has created.” Saluting Richard with his glass, Cabot added, “And seeing you deal with it.”

  “Then you may as well be useful. Come along. You can help me guard the lady’s virtue.” An odd phrase to use about a serving maid, but he would wager his fortune that it fit Miranda.

  He and Cabot shouldered their way through the throng, skirting the dancers. As they broke through the last of the crowd, his eyes met Miranda’s. Her pleasant smile seemed to brighten, but he shouldn’t care if it did.

  Richard smiled in return. She did look beautiful, not least because her evident pleasure contrasted with the boredom many women at court affected. “Miranda, allow me to present Captain Cabot Winfield of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. He’s Jeremy’s brother.”

  “A pleasure, cousin.” Cabot bowed.

  She curtsied, her eyes shining. “I’m pleased to meet you, captain. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Aye, and we can see that you are. You’re the talk of the evening, you know. In a good way.”

  “Thank you, captain.” Pink flooded her cheekbones in a blush that made Richard’s hand itch to stroke it as she added lightly, “These people must live shallow lives, to consider me worthy of such notice.”

  “Not at all. You’re not only new and well connected but young and comely.”

  Her blush deepened, and her gaze dropped to the floor.

  Smoothly, Cabot added, “The combination is intriguing.”

  Richard stifled a surge of annoyance. Cabot didn’t usually display such gallantry.

  Cabot frowned at something behind the women. “Speaking of talk, there’s Denning, from the Admiralty. I must speak to him. There must be some aid he can offer my struggling sailors while they await their pay. Richard, ladies.” With a hasty bow, he stepped past them.

  Richard forced his face to stay pleasant. He shouldn’t resent Cabot for telling the girl the truth. She deserved to know of her appeal. Her surprising concern over that damnable vision showed what a kind heart she had, as well as the resolve to make the best of her lonely life at the inn. If she could find a suitor, she should. He had naught to offer her, and she needed to make a place in the world. In that, she could do far worse than Cabot.

  “Come, my dear.” Grandmère drew her aside. “I’ll introduce you to the Comte de St. Michel.”

  Richard fell in behind them as their escort. As they crossed the room, one man after another nodded to Grandmère, only to shift his gaze, raking Miranda’s bosom. Richard’s jaw tightened. Some of those men wouldn’t stop with a look, and he would not allow them to embarrass her.

  Suddenly, George stepped into his path. “Good evening, Richard.”

  “George.” The tray he’d stolen wouldn’t cover the cost of the new gray, brocaded satin he wore, which thus signaled deepening debt. Well, George could pay for it himself or go to prison. Richard was done. “You’re lucky I haven’t had you arrested for theft.”

  “Grandmère wouldn’t approve.” George smiled. “Do you like my new tailor’s handiwork?”

  “Enjoy it while you can. You’ll lose him when he realizes you can’t pay him.”

  George’s expression turned mutinous. “If you would make me a more generous allowance, Richard, we wouldn’t be so at odds.” He paused. “I rather miss the days we were friends.”

  “So do I.” For the sake of that memory, he repeated something he’d said several times before. “George, I would’ve come if your message had reached me in time. I’d have brought a physician.” A Gifted one, who might’ve made all the difference.

  “Well, you didn’t.” George’s lips tightened, then relaxed. “You don’t know what it’s like in Kendal, Richard. How quiet it is. Let me stay with you, learn the estate.”

  “You’ve had several chances at that,” Richard said bluntly. “You can’t manage it, George, not while you’re drinking so heavily, and now you’ve stolen from the house.”

  “It’ll all be mine one day, anyway. This is your last chance, Richard. Give me my due.”

  “Or what?” Richard raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ll slander me all over London? I’ll chance it.”

  “We’re done, then.” Glaring, George stalked away.

  Richard watched him go. What the devil had that been about? Probably just drunken blathering. George could imbibe a great deal without showing the effects.

  Yet something about the exchange felt wrong. Richard looked for George, but he’d vanished in the crowd.

  Grandmère and Miranda weren’t in sight, either. They must have gone to the privy. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing footman and leaned against the wall to wait for them. What could go wrong in a retiring room?

  Miranda had heard of such retiring rooms but had never seen one. To visit the privy, the ladies repaired to a large, paneled chamber down a corridor. Each of its curtained areas contained an odd chair called a close stool, something she’d first seen at Hawkstowe House. One lifted one’s skirts, sat on the chair, and relieved oneself into a basin beneath the chair. Servants changed the basins promptly.

  What a miserable job that would be. At least the slop jars at the inn had lids.

  She and Arabella paused by a large, gilt mirror to straighten their gowns. Miranda had convinced the older woman to let her avoid both powder and rouge. Although she had an unfashionably natural complexion as a result, she didn’t have to worry about ceruse cream hardening into a gray mask on her face, nor did she have sweat streaks to retouch in powder.

  “You’ve done well, my dear,” Arabella murmured.

  Around them, the ladies of King Charles’s court laughed and chattered. So many had come to the retiring room, in fact, that the air had become as close as that in the banqueting house. Miranda longed for a breeze. She inhaled cautiously. To her relief, her bosom stayed in the gown. Barely.

  “There you are, Arabella,” a woman’s light voice said. Miranda turned with Arabella to greet a small, spare woman who was on her way out. The woman’s bright brown eyes darted to and fro as though assessing the crowd. Four large diamond rings adorned her age-gnarled hands.

  “Good evening, Frances. Lady Vale, allow me to present Mistress Willoughby, our cousin. Miranda, this is Lady Vale.”

  Miranda sketched a curtsey.

  Lady Vale gave her a quick smile and nod of acknowledgment. “Good evening, child. You’re the talk of the gathering, did you know? Not that anyone talks of anything for more than a moment or two. I vow, Arabella, the crowd in there grows worse each time. You’d think His Majesty would object. Of course, he may like the crowd. His Majesty does enjoy having a good time, eh?

  “Not that half of those here are much more than hangers-on. I’d hate to have to bear them, myself, but I suppose they have their uses, as do the rich and titled gentlemen here. Just the type one wants one’s maiden cousins to meet. And of course, the type one doesn’t. You’d best watch out for them, not that I have to tell you that, knowing as I do—”

  “Frances.” Although she smiled, Arabella spoke firmly. “You must excuse us. We’re returning to the dancing.”

  “How fortunate! I’ll walk with you.”

  They’d reached the door when someone shrieked in the room behind them. They turned in time to see an older woman in pale blue satin sag to the floor.

  “She’s fainted!” someone yelped.

  “We can see that,” Arabella snapped. “St
and you back and let her breathe. Oh, bother! Frances, will you deliver Miranda to Richard?”

  “Of course, Arabella. Come along, my dear.”

  Miranda turned back toward the confusion. “But I—”

  “Go with Lady Vale. I’ll join you presently.” Arabella marched toward the flock of women surrounding the one on the floor. To a servant, she said, “Fetch a basin with water, quickly!”

  Miranda looked from her to Lady Vale, who started down the corridor. “Come along, dear. Such a crowd, ’tis a wonder more people aren’t fainting away. You’d never know ’twas October from the heat in there. I vow, it grows worse each time. Where did you say you were reared?”

  Arabella still leaned over the fallen woman. Miranda hurried to overtake Lady Vale, who was waiting for her.

  “I beg pardon, milady. I was distracted.”

  “No wonder, child. Such a to-do! You’d think the silly females had never seen anyone faint. Anyway, my dear, I asked where you were from.”

  Cautiously, hoping the answer wouldn’t lead to more questions, Miranda said, “I grew up in London mostly but lived in Dover of late.”

  “Never cared much for Dover. Smells of fish, you know?”

  “I suppose the docks—”

  “Still, my late husband—quite a sailor, he was, too!—always swore he found the salt air bracing.” Frowning, she added, “Too much fresh air ruins the complexion. I preferred to get my bracing from him.”

  Heat flared anew in Miranda’s cheeks. “Of course, milady.”

  Lady Vale cast a keen eye at her. “Oh, you’ll know all about that soon enough, my dear. With looks like yours and the Hawkstowe fortune, you’ll find yourself wed in a trice. Plenty of eligible young lords here tonight, and they’ve noticed you right enough. Just have Richard pick one.”

  He couldn’t possibly take such an interest, and Miranda didn’t want him to. Nor did she have a stake in the Hawkstowe fortune, however great it might be, but she couldn’t say that to Lady Vale.

  “He’ll be cautious of course, but he’s a practical man, always was,” Lady Vale continued, “and you want your husband to know you’ve kinsmen behind you. Keeps them honest.”

  “You don’t say,” Miranda managed. The banqueting house door loomed ahead, offering escape from this embarrassing conversation. Miranda picked up her pace.

  “Oh, and I do. Take my word on it. I’ve buried three of them. Husbands, that is. And here we are,” Lady Vale said. She craned her neck to see over the dancers. “Now where can Richard have taken himself off to? Men are so seldom by when you need them. Oh, there he is, over by the windows.”

  Richard stood with his back to them. He faced Cabot Winfield, who smiled broadly.

  “Frances!” A tall woman wearing bright yellow satin and a cartload of pearls hurried toward Lady Vale. Her round lips were pursed, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “You’ll never believe what I’ve just heard.”

  “Excuse me a moment, my dear,” Lady Vale said.

  “I can find my cousin, milady. I’ve no wish to delay you.”

  “Only be a moment, child.”

  Miranda sketched a curtsey to the newcomer. Lady Vale and her friend conversed, apparently absorbed. Surely Miranda needn’t wait. What could happen in such a crowded place?

  She excused herself to Lady Vale, who absently nodded.

  Miranda started around the room. To avoid unwanted attentions, she took care not to look anyone in the eye.

  Dodging a footman with a tray, she found George Mainwaring in her path. “Good evening, George,” Miranda said.

  “Cousin. A word, if you please.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m to find Richard.”

  “Must you rush away? After all, we’re newly met kin.” He smiled.

  Was that calculation in his eyes?

  He continued, “Surely you can spare a moment to become acquainted.”

  The dance ended. With people crowding around the edges of the floor, Miranda had no room to evade him.

  “Pray excuse me, George, but I really must go.”

  He raised his brows. “If you insist, but if we hurry, we can avert the crisis before Grandmère returns. It would distress her greatly.”

  “What crisis?” Miranda glanced toward Richard.

  Cabot had left him. The earl bowed to a young woman dressed in green and bedecked in pearls. Miranda tried to catch his eye but failed.

  At her elbow, George said, “If you don’t care that gossip about your low origins will embarrass them, so be it.”

  She barely swallowed a gasp. “What?”

  “Surely you knew Richard had enemies. For the sake of our kinship, I’d not have him or Grandmère fall prey to their gossip, but perhaps you don’t care. I suppose one should expect ingratitude from a common serving wench.”

  Miranda’s heart pounded. “I don’t know what you mean.” Despite her efforts to hold her voice steady, it quivered.

  “I can’t explain here. Too many ears. Come or do not, but choose quickly, before Richard sees us.”

  No one will gainsay us, Arabella had said. It appeared someone would. “I wouldn’t want anyone to make trouble with some—some ludicrous tale.”

  “Of course not.” He smiled, but his eyes darted to the side, as though he watched for someone. “Come. We must hurry.”

  “Wait. Why don’t you tell Richard or your grandmother?”

  “They don’t approve of me, but they’d listen to you.”

  “Yet you would help them?” Something about this business wasn’t right.

  He shrugged. “We’re family, and I’m Richard’s heir.” His face took on a pleading look. “Would it hurt to hear what I have to tell you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Then come along. Hurry.”

  He led the way out into a corridor behind the banqueting house. With a last look toward Richard, who was still conversing with the young woman, Miranda followed. They went down a short flight of stairs and turned into a paneled corridor. Soon, they turned again. He seemed to be heading toward the river.

  The farther they went into the warren of corridors, the more suspicious this seemed. “George, this is far enough.”

  “Only a bit ahead lies a parlor where we can be private.”

  She would likely have explanations to make anyway. She might as well learn something. “A little longer, then.”

  They turned into another corridor, and he opened a paneled door. “In here.”

  Miranda followed him into a small, paneled room hung with tapestries of hunting scenes. Candles in wall sconces cast a soft light, and a fire blazed on the hearth. Armchairs of dark wood with cushions of crimson damask sat at intervals around the wall.

  In the center of the room stood a long table with elaborately carved legs. Two silver goblets, a silver tray laden with bread and cheese, and a silver pitcher sat atop it.

  He walked to the table and stopped. His mouth curved in a mocking smile that sent a chill of alarm through her.

  “What did you want to say?” she demanded, edging toward the door.

  He glanced beyond her. “It’s really Lord Wyndon who wants a word.”

  Chapter 13

  Cold flashed up the back of Miranda’s neck and down her arms. Heart pounding, she whirled.

  “My thanks, Mainwaring.” Just inside the doorway stood a stocky man in blue satin and an elaborately curled brown wig.

  As George stalked out of the chamber, the man said, “There are some things you need to understand about your situation, girl.”

  “You must excuse me, milord,” Miranda said, silently cursing George for leaving her with this man. “I cannot stay here with you. We haven’t been properly presented.”

  “Lord Hawkstowe’s obliging cousin presented us, or weren’t you listening?”

  “I must return to Lady Hawkstowe.”

  She stepped sideways. He moved into her path.

  “My lord, I must insist.” Twisting to the left, she sprang for
ward. Lord Wyndon caught her arm in hard grip and pushed her back against the table. Her heart surged into her throat.

  “No, I insist.” He leaned forward until his face hovered inches above her own. “You’re no more the Mainwarings’ cousin than I am. I know every bump on every twig of their family tree, none of them you.”

  Icy fear rolled through her. Would Richard and his grandmother miss her? If they did, how could they find her?

  She fought to steady her voice. “Perhaps you’re not as well informed as you believe, my lord.”

  “And perhaps you’re in some scheme with Hawkstowe and the old hag.” His fingers tightened until she gasped. “Either way, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  “You’ve an active imagination, my lord.” The pain in her arm made her voice sharp. “I hope you consider it worth my cousin’s anger.”

  Cold, condescending amusement lit his eyes. “The day I fear that calfling, I’ll dispatch myself.”

  “Nevertheless, I must go.”

  “When I’m finished with you.” He traced the line of her jaw with one finger. “Tell me what I want to know, serving wench, and I’ll pay you twice what he’s offering.”

  Although his touch made her skin crawl, she refused to flinch. She could scream, if there was anyone by to hear her. She doubted the king would thank her for disrupting his evening, nor would Richard like her to draw such attention. Nor would her word prevail against a lord’s if it came to that.

  Lord Wyndon smiled confidently. His hand wandered lower, stroking her neck. “If we come to an arrangement, I can ensure your comfort in addition to paying you.”

  Miranda shuddered. The light in his eyes was calculation, not desire, but she couldn’t trust that to stop him if he decided to assault her. He probably shared the common assumption that all women who served in taverns and inns could be bought.

  Her gaze fell on the tray of bread and cheese. Perhaps she could save herself. She inched one hand toward the tray.