by Jane Feather
"So, how was the evening?" Maude shivered into her shawls, curling into a carved wooden armchair. "The night air is very bad for you."
"I've slept outside in a thunderstorm," Miranda said, but she drew the shutters partly closed out of courtesy to her visitor. "And to answer your question, the evening was detestable."
“Told you it would be." Maude sounded remarkably cheerful about it to Miranda.
"So you did, I was forgetting." It occurred to Miranda that she sounded as dry as Lord Harcourt. "You were certainly right about the chaplain, and Lady Mary is… is so stately and proper." She shook her head and perched on the broad windowsill, enjoying the slight riff of the breeze coming through the small aperture, the river smells, the faint sounds of the world outside this dark, confining chamber.
"Why would milord wish to marry her?"
It was Maude's turn to shake her head. "He has to marry someone. He has to have an heir, and his first wife didn't give him one."
"What happened to her?"
"An accident. No one talks of it. I never knew her because I was living with Lord and Lady Dufort in the country when it happened. After she died, we all moved here."
"Oh." Miranda frowned. "But why would he pick Lady Mary as his second wife? I admit she's quite well-looking, and has an elegant figure, but there's something so… so forbidding about her. There must be hundreds of women who'd give their right arms to wed Lord Harcourt. He's so charming, and amusing, and… and… well-favored," she added, aware that she was blushing.
"Do you think so, indeed?" Maude looked doubtful. "You don't find him rather cold and unapproachable?"
"No, not in the least."
"You don't think his eyes are very sardonic and intimidating?"
Miranda was about to deny this, then she said slowly, "Sometimes, they are. But mostly they seem to be laughing. He seems to find a lot of things very amusing."
"That's interesting," said Maude. "I've never thought he had a vestige of humor, which is why I always assumed Lady Mary was the ideal partner for him. I'm sure he has friends, but they never come here."
She rose from the chair with a yawn. "I'd better go back before Berthe comes looking for me."
She drifted toward the door, shawls dangling, then paused with her hand on the hasp, struck for the first time in her life by a sense of hospitable responsibility. "I don't suppose Lady Imogen's assigned you a maid. Is there anything you'd like Berthe to get for you? Hot milk, a hot brick for the bed, or something else?"
"No, thank you." Miranda was touched by the offer.
"Will you be able to undress yourself?"
At that Miranda grinned. "I believe so."
"I suppose if you're accustomed to sleeping out in the rain and lighting fires, there's very little you couldn't do for yourself," Maude observed. "Well, I give you good night." She wafted from the room, leaving the door just slightly ajar.
Miranda went to close it. She stood with her back against it, frowning into the middle distance. There was something so barren, so purposeless about Maude's existence, and it began to seem as if she too were getting sucked into this cavernous void. The outside
world, the world she knew, where the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the reek of sewage, the world where shouts of joy competed with wails of loss and pain, a world of blows and caresses, of hatred and love, of friends and enemies, seemed to have receded, leaving her beached on a hard, featureless shore.
She began to unlace her bodice, shrugging out of the unfamiliar garments, stripping off the confining farthingale. It went against the grain to leave such finery in a heap on the floor, and yet she did so with a defiance directed only at her own conscience molded from years of thrift. Clad only in the chemise and stockings, she went back to the window, flinging wide the shutters, breathing deeply of the fresh air, the promise of freedom.
How could she survive in this place, for as long as it took before milord decided she had earned her fee? She couldn't breathe.
She didn't know how long she'd been sitting lost in miserable reverie when she heard gravel scrunching beneath the window. Lord Harcourt moved out of the shadows into the light of one of the torches. He wore a dark cloak, but his head was bare, and once again Miranda recognized the hardness of his profile, the curl of his lip. The face that Maude knew but that Miranda had seen only rarely.
She ducked back into the chamber. She didn't stop to think, but pulled on her old orange dress, and ran back to the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pile of soft blue wool. Maude had dropped one of her innumerable shawls. Miranda picked it up and flung it around her shoulders, drawing it up over her head.
The earl was a dark figure now, almost at the water gate at the bottom of the garden. Miranda threw one leg over the sill, feeling for the thick ivy with her bare foot. She curled her toes around the thick fibers, and swung herself over the sill. Hand over hand, she climbed down the ivy as surefooted as if she were on the balance beam.
Chip, chattering gleefully, raced ahead of her, reaching the ground several minutes ahead. She jumped down beside him. There was no sign of Lord Harcourt in the garden. Miranda ran across the grass to the water gate, Chip leaping ahead of her. The gate was closed but unlocked. She could hear the earl's voice exchanging pleasantries with the gatekeeper on the other side.
“‘Ave a good evenin', m'lord."
"Don't expect me back before dawn, Carl." Lord Harcourt was moving away from the gate. "Good even, Simon. Blackfriars, if you please."
"Aye, m'lord."
Miranda eased through the gap in the gate. The keeper was standing foursquare on the bank, a pipe of tobacco in his hand. Lord Harcourt was entering a barge from a short flight of stone steps. An oil-filled cresset swung from the stern of the barge. The gatekeeper untied the painter that held the barge to the steps. The four oarsmen took up their oars.
Chip leaped into the waist of the vessel a minute before Miranda jumped from the bank onto the stern, ducking beneath the cresset.
Chapter ten
"What the devil…?" Gareth spun around at the light thud on the decking behind him. Chip jumped excitedly onto the rail, taking off his plumed hat and waving it merrily at the receding bank. Miranda stood under the oil lamp. The yellow-and-black pennant flying the Harcourt colors cracked back and forth from the bows in the freshening breeze. She threw back the shawl and lifted her face, taking a deep breath of the cool air.
"Miranda, what the devil are you doing here?" Gareth stared at the slight orange-clad figure in astonishment. She seemed to have come out of the blue, once more the urchin of the road; the elegant young lady in the periwinkle gown might never have existed.
The oarsmen in the absence of orders to the contrary continued to ply their oars, pulling the barge into midstream, where the current flowed strongly.
"I saw you from the window. I was feeling so breathless, so confined in that gloomy chamber. It's like being in prison!"
She came over to the rail beside him, the light from the lamp setting the auburn tints in her hair aglow. "I needed fresh air. That was the most… most suffocating evening." She looked up at him, her eyes grave. "I beg your pardon for making all those stupid mistakes. I can't think why I called you Gareth."
"It is my name," he observed. "But it wouldn't be appropriate for Maude to use it in public." "But in private?"
Gareth considered this with a wry smile. "No," he said. "It would not be appropriate for my ward to use my first name under any circumstances. Not until she ceased to be my ward."
"But for one who is not your ward?" Miranda's voice was a little muffled, and her head was lowered as she flicked at a moth on the rail. Her hair fell forward, and the faint silvery crescent mark on her neck was visible in the light from the cresset.
She was clearly referring to herself and it posed an interesting question. Was this unacknowledged scion of the d'Albards as much his ward as her twin? Acknowledged, she would certainly be. "It would depend on the circumstances," he
said carefully. "But one would not wish to become so accustomed to using it that it would slip out again by accident."
"I don't believe this charade is going to work," Miranda said after a minute.
"What?" Gareth looked down at her, startled. She was now looking out over the stern rail and kept her eyes averted.
"I don't think I can do it," she said simply. "Tonight was hideous and I made so many mistakes, and that was just among your family and friends in your own house."
"Don't be silly," he said brusquely. "Of course you can do it. You did very well in the circumstances. You were thrown into the middle of the situation without any preparation."
At least he was prepared to acknowledge that, Miranda reflected. It was the first time he'd shown the slightest recognition of the difficulty of the task. "I still think it would be best if you were to find someone else to do it," she said, perversely aware that it was actually the last thing she wanted, even though the thought of more evenings like the past one made her queasy. She waited for her companion's response, not knowing what she wanted him to say.
Gareth braced his legs against the motion of the craft, distantly aware of the freshness of the breeze that not even the wafts of cesspits and rotting river garbage could sully; the swish of the dark water; the wavering lights from passing river traffic. It was a clear night, the skies above London brilliant with stars and a great golden harvest moon. His senses seemed particularly sharp and clear.
Her body was very close beside him at the rail. Close enough that he was piercingly aware of every breath she took. Her hands were curled loosely around the rail, her mother's bracelet a gold glimmer, a pearl and emerald glow beneath the lamp. Her hands were thin, the bones clearly delineated beneath the delicate blue-veined skin. And yet he knew how much strength they contained, just as he knew how the seeming fragility of her small frame was belied by its tensile muscular power.
"Milord?" she said hesitantly, when his silence had continued for an eternity.
"There is no one else who could play the part as well," he said with perfect truth. "If you will not do it, then I shall have to give up something that's very dear to my heart. But the choice is yours."
Miranda looked up at him. He was staring out across the water so she couldn't see his eyes, but his jaw was set.
"Why is it so important that Maude marry this French duke?"
At that he turned and looked down at her, standing with his hands resting on the rail behind him. And now she saw again that slightly contemptuous curl of his lip, the mocking sardonic glitter in his eye.
"Ambition, Miranda. My ambition, pure and simple. Selfish, if you like, but it's very important to me that my family are returned to the sphere of power we enjoyed before the persecution of the Huguenots in France. A connection with Roissy and thus the French court will do that."
"It will make you powerful?" "Yes." He turned back to his contemplation of the water, adding almost in an undertone, "Very." What he did not say, because he couldn't, was that achieving his ambition, setting his feet firmly on the rungs of power, was the only way he could bury Charlotte's legacy-the dreadful deadening inertia of shame, and the guilt of a knowledge that would never be shared.
Miranda nibbled at a ragged fingernail, frowning. "But if Maude really doesn't wish it, you would compel her to sacrifice herself for your ambition?"
"I believe that Maude will come to her senses," Gareth replied. "But until she does, it's essential that her suitor be welcomed by a willing prospective bride."
Miranda swallowed. Maybe she could do it; but could she bear to? Even for fifty rose nobles? Money that would help Robbie, would enable the troupe to find winter quarters without the annual misery of the hand-to-mouth struggle in the long bitter months. Money that would, if carefully harvested, give her a measure of security for years to come. Did she even have the right to deny her friends such relief? People who had taken her in as a baby, shared what they had with her, cared for her, the only family she had ever known, or would ever know.
Gareth, aware of her eyes on him, looked down at her again and met her questioning and speculative regard. "I need you to do it for me, Miranda."
Her misgivings faded. Her expression cleared and slowly she nodded. "Very well, milord. I'll try my best." She had no good reason to refuse him, and many to oblige him. He'd been kind to her, even before he'd wanted her to do this thing for him. And more than anything, she liked him. She liked being with him, liked feeling his eyes on her, the warmth of his smile, the easy way he touched her, the companionable way he talked to her.
He smiled, and the mask that she so disliked vanished, showing her once again the merry, lazy-lidded eyes, the flash of his white teeth as his mouth curved. "I shall be eternally in your debt, firefly." Catching her chin on his finger, he bent his head and kissed her mouth.
It was intended as a light expression of gratitude, a sealing of a bargain, and Gareth was not prepared for the jolt in the pit of his stomach as her mouth opened slightly beneath his. The scent of her skin and hair filled his nostrils, his hands came to cradle her face, her skin exquisitely soft beneath his fingers. She moved on the shifting deck and her slight, supple body brushed against his, a tentative, fleeting pressure that nevertheless brought his loins to life, his blood to sing in his ears.
He drew back, swung round to face the water again. His hands closed over the stern railing and he shook his head in an effort to free his mind of the rioting tangle of confused images.
Miranda touched her mouth. Her lips were tingling although there'd been no pressure to the kiss. But her heart was thumping and she was suddenly hot, feverishly hot, perspiration gathering on her back, in the cleft of her breasts. And they too were tingling. Her nipples were hard, pushing against her bodice, and there was a strange liquid weakness in her belly and her thighs.
The barge bumped lightly against the steps of Black-friars. Narrow lanes led up from the river to Ludgate Hill and to the right the dome of Saint Paul's Church rose over the jumble of close-packed roofs.
“The bargemen will take you back," Gareth said, his voice sounding hoarse in his ears. "Simon, I'll make my own way home."
"Aye, m'lord." The bargeman reached out to grab the pole at the head of the steps, pulling the barge alongside. " 'Tis said, m'lord, that the new church is almost finished," he commented. "Quite a sight it is."
"Aye," agreed Gareth, stepping ashore. "I've a mind to stroll up there now and see how it's progressed since the spring." He glanced back at the barge. Miranda was still standing at the rail, frowning, her hand still unconsciously pressed to her lips.
"I give you good night, Miranda," Gareth said, then turned and strode off toward Carpenters' Street, which would take him into Whitefriars and an abundance of taverns and houses of pleasure. His hand rested on his sword hilt, where it would remain throughout his walk through the lanes of London.
Miranda didn't hesitate. She couldn't just return as if nothing had happened… not until she'd understood exactly what had happened. She jumped ashore just as the bargemen pushed off. Chip leaped after her, cramming his hat back on his head.
Despite the early morning hour, people still scurried about their business. A merchant in a fur-trimmed cape strode past, two liveried footmen clearing the path for him, two more watching his back. A litter borne by four stalwart porters was carried along at a trot toward the Temple. A white hand drew back the curtains and Miranda glimpsed a small sharp face under a jeweled bonnet before the conveyance turned into an alley.
"Need a light, m'lord?" A small boy darted out of a doorway on Carpenters' Street, holding aloft a lantern, as yet unlit. He offered the noble lord a gap-toothed grin but his face was thin and pale, his eyes sunken.
"Light your lamp," Gareth said, reaching into his pocket for a coin. "Lead the way."
The boy pocketed the farthing, struck flint on tinder, lit the precious wick of his lamp, and set off ahead, holding the lamp high, his little shoulders stiff as if he were truly prou
d of his mission.
"Milord… milord."
Gareth turned. Miranda and Chip were running toward him. "Do you mind if we accompany you, milord? I've never been to London." Miranda brushed her hair out of her eyes and regarded him gravely, but her confusion was easily read.
"I'd prefer my own company tonight," Gareth said. If he made nothing of the kiss, then they could both forget it. It hadn't meant anything, after all. How could it have? "Go back to the barge and they'll take you home."
With a smile that he hoped would soften the rejection, he set off again. Miranda hesitated. She couldn't see how
she could bring up what had happened on the barge if the earl wouldn't give her an opening, and he certainly wouldn't give her one if she went meekly home.
She caught up with him again, and although he appeared not to notice her, she kept at his side, never falling back despite the length and speed of his stride.
After a few minutes, she broke the silence. "Are you going a-whoring again, milord?"
Gareth sighed. He'd already recognized that this d'Albard twin had as strong and persistent a will as her sister. "If I was, I'm not now, it seems. Must you accompany me?"
"If you please," Miranda said. "I might get lost on my own."
"You'll forgive me if I have a rather better opinion of your natural resourcefulness," Gareth remarked.
Miranda felt an immense sense of relief. She knew that tone and the confusion of the barge receded as the ease in his company returned. If Lord Harcourt wasn't troubled by it, then she shouldn't be.
Presumably he kissed Lady Mary in the same way. But for some reason, that reflection brought her no comfort, only a sense of revulsion. She couldn't imagine it somehow. That haughty, impeccable, perfectly composed woman in an embrace that Miranda had experienced as vivid scarlet, bright crimson, hot as hellfire.
The alley was narrow and dark, the roofs of the opposing houses meeting overhead, the top stories so close a man could sit on one windowsill and fling his leg over the sill opposite. But as they emerged into Whitefriars, the lane broadened and light spilled from open doorways and windows with the sounds of raucous laughter, music, singing.
