A Noble Masquerade

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  And Ryland had searched every nook and cranny of the stable. A good thing, too, because he learned one of Griffith’s grooms was the son of an aristocratic Russian Napoleon supporter and an English baron’s daughter. But was the half-Russian blue blood shoveling horse manure to aid his father’s cause or avoid his father’s wrath?

  Griffith had been increasingly clumsy with his correspondence for the past three weeks, leaving letters lying around here and there. Nothing of importance yet—mostly business inquiries Ryland had gotten from a good friend of his who made a living managing investments. Colin McCrae had sent regular details about a mining venture. The mine was doomed for failure but whoever was reading Griffith’s letters didn’t need to know that.

  They’d mixed these letters in with meaningless personal correspondence from distant family members so there would be enough variety to keep from raising anyone’s suspicions.

  Ryland opened and quickly decoded the letter, years of practice restraining his grin. Finally everything was in place to catch themselves a traitor. It was time to place the bait and hope they caught a fish.

  The Office had set up false information drops. Ryland would write four letters to be left in places where each of his four suspects would find one. The letters would ask Griffith to support a new tactic in the war against France. They would then specify a time in which the particulars of this tactic would be given to a messenger.

  Four different exchanges had been set up. If someone showed up to the false drops, they’d know who their man was and be able to trace the path and take the entire network down.

  It almost made the long weeks of skulking around and pressing Griffith’s shirts worth it.

  For the next two weeks there would be little to do but wait. Ryland was surprised to find he didn’t mind it. His weekly letters to Lady Miranda were quite the diversion.

  Hot chocolate scalded Miranda’s tongue. She held a serviette to her mouth, trying to keep from sputtering the drink across the table. Her eyes widened as she took in the elaborate mass of curls on her sister’s head. “That’s a bit fancy for a morning in the country.”

  Georgina gave a delicate, one-shouldered shrug and crossed the room to admire her reflection. “A lady should always be ready to present herself. I’m trying a few styles to see what I want to do for my first outing. I’ll only get one chance to make a name for myself, you know.”

  Miranda blew across the top of her mug before taking a hesitant sip. “London is still months away.”

  “True. But it never hurts to prepare. I want nothing left to chance. I do wish I knew who was going to be holding balls at the beginning of the Season. Leaving that strategy to the last moment is so risky.”

  Lambert placed a small tray at Miranda’s elbow. The top letter was addressed with now-familiar bold strokes. It was the eighth letter she’d received from the duke. She grazed a finger across the black ink, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her attempt to hide it. How soon could she leave the room and still be polite?

  “Is there a letter from Mother in there?”

  Georgina reached for the tray.

  Miranda snatched the stack of letters up and began flipping through them, not really reading any of them. “I, uh, I don’t know. Let me see. Were you expecting a letter from Mother?”

  She flipped through the stack once more, slower this time. At the bottom she found the loops of her mother’s handwriting.

  Georgina plucked it from Miranda’s hands. “I wrote her a fortnight ago about a theme for my ball. I want mine selected early, before all the good ones are taken.”

  “A theme?” Miranda slid the duke’s letter into her sleeve before thumbing through the rest of her correspondence. Her ball hadn’t had a theme. Unless simple elegance was a theme. “What are you considering?”

  “I considered Greek or mythological, but Lady Matilda did that last year.”

  “Lady Matilda was immensely popular. She married the eldest son of the Earl of Mountieth. There are worse people to emulate.”

  Georgina frowned. “Emulate? Why should I emulate anyone? I intend to be an original. That only happens with planning.”

  “Amelia didn’t plan it.” Miranda hid her smirk with a bite of toast. Georgina wouldn’t like being reminded of Miranda’s friend who had stumbled into the social scene last year and walked away as the new Marchioness of Raebourne. The whole family knew that Georgina had been hoping to marry the marquis herself. And that Georgina had done everything possible to keep him from marrying Amelia.

  Georgina glared but said nothing.

  A bit of guilt wormed into Miranda’s consciousness. This was her sister, after all. She was supposed to love her, not force her to wallow in past mistakes. “Themes?”

  “French.”

  Miranda choked again. It was becoming dangerous to eat around her little sister. “French? But we are at war with France!”

  A wide smile stretched across her face. “I know. So no one else will be doing it.”

  “Because it is a bad idea.”

  “No it’s not. The ton loves all things French. The food, the clothes. I’ll make it old France. Before all of this war nonsense.”

  Miranda set her fork down. “Please, please rethink this.”

  “It’s an original idea, Miranda.” She waved the note from Mother in the air. “Mother is sure to love it.”

  Mother was not sure to love it, Miranda was certain. Georgina was going to be disappointed in the contents of that letter. And Georgina disappointed was more difficult than Georgina excited.

  “I think I’ll go for a ride,” Miranda announced as Georgina sipped her own chocolate, the letter sitting unopened at her elbow. Was she that certain of her mother’s agreement? Miranda would have been bursting with curiosity if she had asked for something so ridiculous.

  Miranda walked out the door, casting a glance over her shoulder as she went. Maybe Georgina knew her theme was not going to work and wanted to read the news in private.

  The wind bit through her riding jacket as she crossed the lawn to the stables an hour later. She circled around to the side paddock, expecting to see the horses saddled and ready.

  She was not expecting to see three.

  Griffith’s large stallion was standing beside her mare, looking bored. Next to him was one of the spirited mounts Griffith kept for company. Did they have visitors? Had Trent come up from Town? She was always glad to have the company of her brothers, but she had been hoping to find a quiet place to read the letter in her pocket.

  “Miranda, what are you doing here?”

  Miranda whirled to see Griffith and Marlow rounding the corner of the stable. Was Marlow going riding? Herbert had never gone riding with Griffith, but maybe that was only because he was so old. Or maybe he had gone riding and Miranda had never noticed.

  “I sent word down an hour ago that I wanted to go for a ride.” She gestured to the trio of horses. “I thought you must have heard about it and decided to join me.”

  He darted a glance at Marlow. “Er, no, but I also sent word down an hour ago. They must have assumed we were going together.”

  “Oh.” Her heart sank a bit. Why was she disappointed? Hadn’t she just been lamenting the company of family?

  “No matter. Our plans are easily altered. Please, join us.” Griffith tugged on his riding gloves.

  In no time they were mounted and riding their horses out of the stable yard. Miranda inspected Marlow’s seat with quick glances. The man was a very competent horseman. Where had a servant learned to ride so well?

  He hung back a bit, allowing Griffith and Miranda to ease their horses ahead of his. It was, of course, the proper thing for a servant to do, but it felt somehow wrong to Miranda. As if he should be riding alongside like their neighbor Anthony, Marquis of Raebourne, used to do before his recent marriage.

  “When did you start riding with your valet?” Miranda pitched her voice low and leaned toward Griffith as they crossed through a small patch of tre
es.

  “You and Sally go for walks.”

  Her mouth fell open, the argument of that being completely different resting on the tip of her tongue. But was it? She did take her maid on walks. Sometimes the choice was between Sally’s company and Georgina’s. Miranda was sad to say that the maid often won.

  She was a terrible older sister.

  They rode on in silence over a small rise.

  “Your Grace!”

  They pulled to a stop. Griffith’s steward was climbing the other side of the hill, from the direction of a small cluster of cottages.

  “Pardon me a moment.” Griffith turned his horse and trotted over to meet the steward.

  Leaving Miranda alone with his valet.

  Chapter 10

  Ryland watched Griffith ride away and took the opportunity to pull his mount alongside Miranda’s.

  “It’s a pleasant morning for a ride,” Miranda said, with a slight shiver. The wind was worse with them exposed on the top of the hill.

  One corner of Ryland’s lips tilted. “That it is, my lady.”

  He nudged his horse forward until he was blocking the worst of the wind. It pulled at his hair, working strands free of the queue and sending them dancing in front of his eyes. It felt good. Free. He wished he could release the whole queue. He really wished he could cut it. That would be the first thing he did when this assignment was over. Get a decent haircut.

  They sat in silence a few moments longer.

  “I received another letter today.”

  His head whipped around. She looked startled that she’d spoken aloud.

  Ryland cleared his throat. “I assume you’ll have another letter for me to send this afternoon, then. Does that make one a week?”

  Miranda nodded. “For the last eight weeks, yes. I thought they would stop after his initial curiosity had been appeased, but he keeps writing. Detailed letters. Personal letters.”

  “And you respond.” He eagerly looked forward to the letters. He was surprised at the restraint it required to wait a week to answer her, but that was the time frame he’d established from the beginning, so it was the one he’d have to maintain.

  “Yes,” Miranda whispered. “I don’t know why. I feel like I know him, though, in a way I’ve never had the opportunity to get to know a gentleman while in London.”

  Ryland didn’t respond. How could he? Why was she telling him this?

  “It’s all for naught though. He’s in hiding. A few paltry letters with a nearly-on-the-shelf spinster won’t make a difference.”

  If only she knew the effect those letters were having on his future plans. He cleared his throat. “My lady, why are you telling me this?”

  A laugh burst from her mouth and a blush stained her cheeks. “Who else could I tell? You are the only other person who knows of the letters.”

  “I could give you the direction. Then you wouldn’t have to give me the letters.” He felt safe making the offer. There were numerous reasons why her posting them herself was a bad idea.

  “No. I can’t send letters to an unrelated gentleman. Can you imagine the scandal? You can mix them in with Griffith’s correspondence. That way only two people in the world know of my horrendous forwardness.”

  Ryland watched her from beneath lowered lids. The sadness in her voice crept into places he thought well hidden beneath a life-hardened shell. After those first two blundering letters, her writings had always been chipper, confident, and polished. A mere glimmer of the woman he’d studied as he skulked around the house the past two months.

  That woman was as unpredictable as she was delightful. Singing in the garden, grumbling at a knotted embroidery thread, plucking the pianoforte keys in a haphazard tune of giddiness.

  “I don’t know what he writes to you, my lady”—Dear God, forgive me and let her forgive me for lying!—“but the regularity of his writing would seem to indicate a marked interest on his part.”

  “But he’s never even seen me. I was still in the schoolroom when he went into hiding.” She fidgeted with the reins, threading them through her fingers and then releasing them.

  The wind was damaging her styled hair as well as his. A few long tresses fluttered around her face. His hand itched to smooth them back. A tighter grip on the reins kept his hands where they belonged but sent his horse sidling sideways. His knee brushed hers.

  “I beg your pardon.” His voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat and directed his horse a respectable distance away. “Perhaps it is a good thing that he gets to know you before meeting you. Then you will know his interest is genuine and not based on your beauty.”

  With any luck that statement wouldn’t haunt him when she found out the truth.

  Which meant he was doomed. He and luck had parted ways a long time ago.

  She smiled and made a swipe at the wayward hairs. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  The web of lies he’d constructed slid to the back of his mind. The part of him that knew they were equals, that he was more than suitable, fought its way to the fore, squashing the inner words of caution with a sharp right hook.

  His gaze zeroed in on the green eyes he so often avoided connecting with. “I think you are splendid.”

  “I . . . Thank you.” The words were barely audible, carried away on the wind.

  Time stretched.

  “I like talking to you.” Her words smashed together, as if they’d tumbled out in a rush before she could stop them. “When I give you my letters, you always seem to have something interesting to say.”

  What would she think if she knew he spent hours as he went to sleep at night coming up with what to say when he saw her next? Time he should have spent on the case. It was a dangerous game he was playing, trying to get to know her as duke and as valet. She deserved better.

  “Miranda, I—”

  “I apologize for the delay. Sudden business with my steward.” Griffith trotted up the hill, breaking the trance and reminding Ryland of his chosen role.

  What had he been about to say? Did it matter? Calling her by her name was an inexcusable breach of character.

  He pulled back on his horse until the animal backed behind Miranda. She’d have to turn fully around in the saddle to see him. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I fear I must return to the house. I need to prepare your jacket for this evening.”

  Griffith’s eyebrows shot up as he looked from Ryland to Miranda and back again. Nothing was going to reassure Griffith this time. The man was going to demand answers.

  Ryland needed to find some of his own first, though. It was imperative that he solve this case so he could discard the disguise. He nodded at Griffith and turned his horse.

  He wasn’t going back to the house, though. No word had yet arrived on whether or not his traps had worked. He couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to discard a bit of caution in the name of finding a traitor.

  She had lost her mind. That was the only explanation. It was time to pack her bags and head to Bedlam.

  Miranda stood in the doorway to the library watching Marlow select a book from the crammed bookshelf. He was the most well-read servant she’d ever met.

  He was the strangest servant she’d ever met.

  Which was part of the problem. Even before the encounter on the hill this morning, she’d spent too much time telling herself not to think about mesmerizing grey eyes and kind, profound statements.

  “More Shakespeare?” She expected him to whirl or jump or some other reaction that showed surprise. There was nothing. He kept looking at the books. Had he known she was there the whole time, staring at him? How embarrassing.

  “Possibly. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Oh.”

  Miranda moved to the middle of the room, feeling awkward. She should be at dinner. Her stomach was so tense that she doubted she’d be able to eat a bite until this matter was settled.

  At length he turned. His eyes went to the folded blue paper in her hand. “Would you like me to post that for you,
my lady?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His direct gaze jerked to her face. He stared. What was he looking for? Was he finding it?

  She broke the contact first, turning to pace the edges of the room, trailing her fingers along the back of a chair and then the edge of a bookcase. “I don’t know if it’s wise. I don’t really know this man.”

  “Isn’t that the purpose of the letters, my lady?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Will you . . . did you ask him if he intends to come to London next year?”

  She toyed with the stiff blue rectangle. “Yes.”

  “Then, perhaps you will soon know the wisdom of the endeavor.”

  Miranda slid the letter onto the desk, afraid she’d crumple it if she continued to hold it. She’d poured her heart out in that letter. Treated it like the private letters she used to write.

  “You ride very well.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Thank you.”

  “Your father was not a servant.”

  He hesitated before answering. “No, my lady, he wasn’t.”

  “What was he, then?” What was she doing, asking him these questions? It didn’t matter that he was the most attractive man she’d ever met and she found herself looking forward to their brief encounters, the insight he provided. Nothing could come of it. Even if he was a gentleman fallen on hard times, she’d have to do the pursuing. He couldn’t court her from her brother’s dressing room.

  The hesitation was longer this time. “He was a hard man, my lady.”

  “No, that’s not what I—”

  “I know what you meant,” he said softly. “I’ll see to your letter.”

  “Of course. Yes.” Miranda thought she would be sick. Had he seen through her questions? Was he telling her how ridiculous she was being? She hurried to the door, tripping over the edge of the wool rug.

  The voices of her siblings drifted from the dining room. She ran up the stairs instead, the headache she’d claimed earlier becoming all too real.

  When the footsteps faded, Ryland crossed the room and shut the door. The blue paper screamed at him from the desk. It was thick. Thicker than anything else she’d sent him. He flicked the lock.