A Noble Masquerade

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  “I thought he was your valet. Pardon me, your former valet.” The shock dissipated, leaving anger in its wake. This man had played with her and her emotions. She thought through all the conversations. The trip through the countryside.

  The letters. The letters were by far the worst. She crossed her arms over her middle, trying to banish the feeling of exposure. She was covered from neck to ankle, but she felt as if she were standing there in only her shift.

  Her eyes connected with his. With no guise between them, the full power of his focus nearly knocked her over. She heard Griffith’s voice; the angry, confused tone washed through her head but none of the actual words registered. All of her mind’s energy was caught up in trying to discern Ryland’s thoughts, if that was indeed his actual name. Griffith had always referred to him by his title or the shortened version of it. She made a mental note to find a copy of Debrett’s Peerage when this was over and look up his given name.

  Ryland’s head tilted to the side, but his eyes never left hers. She wondered if he was trying to read her mind as she was trying to read his. He knew so many of her inner secrets. Had he read the other letters? The ones she kept in a trunk in her room? The mere possibility made her want to hit him again. Her emotions were too raw to contain the urge.

  She surged forward, her already sore hand raised in a fist.

  Griffith’s brawny arm snagged her in midstride. He hauled her up against his chest, his forearm digging into her stomach. Miranda’s arms and legs flung wildly through the air as she tried to reach her nemesis.

  “How could you do that to me?” she screeched. It was possible they could hear her in the drawing room, but she didn’t care. “I trusted you!”

  Those dynamic silver eyes shifted from her face to her swinging arm.

  “You’ll break your thumb if you hit me that way.”

  She gave up the ineffectual struggle and simply hung in Griffith’s grip. “What?”

  He gestured toward her still-clenched fingers. “Your thumb. It’s tucked into your fist. You can break it that way. Too much pressure on the knuckle if you hit with any force. I can teach you the proper way.”

  Miranda blinked. “You want to teach me how to hit you?”

  “If you like.”

  Trent laughed so hard he fell back into a chair.

  Miranda could feel Griffith lean to the side, presumably to glare at his younger brother. That never worked. It only ever made Trent laugh harder.

  Griffith placed Miranda’s feet on the ground and slowly released her. Her heart was pounding, her breathing was too fast—as if she had run all the way home from Hyde Park. The next few moments could change her life.

  Ryland had crushed her heart when he walked away from Riverton. Her confidence was in shambles because he had come back as someone else. He had destroyed what remained of her fragile trust in men. He held the power to ruin her socially and publicly embarrass her beyond repair. She had to know the extent of her danger and his intentions.

  “How many did you . . .” she whispered. She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her brothers were still in the room, and they were listening to every word. There was going to be enough to explain without mentioning the letters. She would have to find another way to determine whether or not he’d found the trunk full of years of private thoughts and ramblings.

  “Only the ones you know about,” he answered. Chills ran down her spine at the knowledge that he was so attuned to her that he’d known what she was asking. And knew there’d been more letters.

  Griffith stepped between them, his head swiveling back and forth to look at both of them. “Would one of you please tell me what is going on here?”

  Miranda turned to her brother with a sigh. Curiosity was evident, but there was no shock in his eyes. Wasn’t he surprised to see Ryland? It was obviously the same man. The hair was different, but—

  She snapped her head back to Ryland. The long black queue had been replaced with short brown hair. “Your hair . . .”

  “Silver nitrate,” he answered, ignoring Griffith completely.

  She’d heard of people using it to color their hair black. When used for excessively long periods it tended to discolor the eyes so he must have used it for the express purpose of fooling the occupants of Riverton. Only Griffith had not been fooled.

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at her oldest brother. The head of the family. The man sworn to protect and care for her. He’d known who Ryland was. The two of them had been eighteen the last time they saw each other, at least to her knowledge. Old enough to be able to recognize each other, even so many years later. And Griffith had kept in touch with Ryland. So he knew. He had brought the impostor into their house for some reason she could not imagine, to trick them all and then show up in London to prove them to be utter fools.

  She turned her wrath on her sibling, lunging for his throat. His height meant that she hit his chest instead of his neck, but surprise sent him stumbling back several paces until he bumped against a large footstool. Using one foot to launch off the upholstered stool, Miranda went for his head.

  Trent laughed so hard he fell to the floor.

  “You did this!” She yelled as she hammered at Griffith’s broad shoulders. “You made fools of us! Every one of us! He’s no more a valet than I am!”

  Ryland snatched her off of Griffith, who had been struggling to shield himself from her blows and shake her off without hurting her. Once more she found herself pinned to a man’s chest, but this one did not belong to her brother, and she couldn’t have been more aware of that fact.

  Lean muscles moved and bunched against her back as Ryland hauled her across the room to the window. His body heat was immense. It felt as if she were standing against a roaring fire. When he set her down and turned her around, her first thought was to throw herself back into the warmth. The emotional upheaval was exhausting her.

  He took her shoulders in his hands and leaned down. His handsome face was earnest as he searched her eyes.

  “Miranda, I—”

  “No. No, I can’t do this. I don’t know why any of this happened—and right now, I don’t care.” A look at her brothers revealed worry and confusion. She must look like a madwoman. Even Trent had stopped laughing and looked concerned.

  Humiliation swelled as she came to her senses. She had not had such an emotional outburst since she was a child. Years had passed since she’d allowed herself to let go and give her emotions such free reign. Mother had taught her well. Under no circumstances did she allow herself to lose control anymore.

  Shame blurred her vision. She would never recover from this. Eventually she would have to face Griffith and Trent—they were family—but Ryland was a different story.

  A lady could always avoid any unpleasant person if she tried hard enough, even at an intimate dinner party.

  Miranda was a lady. It was time for her to remember that.

  She squared her shoulders and stuck her nose in the air. With conscious, controlled movements, she strolled to the door.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she murmured as she opened the door. She slipped into the passageway and closed the portal quietly behind her. Maintaining a steadfast grip on her forced calm, she went up the stairs and entered her room, utterly thankful she passed no one on the way.

  Then she threw herself onto the bed and cried.

  Ryland watched Miranda’s stiff back depart the study. He wanted—no, he needed—to explain things to her, but now was not the time. The surprise, shock, and concern mingling now on her brothers’ faces revealed that they’d had no idea of the riotous emotions that boiled beneath Miranda’s serene surface. The glimpse he had gotten in her letters had prepared him somewhat.

  When the door clicked, Griffith turned his attention to Ryland. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”

  Ryland debated how much to tell Griffith. In the end the letters weren’t his secret; they were Miranda’s. He was good at not divulging secrets. His friendship with Griffith
was important. His integrity was more so. “I’ve decided to return to London.”

  Griffith’s eyebrows rose. “So I see. Should I regret allowing you into my home last year?”

  “That avenue of information to the French is broken. I consider that a worthwhile outcome.” Ryland crossed to the decanter and poured himself a glass of brandy to give himself something to do. Knowing Griffith, it was likely the same brandy that had been here three years ago, when he had made a brief visit to his friend.

  “And my sister?”

  “With any luck and God’s blessing the war will never touch her directly.” Ryland swirled the brandy and contemplated the shifting ripples. How long could he stall his old friend? No matter how strong their ties were, family was more important to Griffith. That was as it should be. The fact that Ryland would choose Griffith’s well-being over that of his aunt and cousin was more an indication of his lack of connection to his relations than the strength of his ties to his old school chum.

  Griffith leaned back against the desk, looking deceptively relaxed. Ryland had seen him use similar tactics in school to lull people into a false sense of security before maneuvering them right where he wanted them. Ryland kept his guard up.

  The slightly larger man cleared his throat and examined his hand. “I’m not well trained, but I do know not to tuck in my thumb.” His gaze rose to meet Ryland’s. “And I think sheer size will give me a little more power.”

  “I won’t stop you.”

  Griffith tensed, though he remained against the desk. “Are you saying I need to?”

  Trent stepped between the two, hands raised, poised to keep them separated should one of them decide to lunge for the other. There was no danger from Ryland. Should Griffith decide to call Ryland on the carpet for misleading his sister, he had no defense without divulging more than Miranda would like. It was alarming, but what Miranda would like was increasingly important to him.

  “Now, look,” Trent said, his head swinging back and forth between the two older men. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I do know one thing. Marsh is an honorable man. Griffith, you have held him up for me as an example of a man triumphing over his circumstances and—”

  Ryland bit back a chuckle.

  Trent threw him a dirty look before continuing, “—and I am sure that he has done nothing to dishonor our sister.” He turned to face Ryland fully. “But if he has, let me take a go at him. I’ve trained.”

  Griffith had spoken often about how worried he was about how his younger brother would turn out without a father to guide him through his formative years, but somewhere along that span of time, Trent had become a man under all the joviality and charm. Ryland was glad to know it.

  Trent crossed his arms over his chest. “So tell me. Did you hurt my sister? Because I can plant you a facer right now that will leave your ears ringing for a month.”

  Griffith’s hand appeared on Trent’s shoulder. “I will handle this, Trent.”

  “She’s my sister too. You may be a giant, but I’ve seen you fight. We could bring Miranda back down here. At least she can jump on his back.”

  Ryland grinned, his respect and liking of Trent rising even with the threat of having to engage in fisticuffs with him. It was a rare man who could effectively threaten a bloke and tease a brother in the same breath.

  Ryland let his gaze fall to Trent’s hand, already starting to curl. Apparently he was taking too long to answer the younger man’s question.

  Recalling Trent’s choice of words wiped the smile from Ryland’s face. Trent hadn’t asked if Ryland had been honorable. The question had been whether or not he’d hurt Miranda. Had he? Some of the emotion boiling through her right now was bound to be hurt, but that would go away when he explained everything. Wouldn’t it?

  The truth was she’d taken his unmasking a bit harder than he’d anticipated, which could be an indication that she wouldn’t view the entire business the same way he did.

  So what did that mean the answer to Trent’s question was?

  Chapter 20

  Ryland prided himself on being an honest man, particularly when not on a mission. It could be said that he had frequently implied things that weren’t true, but rarely had he actually lied. It was a fine line, and one that meant little to anyone but himself given his chosen profession, but the line was there nonetheless. He’d gone nine years in subterfuge without crossing it and he wasn’t about to start now.

  “I think her display speaks for itself. Women don’t like to be deceived. I believe she thinks I have misled her and taken advantage of my former position as a servant at Riverton. I believe we can safely say that I have hurt her, though I don’t think it is irrecoverably so.” Ryland finished his speech and braced himself for the first blows.

  Silent moments passed. He began to wonder if Trent was going to choose calm discussion over the effectiveness of a well-placed fist.

  “Darken his daylights,” Griffith rumbled.

  Trent swung his left arm and Ryland braced himself for the blow. The power of the right uppercut to his chin caught him completely by surprise. The pup had been honest as well. He was trained. Ryland was going to have to be a more active participant in this fight than he originally planned. His first line of defense was always his tongue.

  “She’s probably more miffed than hurt.”

  Trent feinted right. Ryland narrowly missed the next punch by leaning sideways. He needed to talk quickly before Griffith decided to hold him in place while Trent pummeled. Griffith might not know how to swing a fist properly, but those were genuine muscles filling out his jacket, and Ryland didn’t want to fight both of them.

  “She thought I was a servant, and now she’s found out I’m a peer. It’s enough to make anyone feel a bit cork-brained for not seeing it.”

  Trent paused and considered Ryland’s statements, hand raised at the ready. Cautiously, Ryland stopped his backward dance along the carpet.

  Griffith stepped forward. “What about the trip?”

  Trent’s eyebrows rose. “What trip?”

  Ryland rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I was abducted and Miranda got caught up in the whole mess. It took us a while to get home.”

  The brothers exchanged dark looks.

  “He was with her all night?” Trent asked.

  Griffith’s nod was grim. “And then he refused to marry her.”

  As soon as the words left Griffith’s mouth, Ryland lifted his hands to defend against what was sure to be a significant blow. Trent’s dart slipped around Ryland’s raised fists, clipping him on the cheek hard enough to toss his head back, throwing his balance off. Fire sliced through his face. Gentleman Jack was certainly turning out some prime fighters these days. He braced himself for the next blow but then remembered he was in front of the high carved fireplace mantel. Blessed darkness covered him before he hit the floor.

  Miranda stared at the ceiling, eyes dry, head throbbing. She didn’t know how long she’d been hiding in her room, but her mother was bound to come in search of her soon. Fortunately she could blame her distress on the earl. Mother never needed to know about the rest of it.

  That was assuming Trent could keep his big mouth shut. When it came to getting his sisters in trouble, the man had looser lips than twelve society matrons. If his laughter was any indication, he was going to delight in telling Mother Miranda had actually hit a duke. Two dukes if she counted her brother.

  She bit back a groan as the door swung open with a quiet swoosh. When no polite tirade on ladylike qualities split the air, Miranda lifted her head to see who had come in. It was her maid, Sally, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Bless you, Sally.” Miranda pushed herself up against the pillows while Sally arranged the tray. “Did my mother send you? She’s probably counting the minutes until she can come and berate me.”

  “Lady Blackstone has been a bit preoccupied.” Sally leaned over to begin repairing Miranda’s coiffure.

  “Would you li
ke me to sit in front of the mirror, Sally?”

  “I’m sure I can manage, my lady. Your hair needs minimal attention. If the tea restores you well enough, you’ll want to return downstairs as soon as possible.”

  The thought of trying to relax with a cup of tea while Sally leaned awkwardly over the bed was decidedly unappealing. She moved to the chair, bringing the steaming cup with her. Sally followed with the tray.

  Once they were situated again, Miranda bit into a warm biscuit. She sought Sally’s eyes in the mirror. “My mother is preoccupied?”

  “Yes, my lady. She did ask after you, but I don’t think she’s had much time or energy to plan your next lady lesson.”

  Miranda grinned. Sally was the only person who had heard Miranda’s term for her mother’s constant improvement sessions. Well, Sally and the now all-too-well-known Duke of Marshington. “What has her so engaged?”

  “Trying to get the body out of the house without anyone noticing. It took quite a while to come up with a plan that wouldn’t attract the attention of everyone in Grosvenor Square.”

  “The body . . . the . . . Wait, what?”

  Miranda jumped up, scattering biscuits across the carpet. She lurched to the door and ran to her brother’s study.

  Griffith and Trent were still there.

  “How could you?” she wailed. “It was a misunderstanding! There had to be a reason—you wouldn’t have let him into Riverton without a reason!” She stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, trying to hold back tears and losing the fight. Yes, she had been mad at him. Yes, she had wanted to cause him bodily harm. But she hadn’t wanted him killed!

  Her brothers both rushed forward, hands awkwardly extended to pat her shoulders. Trent was the first to actually speak. “He all but asked us to, Miranda. He had every opportunity to defend himself.”

  “We couldn’t let his hurting you go by unpunished,” Griffith added.

  Their calmness stunned her. She would never have thought them capable of such violence. “He’ll never have the chance to make it right! I’ll never get to see if maybe, just maybe, he was everything I originally thought him to be.”