A Noble Masquerade

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  It would have to do.

  She paced back and forth in front of her new friend and began talking. After repeating everything she knew, nothing was any clearer than it had been fifteen minutes prior.

  “I don’t understand. It always works at home. What am I missing?”

  Ryland stabbed his hand through his hair. “What am I missing?”

  Jess looked around at the men’s faces. “Perhaps you could ask—”

  “I’m not asking Miranda. I will not involve her in this.” Ryland bit off the words, cutting short the suggestion Jess had made five times in as many minutes.

  “She is the one who found the other note.” Jeffreys examined the toes of his shoes, avoiding Ryland’s murderous glare.

  “No. I will not put her in any more danger than she is just by being here.”

  Jess sighed and dropped her forehead to the table. “You would only be talking to her, Ryland.”

  “No.”

  “All right, then. I’m going to bed. Unlike you lazy blokes, I have to get up and stoke the fires in the morning.” Jess pushed away from the table and headed for the stairs. “I suggest you all turn in as well. There’s obviously a clue we have yet to find and I doubt it’s here in this kitchen.”

  “Jess.” Ryland leaned against the table, his shoulders slumped beneath the rare feeling of desperation. “One more time. Let’s go over everything one more time. Then I’ll need you to help me get Miranda home. She can’t stay the night in my study, and I can’t take her myself.”

  Tense silence filled the room. Jess finally returned to the table. “Okay. When did the first note show up?”

  “It’s ridiculous, really,” Miranda said to the globe. “Why the tea tray? It could have gone to anyone. Mrs. Brantley always keeps several at the ready when the weather is bad because we are forever ringing for tea to warm our insides. It’s not always worth the hassle of lighting a fire.”

  She paced back and forth, hands clasped behind her at the small of her back. Five steps to the edge of the carpet, turn, five steps to the other edge, repeat.

  “Ryland obviously doesn’t have the same philosophy. Of course, his house seems to be a bit draftier than ours. He should really look into fixing that.

  “It was under the teapot, so whoever left it was in the kitchen. That makes nearly every servant an option. We didn’t have the paper this morning. Gibson said it was because even the delivery boys were having trouble slogging through the weather. It really makes me wonder what drove Mr. Montgomery to drive out in it. It took him nearly half an hour to dry off in . . . the . . . kitchen . . .”

  Miranda stared at the note. What if it hadn’t been meant for Griffith? What if it hadn’t been for anyone at Hawthorne House? That would explain Ryland receiving an identical note. If the culprit thought he’d lost the first one, he could write a second one. And who had more to gain from Ryland’s untimely death than the next in line for the title?

  Ryland didn’t know that his cousin had been to visit Miranda. He would never think to tie Mr. Montgomery to a threat on Griffith. He could be in mortal danger right now! If Miranda was right, and Mr. Montgomery had decided he would rather be referred to as “His Grace,” then the killer had free rein of his target’s house.

  She ran to the door, prepared to bang on it until she broke through if that’s what it would take to get Ryland to listen to her. Her hand stalled inches from the door. Was Mr. Montgomery home? No one had said he was home, but if you were planning on murdering someone wouldn’t you claim to be elsewhere?

  Banging wasn’t an option. She couldn’t risk gaining Mr. Montgomery’s attention before attaining Ryland’s. She knelt and pressed her eye to the keyhole, hoping to see the guard Ryland had promised. There didn’t appear to be anyone outside the door. Had he counted on the mere threat of a guard to keep her inside?

  She tried the latch. It was truly locked.

  She flattened to the ground and peered underneath, looking for a shadow or shoes. Though how she could know whether or not they belonged to Mr. Montgomery was beyond her.

  Nothing.

  What else could she do? She stood and looked around the room, praying for inspiration. The embroidery of the bellpull caught the firelight, mocking her. Why hadn’t she started there? Despite Miranda’s lack of affection for the woman, Jess would be able to get the information to Ryland.

  Miranda’s stomach churned at the thought of the disdain on Jess’s face when Miranda had to admit she needed the other girl’s help. It wasn’t Miranda’s fault she was raised as a normal person. Everyone couldn’t be spies.

  She stomped her way across the room and yanked on the pull with a force fed by the surge of agitation. The top of the pull slapped her in the head before falling useless to the floor. It wasn’t the first time she’d dismantled a bellpull with an overly enthusiastic tug, but it was certainly the most inconvenient.

  No bellpull, no guard, no way of making sure Ryland was the one who heard her if she yelled. All her life Miranda had been told to be a lady, to do as instructed, to stay out of trouble, but Miranda could never live with herself if she stood in this study while Ryland’s cousin tried to kill him.

  What would her mother do if she were locked in the study with an urgent message? Miranda frowned at the tea. Her mother would have gently rung the bell and then finished her tea while she waited.

  What would Jess do if she were locked in the study with an urgent message? Probably pick the lock.

  Miranda kicked aside the useless bellpull. She couldn’t be a lady like her mother or a partner like Jess, but she could find a way to help Ryland. Rain pelted the doors leading to the back garden. There was more than one way into the rest of the house. With a deep breath, Miranda flung the doors open and darted into the rain.

  “That’s it, Ryland. We’ll have to wait until we know something else. I’ll go see Miranda home for you.” Jess rose from the table once more and made her way to the stairs.

  “Don’t ask her anything, Jess.” Ryland rolled his neck back and forth.

  “Is she such a hothouse flower, then? If she’s so delicate, what do you see in her?”

  Price placed a heavy hand on Ryland’s shoulder. “She’s been gently bred, Jess. Remember how you were. I remember hauling your carcass out of a pond when you didn’t consider that a dock could have been rigged as a trap.”

  Jess huffed and looked the other way. “All right, I won’t ask her anything. But if she can’t handle this, Ryland, can she handle being married to you?”

  She darted silently up the stairs. Ryland hated that she’d asked the question he’d been ignoring. Even if he never did another minute of spy work, Ryland would never be the same as his peers. What kind of life was that for Miranda?

  “Shall we retire, Your Grace?” Jeffreys stood as a servant awaiting instruction. Considering that five minutes earlier he had been hotly arguing for an inquisition of the entire household, his servient posture struck Ryland as funny. He understood Jeffreys’ underlying message though. It was time for Ryland to remember that he wasn’t a spy any longer. He had chosen to resume his duties as a peer of the realm.

  “Yes, Jeffreys, I think that would be best.”

  Jess came falling back into the room. “She’s gone.”

  Ryland’s heart froze, his breath evaporated.

  “Was there a struggle?” Price came forward and slapped Ryland between the shoulder blades.

  “There’s a globe with a napkin on it, but it doesn’t look like it put up much of a fight.”

  Ryland tried to wrap his mind around that statement, but it was stuck back at “She’s gone.”

  He could figure out the globe part later. Right now they had to find Miranda. “Spread out. Price and Jess, start from the study and work your way back. Don’t forget to check the garden. Jeffreys, have my horse saddled and brought round front. I’ll search the roads.”

  Ryland raced up the stairs, intent on gaining the front door as quickly as possible. He pause
d in the front hall and took a detour around by the study. Sure enough, there sat a globe with a napkin on it. In spite of the danger, a grin split his face. He was fairly certain Miranda could handle a life that wasn’t quite normal.

  Chapter 33

  Running from the warm study into the rain had not been her brightest moment. Worry for Ryland made her do things without considering the ramifications. Even if she found a way back into the house, was Ryland even still there? Had he left to search for clues? To confront the enemy?

  Rain had long ago seeped through the final layer of her clothes, making her ambivalent to the stream of water coursing down the back of her neck. Much more annoying were the lank strands of hair the wind kept flinging across her eyes. What had once been light, fashionable curls framing her face were now heavy, sopping hanks of hair, whipped hither and yon by the dancing wind, occasionally catching on her lashes, and once entangling in a holly bush.

  She tried every door and window on the ground floor, but all of them were locked and none of the rooms held Ryland. Her best chance was the front door. Returning to the study would gain her nothing. She needed to find Ryland.

  Unfortunately getting to the front door was easier said than done. Montgomery House shared walls with its neighbors, making a trip from the back to the front of the house a long walk. A long walk through a series of gardens where anyone could lie in wait for her or sneak up behind without her noticing.

  “Think like a spy, Miranda. Show Ryland that you can play at his party. I may not be as proficient as Jess, but I will not let her be the only courageous woman in his life.”

  She listened to the sounds of the garden. It seemed to pulse, with occasional periods of extended rustling as a long, angry finger of wind stabbed through the hedges. If she varied her pace, she should be able to make the same sort of unpredictable noise pattern. Maybe she could avoid drawing attention to herself.

  Making her way from garden to garden proved easier than she expected. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the delineation in the wall to mark the change from house to house. Some of them had walls and fences, others hedges or pathways. Sooner than she expected, she saw the decorative gate around Marlborough house, indicating she’d reached the western end of Pall Mall.

  Stepping onto the footpath alongside the cobbled road, she attempted to shake out her skirts. The soggy muslin clung to her legs and the lightweight cloak did little to hide the indecent fit of her wet gown. She quelled at the thought of Ryland seeing her like this.

  “A lady never goes out looking less than her best.”

  Years of lectures and training told her to go home as quickly as she could. But if Ryland didn’t know who his enemy was, he could put himself in danger inadvertently.

  Traffic was incredibly nonexistent. Had the weather been better, the roads would have been crowded with carriages returning from the night’s festivities. The most dangerous part of her walk was going to be the expanse across St. James’s Street, where many of the gentlemen’s clubs were. If anywhere was going to be filled with people, it would be there.

  Sure enough, a curricle pulled onto Pall Mall from St. James’s as she walked past the intersection. She wanted to run but restrained herself. Running would only make the curricle driver more curious about her.

  “Well, hello!”

  Miranda glanced around the side of her hood, intending to continue walking without acknowledging the greeting. Her eyes made out the shadowy face, nose, and cheekbones highlighted by a small carriage lantern, shielded from the rain by the half top of the curricle.

  Her feet froze. Water numbed her toes and she realized she was standing in a puddle, but still, she couldn’t move. Of all the things she had considered, running into Mr. Montgomery wasn’t one of them.

  She had to move. Walk on. If she kept her hood up and her face averted, she could avoid the light from the gas streetlamps. Her only hope was to make it to the safety of Montgomery House before he recognized her. As that was probably Mr. Montgomery’s destination as well, she prayed that Ryland or his butler were very close to the front door.

  The curricle kept pace with her, and it became increasingly difficult to evade the light from the lampposts. Ryland would have to live on the most well-lit street in London.

  Miranda turned her head as she passed another lamppost, using the movement to see if she could guess Mr. Montgomery’s next actions. Lightning suddenly illuminated the street, causing her to blink at the sudden brightness. Miranda turned her gaze to the heavens and then to Gregory’s face, locking eyes with his startled gaze. “Truly, God? You couldn’t have waited another five seconds?”

  In that instant, he had recognized her. What would he be thinking? What reason other than the truth could he come up with for her being so near to Ryland’s house, alone, at this time of night?

  “Lady Miranda?”

  Her feet screamed at her to let them run toward Ryland’s house. Another part of her brain told her to stay calm. If she drew attention to the fact that she was now terrified of this man, he would know he’d been discovered. Who knew what he would do then?

  She would brazen it out. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot stay. Unfortunate circumstances force me to seek shelter at my brother’s home. You understand.”

  Blood pounded in her ears as she fought every instinct she had. Calmly turning her back on him, she crossed the street as if she were headed home instead of toward Ryland’s. Her breathing grew harsh and loud, combining with her pounding heart to obscure all sound. Was Mr. Montgomery driving away? Walking after her?

  St. James’s Square came into view.

  “Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.” Miranda repeated the mantra. If she could maintain these two things, she would make it to Trent’s house. She crossed into the park area of the square without incident. The trees at the far side of St. James’s Square beckoned her. Beyond them, she could lose Mr. Montgomery by taking a number of different streets and alleys to cross over to Mount Street.

  She looked over the square as she emerged from the small park. Empty. Damp air filled her lungs as she took her first full breath in five very long minutes. All she had to do was jog down York Street and she could wend her way over to Mount Street with no one the wiser.

  Just beyond the square, however, York Street was blocked.

  Mr. Montgomery tipped his hat. “I cannot allow you to walk in such horrific weather, my lady. Allow me to escort you home.”

  Water dripped off the brim of Ryland’s hat as he rode through the rain. He covered the length of Pall Mall and was making his way along the back alleys and side streets. Alarm was now spreading through the Hawthorne household, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d had to know if Miranda had somehow made it home, and it was either break into his friend’s house or bang on the door until the butler was roused.

  Banging on the door was considerably more efficient.

  She hadn’t made it home. Nor had she gone to Trent’s house. It would be a while before Trent would know of his sister’s disappearance since he was waiting the storm out at his club as far as his valet knew. That meant she was likely somewhere in between.

  It was possible she had ducked into the house of a friend, but who would she trust that much with her reputation? For it was sure to be ruined after roaming London alone. Not that he cared. He would marry her anyway. If blemished reputation mattered to him, he would never have done anything as scandalous as become a spy.

  An hour later, he slipped in his front door, shucking his dripping overcoat and gloves. Not wanting to spread more water through the house than necessary, he sat on the floor to pry off his wet boots. After several minutes he gave up and stretched out on the cold marble floor.

  He needed to think, and he desperately needed some sleep, but being defeated by a pair of soggy boots left him despondent. It wasn’t the first time he’d ridden through the rain. Had his boots been so much looser before? Probably. He’d generally worn peasant clothing when on a mission and those men didn’t have
the luxury of a valet to pry tight leather from their legs.

  Ryland’s eyes drifted shut. Where is Miranda?

  “What in the name of . . . Are you dead?” Aunt Marguerite’s voice seeped into the edges of his brain. Was she talking to him?

  Something hard and blunt poked him in the ribs. He managed a grunt.

  “Are you really going to oblige me by expiring in the middle of the front hall? Is there blood? Are you shot? I don’t want to ruin the floors in here.”

  More poking. It hurt. Ryland snatched the offending object and flung it across the hall. The sound of glass breaking was followed by a scream from his aunt. The demise of a vase distressed her more than the potential death of her nephew. How touching.

  Ryland frowned. In fact, she seemed to relish the possibility of his untimely end. Maybe he should continue the charade, though after that splendid display of reflexes, he’d be hard-pressed to convince her of his impending doom.

  What would she expect of a person when they were about to die? Ryland had seen more than his share of death over the years, but he doubted Aunt Marguerite knew anything about it. If he put on a good show, she would probably believe it. He groaned as low and loud as he could, before thrashing about on the floor, slipping through the growing puddle of water. Slowly he calmed the thrashing to the occasional twist, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, in case she was watching for the rise and fall of his chest.

  “Ryland?”

  He twitched. His knuckle cracked against the marble floor. He bit his tongue to contain the groan.

  “Ryland?”

  She had retrieved the cane and started poking him again.

  “Are you breathing?”

  The pokes traveled to his chest. Ryland held his breath.

  “It worked. I can’t believe it worked. Oh, my bright, bright boy. I don’t know how you did it, but you won’t regret it.”