by Jane Feather
He had ducked his head beneath the low lintel of the inn, when the unmistakable sounds of a hue and cry surged around the corner from Snargate Street. He stepped back to the narrow dirt-packed lane just as a blur of orange flashed past. The pursuing crowd bellowing "Stop, thief." would have knocked him from his feet if he hadn't jumped back into the doorway.
Ordinarily, the prospect of mob justice wouldn't have concerned Gareth in the least. Beatings and stonings were a fact of life when the populace took the law into their own hands with one of their own, and no one gave them a second thought. It was more than likely that the girl was a thief. The life she led tended to engender a rather relaxed attitude to other people's property.
He turned again to the promise of ale and a pipe of tobacco in the tavern's taproom, and then hesitated. Suppose she wasn't guilty? If the hue and cry caught her, innocence wouldn't save her from their rough justice. They wouldn't stop to ask questions. And even if she was guilty, the thought of her being subjected to a mauling mob revolted him.
He turned back to the street and walked briskly in the wake of the hue and cry. Judging by the continued baying they hadn't caught her yet.
Chapter Two
Miranda, a gibbering Chip clinging to her neck, dived into a narrow gap between two houses. It was so small a space that, even as slight as she was, she had to stand sideways, pressed between the two walls, barely able to breathe. Judging by the cesspit stench, the space was used as a dump for household garbage and human waste and she found it easier to hold her breath anyway.
Chip babbled in soft distress, his scrawny little arms around her neck, his small body shivering with fear. She stroked his head and neck even while silently cursing his passion for small shiny objects. He hadn't intended to steal the woman's comb, but no one had given her a chance to explain.
Chip, fascinated by the silver glinting in the sunlight, had settled on the woman's shoulder, sending her into a paroxysm of panic. He'd tried to reassure her with his interested chatter as he'd attempted to withdraw the comb from her elaborate coiffure. He'd only wanted to examine it more closely, but how to tell that to a hysterical burgher's wife with prehensile fingers picking through her hair as if searching for lice?
Miranda had rushed forward to take the monkey away and immediately the excitable crowd had decided that she and the animal were in cahoots. Miranda, from a working lifetime's familiarity with the various moods of a crowd, had judged discretion to be the better part of valor in this case and had fled, letting loose the entire pack upon her heels.
The baying pack now hurtled in full cry past her hiding place. Chip shivered more violently and babbled his fear softly into her ear. "Shhh." She held him more tightly, waiting until the thudding feet had faded into the distance before sliding out of the narrow space.
"I doubt they'll give up so easily."
She looked up with a start of alarm and saw the gentleman from the quay walking toward her, his scarlet silk cloak billowing behind him. She hadn't paid much attention to his appearance earlier, having merely absorbed the richness of garments that marked him as a nobleman. Now she examined him with rather more care. The silver doublet, black-and-gold velvet britches, gold stockings, and silk cloak indicated a gentleman of considerable substance, as did the rings on his fingers and the silver buckles on his shoes. He wore his black hair curled and cut close to his head and his face was unfashionably clean-shaven.
Lazy brown eyes beneath hooded lids regarded her with a glint of amusement. His wide mouth quirked in a smile, revealing exceptionally strong white teeth.
She found herself smiling back, confiding, "We didn't steal anything, milord. It's just that Chip's attracted to things that glitter and he doesn't see why he shouldn't take a closer look."
"Ah." Gareth nodded his understanding. "And I suppose some poor soul objected to the close examination of a monkey?"
Miranda grinned. "Yes, stupid woman. She screamed as if she was being boiled in oil. And the wretched comb was only paste anyway."
Gareth felt a flash of compassion for the unknown hysteric. "I daresay she was unaccustomed to having monkeys on her head," he pointed out.
"Quite possibly, but Chip is perfectly clean and very good-natured. He wasn't going to hurt her."
"Perhaps the object of his attention didn't know that." The glint of amusement grew brighter.
Miranda chuckled. Her predicament somehow seemed much less serious in the company of this lazy-eyed and clearly well-disposed gentleman. "I was about to take him away but they set on me, so I had to run, which made me look guilty."
"Mmm, it would," he agreed. "But I don't see what other choice you had."
"No, exactly so." Miranda's smile suddenly faded. She cocked her head, listening to the renewed sounds of a mob in full cry.
"Come, let's get off the street." The gentleman spoke with sudden urgency." That orange gown is as distinctive as a beacon."
Miranda hesitated. Her instinct was to flee again, to put as much distance as she could between herself and the approaching hue and cry, but she found her hand seized in a firm warm clasp, and without volition, Chip clinging to her neck, she was half running to keep up with the gentleman's long stride as he returned to the Adam and Eve.
"Why would you bother with me, milord?" She skipped up beside him, her eyes curious as she looked up at him.
Gareth didn't reply. It was a good question and one to which he had no ready answer. There was just something remarkably appealing about her, something both defenseless and indomitable that moved him. He couldn't abandon her to the mob, even though reality told him that she was more than accustomed to dodging such street hazards.
"In here." He urged her through the narrow doorway into the dark interior of the inn with a hand in the small of her back. Her skin was warm beneath the thin fabric of her dress, and looking down at her small head, he saw how white her skin was in the parting of her dark auburn-tinted hair. Almost absently, he brushed the parting with a fingertip. She jumped, looking up at him startled, and he cleared his throat, saying briskly, "Keep a tight hold on that monkey. I'm sure there are bright objects in this place."
Miranda wondered if perhaps she'd imagined that fleeting touch. She looked around critically. "I doubt there's much to catch Chip's eye here. There's too much dust. Even the pewter's tarnished."
“That may be so, but keep hold of him anyway."
"My lord Harcourt." The innkeeper popped out of a doorway at the rear of the narrow passageway. His little eyes gleamed. " The livery stable has a good horse for you as you ordered. Eh, what's that? Get that filthy thing out o' here, you young whore!" He pointed a finger trembling with outrage at Chip, who had begun to recover his equanimit
y and was now perched on Miranda's shoulder, looking around with bright-eyed curiosity.
"Be easy, Molton. The girl's with me and the monkey will do no harm." Gareth turned into the taproom. "Bring me a pipe and a tankard of ale. Oh, and ale for the girl, too."
"I wish I knew why people are afraid of a monkey." Miranda went to the tiny window set low in the lime-washed plaster wall overlooking the lane. She rubbed at the smeared glass with her sleeve until she had achieved a relatively clear patch.
Gareth took the long clay pipe from the landlord, who had filled the bowl with tobacco and now held a lighted taper. Fragrant blue smoke wreathed to the blackened rafters as Lord Harcourt drew pleasurably on the pipe. Miranda watched him, her small, well-shaped nose wrinkling.
"I've never seen anyone do that before. It's not popular in France."
"Then they don't know what they're missing," he said, taking up his tankard and gesturing to the girl that she should take up her own. Miranda drank with him.
"I don't think I like the smell," she observed judiciously. "It makes it difficult to breathe. Chip doesn't appear to like it, either." She gestured to the monkey, who had retreated to the farthest corner of the taproom, one skinny hand over his nose.
"You'll forgive me if I don't find it necessary to take into account the likes and dislikes of a monkey," the earl observed, drawing again on his pipe.
Miranda nibbled her lip. "I didn't mean to be impolite, milord."
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but that same glinting humor was in his eyes and Miranda, reassured, took another gulp of her ale, realizing that she was parched after racing through the streets. She subjected her savior to a covert scrutiny. There was something very relaxed about him as he leaned carelessly against the bar counter, an air that she found as comforting as it was attractive. It gave her a sense of well-being and safety.
What had the innkeeper called him? Ah, Milord Harcourt, that was it. "I would like to thank you for all your kindness, Milord Harcourt," she ventured. "It's not as if we are acquainted in any way."
"Curiously, I'm beginning to feel rather well acquainted with you," he returned, adding wryly, "whether I wish to be or not."
Miranda pressed her nose to the scratched pane, telling herself that it was ridiculous to feel injured, even if it had sounded as if he was mocking her. He had entered her life for the briefest of moments and he would disappear from it as swiftly.
The lane outside was quiet. "I think it's safe for me to leave now. I won't trouble you further, milord."
Gareth looked surprised. That deep melodious voice had an edge to it. "If you're sure it's safe," he said. "You're welcome to remain in here as long as you wish."
"Thank you, but I should go." She turned toward the door. "And thank you again, milord, for your many kindnesses." She offered him a rather jerky little bow and disappeared from the taproom. The monkey leaped back on her shoulder and offered Gareth an obscene gesture with one prehensile digit, letting loose a stream of chatter that sounded unmistakably belligerent.
Ungrateful beast, Gareth reflected, drawing on his pipe. But the girl's astonishing resemblance to Maude continued to occupy his mind. It was said that for every person on earth there existed a double, but he'd never given such a fancy the time of day before.
"You'll be wantin' supper, my lord?" Molton reappeared in the taproom.
"In an hour." Gareth finished his pipe and ale. "I'm going to the livery stables to look at that horse. And I'll
need a bed for the night. I'll pay for the privilege of one to myself, and a private chamber if you have one."
"Oh, aye, m'lord. A nice chamber above the wash-house, just right for one." Molton bowed, his head almost knocking against his knees. "But I'll have to charge a crown for it, m'lord. I could put three folk in the bed without it seeming a crowd."
Gareth's mobile eyebrows lifted. "But I thought I heard you to say it was just right for one?"
"It's perfect for one, m'lord," Molton explained with dignity. "But it's suitable for three."
"Ah, I see. The situation is now perfectly clear." Gareth picked up his jeweled gloves from the bar counter. "Have my traps taken up to the washhouse chamber then, and I'll sit to table when I get back." He strolled out of the inn, leaving Molton nodding and bowing like a jack-in-the-box at the earl's retreating rear.
The horse on offer in the livery stable was a mere nag, but it would carry him the seventy miles to London if he nursed it, and it wasn't as if he was in a desperate hurry. Imogen would be on tenterhooks, of course, and Miles would be scurrying around in search of a hiding place from the relentless barrage of complaints and speculation. But Gareth's ears were already ringing in anticipation of his sister's shrill excitement together with her husband's weak counterpoint, and he was not eager to face the reality.
Not for the first time, he wondered how he had let his sister assume the responsibility of his household. After the dreadful debacle with Charlotte, lost in the maze of his own secret guilt, he had somehow dropped his guard, and Imogen was a past mistress at seizing any opening where her brother was concerned. Before he had been fully aware of it, she and her entire household, including the incredibly annoying Maude, were installed in his house in the Strand, Imogen's mission to comfort him in his grief and keep house for him. And five years later they were still there.
Imogen was a difficult, temperamental woman, but her one all-consuming passion was for her young brother's well-being. On the death of their mother, she had taken on the ten-year-old Gareth as her life's commitment. Twelve years older than he, she had smothered him with an affection that had no other outlet… and still hadn't. Her hapless husband, Miles, had to make do with whatever crumbs fell from the table. And Gareth, while steadfastly resisting the smothering, hadn't the heart to deliberately hurt his sister. Oh, he knew her faults: her overweening ambition for the Harcourt family that had its roots in her ambitions for her brother, her violent temper, her lack of consideration for her servants and her dependents, her extravagance. But he still couldn't bring himself to shut her out of his life as he so longed to do.
And Imogen in her zeal to organize her brother's happiness had even found him a perfect prospective wife to fill Charlotte's shoes. Lady Mary Abernathy, a childless widow in her late twenties, was an impeccable choice. An impeccable woman. One who, in Imogen's words, would never put a foot wrong. She would know exactly how to perform as Lady Harcourt and Gareth need never fear that she would fail in her duty.
Gareth's mouth took a wry turn. It was impossible to imagine Lady Mary failing in her duty wherever it might lie. Unlike Charlotte, who had had no concept of duty at all. But Charlotte had bee
n a scarlet vibrant creature where Mary was as pale and still as an alabaster monument. The first had brought him misery, shame, and guilt. Mary wouldn't take him to the dizzy heights of bliss, but by the same token she would be incapable of hurling him into the depths of humiliation and raging despair. A man had but one chance at happiness and he'd wasted his, so he supposed he must be prepared to settle for peace and quiet.
His lip curled involuntarily. For some perverse reason it always did when he reasoned with himself along these lines. Not that domestic peace and quiet was a likelihood in the near future… once Imogen had come to grips with Henry's proposal of marriage to Maude.
He was officially Maude's guardian, appointed when her father had died and she had been sent to her nearest relatives in England. But Imogen had always taken responsibility for the girl and until recently he had barely noticed the existence of the pale ailing shadow living in a corner of his house. But once Imogen had decided on Maude's future he'd been forced to pay attention to his ward's character-one that seemed to veer between chronic long-suffering invalidism and mulish obstinacy. She would not easily accept the future prepared for her.
