by Jane Feather
Miranda wondered exactly what the household made of her presence. She guessed that none of their employers had vouchsafed an explanation. The servants could gossip and speculate to their heart's content about the strange situation and the Lady Maude's look-alike, but servants' gossip wouldn't affect the plans of their masters.
There was nothing for it but the gloomy mausoleum of the green bedchamber. At least she'd have Chip for company. With a nod to the footman, she left, gathering up her cumbersome skirts so she could move more quickly through the dark house, lit only by the occasional candle in a wall sconce.
The green bedchamber was empty. No sign of Chip gibbering his delight at her return. Miranda felt even more forlorn than ever. She made her way to Maude's chamber, knocking quietly at the door. There was no answer but it was opened with prehensile fingers and Chip, still clutching the orange dress, jumped into her arms.
Firelight flickered on the wooden paneling and the beamed ceiling but the only sound was Maude's deep breathing from the enclosed bed. Miranda slipped out again, closing the door softly behind her. Chip chattered into her ear and stroked her cheek and patted her head. It wasn't until they regained her own chamber that he noticed the bracelet on her wrist. With a gleeful burst of chatter, he tried to take it off.
"I suppose there's no harm in giving it to you." Miranda unclasped the bracelet and held it out to him, not sorry to take it Off. If it had belonged to Maude's mother, a betrothal gift from her husband, how then had it come into the hands of Maude's suitor? Had he been a friend of Maude's father? But it was a strange bequest to make to a male friend. Unless it had some deeper significance.
Chip had bounded over to the candlelight and was holding the bracelet up, gibbering with delight at the rich, swirling hues of green and blue in the emerald, the glitter of gold, the roseate glow of the pearls. He slipped it onto his own wrist and bounced back to Miranda, holding up his arm so that the ornament wouldn't fall over his scrawny hand.
"Yes, it looks very pretty on you," Miranda said, laughing, but she took it from him nevertheless, clasping it once again on her own wrist, knowing that if she put it down anywhere, Chip would find it and run off with it. She looked around at her surroundings, the great empty bed in its wooden cupboard, just like a coffin that would swallow her as soon as she climbed into it. She shuddered with distaste and remembering her earlier thirst went to drink from the ewer on the washstand.
All around her the house seemed to be settling for the night, the woodwork creaking, a shutter banging somewhere in the strengthening night wind from the river. She heard a soft footfall in the passage outside. Chip pricked up his ears.
Miranda went to the door and opened it a crack. A servant was walking down the corridor toward Lord Harcourt's bedchamber. He carried a covered tray on the palm of one hand and an oil lamp in the other. He entered milord's chamber at the end of the passage without knocking. It was a full fifteen minutes before he reemerged, without his burdens. He closed the door and came back down the passage, pausing to extinguish all but one of the candles in the sconces. The passage was plunged into darkness, only one pool of pale light fighting the shadows.
Miranda waited until he had disappeared into the yawning depths of the house, then without thinking, in the grip of some powerful compulsion, she hurried on tiptoe along the passage to the earl's chamber. Chip ran soundlessly ahead of her. He knew when to keep silent. The door opened without a creak of its well-oiled hinges, and Miranda and Chip slipped inside.
The oil lamp burned on the dresser, the wick lowered to conserve the fuel. Milord's fur-trimmed chamber robe lay ready on the bed, the heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows, and a tray with a flagon of wine, a basket of savory tarts, and a dish of fruit stood on the table.
The chamber offered a much warmer welcome than her own. Miranda looked around, her heart thudding. She had never felt the urge to trespass before. Never felt the urge to pry, and yet she couldn't help herself. She had to explore this private space, to see what secrets it would yield. The earl's presence was almost palpable, she could almost scent him in the air.
She opened the linen press and inhaled the fragrance of his clothes, all neatly hung, sachets of dried herbs sweetening the air and discouraging moths. His shirts and smallclothes were laid in the deep drawers of the armoire, lavender sprinkled among the layers. She knelt to touch his boots and shoes, pair upon pair of gleaming leather or soft embroidered silk. They were molded in the shape of his foot, as if they had been made on him. But they would have been fitted on him, she knew-the leather or silk cut and shaped to his foot before it was sewn.
She examined the array of vials and jars on the dresser, taking out the stoppers and inhaling the perfumes, dipping a finger into the unguents and fragrant oils, knowing how precious was each drop yet unable to resist the temptation to rub them into her throat, the cleft of her bosom, the bend of her elbow.
The clock striking two shocked her out of her guilty absorption. Her heart hammering against her ribs, she fled to the door, Chip on her heels, and scampered back to her own chamber as if pursued by Lucifer and his fallen angels. In the safety of her own room, she leaned against the door, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as she recovered her breath. The reckless compulsion that had prompted her illicit exploration of the earl's possessions left her weak and shaking now. And filled with guilt and confusion. She passed the back of her hand over her forehead. The skin seemed to burn and her blood was a river in flood, storming through her veins, pounding at her pulses.
"1 can't stay in here," she said aloud and Chip jumped onto the windowsill, regarding her with his head on one side, a question in his bright eye. "Yes, but I'll have to change," she answered. "I can't climb down the ivy in this gown."
Chapter Fourteen
Lord harcourt leaned back against the tavern wall, tipping his stool on its hind legs. He blew a ring of smoke up to the blackened rafters, narrowing his eyes as he took up his tankard of mead. He was drinking deep but it seemed to have no effect on him tonight.
"Your throw, Gareth." Brian leaned forward, squinting against the smoke to push the dice across the upturned ale keg that served as a table.
Gareth took a long swallow from his tankard, set it down, and scooped up the dice. He cradled the bones in his palm, then threw them in a lazy arc across the table.
"Hah! You have the luck of the devil tonight, my friend." Brian swung round on his stool. "Hey, potboy. Over here with that ale jug!"
Gareth brought his stool back onto its four legs. "Nay, I'll drink no more and play no more this night. I've a feeling my luck's about to change for the worse."
"Come, now, Harcourt, you'll not desert us before we've had a chance for our
revenge?" Lord Lenster cried. "'Tis most unsportsmanlike to walk off with your winnings."
Gareth merely smiled. "I'd challenge any man to accuse me of lack of sportsmanship, Lenster. But, indeed, I've a mind to seek my bed." He scooped up the shining pile of guineas, dropping them into the leather pouch he wore at his belt.
"You'll not be rushing back at your sister's behest, I trust?" Brian fished a moth out of his tankard, shaking it free in a shower of ale drops. "You give your sister too much rein, m'boy," he continued, peering into his tankard for any more foreign bodies drawn by the candle. " 'Twas the same with Charlotte."
Gareth's nostrils flared, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. He said nothing and Brian, who had spoken without thought, looked up amiably. Then his already drink-raddled countenance suffused with bright crimson. He looked appealingly at their companions, but they all, including Kip, sat stone-faced, staring into the distance, refusing to meet his eye.
"Beg pardon, Gareth, if I spoke out of turn," Brian mumbled.
Gareth stood up and strode out of the low-ceilinged room, away from the tavern and down to the river.
"It's the truth," Brian said to the table at large, half in defense, half in appeal.
"Aye," Kip responded dourly. "And d'ye think Gareth doesn't know it?"
"He seemed less melancholy tonight," Lenster observed, gathering up the dice. "Until you spoke your mind, Rossiter."
Brian mumbled and held out his tankard to the potboy for a refill.
"This marriage between Roissy and Lady Maude means much to him," Kip observed. "It's subject to viewing, of course. But that'll provide no problems."
"No, indeed, a toothsome wench," Warwick muttered into his mead. "Thought she was supposed to be an invalid. Looked very healthy to me."
"Yes, very," Kip responded, tracing the pattern of an ale spill on the tabletop with a finger. "As if she's never known a day's illness in her life."
"Her marriage to Roissy will put the Harcourts back in the forefront of power in the French court."
"Aye, and by the same token, he'll have Elizabeth's most attentive ear here," Kip murmured, as if to himself. "She's ever one to milk those best placed for information from abroad."
"I've long thought it strange that Gareth should choose to stand idle these days, when he used to be so much a force, used to wield so much influence," Lord Lenster mused.
"It was meat and drink to him," Brian agreed. "Before…"
There was no need for him to finish his sentence, and Kip said obliquely, "It's to be hoped his marriage to Mary Abernathy will prove fruitful."
"Aye. And that one'll give him no trouble," Warwick declared. "Pure as the driven snow and dutiful as a nun."
"She'll need to breed strong if his sister's line is not to inherit."
"But his sister has no line. Lady Imogen shows no tendency to breed. I. doubt Dufort has the balls." Brian grinned cheerfully, his earlier tactlessness forgotten.
"To mount her or sire an heir?" Lenster inquired with a ribald chuckle.
"Either or both." Brian tossed the dice. "What's with you, Kip? You're half asleep in your cups, man!"
"Your pardon, I find myself a trifle preoccupied tonight." Kip smiled but his shrewd eyes remained absorbed and puzzled.
Gareth strode down to the river, his eyes darting from side to side on the watch for footpads. He held his sword half unsheathed in readiness but he heard only the hollow ring of his booted feet on the filth-encrusted cobblestones. A wavering light shone ahead from the Lambeth water steps and he increased his pace, emerging from the muddy lane into the pool of light thrown by a lantern lashed to the bows of a waterman's wherry.
Gareth stepped into the small craft, drawing his cloak about him as he sat in the bow. "Harcourt mansion beyond the Strand steps."
"Aye, m'lord." The waterman plied his oars and the boat moved into the center of the river to catch the running tide. It was close to four in the morning and the water was black, the sky even blacker, and few lights showed from the riverbanks. The small boat swung around a reach and a muffled curse came out of the darkness, sounding to Gareth so close as to be almost in the wherry.
"A pox on ye," the waterman muttered, pulling away from the raft from which two men were fishing for eels. "Why can't ye show a light?"
The only response was a grunted "God rot ye!"
Gareth huddled into his cloak, wishing he'd thought to bring a warmer, longer outergarment. But he hadn't expected to be out on the river at this late hour. And he hadn't expected to be returning in this mood.
Brian had spoken only the truth, but he had no idea, how could he, of the reasons behind the truth. How could Brian know that Gareth recognized in Imogen the same obsessional love for himself that he had felt for Charlotte? Imogen's every waking minute was devoted to her brother's concerns. She lived in and for him. And because he knew the power of such an exclusive love, he could not reject it, as his had been rejected.
The bump of the wherry against the Harcourt water steps broke into his grim reflections. He jumped lightly ashore, handed the waterman a shilling, and rapped at the wicket gate. The porter stumbled from his hut, yawning prodigiously, cramming his hat on his head with one hand, trying to trim the wick of his lantern with the other.
"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord. Must 'ave dropped off."
Gareth merely grunted and took the lantern. "I'll see myself to the house."
The first gray streaks of light now showed in the eastern sky; the torches lining the path to the house had burned low and one or two had gone out altogether. Gareth caught a glimpse of orange, flickering on the path ahead, then Miranda came running barefoot toward him, Chip bounding along beside her.
"Milord?"
Gareth frowned, trying to shake himself free of the black cloud of memory. "What are you doing here, Miranda?"
Her face was a pale glimmer in the darkness, her eyes dark in contrast. "I couldn't sleep and it was so lonely in that miserable chamber. I was feeling so mortified! I can't believe I just took off my shoes like that. And on top of everything else! And Lady Mary was so shocked, and you didn't say anything at the time, so I thought I'd come out and wait for you."
Her smile was slightly hesitant. A torch flared suddenly in a gust of wind from the river, casting light over their faces. Her smile faded. "Oh, what is it?" she said. Instinctively she reached up to touch his mouth with the pad of her thumb as if she could smooth away the harsh pain on his countenance. "What is it? What has happened? Is it the nightmare again?"
He looked down into her face, into the great blue eyes so filled with concern, so open, so straightforward, so honest; perfectly accurate reflections of a character with less guile than any he had ever known.
What could she know of the black snaking tendrils of
obsession? Of the flames, hotter than hellfires, of guilt and shame that scorched in its wake? And the desire, the need, the desperate longing to lose himself, to purify the nightmares in the simplicity of this untainted soul, engulfed him.
His hands moved to span her narrow waist and she rose on tiptoe, her thumb pressing against his lips, an urgency flaring in her eyes, an instant's bewilderment that gave way to pure passion the second before she moved her thumb, reached for his face, and her mouth opened hungrily beneath his.
The lamp above them flickered, the wick wavered and guttered. The garden was in darkness, clouds once more obscuring the moon, and the damp night air was filled with the rain-fresh scents of roses and stock. And now, in the darkness, Miranda seemed to exude an air of mystery and allure. The simple orange gown clung to the slender body he held between his hands, the small head with its shining auburn-tinted helmet brushed against his cheek as she moved her mouth on his and excitement stabbed into his loins, contracting his belly.
She tasted sweet and fresh as new-baked bread, her lips were warm and pliant and eager, but he knew her mouth was virginal, that it had not opened in this way for another man, and through his mounting desire a great tenderness welled within him. His fingers unlacing her bodice were gentle although they quivered with urgent need to lay his hands upon her breasts.
They were small breasts, but perfectly formed, fitting neatly into his palms. Her mouth against his pressed harder and he heard her soft moan as he caressed the silky roundness, stroking the nipples until they rose hard against his fingertip.
He raised his head, looking down at the pale oval of her face in the dimness. Her head fell back, exposing the bare white column of her throat. He kissed the hollow of her throat and the little pulse beat fast against his lips and slowly he trailed his lips down her throat to her right breast.
