by Jane Feather
"I swear to you that I will tell her the truth as soon as it's appropriate. She will know soon enough that you didn't just abandon her."
"There y'are, Mama. Can't say fairer than that." Bertrand slid the pouch closer to the edge of the table. "It's a deal, m'lord. Far as I'm concerned." He looked at Gertrude. "Come on, woman! Sentiment don't put bread on the table. The girl's set fair, an' we've a chance fer a bit o' luck ourselves."
Gareth waited, his face impassive but his nerves stretched taut. Bertrand's agreement was worth nothing without Mama Gertrude's stamp of approval. If she said so, they would walk away from his bribe- magnificent though it was.
"Ye'll tell 'er the truth. Your word on it, m'lord?" Gertrude regarded him closely now, her eyes narrowed and as intense as if she were reading his soul.
Gareth laid his hand on his sword hilt. "My oath, madam."
Gertrude sighed gustily and drained the contents of her wine cup. "Well, if it's for the girl's good, then I suppose we'd best do it."
The leather pouch slipped over the edge of the table into Bertrand's cupped palm. He stood up, beaming. "Nice doin' business wi' ye, m'lord." He extended his hand across the table. Gareth shook it, then rose and bowed to Gertrude.
"Jest tell 'er we're 'er friends. We didn't desert 'er," Gertrude said, unimpressed by the reverence. With a nod, she made her sweeping exit from the taproom, Bertrand on her heels.
Gareth sat down again. He called for another flagon of wine. It had been a bad morning's work, and even the knowledge that it had been essential didn't make him feel any cleaner.
The duke of Roissy was a most attractive man, Miranda decided from her vantage point on the gallery overlooking the great hall of Westminster. Their first meeting an hour earlier had been so wrapped around with formality, she bad had little time to take him in properly. Now, he was talking with the queen sitting enthroned on a dais at the far end of the hall and Miranda had a clear view of his profile. Lean, the chin jutting sharply, the prominent nose curved like an eagle's beak.
It was an uncompromising profile but nonetheless attractive for that, she thought again, moving along the gallery to the staircase leading down to the hall.
Not that he could compare with the man standing beside him.
She paused again to look down across the brilliant-hued crowd of courtiers. Her eyes rested greedily on Lord Harcourt. His doublet and hose of dove-gray velvet were subdued among the rainbow throng, the contrast made even more noticeable by his short scarlet silk cloak that hung from one shoulder, clasped with a diamond-and-ruby brooch that glinted richly even from such a distance.
Miranda glanced down at her own gown of silver cloth embroidered with seed pearls. Over it she wore a white velvet ropa. A circlet of seed pearls held the white lace snood that concealed her still-short hair. Very suitable for a maiden on her first introduction to the man who was to be her husband, she thought with an inner chuckle. The very picture of virginal modesty. Maude would look very well in it.
She was unaware that she was smiling as she descended the stairs. Unaware too that her step was swift, her cheeks softly pink with secret amusement.
The two men, bowing, backed away from the queen, and then turned as one as if sensing Miranda's approach.
"She is everything her portrait promised," Henry said softly. "Everything and more. I was not prepared for such liveliness. The artist portrayed a rather more serious side to the lady."
"A mere paintbrush can rarely capture all attributes," Gareth replied, wondering what had amused Miranda. Her eyes were alight, her cheeks aglow, her mouth curved in a private smile. It was no wonder Henry was already captivated. As they watched, Miranda was waylaid by a trio of young bloods, pressing close to her, vying for her attention. They couldn't hear what was said, but Miranda clearly enjoyed it. She laughed, tossed her small head, and plied her fan with all the flirtatious skill of one accustomed to the adoration and devotion of impressionable young men.
"It's to be hoped the lady won't find the prospect of an old soldier as suitor too repellent," Henry said, his mouth suddenly thinning. "I make a poor gallant, Harcourt, and your ward is clearly accustomed to devoted attention."
How wrong you are. But he couldn't speak the truth aloud. Instead Gareth shook his head in vague disclaimer. In truth he was as surprised as anyone at the ease with which Miranda was swimming in these rich waters. She still slipped up occasionally, but her technique of ignoring her slips, just as she'd ignored her abandoned shoes the other evening, had rebounded in her favor. The opinion of the court appeared to be that Lord Harcourt's young cousin was a delightful eccentric.
It was not, however, Lady Mary's opinion. Gareth's heart sank as he saw his betrothed leave the queen's side. Mary was seriously put out these days, and her perturbation seemed centered upon Gareth's ward. She never missed an opportunity to criticize the girl, and clearly found Gareth's responses less than satisfactory.
She approached Harcourt and the duke, a fixed smile on her face. "My lord duke." She curtsied. "Her Majesty requests that you join her for dinner tomorrow. And Lord Harcourt, of course." She turned her smile upon Gareth, but it lacked warmth.
"Pray convey our thanks to Her Majesty. We shall be honored to join her," Henry said with a bow. "Perhaps Her Majesty could be persuaded to include Lady Maude in the invitation? I have such little time for wooing, I'm reluctant to lose an entire afternoon." Lady Mary looked at him in startled shock. One didn't respond to a royal command with one's own guest list.
"Don't look so shocked, madam. The duke was jesting," Gareth said swiftly, clapping Henry on the shoulder.
Henry laughed, but it was a little late for true conviction, and his dark eyes glittered with annoyance at his lapse.
"Aye," he said. " 'Twas but a jest. But, in truth, from what I see of my bride-to-be, she's breaking hearts all around her and I'd best not waste time pressing my suit."
"Lady Maude is somewhat highspirted, my lord duke," Mary said with sugar-coated malice. "One must make allowances for her youth. But it's to be hoped Lord Harcourt's ward knows where her duty lies." She glanced pointedly at Gareth.
"Do you doubt it, madam?" Gareth raised an eyebrow, his voice cool. Chagrin flashed across Mary's pale eyes.
But the girl certainly looked radiant, even to Mary's disenchanted gaze, watching as Lady Dufort approached the girl and drew her away from her admirers. Maude was a vision in silver and white, with her blue eyes as lustrous as a summer sky, and her creamy complexion pink-tinged, her warm red mouth smiling. Mary knew she was jealous, knew her jealousy made her say mean-spirited things, knew that Gareth didn't like it. And y
et she could not help herself, but she forced a smile as Imogen and Miranda joined them.-
Lady Dufort was subdued, paler than usual, two telltale furrows above her temples that told her brother she was suffering one of her vicious headaches. They almost always followed Imogen's bouts of hysteria, one reason, Gareth believed, why she had learned to control herself so much better in latter years. But occasionally, she lost the fight, and then suffered for it.
"Lady Dufort, I must congratulate you on your protege." Henry bowed over the lady's hand, but his eyes flickered sideways to Miranda. "She is a jewel, a shining credit to your care." He saw the girl's radiance just as Mary had. But he also recognized the freshness, the tenderness, of her youth and it made him smile. She was trying her wings, reveling in the attention, well aware of her entrancing appearance. And Henry felt rough and clumsy, despite the unfamiliar elegance of his courtier's silk and velvet.
"You are too kind, Your Grace." Imogen smiled faintly.
Miranda curtsied, demurely unfurling her fan and peeping at Roissy over the top. It was a little trick she was perfecting this evening. The duke's keen eyes beneath very thick, bushy eyebrows responded with a glint and his rather thin mouth curved in a smile. He stroked his well-shaped beard reflectively. His hands were hard and callused, square and businesslike. Involuntarily Miranda's eyes darted to Gareth's lean, elegant white hand. The skin of her back lifted as her body responded to the memory of those hands moving over her, playing upon her sometimes with all the delicacy of a musician, at others branding her with the searing assertion of their possession.
"Will you take a turn with me around the room, my lady?" Henry offered his brown-suited arm. "I have your permission, Harcourt?" He raised one of those bushy eyebrows in question.
"Most certainly." Gareth took Miranda's hand and gave it to Henry of France.
"Ah, I see you're wearing the bracelet, my lady." Henry lifted her wrist, holding it up to the light. "It becomes you."
"Thank you, my lord." Miranda curtsied. "It is a most generous gift, sir."
"Not at all," he said. "It belonged to your mother. As I see it, it is merely returned to its rightful owner."
"You had it from my father?" Miranda lightly touched the emerald swan, setting it swinging.
"Aye." Henry was suddenly somber. "Your father was my dear friend. He treasured the bracelet after your mother's murder. On his deathbed, he gave it to me in remembrance of that night… as a symbol of all we lost…" Then he added in a voice so soft it was almost to himself, "and of all we must avenge."
There was a short silence, then Henry shook his head, as if dispelling grievous memory. "Come, my lady. Let us walk a little and you shall tell me all about yourself."
Miranda couldn't resist casting Gareth a quick, impish look over her fan at this, but he studiously ignored her, although she could have sworn she'd seen his lips twitch.
"If you would prefer to speak French, sir, I would be quite happy to do so," Miranda ventured to her escort. He seemed to be leading her most deliberately toward the far side of the hall, to where a heavy tapestry hung over what Miranda guessed to be an exit.
"Ah, you speak my language, then?" Henry was surprised and gratified.
"Passably," she replied, continuing in French. "How was your voyage? The Channel can be rough at this time of the year."
"You have crossed to France?" His surprise became astonishment. "Your guardian didn't mention that you had ever returned to the country of your birth."
"No… no, my lord, indeed I have not," she said hastily. "But I've heard tell of the roughness of the sea on occasion."
"Ah, yes." He nodded and picked up his pace again, but there was a slight frown in his eye. "You've been in England since you were a mere infant, and yet you speak my language as if it were your native tongue."
"I had an excellent French tutor," she improvised. "He and I spoke only French for days at a time. Lord Harcourt considered it necessary that I should be fluent in both tongues."
"As indeed he is himself," Henry commented. It was an entirely reasonable explanation and her facility in his language would be a great advantage when she arrived in France. It would endear her to his people as well as to his court.
"But we'll use English while I am here. It is only courteous to adapt to one's hosts, and I could use the practice." He smiled with a touch of self-deprecation.
His smile was one of the most attractive things about him, Miranda thought. She had a feeling he used it sparingly. There was a coiled force to his physical presence that made the smile all the more appealing. Would Maude find him pleasing? Impossible to say just yet.
"Let us see what lies through here." Henry pushed aside the heavy tapestry as they reached it. "Ah, an embrasure," he declared. "A place where we may be private in our discussions."
Miranda glanced over her shoulder. "But, my lord duke, will it not be considered immodest of me?"
"We have Her Majesty's blessing on my suit," he said with a chuckle. "I approve of a modest maid, but have no fear, you'll receive no censure while the queen and your guardian smile." He swept Miranda before him with an arm at her waist and the heavy tapestry swung back behind them.
It was a small window alcove, curtained presumably to keep out the drafts. A plain wooden bench was set against the paneled wall beneath the window.
"Ah, it's so stuffy!" Henry went to the window and flung it wide. "I cannot abide being indoors for long." He turned back to Miranda, again with that somewhat self-deprecating smile. "I am a rough and rude soldier, my lady Maude. Not very domesticated. I'm happier under canvas than slate or thatch."
"Indeed, my lord duke, I prefer the outdoors myself," Miranda said. "There's nothing so…" She caught herself just in time as she was about to launch into a description of the pleasures of sleeping under the stars on a fine summer night.
"So?" he prompted, regarding her with interest.
"So pleasant as a walk in the woods," Miranda said hastily. "But I expect you'd consider that tame, sir."
"But perfectly suitable for a gently bred maid," he responded. "Come, sit down beside me." He sat on the bench and drew her down next to him. "Tell me honestly now. Are you content for this match?" His expression was very serious as he turned her face toward him with a finger beneath her chin.
"My lord, I am obedient in all things," she murmured, veiling her eyes.
"No… no… little maid, that is not what I asked you." He tilted her chin further; his voice was very grave. "I will not pursue a match where the maid is unwilling. I would have a wife who came to me willingly this time, and not at the behest of politics."
His eyes were shadowed now with anger, his mouth thinned to a bar
e line. God help them all if this man ever discovered the deception, Miranda thought with a little shiver.
"You've been married before, my lord?" she inquired, moving her head away from his hand, dropping her eyes to her lap. "I was unaware."
"A man of thirty-nine summers, ma chere, does not come without a history," he replied, shrugging his shoulders with an impatient gesture. This doublet fitted him too well, tight across the shoulders and chest, and the silk shirt beneath felt soft and clingy like a snake's skin. He yearned for the easy comfort of his buff leather jerkin and the coarse linen shirt beneath.
"Are you uncomfortable, my lord?" Miranda looked at him in puzzlement. He had the pained air of a man sitting in a nettle bed.
"This damn doublet is too tight," he muttered. Then realizing how inappropriate such a complaint must seem in the circumstances, he returned abruptly to the previous subject. "My wife died."
The cynical lie was easily spoken. At this moment, Marguerite was probably locked in passion with one of her many paramours. But she'd give him her blessing on this endeavor. Marguerite, although loathing the match that her mother and brother had forced upon her, had not known she had been the bait for the massacre at their wedding. She had saved her husband's life despite her unwillingness for the match and they had remained friends over the years. But she would be as relieved to be rid of the burden of their marriage as he would. In fact, he thought, she would probably like this girl.
The demurely lowered eyes and protestations of dutiful obedience were a sham, he was convinced of it. There was a lot more to her character than she was letting him see. He had seen the way she moved when she thought she was unobserved, and he had noted the intriguing glint in the azure eyes. No complete innocent played the coquette with quite the skill of this lady, and he guessed he was being treated to another example of her skill. No, there was definitely something about her that would speak to Marguerite.
