The Emerald Swan

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.