by M C Beaton
“I’ll get the girl to hang these in the garden, my lord,” said the landlord. “There’s a stiff breeze, and what with the hot sunshine, they’ll be dry in no time at all.”
“And let’s hope they don’t shrink,” said the marquess after he had left. Mira sat on the floor, huddled in the blanket. He was sharply aware that she was naked under it. He got to his feet, went to a table in the corner, and picked up a pack of cards.
“I shall play you for vast sums of money,” he said lightly. “That way we can pass the time until our clothes are dry.”
A weary Mr. Diggs arrived at the inn. He was so tired and thirsty, he no longer cared where Mira and the marquess had got to. He ordered a pint of shrub after seeing to his horse, took his drink out to the sunny garden, and sat down with a sigh of relief. He would soon be too old for work like this, he thought.
He glanced idly around. At the side of the inn, a clothesline was stretched between two trees, and as he watched, a little maid came out and began to hang up clothes. Then he slowly put down his tankard and sat up straight as he watched those clothes as they were pinned out on the line, one by one.
He rose and walked around to the back of the inn. He had been so tired, he had stabled his horse without paying any attention to the other mounts. This time he immediately recognized the Arab Mira had been riding.
Mr. Diggs went into the cool darkness of the inn and hailed the landlord.
“I have reason to believe that there is a scandal here in your inn to be uncovered, landlord,” he said, “and if you help me, there is gold in it for you.”
The landlord listened to the tale of Mira and the marquess with his eyes popping. “Sounds like a right fairy tale to me, sir,” he said, scratching his head. “I mean, young ladies don’t ride around like boys. I don’t want no trouble. What if you’re telling lies?”
“Where are they now?” demanded Mr. Diggs, mentally damning all yokels.
“There in my best bedchamber, wrapped in blankets and waiting for their clothes to dry.”
“So? So did you not notice she’s got hair like a woman?”
“Got it in a pigtail, but a lot of men still wear their hair that way.”
“Look, fellow, there is money in this for you. I need a written statement from you, and I will pay you five gold guineas for it. Go abovestairs and ask them if they would like a fire if you have not already lit one.”
The landlord hesitated, but five guineas seemed like a fortune to him. He went upstairs while Mr. Diggs waited impatiently.
When the landlord entered the room, Mira and the marquess were sitting on the floor, playing cards. But the room was in half darkness, for the curtains were closed.
“What is it?” demanded the marquess sharply.
“I was wondering whether you would like me to light the fire, my lord?”
“No, go away, and don’t come back until our clothes are dried.”
“Dark in here,” commented the landlord. Before the marquess could protest, he had crossed the floor and jerked open the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room. The landlord turned and stared down at Mira, who bent her head quickly over her cards.
“Get out of here!” shouted the marquess. The landlord beat a hasty retreat.
He went downstairs and joined Mr. Diggs in the tap. “You’ve the right of it,” he said heavily. “I got a good look at her. Such goings-on in a respectable inn!”
“Look, fellow,” said Mr. Diggs, “what is your name?”
“Giles Brand.”
“Well, Mr. Brand, if you want to earn your money, fetch quill, ink, and paper, and I will tell you what to write.”
“Damn!” said the marquess, throwing down his cards. “I want to get out of here. I don’t trust that fellow. I’ll swear he opened those curtains to get a better look at you. Why on earth did I agree to this expedition?”
“You suggested it,” said Mira in a small voice.
“Let us hope we escape with our reputations intact. At least he does not know who we are.”
Mira brightened. “Of course he doesn’t. How much money have you won from me?”
“Thousands and thousands. It is as well it is pretend money. You would never make a gambler.”
Mira stood up and went to the window, the large blanket trailing behind her. “How long now before our clothes dry, do you think?”
“I think we should get them back and put them on, whatever their condition, and get out of here. I do not like that landlord’s behavior.”
The marquess went to the door, opened it, and shouted, “Bring up our clothes. Never mind if they are still damp.”
When the landlord came up with the clothes, the marquess scrutinized him, but Mr. Brand had been warned by Mr. Diggs not to evince any more curiosity in the pair in case they found some way to cover up the scandal—by which Mr. Diggs really meant he did not want this wealthy marquess bribing the landlord to silence and hoped that the landlord did not realize that he stood to gain more money from the marquess than he could ever get from him. The marquess was reassured. There were no suspicious looks here.
He and Mira dressed hurriedly. Their clothes were damp and uncomfortable.
They left together and walked down to the tap. The marquess paid the landlord for their food, the room, and the hire of the boat. Mira waited for him in the open doorway. She was aware of being observed and turned her eyes to a shadowy corner of the tap. An elderly man sat there. He quickly looked down at the table. Mira frowned. There was something vaguely familiar about him. She felt she had seen him, and only recently at that.
The marquess joined her, and they went out together into the sunshine.
“Our adventures are over,” said the marquess. “Time for you to return home and become a respectable young miss again.”
Mira looked about the sunny inn yard. “I will never forget this day,” she said in a wistful voice.
“I pray that you can reach your room unobserved,” he said as they rode off together.
“I do not expect any trouble. The servants are probably enjoying a day off,” said Mira. “No one will see me arrive.”
Lord Charles faced the Markhams’ butler. “I demand to see Miss Mira,” he said. “She may be much more ill than her parents realized.”
“But, my lord, her door is locked.”
“You have spare keys surely?”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“I insist.”
The butler summoned a footman and asked him to bring the key to Miss Mira’s bedchamber. Charles was aware that the butler was exuding an air of disapproval and knew the man was wondering why Lord Charles was not still with the Markham family party.
The footman returned with the key, and the butler led the way upstairs.
He stopped outside Mira’s bedchamber and rapped loudly on the door. Then he and Charles stood side by side listening to the silence.
“Open the door!” demanded Charles impatiently.
The butler unlocked the door and held it open. Charles strode into the room. The bed curtains were closed, and he drew them back. At first it seemed as if Mira was lying asleep. He crossed to the window and threw back the shutters. Sunlight streamed into the room. He returned to the bed and with one angry movement whipped back the covers to reveal a bolster attached to a cushion with a nightcap on it to serve as a head.
“There is your Miss Mira,” he said angrily. “Where is she?”
The butler looked bewildered. “I am sure I do not know, my lord.”
“I will wait for her,” said Charles, sitting down in a chair and crossing his arms.
Mira said a polite good-bye to the marquess at Hyde Park toll and made her way through the busy streets, wishing she still had her hat.
The riding clothes had shrunk slightly. She was looking forward to getting out of them. She went round the back of the house in St. James’s Square and let herself in quietly by the garden door. She made her way swiftly up the back stairs, praying she would not meet one
of the servants. She gained the security of her room, walked in, and slammed the door behind her. She leaned her back against the panels with a sigh of relief. One split second before she saw Charles, she realized the door of her bedchamber should still have been locked.
And then she did see Charles. His face was stern, and he looked her up and down, from the top of her tousled head down to her crumpled and shrunken riding clothes.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
Mira quickly got over the first shock of seeing him.
She opened the door again and swung back to him. “What is the meaning of this, Charles, may I ask? What are you doing in my bedchamber?”
“I was worried about you and came to see how you were. I discovered your deception, Mira. Where have you been and in such clothes? Have you no shame?”
“You are not yet a member of this family, nor have you any right to give me a jaw-me-dead, Charles. If you must know, I wanted some freedom, some time to myself. Hardly a heinous crime.”
“You have been with him!”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Mira coolly, although her heart was racing.
“Grantley. You have been with Grantley.”
“What fustian you talk. Get out of here, Charles, until I change my clothes.”
“I shall wait belowstairs for the return of your parents.” He walked up to her. Those green eyes, which had only lately begun to fascinate him, stared defiantly up at him. He caught her to him. “Oh, Mira,” he said huskily, “we could deal together better than this.”
She tore herself free of his grasp and said, “By all means wait for my parents, Charles. They will be interested to learn of your shameful behavior, perhaps more interested than they will be in mine.”
He turned red with mortification. “I forgot myself,” he said wretchedly. “Forgive me. Look, I will say nothing to your parents if you forget my lapse.”
“Then you must explain to the servants that mine was a simple prank and that you do not wish my parents worried, Charles.”
“I will do that. Mira, I must explain—”
She held up one small hand. “Do not, Charles. For I fear you are about to say something unforgivable. Please go!”
Charles had given the butler a generous sum and explained matters, saying he had called to see how Miss Mira went on. There was no need to upset her parents by telling them of her childish prank. But he had forgotten to warn the butler not to mention his visit. So when Mr. and Mrs. Markham and Drusilla returned and Mrs. Markham asked, “Did we have any callers?” the butler replied, “Only Lord Charles, madam.”
“What?” demanded Drusilla angrily. “He left our party because he said he was ill. What on earth was he doing calling here?”
“Lord Charles called to inquire after the health of Miss Mira.”
“That will be all,” said Mr. Markham sharply. “If Miss Mira is recovered, tell her to join us in the drawing room.”
Mira, washed and changed and wearing a white muslin gown, entered the drawing room. Her eyes flew to Drusilla’s angry face.
“Sit down, Mira,” said her father sternly.
Mira did as she was bid and tried to look puzzled and innocent.
“We are upset to learn that Charles, who said he had to leave our party at Hampton Court because he was feeling poorly, called here to find out about your health.”
Mira experienced a feeling of relief. “Yes,” she said calmly. “Charles takes his duties as my future brother-in-law very seriously. It was most kind of him considering that he felt peaky himself.” She turned to Drusilla. “He is so stuffy and correct, Drusilla.”
“Well, I suppose that was kind of him,” said Mr. Markham suspiciously. “How do you go on?”
“Much better, Papa. I thank you. How was your day?”
Mrs. Markham began to describe the beauties of Hampton Court, and Mira listened with well-feigned interest, aware the whole time that her father’s suspicions had not quite been allayed. She was beginning to fret about her own behavior. She had shared a bedchamber with the Marquess of Grantley. Dear heavens, if that was ever to come out! But no one knew. All she had to do was behave correctly. But Charles was an unexpected complication. She would tell the marquess about it, and he would advise her. How odd that she should have considered herself nigh dying of love for Charles such a short time ago, and now that he seemed attracted to her, she considered it shocking and tiresome.
Lady Jansen met Mr. Diggs in St. James’s Park the following day. Usually it was she who summoned him, but the fact that this time it was he who had sent her a note arranging the meeting was hopeful. Heavily veiled, she sat in her carriage and waited impatiently until she saw his elderly figure walking across the grass toward Birdcage Walk.
She let down the glass and signaled to him. He climbed in and sat beside her. “Success at last,” said Mr. Diggs. She listened while he told of Mira’s escapade, her face becoming a mask of fury and jealousy as he went on to tell of their sharing a bedchamber at the inn. “And you have the statement from this landlord?” she demanded.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Let me have it!”
“When, and only when, you have paid the second half of your fee, and if you are not to be implicated in the breaking of this scandal, how do you plan to go about it?”
“I shall send the landlord’s statement about this slut to her parents—anonymously.”
“Very well. When do you wish to give me the money?”
Lady Jansen threw caution to the wind. “Come back with me now,” she said. “I must have that letter.”
Mrs. Anderson, the faded companion, looked up from a basket of mending as Lady Jansen entered with Mr. Diggs at her heels. “Leave us,” ordered Lady Jansen curtly.
Mrs. Anderson meekly gathered up her sewing and left the room, but once outside she set down the basket at her feet and pressed her ear to the panels of the door.
“There is a draft on my bank, Mr. Diggs,” she heard Lady Jansen say. “You have done your work well. Why did you leave the Runners?”
“I did not leave, my lady. I retired,” came Mr. Diggs’s voice. “May I say one thing about this matter? Although the fact is that Mira Markham shared a bedchamber at the Green Tree near Richmond with the Marquess of Grantley, I am persuaded it was because they both fell into the river and had to wait somewhere until their clothes were dry. I consider Miss Mira an innocent.”
And her employer’s voice, harsh with fury, reached Mrs. Anderson’s listening ears. “I do not care what they did or did not do.” There was a rustle of paper. “There is enough here to ruin the girl and send her out of London. Take your money and go, and forget you ever saw me. This letter from the landlord of that inn will finish her.”
Mrs. Anderson scuttled away from the door. She had conceived a great admiration for this wild girl, Mira, who could flout the conventions in a way that the timid Mrs. Anderson would never dream of doing. Perhaps she could be as courageous as Mira and do something to spike Lady Jansen’s guns. She waited until Mr. Diggs had left and then went back to the drawing room.
“I am out of green silk, my lady,” she said in her usual humble way. “I do not want to send one of the maids because they can never match colors very well. May I have your permission to go out?”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Jansen. She was sitting at her writing desk.
Mrs. Anderson went upstairs, put on her bonnet and cloak, and set out for Grosvenor Square. In the small world of London society, everyone knew where everyone else lived.
The marquess was dressing to go out. His butler entered and said there was a lady waiting below to see him. The marquess’s thoughts flew to Mira. “A young lady?”
“No, my lord, not young, but a lady. She would not give her name.”
“Probably collecting for some charity. I shall give her a few moments. Put her in the Blue Saloon, and tell her I will be with her presently.”
He took his time about completing hi
s toilet and then went downstairs, entered the Blue Saloon, and looked curiously at the timid and flustered lady who rose to curtsy to him.
“My lord,” said Mrs. Anderson. “You are in great danger.”
His first thought was that his usually correct butler had let a madwoman into his house. But when he heard her story, his face darkened, and he took mental notes. Diggs, retired Runner, must be squared, as must that landlord. Damn. Mira must be warned to deny everything until he killed the gossip.
He thanked Mrs. Anderson warmly and then went back upstairs and changed swiftly into his riding clothes. He went straight to the Markhams, who were surprised that the marquess should have chosen to make a call in his riding dress. He fretted while he made social chitchat and then, turning to Mira, said he would like to see her drawings. Mira, who knew herself to be an incompetent artist, looked at him in surprise but went to collect her portfolio. As she bent over it, he dropped a note between the sketches and said, “Read that,” and then, as if recollecting a pressing appointment, he abruptly took his leave.
