A Noble Masquerade (10 page)

Ryland watched Griffith ride away and took the opportunity to pull his mount alongside Miranda's.

“It's a pleasant morning for a ride,” Miranda said, with a slight shiver. The wind was worse with them exposed on the top of the hill.

One corner of Ryland's lips tilted. “That it is, my lady.”

He nudged his horse forward until he was blocking the worst of the wind. It pulled at his hair, working strands free of the queue and sending them dancing in front of his eyes. It felt good. Free. He wished he could release the whole queue. He really wished he could cut it. That would be the first thing he did when this assignment was over. Get a decent haircut.

They sat in silence a few moments longer.

“I received another letter today.”

His head whipped around. She looked startled that she'd spoken aloud.

Ryland cleared his throat. “I assume you'll have another letter for me to send this afternoon, then. Does that make one a week?”

Miranda nodded. “For the last eight weeks, yes. I thought
they would stop after his initial curiosity had been appeased, but he keeps writing. Detailed letters. Personal letters.”

“And you respond.” He eagerly looked forward to the letters. He was surprised at the restraint it required to wait a week to answer her, but that was the time frame he'd established from the beginning, so it was the one he'd have to maintain.

“Yes,” Miranda whispered. “I don't know why. I feel like I know him, though, in a way I've never had the opportunity to get to know a gentleman while in London.”

Ryland didn't respond. How could he? Why was she telling him this?

“It's all for naught though. He's in hiding. A few paltry letters with a nearly-on-the-shelf spinster won't make a difference.”

If only she knew the effect those letters were having on his future plans. He cleared his throat. “My lady, why are you telling me this?”

A laugh burst from her mouth and a blush stained her cheeks. “Who else could I tell? You are the only other person who knows of the letters.”

“I could give you the direction. Then you wouldn't have to give me the letters.” He felt safe making the offer. There were numerous reasons why her posting them herself was a bad idea.

“No. I can't send letters to an unrelated gentleman. Can you imagine the scandal? You can mix them in with Griffith's correspondence. That way only two people in the world know of my horrendous forwardness.”

Ryland watched her from beneath lowered lids. The sadness in her voice crept into places he thought well hidden beneath a life-hardened shell. After those first two blundering letters, her writings had always been chipper, confident, and polished. A mere glimmer of the woman he'd studied as he skulked around the house the past two months.

That woman was as unpredictable as she was delightful.
Singing in the garden, grumbling at a knotted embroidery thread, plucking the pianoforte keys in a haphazard tune of giddiness.

“I don't know what he writes to you, my lady”—
Dear God, forgive me and let her forgive me for lying!
—“but the regularity of his writing would seem to indicate a marked interest on his part.”

“But he's never even seen me. I was still in the schoolroom when he went into hiding.” She fidgeted with the reins, threading them through her fingers and then releasing them.

The wind was damaging her styled hair as well as his. A few long tresses fluttered around her face. His hand itched to smooth them back. A tighter grip on the reins kept his hands where they belonged but sent his horse sidling sideways. His knee brushed hers.

“I beg your pardon.” His voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat and directed his horse a respectable distance away. “Perhaps it is a good thing that he gets to know you before meeting you. Then you will know his interest is genuine and not based on your beauty.”

With any luck that statement wouldn't haunt him when she found out the truth.

Which meant he was doomed. He and luck had parted ways a long time ago.

She smiled and made a swipe at the wayward hairs. “You think I'm beautiful?”

The web of lies he'd constructed slid to the back of his mind. The part of him that knew they were equals, that he was more than suitable, fought its way to the fore, squashing the inner words of caution with a sharp right hook.

His gaze zeroed in on the green eyes he so often avoided connecting with. “I think you are splendid.”

“I . . . Thank you.” The words were barely audible, carried away on the wind.

Time stretched.

“I like talking to you.” Her words smashed together, as if they'd tumbled out in a rush before she could stop them. “When I give you my letters, you always seem to have something interesting to say.”

What would she think if she knew he spent hours as he went to sleep at night coming up with what to say when he saw her next? Time he should have spent on the case. It was a dangerous game he was playing, trying to get to know her as duke and as valet. She deserved better.

“Miranda, I—”

“I apologize for the delay. Sudden business with my steward.” Griffith trotted up the hill, breaking the trance and reminding Ryland of his chosen role.

What had he been about to say? Did it matter? Calling her by her name was an inexcusable breach of character.

He pulled back on his horse until the animal backed behind Miranda. She'd have to turn fully around in the saddle to see him. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I fear I must return to the house. I need to prepare your jacket for this evening.”

Griffith's eyebrows shot up as he looked from Ryland to Miranda and back again. Nothing was going to reassure Griffith this time. The man was going to demand answers.

Ryland needed to find some of his own first, though. It was imperative that he solve this case so he could discard the disguise. He nodded at Griffith and turned his horse.

He wasn't going back to the house, though. No word had yet arrived on whether or not his traps had worked. He couldn't wait any longer. It was time to discard a bit of caution in the name of finding a traitor.

She had lost her mind. That was the only explanation. It was time to pack her bags and head to Bedlam.

Miranda stood in the doorway to the library watching Marlow select a book from the crammed bookshelf. He was the most well-read servant she'd ever met.

He was the strangest servant she'd ever met.

Which was part of the problem. Even before the encounter on the hill this morning, she'd spent too much time telling herself not to think about mesmerizing grey eyes and kind, profound statements.

“More Shakespeare?” She expected him to whirl or jump or some other reaction that showed surprise. There was nothing. He kept looking at the books. Had he known she was there the whole time, staring at him? How embarrassing.

“Possibly. I haven't decided yet.”

“Oh.”

Miranda moved to the middle of the room, feeling awkward. She should be at dinner. Her stomach was so tense that she doubted she'd be able to eat a bite until this matter was settled.

At length he turned. His eyes went to the folded blue paper in her hand. “Would you like me to post that for you, my lady?”

“I don't know.”

His direct gaze jerked to her face. He stared. What was he looking for? Was he finding it?

She broke the contact first, turning to pace the edges of the room, trailing her fingers along the back of a chair and then the edge of a bookcase. “I don't know if it's wise. I don't really know this man.”

“Isn't that the purpose of the letters, my lady?”

“I suppose.”

“Will you . . . did you ask him if he intends to come to London next year?”

She toyed with the stiff blue rectangle. “Yes.”

“Then, perhaps you will soon know the wisdom of the endeavor.”

Miranda slid the letter onto the desk, afraid she'd crumple it if she continued to hold it. She'd poured her heart out in that letter. Treated it like the private letters she used to write.

“You ride very well.”

His eyebrows rose. “Thank you.”

“Your father was not a servant.”

He hesitated before answering. “No, my lady, he wasn't.”

“What was he, then?” What was she doing, asking him these questions? It didn't matter that he was the most attractive man she'd ever met and she found herself looking forward to their brief encounters, the insight he provided. Nothing could come of it. Even if he was a gentleman fallen on hard times, she'd have to do the pursuing. He couldn't court her from her brother's dressing room.

The hesitation was longer this time. “He was a hard man, my lady.”

“No, that's not what I—”

“I know what you meant,” he said softly. “I'll see to your letter.”

“Of course. Yes.” Miranda thought she would be sick. Had he seen through her questions? Was he telling her how ridiculous she was being? She hurried to the door, tripping over the edge of the wool rug.

The voices of her siblings drifted from the dining room. She ran up the stairs instead, the headache she'd claimed earlier becoming all too real.

When the footsteps faded, Ryland crossed the room and shut the door. The blue paper screamed at him from the desk. It was thick. Thicker than anything else she'd sent him. He flicked the lock.

He'd just finished checking his second set of hidden information. Three of the four false information letters had been found. Wanting to narrow the field, Ryland had hidden a second set of letters. Only two had been disturbed. It wasn't enough to completely remove suspicion from the stablehand and the cook, but it was enough to make him focus on the gardener and the butler.

Most assuredly the butler. Lambert was in this up to his neck.

Satisfied that he'd done all he could do for the evening, Ryland opened the letter.

It was long. Very long.

Half a page in, he had to stop and drop his head into his hands. What was he going to do? The crazy woman had told a duke she was fascinated by a valet.

Three days later Ryland still didn't know how to answer Miranda's letter, but he'd perfected the skill of avoiding her. He hadn't heard yet if they'd been successful at capturing anyone in their information traps, but they would have all occurred by now. Their success or failure was already determined. Once he finished absolving the stablehand of any wrongdoing, they could close down this part of the information exchange.

Ryland assumed his best snobby valet expression and strode into the stable. The abrupt cessation of bright winter sunshine forced him to pause, allowing his vision to adjust. His eyes soon grew accustomed to the dim interior.

Six men busied themselves with grooming horses, polishing tack, and taking stock of the feed bins. Including the groom escorting Miranda on a ride, that accounted for all but one of the stablehands.

Ryland stood stiffly in the middle of the central stable aisle.
The men's faces reflected derision, dismissal, and every other derogatory reaction in between. His act of a self-important man taking advantage of his close working relationship with the duke was holding. Good. Everyone would leave him alone.