A Noble Masquerade (27 page)

He'd already set up a rotation of servants to watch over Miranda's house. They slipped out at odd hours, taking a circuitous route to Hawthorne House. Griffith would probably kill him if he learned what Ryland was doing. He'd considered telling his friend about the potential danger, but didn't think Griffith would know how to properly protect Miranda in this situation.

So he'd send his own people and beg for forgiveness later.

The calluses on his hands scraped his face as he tried to physically wipe away thoughts of Miranda. Beyond setting up a discreet guard, there was nothing he could do. His time would be better spent determining who his enemy was so he could roust the scoundrel and get back to his life.

He hated sitting here, waiting for information. Everything in him wanted to go out and dig around himself. To find things himself. To catch the man red-handed instead of directing the effort from his desk.

The snick of the door latch jerked him into the present. He forced his body to remain loose, while his senses reached out to determine the visitor to his study. One eye opened a crack to take in the hulking shadow slipping in the door.

“Any news, Price?” Ryland eased his eye closed once more and allowed part of his mind to sift through what he knew about Lambert while he focused the bulk of his attention on Price's report. He was quickly learning that one advantage to staffing his house with former spies and war survivors was the ready source of capable aid when he needed something strange done. Or information gathered.

It might be killing him to not be out there, but he had every confidence that the people he had out there were the best. He'd sent word round to the War Office about their findings. While they claimed to be looking into it, he was fairly certain they were letting him take care of it on his own.

Though they'd probably still take the credit.

He heard Price move across the room to the fireplace. After a few moments of silence the smell of roasted apple drew nearer and the fruit was pressed into his dangling hand. Ryland lifted it to his mouth and let his teeth puncture the wrinkled skin. Warm juice flooded his mouth as he tore off a chunk of the now almost gooey fruit. “Make yourself one, Price. There's a bowl of apples on the shelf behind the desk.”

“Don't mind if I do, sir. My mum used to roast apples for us at Christmas. I haven't had one in years.”

Ryland tracked the man's movements out of habit. He thought he had left the life where knowing where everyone was in a room at any given moment could mean the difference between life and death. The note he'd received that morning said differently.

After several moments, the other wing chair creaked and sighed as the springs adjusted to support a large weight. Ryland eased his eyes open and continued to munch on his apple.

In deference to the unseasonable fire, Price had removed his jacket. It draped over the back of the chair. With slow movements, Price arranged his bulky body into a casual pose similar to Ryland's. “There's nothing, sir. It's as if the letter just appeared on the front stoop. We can't find a messenger, not even a street urchin admitting to taking a few coins in return for bringing the letter. Jess has been scouring the streets, looking for anyone who knows anything. She slipped back in a few minutes ago.”

Ryland frowned. Jess was one of the parlor maids. “Jess is just a girl, Price. I don't want her out there.”

Price shook his head. “She's not that young girl you found in a trunk anymore, Your Grace. Watching your parents get hauled off as English sympathizers grows you up real quick-like. Don't forget she's done her own share of work for the Crown since then.

“She had the fortitude for you to smuggle her across the channel seven years ago, and she's not lost any of that since, even if she is still a mite of a thing. It lets her pass as a youngster out on the street.”

“I still don't like it.” Truth be told, Ryland hadn't liked that any women served with him in the intelligence field. At his core he was still a gentleman, and it went against the grain to allow a female to deliberately endanger herself. It was a care he'd learned to ignore early on in his career but he'd never been able to eradicate it.

Price poked at his spinning apple. “Which one do you think sent the note?”

Ryland fished the paper from his pocket to read it again, though he had the entire short missive memorized.

You will pay for ruining this for me. You've robbed me of everything I worked for. Now I shall rob you. Maybe I'll start with the girl.

“I have my suspicions but no proof.” Ryland passed the paper to Price and got up to pace. “He's not professi— Wait. Are my aunt and cousin still at home?”

Price shook his head. “Left an hour ago for the theater.”

Ryland nodded and resumed pacing. “Our man, whoever he is, is not a professional. Which is surprising given the strong network of spies he put in wealthy houses across the whole of England. He's too emotional, too close to whatever this is he thinks I've taken. He's out for revenge.”

The Office had picked up Lambert two days ago in a smuggler's boat bound for France. Since then the man had talked about everything except who hired him. They were going to have their hands busy for the next few weeks looking into all the servants the man claimed were part of the spy ring.

“That makes him all the more dangerous.”

Price and Ryland exchanged glances. As a former smuggler, Price knew about hidden enemies and the cold, calculating nature of the breed. He also knew how dangerous it was when those men left logic behind.

Archibald stuck his head around the study door. “I think we got it, Your Grace. You were right about Baron Listwist.”

Ryland waved Archibald into the room as he took another bite of apple. It was the only thing he'd had the stomach to eat all day.

“His fields haven't been planted in two years. The estate's empty except for an old couple taking care of the house and the donkey they use to take them into town.” Archibald handed over a list. “Yet all of these creditors said he's paid off his bills in the last six months. Bills he'd run up to the point of being on the verge of debtors' prison.”

“Is the estate on the water?”

Archibald nodded. “A nice cove. Deep and calm. It'd be a simple thing to sail in and out of.”

Ryland dismissed Archibald and told him to get some sleep. The man looked exhausted. He must have ridden nonstop, alternating between horse and mail coach.

“Does he have a connection to France?” Price asked.

Ryland nodded. “An aunt. She's a member of Napoleon's court. That's enough to make him suspect. The influx of money seals the deal. If he's not our traitor, he's at least doing something criminal, because he's claiming the money came from his estate.”

Jeffreys entered into the study, slamming the door behind him so that he could continue across the floor without breaking stride. “There's been another note.”

Ryland spun and held his hand out for the paper. “Where?”

“The front hall table. It's the same shaky handwriting.”

Price stood up with a growl. “Someone came through my door?”

A grin fought to find a home on Ryland's lips. “I believe it's my door, Price.”

“The house may be yours, Your Grace, but that door is mine.”

Laughter begged to join the repressed grin. “Let's see what this one says, shall we?”

You never know where I'll strike. Imagine your door without that preposterous butler.

“I think the man's an idiot,” Jeffreys said with a shake of his head.

Ryland cast a sideways glance at the “preposterous butler.” The servant's ears were turning red. “He has a death wish at the very least.”

“First my door and now my person. I'm going to kill him, Ryland!”

Alarmed that Price had reverted to calling him by his given
name, Ryland pushed the big man back into the chair. “Calm down. Remember the attack is against me, not you.”

Ryland slowly paced some more, keeping Price in the corner of his eye.

Finally, Ryland leaned both arms on the back of his vacated chair and stared into the flickering flames. Price's forgotten apple spun merrily around, casting shadows on the ceiling. “Jeffreys, send word to the Office that we have our man. They've been letting us run things unofficially until now, and I am willing to assist in his capture, but they'll have to be the ones to make the actual arrest.”

Miranda tapped the quill against her lips and stared at the blank blue paper in front of her. Her very skin felt as if it would rip apart at any moment.

Confusion, sadness, a touch of anger, and even a bit of fear swirled around her head. She couldn't make sense of it. Didn't know what she should do with it. And the avenue she'd used for as long as she could remember had apparently been stolen from her.

She couldn't write.

Every time her quill touched the paper, it sat there, leaving a glob of ink behind. How could she write to Ryland about Ryland? The freedom and anonymity were lost. Gone. Never again would she be able to scrawl her feelings out knowing there would be no condemnation for whatever she said. Even if Ryland never saw the letter, he was no longer a faceless friend.

He was real.

And she missed him.

Which sent her emotions careening all over the place once more, because she'd spent the past several months telling God she wouldn't miss a man, that she would be completely happy
without one. Yet when Ryland didn't show up that afternoon as promised, she was left pacing the floor.

A light knock on the door brought Miranda to a halt. Her mother's voice drifted through the wooden panel. “Are you ready, darling?”

“What? Oh! Yes, Mother, I'm coming.” Miranda snatched her reticule off the bed and headed for the door.

“You look stunning, Miranda. There's color in your cheeks and your eyes are bright. We simply must put you in green more often.”

Miranda glanced down at the soft green silk gown, covered with an overskirt of dark green lace. She'd worn the dress on two prior occasions and gotten no such compliments from her mother. Emotional upheaval apparently agreed with her. Her stomach roiled. Well, it agreed with her complexion anyway.

“Thank you, Mother. Is everyone else ready?” Miranda stepped out of the room and shut the door.

Mother led the way down the corridor. “Yes, Trent and Georgina are downstairs. Griffith, of course, is at Parliament this evening. He'll be joining us for dinner after the play.”

The ride to the theater was uneventful. Georgina had been allowed to attend plays and such for the past two years, so the novelty had worn off, meaning she wouldn't chatter her way through the entire thing in excitement.

The crush of carriages around the theater took twice as long to maneuver through as the trip from the house had taken. When it was finally their turn to alight, Miranda found the press of the glittering crowd was not much better. She stepped to the side as best she could to wait for the rest of her party to exit the carriage.

A jostling of people to her left suddenly knocked her off balance. She slid sideways into a male body. Straightening as quickly as she could, a blush heating her cheeks, she turned to
apologize. Her breath solidified in her throat as she glanced at the man's profile.

“You!” she finally managed to choke out.

He turned to look at her and she found a sudden desire to hide. It wasn't Ryland. She found herself looking into the rounder, questioning face of his cousin, Mr. Gregory Montgomery. He was not someone she knew well and this was the first time their paths had crossed this Season.

“Oh! Pardon me. I thought you were someone else for a moment.” Miranda bobbed a small curtsy and moved to join her mother, who had gotten sent in the other direction during the jostling.

“Lady Miranda, isn't it? Lady Miranda Hawthorne?”

She turned with a start, having expected him to merely bow in response and move on into the theater. Turning only her head back toward him, she answered, “Yes. Again, I apologize for the misconception. Enjoy your evening at the theater!”

Once inside the theater, the crowd thinned as people made their way to their seats and settled in for the show.

The heavy amounts of laughter and chortles indicated that it was a good show indeed, but Miranda could barely concentrate on it. She was still agitated and found herself fidgeting constantly. Her fan was moving fast enough to blow out the candle fixed to the back wall of their box.

During intermission, she joined Georgina at the refreshment table just to have something to do.

“We meet again.”

She looked up to find Mr. Montgomery looking down on her once more. “So we do. Hardly surprising since it is the same venue as our last meeting.”

He smiled. The tilt of the lips was similar to Ryland's but some spark, a sign of inner fire, was missing. Or maybe it was just that she didn't know him well. It was hardly fair to consider
the man lacking in inner fortitude when she barely knew him by sight. In fact, before tonight, had a Bow Street runner asked her to describe Mr. Montgomery, she would have failed miserably.

Now, after only a few moments in his company, she could pinpoint that his nose was straight, where Ryland's had a slight bump between the eyes. The chin was rounder than Ryland's squared-off jaw. Mr. Montgomery's shoulders were nearly as wide as his cousin's but did not carry the same easy strength and brawn, making them look awkward over his thicker middle.

Miranda shook her head as she realized that Mr. Montgomery had been saying something to her. She had missed it entirely. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?”

“I asked if you were enjoying the show.”

What could she say? In truth she wasn't even sure what the play was tonight. “It's quite the comedy, isn't it?”

“I was wondering if you'd be partial to discussing the play further. Do you intend to be at home tomorrow? Might I call upon you?” His brows rose in inquiry, the lifeless smile still in place on his lips.

“Of course. I shall look forward to the discussion.” What was she thinking? She had no interest in discussing anything with Ryland's cousin. Was there any way out of her polite acceptance? “My mother and sister are attending tonight as well and will, of course, be sitting with me tomorrow. It shall be a lively conversation for us all.”

His smile shrank a bit but maintained its place. “Excellent. Until tomorrow, then.”

Miranda forced herself to smile back. It was what a lady would do, after all. She trudged back to her seat, already dreading the next afternoon. As she settled her skirts around her chair, she admonished herself to focus on the second half of the play. She needed something to say when the man came calling.

The curtain rose and her mind wandered away from the
action on stage. While she was certain that Mr. Montgomery held no interest for her, the encounter renewed her thinking that Ryland would not be the easiest man to have in her life.

It was time to consider other options.

Miranda was delighted to see the excessive amount of rain falling from the sky the next day.

Georgina turned from the window with a sound of disgust. “No one will be visiting in this weather. It is positively sheeting out there. If this keeps up, Sunday's sermon will be on Noah.”

Miranda couldn't restrain the surprise that lifted her eyebrows. Since when did Georgina notice what the sermon was about? Miranda bit her tongue to keep the scathing remark behind her lips as she poked her embroidery needle through the cream-colored fabric. A shadow fell over her work as Georgina's blond curls danced into the edge of Miranda's vision.

“What are you working on?” The breathy whisper tickled Miranda's ear.

“A pillow.” Miranda rubbed her wrist against the itch in her ear, careful not to poke herself with the needle grasped between her fingers.

“A pillow? Whatever for?” Boredom etched on her features, Georgina draped herself across her favorite settee. Even without an audience, the girl played the part.

“To bash you in the head with,” Miranda mumbled.

“A lady never mumbles, dear.” Mother didn't even look up from her book as she corrected her daughter.

Miranda wanted to howl at the unfairness. A lady never displayed her ankles either but Georgina's skirt had ridden all the way up to her knee. Unfortunately, howling would also be in opposition to appropriate genteel behavior which would
make two marks against Miranda and would still not cause Mother to look up from her book. “I said that I wanted it to decorate my bed with.”

“It's rather pretty.” Georgina angled her head to inspect the floral vine creeping along the edge of the fabric. “Will you make one for me? I could put it in my drawing room when I get married.”

“I think I'll wait until the grand event is forthcoming.”

“I'm sure an offer will be extended any day now.”

Miranda's fingers stilled. “From whom?”

“He was supposed to come today, but one would hardly want to be soaked to the skin when approaching Griffith for permission to marry his sister.”

“Who is approaching Griffith?” Miranda felt the pinch of the needle as her hand tightened in instinctive trepidation.

“I wouldn't want a proposal from a wet man, either. Even if he did come today, I wouldn't see him.”

“Who?” Miranda was nearly shouting now.

“Georgina, dear,” Mother said as she turned the page in her book, “a lady never ignores someone's question unless she means to insult the speaker.”

The easy manner in which her mother could say such a bizarre statement momentarily distracted Miranda from her sister's news. The rules of being a lady never ceased to amaze her.

“I was trying to build suspense, Mother.” Georgina began to pace around the room. “Add some life to this dreary afternoon.”

“You could work on something yourself. You mentioned wanting to paint a new fire screen for the upstairs parlor.” Mother turned another page.

“I can't paint, Mother. I would have to change. If by some miracle someone does come calling, I would be unfit to see them.”

“I suppose, although I don't think—”

“I beg your pardon,” Miranda said with a slight wave to attract Georgina's attention. Her mother still didn't look up. “You still haven't answered my question.”

“Oh! Well, he's only an earl, but he's a well-respected one, so I should consider it. The Marquis of Linstock is ghastly looking. I don't think I could manage watching that face grow older every day. And the Duke of Marshington is annoyingly uninteresting. With all of that intrigue around him, you'd think he'd be fascinating, but he isn't.”

Miranda thought the only thing that could make Ryland uninteresting to Georgina was the fact that he so obviously wasn't interested in pampering her and her pride. It suited Miranda fine to have her younger sister find fault with the duke.

Not that Miranda planned on having anything to do with him. In the early hours of the morning she'd settled on being angry with him. It wasn't a very justifiable anger, but it kept the emotional swirl to a minimum and didn't leave her with an ever-present threat of tears.

Georgina continued as she circled the room once more. “So I decided to put serious consideration to the available earls. There's quite a crop of them this year.”

Miranda went down the list. She'd seen four earls making the rounds in the ballrooms. It wasn't a high number, but it was enough to send more than one marriage-hungry mama to the modiste to make more eye-catching gowns for their daughters.

One earl was too old. He was making the social rounds as part of his granddaughter's first Season. While many women would be willing to marry an old man for money and title, Georgina was not in a position to need to do so. Lord Clampton was seen at Gunter's nearly every day with Lady Elizabeth Strosser, so he couldn't be encouraging Georgina.

That left only Lord Grayling and . . . No. The needle slipped
from Miranda's nerveless fingers as the last possibility formed in her mind even as Georgina said the name aloud.

“Lord Ashcombe has been most attentive. I think he'll come up to scratch very soon.”

Miranda's eyes flew across the room. Her mother was peeking over her book, concern in her eyes as they connected with Miranda's frantic gaze.

“You can't,” Miranda whispered.

“Why not? Just because you couldn't get him to fully commit doesn't mean that I can't.”

“But Griffith—”

“Pardon me, my lady,” the butler interrupted, maintaining his perfect posture despite the water spotting the front of his attire. “Mr. Gregory Montgomery is here.”

Mother straightened her spine and slid her book under the pillow behind her. “Is this a farce, Gibson? No one would be out in this weather.”

“He is drying himself off in the kitchen at the moment, my lady. I apologize, but it was the only fire lit today.”

“Of course, of course.” Mother gestured to her daughters. “Sit, sit. Mr. Montgomery will be up soon.”

Georgina smirked at Miranda. “It would seem that someone is overly eager to discuss the theater.”

A sigh escaped Miranda's lips as she folded her embroidery and stored it in her sewing box. She should be feeling flattered that the man had braved the forces of nature to see her, but all she could drum up was a slight amount of gratitude that she no longer had to listen to Georgina's complaints about the weather or her admiration for Lord Ashcombe.