A Noble Masquerade (32 page)

He could figure out the globe part later. Right now they had to find Miranda. “Spread out. Price and Jess, start from
the study and work your way back. Don't forget to check the garden. Jeffreys, have my horse saddled and brought round front. I'll search the roads.”

Ryland raced up the stairs, intent on gaining the front door as quickly as possible. He paused in the front hall and took a detour around by the study. Sure enough, there sat a globe with a napkin on it. In spite of the danger, a grin split his face. He was fairly certain Miranda could handle a life that wasn't quite normal.

Running from the warm study into the rain had not been her brightest moment. Worry for Ryland made her do things without considering the ramifications. Even if she found a way back into the house, was Ryland even still there? Had he left to search for clues? To confront the enemy?

Rain had long ago seeped through the final layer of her clothes, making her ambivalent to the stream of water coursing down the back of her neck. Much more annoying were the lank strands of hair the wind kept flinging across her eyes. What had once been light, fashionable curls framing her face were now heavy, sopping hanks of hair, whipped hither and yon by the dancing wind, occasionally catching on her lashes, and once entangling in a holly bush.

She tried every door and window on the ground floor, but all of them were locked and none of the rooms held Ryland. Her best chance was the front door. Returning to the study would gain her nothing. She needed to find Ryland.

Unfortunately getting to the front door was easier said than done. Montgomery House shared walls with its neighbors, making a trip from the back to the front of the house a long walk.
A long walk through a series of gardens where anyone could lie in wait for her or sneak up behind without her noticing.

“Think like a spy, Miranda. Show Ryland that you can play at his party. I may not be as proficient as Jess, but I will not let her be the only courageous woman in his life.”

She listened to the sounds of the garden. It seemed to pulse, with occasional periods of extended rustling as a long, angry finger of wind stabbed through the hedges. If she varied her pace, she should be able to make the same sort of unpredictable noise pattern. Maybe she could avoid drawing attention to herself.

Making her way from garden to garden proved easier than she expected. In the dark, she couldn't make out the delineation in the wall to mark the change from house to house. Some of them had walls and fences, others hedges or pathways. Sooner than she expected, she saw the decorative gate around Marlborough house, indicating she'd reached the western end of Pall Mall.

Stepping onto the footpath alongside the cobbled road, she attempted to shake out her skirts. The soggy muslin clung to her legs and the lightweight cloak did little to hide the indecent fit of her wet gown. She quelled at the thought of Ryland seeing her like this.

“A lady never goes out looking
less than her best.”

Years of lectures and training told her to go home as quickly as she could. But if Ryland didn't know who his enemy was, he could put himself in danger inadvertently.

Traffic was incredibly nonexistent. Had the weather been better, the roads would have been crowded with carriages returning from the night's festivities. The most dangerous part of her walk was going to be the expanse across St. James's Street, where many of the gentlemen's clubs were. If anywhere was going to be filled with people, it would be there.

Sure enough, a curricle pulled onto Pall Mall from St. James's
as she walked past the intersection. She wanted to run but restrained herself. Running would only make the curricle driver more curious about her.

“Well, hello!”

Miranda glanced around the side of her hood, intending to continue walking without acknowledging the greeting. Her eyes made out the shadowy face, nose, and cheekbones highlighted by a small carriage lantern, shielded from the rain by the half top of the curricle.

Her feet froze. Water numbed her toes and she realized she was standing in a puddle, but still, she couldn't move. Of all the things she had considered, running into Mr. Montgomery wasn't one of them.

She had to move. Walk on. If she kept her hood up and her face averted, she could avoid the light from the gas streetlamps. Her only hope was to make it to the safety of Montgomery House before he recognized her. As that was probably Mr. Montgomery's destination as well, she prayed that Ryland or his butler were very close to the front door.

The curricle kept pace with her, and it became increasingly difficult to evade the light from the lampposts. Ryland
would
have to live on the most well-lit street in London.

Miranda turned her head as she passed another lamppost, using the movement to see if she could guess Mr. Montgomery's next actions. Lightning suddenly illuminated the street, causing her to blink at the sudden brightness. Miranda turned her gaze to the heavens and then to Gregory's face, locking eyes with his startled gaze. “Truly, God? You couldn't have waited another five seconds?”

In that instant, he had recognized her. What would he be thinking? What reason other than the truth could he come up with for her being so near to Ryland's house, alone, at this time of night?

“Lady Miranda?”

Her feet screamed at her to let them run toward Ryland's house. Another part of her brain told her to stay calm. If she drew attention to the fact that she was now terrified of this man, he would know he'd been discovered. Who knew what he would do then?

She would brazen it out. “I'm sorry, sir. I cannot stay. Unfortunate circumstances force me to seek shelter at my brother's home. You understand.”

Blood pounded in her ears as she fought every instinct she had. Calmly turning her back on him, she crossed the street as if she were headed home instead of toward Ryland's. Her breathing grew harsh and loud, combining with her pounding heart to obscure all sound. Was Mr. Montgomery driving away? Walking after her?

St. James's Square came into view.

“Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.” Miranda repeated the mantra. If she could maintain these two things, she would make it to Trent's house. She crossed into the park area of the square without incident. The trees at the far side of St. James's Square beckoned her. Beyond them, she could lose Mr. Montgomery by taking a number of different streets and alleys to cross over to Mount Street.

She looked over the square as she emerged from the small park. Empty. Damp air filled her lungs as she took her first full breath in five very long minutes. All she had to do was jog down York Street and she could wend her way over to Mount Street with no one the wiser.

Just beyond the square, however, York Street was blocked.

Mr. Montgomery tipped his hat. “I cannot allow you to walk in such horrific weather, my lady. Allow me to escort you home.”

Water dripped off the brim of Ryland's hat as he rode through the rain. He covered the length of Pall Mall and was making his way along the back alleys and side streets. Alarm was now spreading through the Hawthorne household, but that couldn't be helped. He'd had to know if Miranda had somehow made it home, and it was either break into his friend's house or bang on the door until the butler was roused.

Banging on the door was considerably more efficient.

She hadn't made it home. Nor had she gone to Trent's house. It would be a while before Trent would know of his sister's disappearance since he was waiting the storm out at his club as far as his valet knew. That meant she was likely somewhere in between.

It was possible she had ducked into the house of a friend, but who would she trust that much with her reputation? For it was sure to be ruined after roaming London alone. Not that he cared. He would marry her anyway. If blemished reputation mattered to him, he would never have done anything as scandalous as become a spy.

An hour later, he slipped in his front door, shucking his dripping overcoat and gloves. Not wanting to spread more water through the house than necessary, he sat on the floor to pry off his wet boots. After several minutes he gave up and stretched out on the cold marble floor.

He needed to think, and he desperately needed some sleep, but being defeated by a pair of soggy boots left him despondent. It wasn't the first time he'd ridden through the rain. Had his boots been so much looser before? Probably. He'd generally worn peasant clothing when on a mission and those men didn't have the luxury of a valet to pry tight leather from their legs.

Ryland's eyes drifted shut.
Where is Miranda?

“What in the name of . . . Are you dead?” Aunt Marguerite's voice seeped into the edges of his brain. Was she talking to him?

Something hard and blunt poked him in the ribs. He managed a grunt.

“Are you really going to oblige me by expiring in the middle of the front hall? Is there blood? Are you shot? I don't want to ruin the floors in here.”

More poking. It hurt. Ryland snatched the offending object and flung it across the hall. The sound of glass breaking was followed by a scream from his aunt. The demise of a vase distressed her more than the potential death of her nephew. How touching.

Ryland frowned. In fact, she seemed to relish the possibility of his untimely end. Maybe he should continue the charade, though after that splendid display of reflexes, he'd be hard-pressed to convince her of his impending doom.

What would she expect of a person when they were about to die? Ryland had seen more than his share of death over the years, but he doubted Aunt Marguerite knew anything about it. If he put on a good show, she would probably believe it. He groaned as low and loud as he could, before thrashing about on the floor, slipping through the growing puddle of water. Slowly he calmed the thrashing to the occasional twist, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, in case she was watching for the rise and fall of his chest.

“Ryland?”

He twitched. His knuckle cracked against the marble floor. He bit his tongue to contain the groan.

“Ryland?”

She had retrieved the cane and started poking him again.

“Are you breathing?”

The pokes traveled to his chest. Ryland held his breath.

“It worked. I can't believe it worked. Oh, my bright, bright boy. I don't know how you did it, but you won't regret it.”

Booted heels clicked on the marble as she circled Ryland's body.

“A witness. I need a witness.”

Fabric grazed his cheek as she settled near his head. What was she doing?

“I despise getting wet,” she mumbled. And then she wailed.

Ryland almost gave up the game when the ear-splitting scream rent the air. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that the woman crying about his demise was authentically upset. His aunt was quite the thespian.

Steps rushed from all corners of the house. Hushed murmurings of “Your Grace?” came from every direction. Ryland waited for something, some sign that he had enough to solve the mystery of his aunt's desire for his death. There had never been any love lost between them, but he'd never truly wished her ill. The same apparently couldn't be said for her.

“Ryland? Your Grace?”

A sigh of relief almost escaped Ryland's lips. Price had returned.

His aunt managed to speak and sob at the same time. “I heard the door and thought Gregory must have returned, but then I saw . . . him . . . here . . . Oh, what could have happened?”

Regret that he could not witness the splendid theatrical production himself nearly made Ryland smile. Why hadn't he thought to roll over in his thrashings and hide his face? Next time he pretended to die, he would do so on his stomach. It would be much easier.

“My lady, I . . .” Price sounded more perplexed than concerned.

Aunt Marguerite hiccupped. “I suppose you'll have to see to the body, Price. It can be your last official duty.”

“My lady?”

“Well, my son Gregory is the duke now, so I'll be managing the house. You are dismissed. Without a reference.”

The tableau was almost over. Was there anything to gain by
pretending any longer? He couldn't perpetuate the scam for several days. She would be expecting a visit from the Prince's committee and a funeral.

Perhaps more could be gained by scaring his aunt out of her wits. Ryland sat upright. “Don't heed that, Price. I think I'd like to keep you on as butler.”

Aunt Marguerite's scream was sure to leave everyone's ears ringing for days. It was a good thing that she was sitting on the floor. Ryland didn't extend his arms to catch her as she fainted.

Ryland rose to his feet with Price's assistance. His eyes narrowed as he took in his aunt's form, sprawled across the hall floor, skirt trailing through the puddle he had left behind.

“Should we move her, Your Grace?”

He should say no. He wanted to say no.

“Yes. Put her on the sofa in the drawing room. Bind her and set up a watch. Until Miranda is safely home, my aunt is to be kept confined as a person of suspicion.”

Price nodded but paused for a long moment before scooping up the prone body and crossing the hall. Ryland watched them go, trying to process the fact that his last-remaining family wanted him dead. His aunt had crowed over his passing and seemed to think Gregory had orchestrated it. One hand speared through his hair, the clammy feeling reminding him that he was still soaked to the bone.

“Jeffreys!”

The valet strode from the direction of the kitchens, several folds of toweling in his arms. “Would you care for a towel, Your Grace?”

Ryland felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. How could
he find humor when Miranda was missing? He took a towel and rubbed at his hair, face, and arms.

“May I take your coat, Your Grace? Perhaps if we remove some of the wet items, the towels will be more effective.” Jeffreys set the remaining towels on the floor and moved to divest Ryland of his sodden outer garments.

The half smile was firmly in place as Ryland watched his ruined coat get neatly folded and set upon the floor. “You shall make a right fine valet, I think.”

“I'd like to think so, Your Grace. I've laid dry clothing out already. I shall be up to assist you as soon as I can find somewhere for these, er, garments.”

Ryland jogged up the stairs and down the corridor, doing his best to avoid the rugs. Despite shedding boots, jacket, cravat, and waistcoat, he was still dripping. A slow smile stretched his lips as he took in the scene in his dressing room. The nondescript garb of a country farmworker draped across a straight-back chair, laid out as elegantly as his finest evening wear.

His spy clothes. He hadn't realized Jeffreys had kept them. Sliding his legs in the worn brown trousers felt comforting, and not only because they were dry. This was a case, a job. If he could remember that and treat it like one, Miranda would be safe within hours, if she wasn't ensconced at Hawthorne House already. Until he heard otherwise, he would assume the worst.

Three sharp knocks rolled through the room. Ryland jerked his white shirt down before bidding the knocker to enter.

Jess opened the door wide but remained outside the room, using another towel to try to catch her own drips.

Ryland sent her an inquiring look while he sat in the chair to pull on his scratched and scarred boots.

“There was a bit of a scuffle in St. James's Square, but there's no way of knowing for certain if it was her or not. There was a woman on foot and a man in a curricle, and they left together.”

“Gregory.”

Jess froze. “Beg pardon?”

He stomped his foot the rest of the way into his boot and snatched his jacket from the back of the chair. There was no time to bother with the cravat or anything else. He was sure to be wet again soon anyway if he had to run after his errant cousin.

“Gregory. He took his curricle to the club earlier.”

“In this weather?”

Ryland shrugged as he slid past Jess into the passageway. “He didn't have to go far. And it does have a top.”

“And you think Greg . . . er, Mr. Montgomery took Miranda? Why?”

Why was a very good question. What could Gregory hope to gain by stealing Miranda away? Ryland slid his fingers slowly across the polished newel post at the top of the stairs. He couldn't run off into the night, hoping to track Gregory's curricle across London. He needed information.

And he knew just the person who had it.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Your Grace?”

Ryland glanced at Price's worried face and nodded. “Positive.”

“But . . . the brocade, Your Grace. It will be ruined.” The big man's head shook back and forth, a look of grim resignation tightening the corners of his mouth.

Ryland swallowed a chuckle as he turned back to the couch upholstered in green brocade and currently holding the limp form of his aunt. Rope stretched from each of the four legs, ensuring she would remain sitting upon the furniture after she awoke.

“Perhaps smelling salts?” Price tried once more to dissuade his employer.

Ryland lifted one eyebrow as he looked his butler up and down. “Do you have any?”

“Er, no.”

“Then water it is.”

With that he threw the flowers from the nearby vase onto the floor and upended the remaining contents on his aunt's head. She flew up, sputtering, trying to fling her arms over her head, only to find their movement limited by her constraints.

There was something satisfying about being comfortably dry while water dripped from her rapidly blinking lashes.

“Where is he?”

She stared up at Ryland, her eyes darting to the empty vase in his hand. Outrage replaced surprise on her angular features. She spit at him.

He tsked at her, handing the vase to Price before leaning down, just out of reach of his last-remaining female relative. “Such manners. What would the ladies at Almack's say if they could see you now?”

“Get away from me!”

Ryland straightened and forced himself to maintain a casual appearance. His heart pounded in his chest, the blood roaring through his ears, urging him to hurry. But calm would be his greatest weapon in fighting his aunt. It always had been. When things didn't go her way, she grew agitated and flustered. He was counting on that now.

“I'll ask you again.” Ryland leaned his hips against the arm of the chair that sat at an angle to his aunt's cushioned prison. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Your son. Gregory.”

“I believe he went to his club. With the rain he probably decided to stay there.”

His eyes narrowed as he watched Lady Marguerite—he
refused to call her his aunt anymore—try to straighten her skirts and sit with all the poise and restraint of a lady calling upon her social enemy.

“He's not at his club, but that's not the real matter. He has no real friends so that only leaves a few places he could go. Checking them won't take long at all.” He looked deep into her eyes, praying for the key, the one thing that would cause her to break. “Price, go ready the weapons. I want as many outriders as we can muster. Make sure we are all amply armed.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Price's footsteps echoed from the hall as the color began to fade from Lady Marguerite's cheeks.

“I'm going to find your son, and when I do, things will not go well for him.”

“Maybe they won't go well for you.”

Ryland tried to looked surprised. He was certain he failed, achieving a sort of mocking self-confidence instead. Either would serve to anger her. “Are you threatening me?”

She spat at him again. “Of course I'm threatening you. I tried to have them declare you dead, but without a recognizable body, they refused to do so.”

The fact that he frequently communicated with King George and then the Prince Regent might have had something to do with that as well, but she didn't need to know that. “Seeing as I am very much alive, I'm glad to hear it.”

“You shouldn't be.”

“Glad?”

“Alive.”

This was getting good now. Ryland resisted the urge to rub his hands together. “God has blessed me by extracting me from more than one tight situation, so He apparently has a different view of the subject.”

“It should be Gregory. He's the eldest.”

Ryland couldn't keep the surprise from his face. She did remember that she had married the younger brother, didn't she?

“Gregory was supposed to be the duke. Gregory should be the duke! He's older than you. He has stayed in London, has seen the many things this country needs.”

Now he knew that she was out of her mind. The only reason Gregory was staying in London was because Napoleon made traveling to France a life-threatening venture. And the only thing the man ever saw in London was his club, Tattersall's, and the interior of a scattering of well-to-do drawing rooms.

“With you gone, Gregory would have been able to take his rightful place as heir! He was the eldest, but Richard kept insisting the next duke would be you, you insolent pup.”

Somewhere along the way Lady Marguerite had lost touch with reality. She sat shaking her fist at the ceiling, yelling at a dead man. “Look what you've forced me to become, Richard! I begged you to see to this before you died, but you refused! I suppose that makes me the fool for believing you loved me! You never loved me or Gregory. It was always about
him
. Making sure
he
got to Eton and played on the best teams for the best houses. Making sure
he
had a mother figure. You left me with a son and no future. Curse you, Richard! I hope you and your faithless lies are in hell!”

Ryland backed away, eyes growing wide as the woman he'd always pictured as cold and controlling thrashed on the sofa, years of constrained bitterness spilling forth in a torrent she was unprepared to handle.

She lunged for the side table, the ropes causing the couch to drag behind her and impede her balance. The empty vase crashed to the floor, sending shards of fine porcelain in every direction. She clawed at pieces, dragging them against her skin in an effort to cut through the rope.

The first sight of blood drew Ryland from his stunned stupor. “Jess! Price! Jeffreys!”

He heard footsteps scramble down the corridor as he tried to restrain his aunt. The couch kept him from approaching her from behind, and her convulsions made it dangerous to come from the front. She hauled the couch another foot, madness making her stronger than he could have imagined. It was going to cost him a scrape or two, but he had to stop her.

Ducking his head to escape any blows to the face, he dove in and wrapped his arms around her thin torso.

“No!” she screamed. The piercing sound drove to the middle of his brain.

With her arms pinned to her sides, chest heaving with sobs and exertion, she inspired nothing so much as pity. Ryland looked up at his faithful servants, his trusted inner circle. For the first time in a very long while, he was at a loss. “What do I do?”

“Let me go, Richard! I hate you! You practically made me your wife. Why couldn't you make Gregory your son?”

Ryland struggled to maintain his hold on the madwoman. One rope had worked its way around his leg, threatening to send them both toppling in a dangerous tangle.

Price and Jeffreys looked as clueless as he felt. In all of their years, they'd never been faced with a predicament such as this.

Jess strode forward and swung a fist straight into Lady Marguerite's jaw. Her head snapped back, cracking against Ryland's cheek. The sudden limp weight of her still body sent Ryland stumbling back to sit on the couch. He looked at Jess and saw that Price and Jeffreys were also staring in her direction.

She shrugged. “It's not as if all of you haven't wanted to do that very thing before.”

They all had to acknowledge the truth of that.

Ryland extricated himself from the tangle of ropes and his aunt's skirts and laid her out on the couch. “We'll need someone to watch her.”

Price nodded and left the room. “I'll get Archibald.”

“Any word on Gregory?” Ryland asked the remaining occupants.

“He's not at his club or his, er, lady friend's,” Jeffrey said.

Ryland coughed. He really didn't want to know about his cousin's indiscretions.

“None of his acquaintances have granted him shelter either,” Jess added.

Ryland nodded. That didn't leave a whole lot of options. A roadside inn would tax Gregory's pockets after a few days. He was due to receive his allowance next week, so he had to be running low. Inns offered too many chances for witnesses; someone who would notice and recognize Miranda and come to her aid.

Which meant there was really only one place Gregory could go with any kind of confidence.