The Emerald Swan (13 page)

“Is that all the welcome you have for your brother, Imogen?” Gareth said with a wry smile, as Miranda swept up the gibbering monkey. “The animal’s not going to do any harm.”

“My lord, what can you be thinking of to bring such vermin into the house?” Imogen said faintly. “Indeed, I am overjoyed at your return, brother, but—”

“Chip isn’t vermin,” Miranda declared. She’d kept a prudent silence so far but this was too much.

“It’ll be covered in fleas,” Imogen said with a shudder, ignoring this interjection. “Gareth, it’s hardly considerate … And I must say, brother, we would have
welcomed a messenger from Dover alerting us to your arrival.” She was recovering her equilibrium with her complaints, but then her gaze swung once more upon Miranda, and slowly the full impact of the girl’s appearance hit her. “Dear God in heaven,” she murmured. “It’s Maude to the life.”

“Precisely,” Gareth said. “And I will explain when we are private. Come.” He turned to the front door, drawing Miranda in front of him, pushing her forward gently with his free hand.

“I won’t have that animal in the house!” Imogen’s voice rose abruptly on a note of genuine hysteria. “In a civilized house, brother! Pray consider.”

“I have considered,” Gareth said and blithely continued on his way into the house.

Imogen blanched, then gathering up her skirts, she hurried after her brother.

“Damme, Harcourt, but what’s that you’ve brought back from foreign parts?” Miles came down the stairs, almost bouncing on his toes, his eyes gleaming with something akin to malice. One look at his wife’s expression told him that trouble was a-brewing.

“Dufort.” Gareth greeted his brother-in-law with a brief nod and turned aside into a wainscoted parlor at the rear of the hall. It had long glass doors that opened onto a sweep of lawn leading to the river and the mansion’s water gate.

Miranda lost interest in her companions in her awed contemplation of her surroundings. So much glass! She knew Lord Harcourt was wealthy, but he must be enormously rich to afford such a thing as glass doors. She stared around the parlor. The walls were lined with shelves and on the shelves were books. Dozens of them, representing unimaginable wealth. As
many books as one might find in a monastery library. Two thick embroidered rugs, elegant enough to be wall hangings or bed coverlets, lay carelessly on the gleaming broad planks of the oak floor. Conscious of her dirt-encrusted pattens, she stepped off the rug and onto the floor.

“Miranda, let me make you known to Lord and Lady Dufort.” The earl’s voice brought her back to her surroundings and she turned with a start.

“Your pardon, but I have never seen so many books.”

“Are you lettered?” Gareth was for a moment distracted.

“For a while we had a magician who traveled with us. He was very learned and he taught me to read, but I have not a fair hand at writing.” She shook her head ruefully, before adding, “But he taught me to cast horoscopes, too. If you wish, I will cast yours, milord. And yours, too, madam …” she offered in Imogen’s direction.

Any response to the offer was lost as Miles exclaimed, “Holy saints! She’s the spitting image of Maude.” He came over to Miranda. “May I, my dear?” He tilted her chin to the light. “Astounding,” he murmured. “Apart from the hair, of course. And she looks rather too healthy and cheerful. But other than that…”

“Quite so,” Gareth said with a nod of satisfaction. “When she’s washed and dressed in some gown of Maude’s, I swear you will hardly notice the difference.”

“But Gareth, what is this all about?” Imogen was struggling with conflicting emotions, joy at her brother’s safety, excitement at the certainty he had brought good news, disgust at the monkey, and utter bewilderment at the urchin.

“Lord Harcourt wishes me to take Lady Maude’s place.” Miranda decided it was high time she spoke up. “And I agreed to do so.”

The statement produced a stunned silence. Miranda glanced at Lord Harcourt and caught the sardonic gleam in his eye, the cynical twist to his mouth that she disliked so much. Then he became aware of her gaze and instantly his expression changed. He smiled and one lazy lid dropped in a near-imperceptible wink. The glint of amusement returned to his eyes as if he was inviting her to share his enjoyment of the shocked reception his plan was getting.

Uneasily, Miranda smiled back. She didn’t feel like an accomplice at the moment, more like a pawn.

Gareth reached for the bellpull beside the door. “Perhaps you’d like to take care of Miranda, Imogen. Arrange for her transformation,” he suggested.

Imogen no longer looked like a ship that had lost its moorings. She regarded Miranda with undisguised distaste, but also now with a degree of calculation. For all her volatility, she was no fool when it came to scheming. She wasn’t sure what possibilities her brother had seen in the girl, but she had sense enough to wait and see. “Is she to take Maude’s place at the dinner table tonight? We’re expecting guests.”

“Who?” Gareth raised an inquiring eyebrow, not noticing Miranda’s panicked expression.

“Just my sister and her husband … oh, and Lady Mary,” Miles replied. “She’s been haunting the house for weeks now, Gareth, desperate for news of her betrothed. She’ll be in transports … veritable transports to see you back.” That same slightly malicious smile touched his lips as he said this.

A betrothed? Miranda’s ears pricked. It was the first
she’d heard of such a lady. She looked at Lord Harcourt and caught again that flicker of contempt in his eyes. But again she didn’t know whether it was directed at himself or someone else. She began to wonder if the man she thought she knew—the easy, humorous companion of the road—was not the real Lord Harcourt, and if that was so, then what was she getting herself into?

“It’ll provide a good introduction for Miranda,” Gareth said.

“But … but … isn’t it too soon?” Miranda asked. “I have but just arrived and how am I to—”

“You will manage beautifully,” Gareth interrupted as a footman entered silently in answer to the bell. The earl took Miranda’s hands firmly in his. “I will be there. Everyone in this room will be there to help you if you find yourself in difficulties. But you won’t.”

How could he be so confident? Miranda wondered.

“Send up hot water and a bath immediately to the green bedchamber,” Imogen ordered the footman imperiously. “And I will need two of the serving girls. Come, you.” She reached for Miranda’s wrist as the footman disappeared.

Miranda snatched her wrist away, Imogen grabbed again. Miranda jumped backward. “For heaven’s sake, girl, do as you’re bid!” Imogen exclaimed. “Come with me at once.”

Miranda looked at the earl. “Is she to talk to me in that manner, milord?”

“Saucebox!” exclaimed Imogen. “Of all the impudent—”

“Be quiet, sister!” Gareth interrupted with an upraised hand. “Miranda is here of her own free will. She’s not a servant, and she’s not to be treated as such.
If she’s to take Maude’s place, then she must be treated as a member of the family at all times.”

Imogen frowned, clearly not liking this, but the logic was irrefutable. “I’ll not have that monkey in the green bedchamber,” she said eventually, seizing on this as a legitimate avenue for exercising her authority.

“Chip will remain with me.” Gareth took the monkey from Miranda, who gave him up with obvious reluctance. “I’ll have a dish of nuts and apples and raisins brought for him.”

Miranda continued to hesitate. She had the sense that up to this moment, she could still back out. But once she’d allowed herself to be turned into a replica of Lady Maude, she would have crossed the Rubicon. She met the earl’s quiet regard. “Very well, madam, let’s get on with it,” she said, turning to the door.

Imogen gasped and cast a look of outrage at her brother, who appeared not to see it. Tight-lipped, she preceded Miranda from the room.

Gareth poured wine into two goblets of Murano glass and handed one to his brother-in-law.

“I gather your business prospered,” Miles observed, settling into a carved elbow chair, examining the lace of his shirtsleeve with a critical air. “You’d not be looking for an impersonator for Maude otherwise.”

“A shrewd deduction, brother-in-law.” Gareth sipped his wine, his eyes unreadable.

The green bedchamber was a large, sparsely furnished apartment in the east wing of the mansion. It was big and gloomy with its heavy oak beams and a bed enclosed in a massive oak-paneled cupboard. But
the mullioned casement looked down to the river, which compensated somewhat for the gloom.

Imogen ignored Miranda at first: she was too busy supervising the filling of a copper hip bath, fussing that the cloths spread beneath it weren’t thick enough to protect the floor, castigating and cuffing the serving wenches when they didn’t obey her orders quickly enough.

The maids themselves had difficulty hiding their curiosity. Miranda offered a smile when she encountered one of their covert looks of wide-eyed incredulity, as if she were some creature from another planet. The smile was returned somewhat hesitantly but instantly disappeared when they felt Lady Dufort’s baleful glare upon them.

“You … girl … what’s your name? Miranda? Get out of those filthy clothes,” Imogen commanded when the bath was prepared.

Miranda said nothing, but threw off her clothes and stepped without further instruction into the tub. The water was very hot and smelled of the rose petals and verbena scattered on the surface. She sat down gingerly. A full bath in hot water was an almost unknown luxury. She was accustomed to bathing regularly in the summer months, but in the streams and lakes and ponds along the road, using coarse soap made of rendered beef fat. The soap she was now handed in a small porcelain dish was white and smelled of lavender and lathered beautifully between her hands.

She settled back to enjoy the experience, allowing the girls to wash her hair while ignoring as best she could the critical and harshly appraising stare of milord’s sister.

Imogen tapped one finger against her tightly
compressed lips as she examined the girl in the bath. What did Gareth have in mind? He hadn’t said as much yet, but she was certain that his journey to King Henry’s camp had borne fruit, and by the same token, that this creature with her extraordinary resemblance to Maude had something to do with that fruit.

And there was something different about Gareth, too. His previous dynamism had returned. And it could mean only one thing. Gareth had found a cause. He had a plan. And this unknown girl slowly emerging from the soap bubbles was definitely a part of that plan. Finally, all his sister’s loving scheming had paid off and her brother had returned to himself.

Imogen’s little pebble eyes narrowed. The girl’s physical resemblance to Maude was certainly uncanny, disturbing even. In the right clothes and with the right bearing, she could easily pass as a member of court society. Dressing her would be no problem, but what of her bearing, her conduct? Where had she come from? What made Gareth think that some ragged gypsy, which is what she looked like, could pass for a member of the highborn d’Albard family?

The girl’s wet hair clung to her well-shaped head, setting off her long white neck and accentuating her features—the wide mouth, small, straight nose, slightly rounded chin. But it was her eyes that drew Imogen’s attention. Such an amazing deep blue, fringed with the longest eyelashes, and their expression, stubborn, challenging, was so powerful, so utterly self-determined, that it disturbed Imogen. They were not the eyes of a girl who could be easily manipulated.

But they were Maude’s eyes. How many times had Imogen seen that look in her young cousin’s cerulean gaze? A look that utterly belied the girl’s invalidish pallor
and dying airs. Not that there was anything invalidish about this girl. Her thick, creamy complexion, freed of dirt, and marred only by a few scratches, had a healthy pink tinge, and if the rounded muscles in her arms were anything to go by, her frame, although slight, had a compact strength to it.

Had Gareth dallied with the girl? Her appeal was becoming increasingly apparent as she rose and stepped out of the bath. She was not like Charlotte, not in the least, not physically. But there was something there, some disturbing current of physicality that set Imogen’s scalp crawling with recognition.

“Who are you?” Imogen demanded without volition. “Where do you come from?”

Miranda took the towel held out by one of the maids and wrapped herself securely. It was thick and fluffy, unimaginably luxurious. “I met milord in Dover,” she replied. “I belong to a troupe of strolling players.”

Imogen’s response to this reminded Miranda of a turkey gobbler. Her wrinkled chicken-skin throat worked and her eyes popped.
A vagabond! Gareth had brought home a vagabond! A criminal, like as not. A thief. Nothing would be safe in the house.

As she stared, Miranda swathed her hair in another towel, then stood, regarding Lady Dufort calmly.

Imogen turned on her heel and left the chamber. The girl was a ditch-draggled harlot, but Gareth saw something else in her, and for all that she loathed to acknowledge it, Imogen too could see that there was a quality to the girl that belied her antecedents.

Imogen unlocked Maude’s bedroom door, flung it wide so that it crashed on its hinges, and sailed in.
Maude was huddled in shawls on the settle beside the empty grate. She was alone. The present regime permitted Berthe’s attentions but twice a day, in the morning and the evening. Despite the warmth of the day, Maude looked cold and pinched, her eyes blue-shadowed, her lips pale. But she regarded her custodian steadily, although she made no attempt to rise.

“I give you good day, madam.” Her voice was as pale as her countenance but it was steady.

Imogen glanced around the room. Maude’s dinner tray bearing the bowl of gruel, the hunk of black bread, and the flask of water sat on the table untouched.

She had come into the chamber merely to find a suitable gown for Miranda to wear, but now as she looked at her cousin’s pale, stubborn countenance her anger rose. She was in a mood to do battle and she would not be defeated by this ungrateful whelp. There would be no need for Gareth’s deception with the vagabond, if Maude did as she was bid.