The Emerald Swan (30 page)

And Miranda began to feel that she had never left them. She slipped into the welcoming maw of her family, swallowed up in the babble of their familiar voices, the richness of familiar scents, the aching comfort of familiar faces. Then with a guilty start, she remembered Maude.

“Maude.” She fought her way out of the combined embraces and turned back to the door. Maude was looking both forlorn and distressed but she couldn’t resist Miranda’s apologetic smile, her warm, “I didn’t mean to neglect you. Come and meet my family.”

“Holy Mother!” Mama Gertrude said, finally taking in both Miranda’s clothes and her companion. “It’s unnatural, that’s what it is. Unnatural.”

Maude didn’t know what to do or what to say. She
felt as if she’d strayed into some totally alien world. She couldn’t imagine how all these people could get into this one small space; they all seemed both larger than life and bursting with life.

“So, who are you, child?” Mama Gertrude demanded above the renewed cacophony as the impact of Maude’s presence was felt. She stood back, holding Maude by the shoulders, examining her. “Lord love us,” she murmured, then turned back to Miranda. “Lord love us, but look at those clothes!” Suddenly she laughed, her massive bosom quivering beneath the loose and rather dingy linen robe she wore over her chemise and petticoat.

“Ah, but it’s a heap o’ trouble she’s caused us, an’ I’d like to know what’s goin’ on ’ere,” Bertrand declared.

“Well, I’ll tell you as best I can.” Miranda perched on the corner of a rickety table and recounted her adventures to a rapt audience. “And when I’ve completed the task, Lord Harcourt will fee me with fifty rose nobles,” she finished.

“That’s a fortune, by God!” Jebediah exclaimed, for once without a hint of pessimism.

“Yes,” Miranda said simply.

“And what else does this Lord ’Arcourt want of ye?” Bertrand demanded.

“Nothing,” Miranda said stoutly. What was between herself and Gareth had nothing to do with the task she was performing for him.

“Don’t be a fool, girl!” Bertrand suddenly leaned forward and boxed her ears, not hard but with a degree of emphasis. “Don’t talk rubbish! You’ve no experience of the nobility, girl. He’ll have his way with you and discard you when he’s had enough.”

Maude cried out in shock, but Miranda merely
rubbed her ear, not in the least surprised or put out by the blow. Bertrand was always one to act first and reflect later. “You’re wrong,” she said flatly.

“He hit you,” Maude said, her voice almost a whisper. “He hit you, Miranda.”

“A flea bite,” Miranda said cheerfully. “It’s Bertrand’s way.”

“I think I want to go.” Maude backed toward the door, regarding the room’s occupants as if they were caged lions.

“When are you coming back to us?” Luke asked in a bewildered tone.

“I don’t know.” Miranda spoke the truth quietly.

“So you don’t know ’ow long it’ll take fer you to do this job?” Raoul asked, heaving himself away from the wall where he’d been leaning, massive arms akimbo, his bare chest gleaming with perspiration in the close room.

Maude shrank back as the strongman approached. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a giant before.

“No,” Miranda said. “But if you stay in London, I’ll come and see you often.”

“We’re ’ard-pressed without you. Takin’s are down summat chronic,” Bertrand declared. “An’ they’ll not get better ’angin’ around the city. Competition’s too strong.”

“Aye,” Mama Gertrude agreed, “but the girl’s got another job to do. An’ a right good un, if what she says is truth, an’ our Miranda’s never one to lie.” She took Miranda’s face between her large hands. “Finish the job you’re doin’, child. Earn your fifty rose nobles, then come back to us.”

Maude coughed and Miranda said suddenly, “Maude,
how would you like to see us earn our bread? In fact, you can help.”

“Help?”

“Yes, you can play the tambourine while Bertrand’s trying to get an audience together. You’ll be such a draw, a real lady playing for us! Come on, it’s time you saw something of the world outside your bedchamber, and if you’re going to spend your days in a nunnery, you might as well have some memories to take with you.”

Maude looked around the circle of faces. And suddenly they didn’t seem so alien. They took on their own individual characteristics and she saw the person behind the features. They were smiling at her with good-natured acceptance, all except for the old man they called Jebediah, who looked dour and miserable, as if expecting Armageddon at any moment.

“Oh, yes, play the tambourine!” Robbie piped up. “I’ll play the castanets. I’m good at that, but they don’t make good music alone so someone has to play something else and usually everyone’s too busy.”

Maude looked at the small face, transformed by excitement and anticipation, and a warmth bloomed in her belly, spreading through her veins. She could help this child, give him pleasure, do something useful. Miranda was watching her with a strange little smile as if she could read her thoughts, and when Maude said, “Very well, if you wish it,” Miranda merely nodded.

“You’d best get outta that gown,” Raoul pointed out, flexing his massive biceps. “Can’t tumble in that, stands t’ reason.”

“Yer clothes is all in ’ere.” Gertrude rummaged in an osier basket. “Try them boy’s garments. Folks like the britches.”

Maude giggled when Miranda pirouetted in front of her, clad in a lad’s britches and jerkin. “It’s shocking, Miranda.”

“It draws the men,” Miranda said with a shrug. “Once they realize I’m a woman, it has ’em salivating like a rutting stag.” She grinned at Maude’s expression. “Forget you’re a lady for an hour or two, otherwise you won’t enjoy it.”

And Maude to her astonishment found it very easy to forget. While Bertrand stood on his box and began to harangue the passersby, she played the tambourine, Robbie beside her clicking his castanets. Various members of the troupe offered examples of the entertainment to come and as people slowed, paused, Maude felt a surge of pride at her part in drawing the audience. Chip danced in front of them, mimicking Bertrand with such wicked accuracy that the audience began to laugh, to settle their feet, adjust their postures, with the telltale signs that they were prepared to stay put for a while.

Miranda judged the moment, then began her turn, with Chip adding his mite, tumbling with her. She was constantly criticizing and assessing her performance as she moved, was conscious that she was less than perfect, and aware that if she hadn’t religiously practiced in the confines of her bedchamber she would be even less so. But it was so exhilarating to be back doing what she’d done ever since she could remember, feeling the blood racing in her veins, the stretch of her muscles, the supple snap of her body, hearing the heady approval of the crowd.

She walked on her hands among the audience, blatantly tantalizing the eager, laughing men with the lines of her body in the tight-fitting britches and jerkin.

And then a hand grasped her ankle, halting her progress. Her eyes at ground level took in a pair of thigh-length riding boots, the folds of a long riding cloak brushing the boots. But it was the feel of the fingers around her ankle that told her.

“Milord?” she whispered.

“The very same,” the earl of Harcourt said, as dry as sere leaves.

Chapter Sixteen

B
ERTHE HAD TAKEN
her panicked response to Maude’s uninformative scribble to Lord Harcourt. Enough sense remained despite her near-hysteria to keep her from running to Lady Dufort with such a tale.

Gareth had allowed the woman’s shrill words to tumble around him … Something had happened to Lady Maude since the arrival of the imposter, the changeling. Never before would she have done something like this, left the house without attendants, without even saying where she was going. The other girl had persuaded her, had probably even
forced
her to go with her. Lady Maude would never have done such a thing of her own free will.

Gareth read Maude’s hasty script. It certainly didn’t tell him much, but it wasn’t difficult to fill in the blanks. The lad, Robbie, would have taken Miranda to her family in the city, and for some cockeyed reason she’d taken Maude with her.

He sent Berthe back upstairs with the calm injunction to keep Maude’s absence to herself, then donned riding clothes and went to the mews for his riding horse and the information that the Lady Maude and two companions had taken a litter into the city.

He found his liveried litter bearers taking their pleasure and ease on an ale bench outside the Dog and Partridge at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. From them he learned the direction his quarry had taken, and he rode
up the hill toward the church. The sounds of music, applause, and laughter drew him to the grassy square behind the church.

Horseback gave him a vantage point and he could see over the heads of the crowd. He recognized Gertrude, Bertrand, Luke and his little dog, but his gaze was riveted by the sight of his ward, flushed and laughing, her hair escaping its pins to fall in untidy ringlets to her shoulders. She seemed to be playing a tambourine! Holding it above her head, shaking it with all the rhythmic gusto of a gypsy!

For the moment, he could see no sign of Miranda. There was a lad turning cartwheels … But no, it wasn’t a lad, it was Miranda. He’d know that lithe body anywhere. He could see even from this distance that she was inflaming the men in the first ranks of the audience, and he knew damn well that it was deliberate. She was playing with them, throwing that wickedly defined body at them, then withdrawing just when it seemed they couldn’t help but touch her.

Gareth dismounted, handed the reins to an eager urchin, and pushed through the crowd. Miranda was walking on her hands through the front rows of the audience, flaunting her entrancing little rear tightly encased in those damnable britches. With a leisurely movement, Gareth grasped one slender ankle, halting her progress.

There was a rumble of laughter.

“Milord?” Miranda said.

“The very same.” He opened his hand and she flipped upright, shaking back her hair, giving him the wonderful private smile that filled him with mingled apprehension and the deep delight he didn’t dare to acknowledge. The crowd began a slow handclapping,
expressing their disappointment at the abrupt end of the show. The tambourine player ceased her music, and the performers were for a moment stunned into inaction.

Then Gertrude prodded Luke with the end of her parasol and he jumped forward with Fred, who gleefully began to go through his routine. Chip leaped into the crowd with his hat, collecting for Miranda’s performance, and the show picked up again.

“Come and meet my family,” Miranda said. “I was helping them out because takings haven’t been very good.” She slipped a hand into his arm and drew him with her toward the troupe. “Did you see how well Maude played the tambourine? She could have been born to it.” She laughed, still exhilarated by her performance.

Gareth realized that it never occurred to her that he might take exception to her morning’s work. But Maude was another matter. She was white as a sheet as he approached, her eyes wide with dismay.

“L-Lord Harcourt” was all she managed to say.

“My ward, I see you have some hitherto unrecognized musical talents,” he said with an equable smile. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Maude was astounded. She looked at Miranda, who was smiling, completely unperturbed, then back at her guardian. His lazy-lidded brown eyes were crinkled with amusement, his mouth quirked in a smile. With an expansive gesture, he suggested she take up her instrument again.

“You all right, girl?” Bertrand’s gruff voice spoke from behind Gareth. He didn’t look at the earl, strolling players didn’t address noblemen without invitation, but
the oblique question referred to the lord’s intimidating presence.

“Yes, of course. This is Lord Harcourt. Milord, this is Bertrand. You probably remember seeing him at Dover. I feel so bad. They were thrown into gaol because of the hue and cry.”

Bertrand bowed but his eyes were wary. “Pleased to meet yer ’onor.”

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?” Gertrude sailed over, the plumes in her hair waving frantically. “There’s no touchin’ of the performers, sir.”

“This is Lord Harcourt, Mama Gertrude,” Miranda said hastily. Gertrude was no respecter of persons and would think nothing of taking a lord to task if she believed she was in the right.

“Ah.” Gertrude examined his lordship closely. “You’ll be doing right by our Miranda, m’lord?”

“Gertrude!”
Miranda exclaimed.

But if Gareth was taken aback by such a question from such a one as this mountainous lady of the road, he didn’t show it. “Of course, madam,” he said gravely. “Has Miranda told you of our agreement?”

“Aye, that she has, m’lord,” Bertrand said. “An’ fifty rose nobles she said you promised ’er.” There was a questioning, challenging inflection to the statement.

“That’s so,” Gareth agreed as gravely as before.

“An’ there’s no conditions?” Mama Gertrude demanded. “None what ’er family ought to know about?”

Gareth glanced at Miranda, who was looking deeply mortified at this catechism. “None,” he said.