The Emerald Swan (43 page)

“Because I need you,” Miranda said. “And because you need to do it for yourself.”

And for some strange reason, the answers made perfect sense to Maude. They seemed to fit with all the neatness of an interlocking jigsaw piece into the picture of herself that she was now creating.

Wearily Gareth moved his rook to king four and wondered how long it would take before the queen finally tired. He contemplated deliberately losing the game to bring this interminable evening to a speedier conclusion but then dismissed the idea. The queen was too good a chess player and far too nimble-witted to be deceived and incurring her displeasure wouldn’t get him back to the peace of his bedchamber any quicker.

Elizabeth moved her bishop, her long white beringed fingers still touching the piece until she was certain it was the right move. Then she smiled. “Check, sir.”

Gareth surveyed the board. He could play to a draw, or he could resign. He glanced up at his queen and saw a slightly malicious glint of comprehension in her bright black eyes.

“I will accept your resignation, my lord Harcourt,” she said. “I fear you have too much on your mind tonight to give me a run for my money.”

Gareth toppled his king and smiled ruefully. “Your Majesty sees too much for comfort.”

Elizabeth laughed, not displeased by the compliment. She rose from the chess table and Gareth got to
his feet immediately. Elizabeth had sent her wilting ladies to bed as soon as they’d reached Whitehall from the Harcourt mansion. The duke of Roissy had been early excused with the consideration owed an honored guest, but a mere subject was expected to dance to Her Majesty’s tune. And Elizabeth, who needed little sleep, was in the mood for conversation and chess.

“I find the duke of Roissy an interesting man,” she commented, opening her fan. “And no fool.”

“Indeed not, madam.”

“He seems absolutely certain that Henry will prevail in the siege of Paris.” The queen raised one plucked eyebrow. “I wish I could be so certain. What think you, my lord?”

“He has right on his side, madam.”

The queen closed her fan and stood tapping it into the palm of her hand. “I would expect you to believe that, of course. After what happened to your family in the massacre. If Henry succeeds in securing the crown of France, this marriage of your ward’s will bring fortune to the Harcourts, will it not?”

Gareth knew it was a rhetorical question so he merely bowed.

“I am not as yet certain how England will benefit from having Henry of Navarre on the throne of France,” Elizabeth said consideringly. “The opinions of those close to the French court will always be of great use to me.”

“My service and my loyalties lie first and foremost with my queen.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly. “I like ambitious men around me, Lord Harcourt. Ambition and power are reliable motives.” She smiled with that same hint of malice. “They’re unflinching and they lead a man along well
trodden paths.” Abruptly, she turned toward the door leading to her bedchamber. “I bid you good night, my lord.”

“I trust Your Majesty will sleep well.” Gareth bowed and remained in obeisance until the queen had passed from the privy chamber. Then with a soft exhalation of relief, he left himself, acknowledging the salute of the chamberlains at the door with a brief nod. He had gone no more than halfway along the night-quiet corridor when a door opened just ahead of him.

Lady Mary Abernathy stepped directly in front of him, barring his way. She stood beneath a lamp in a wall sconce and Gareth’s first thought was that she was unwell or had had some dreadful fright, or perhaps received some hideous news. Her face was a mask—ghostly white, her eyes fixed unmoving in their deep sockets. She stood stock-still in the corridor. She stared at him as if he were some monster emerged from the deeps.

“Mary?” He stopped. “Is something the matter? What has happened?”

“I would have private speech with you, sir.” Her voice was a monotone. She stepped back into the small paneled room where she’d been awaiting him. Gareth followed her, puzzled and alarmed.

“What has happened?” he repeated, bending to turn up the wick on a lamp sitting on a small table. He lifted the lamp to see her better, then said with concern, “You look ill, Mary.”

“I am sickened,” she said in the same flat voice. “You … you … have had carnal knowledge of that girl.” Her voice took on tone and color. “She’s not your ward. You have conducted a carnal relationship under your own roof … with … with … what is she?”

Gareth carefully set the lamp back on the table. They were in a very small antechamber, sparsely furnished, the wooden paneling unadorned with tapestries or molding. He had no idea how Mary knew what she knew, but as he faced his betrothed, he felt a sense of relief. The relief of confession, he supposed with self-directed cynicism.

“What is she?” Mary demanded again. Two bright spots of color burned now on her high cheekbones, startling against her pallor, and her eyes now flared with righteous anger. “Did you bring her into the house so she could serve you as your mistress?”

Simple truth seemed the only possible road to take. “No, not initially. Miranda was traveling with a group of strolling players when I first met her.”

“A vagabond! And a thief, no doubt. You’ve been consorting under your own roof with a roadside whore!” Mary choked on her outrage.

“Miranda’s not a whore, Mary,” Gareth said quietly. He was astounded at her passion. This woman who had never evinced the slightest lack of control, who never said or did anything that was not carefully considered and perfectly appropriate, was confronting him with all the fierce outrage of a cornered vixen.

“You would defend such a creature? You insult your sister, your honor,
me!
” Her voice caught, but when Gareth prepared to speak, she held up an imperative hand. “That creature talked of
love.
What do you say to that, my lord Harcourt? A roadside harlot talked to you of
love.
I heard every word!”

“Ah,” Gareth said, understanding now how his betrothed had come by her information. “There is a little more to this than meets the eye, Mary, but—”

“Oh, you’ll be telling me next that you
love
her!”
Mary interrupted, disgust dripping from her voice. “The ultimate vulgarity! People in our position don’t
love
.”

Gareth regarded her in rueful silence. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, at something of a loss. He hadn’t expected to be accused of vulgarity, of all things. But then he supposed he should have expected it from Mary. He couldn’t tell exactly what aspect of this whole mess troubled her the most. Was it the sex? The fact that it had taken place under his own roof? The fact that the girl was not what she’d been made out to be? Or the vulgarity of such a word and emotion applied to the relationship?

And just how in the name of the good Christ was he to salvage anything out of this debacle? Mary knew there were two Maudes, although as yet she obviously hadn’t taken time to consider the whys and wherefores of that aspect of her betrothed’s vulgarity. Kip knew there were two Maudes. How long would it take before Henry knew?

Mary gazed at the man she’d been intending to marry. A man who had lowered himself into the gutter, become entangled with a common thief, a roadside harlot, committed the one unforgivable sin. She belonged to the family of the dukes of Abernathy. Her lineage was as good as any Harcourt’s. And she could not swallow such an insult. Not even for a husband.

“You may take it, my lord, that our engagement is broken,” she said icily.

Gareth’s eyes, almost black, were unreadable as they returned her regard and he spoke the form words, “Your wishes are my command, madam.”

Mary didn’t move for a minute, but she glared at him with such wrathful disgust that he nearly winced.
Then with a sudden movement she snatched off her betrothal ring. To Gareth’s everlasting astonishment she threw it at him … hurled it across the room. It struck his right temple painfully. Both force and aim had been well judged.

Astounded, Gareth put a hand to his forehead. It was sticky with blood where the diamond-encrusted setting had broken the skin. For a moment they looked at each other and it was clear that Mary was as shocked by her action as Gareth. Then she turned with a swish of skirts and left him.

Numbly, Gareth bent to pick up the ring from where it had fallen at his feet. His temple throbbed as he did so. He straightened slowly, rubbing his fingertip over the wound. He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever really known Mary at all.

The sun was already rising in the eastern sky when Gareth alighted at the water steps under the rose-streaked sky. His step was less brisk than usual as he went up the path and entered the house through the side door. The servants were already up and about, busy with setting breakfast in the dining hall, and Gareth turned aside to take the back stairs. He didn’t want to meet Henry, a notoriously early riser, until he’d had a chance to think through his next step.

The door to the green bedchamber stood ajar as he passed it. He stopped and stepped inside, aware that his heart was beating too fast. The bed was rumpled, the linen press and drawers in the armoire were open.

Gareth silently cursed his stupidity. It seemed he was forever underestimating women. Of course Miranda
had gone. He had thought that a night’s reflection would give her some distance, and instead she had left him.

As he stood there, dumbfounded, trying to grapple with this new twist, a cry came from Maude’s chamber behind him. He spun round. Berthe stood in the doorway, flourishing a sheet of parchment, her face gray, her mouth opening and closing like that of a gaffed fish.

“My lord …” she managed at last. “Lady Maude …”

Gareth strode toward her. He moved her back into the bedchamber and closed the door. One glance around told him all he needed to know. Maude’s chamber looked very much like Miranda’s.
They had both gone.

“Calm down, woman.” In a state of icy calm himself, he took the parchment from Berthe, who sank with a half sob, half groan onto the settle and buried her face in her apron.

“My pet … my pet. What has happened to her? How could she do such a thing?”

Gareth ignored Berthe’s moans and ran his eye over the neatly penned missive. His ward informed him succinctly that she had gone away with Miranda to find Miranda’s family. There was no reason for alarm. They had money for the journey and she would return in a week. In the meantime, perhaps it would be sensible to explain to the duke of Roissy that she had been taken ill.

The penmanship was Maude’s but the composition was Miranda’s. That at least was clear as day to Gareth. He thought he understood the rest, but wasn’t entirely certain. There was no indication here that Maude knew the truth about her relationship with Miranda, and if she didn’t, then why would she run away with her?

“Oh, do stop moaning, woman,” he said in exasperation as Berthe’s keening grew ever louder. “I’m trying to think.”

Twins. He supposed that had to be the explanation. A bond that Maude acknowledged even if she didn’t understand why it existed.

“Gareth, the girl has gone!”

“Yes, Imogen.” He glanced, unsurprised, toward the door. It would have surprised him if his sister had remained in ignorance of Miranda’s disappearance for more than another five minutes. Imogen had entered without knocking and now stood gazing around the empty chamber in total astonishment.

“But why? Why did she leave?”

His expression was grim. “She had her reasons, God knows.”

“But Maude? Where’s Maude?”

“Gone!” Berthe wailed.

“Gone! Gone where?”

“To Dover, or Folkestone … possibly Ramsgate,” Gareth mused, tapping Maude’s letter into the palm of his hand.

“But
why?”
Imogen’s voice rose dangerously.

“Let’s continue this somewhere else.” Gareth couldn’t face combined hysterics. “Berthe, you will remain in here, and you will tell anyone who asks that Lady Maude is ailing and is keeping to her bed. I’ll talk to you later.”

He took his sister’s arm and eased her out of the room. The green bedchamber was close enough to be the obvious choice. “In here, sister.” He closed the door behind them. “Now, we may discuss this in peace.”

Imogen fanned herself and looked pathetically bewildered. “I don’t understand. Why are you so calm?
Maude has gone. The other one has gone. And Henry is ready to sign the betrothal contracts this morning. And
there’s no bridei”
Her voice rose again.

“A little awkward, I grant you,” Gareth said in the tone that Miranda would have recognized, but that merely sent his sister’s agitation up several notches.

“Has she taken her away? Has the other one taken Maude away? I know she has. I knew it was a misconceived plan. You have no idea about women, Gareth. You never have had.” Imogen paced the room. “Why wouldn’t you let me deal with this in my own way, brother?” She threw up her hands in despair.

“All is not lost, Imogen,” he said, perching on the end of the bed. “Maude will be back. She’s already well on the way to finding Henry agreeable—”

“She’s met him?” Imogen stared at him as if he were beside himself. “She’s been—”

“Last night … yesterday morning on the river …”

Imogen’s jaw dropped. “So that was what Dufort meant. It was Maude last night, not the other one.”

Gareth nodded wearily. “Precisely.”

Imogen’s expression lit up. “Then everything is perfect. We’ve got rid of the other one, and Maude will wed Henry, and everything is exactly as it should be.”

“Yes,” Gareth agreed, standing up. “Everything is exactly as it should be.”

Chapter Twenty-Three