A Noble Masquerade (14 page)

The bucket, which had never been overly comfortable, was now a torture device. Miranda felt like an utter fool. Here they were, in a potentially dangerous and definitely desperate situ
ation, and she was worried about maintaining social status. It was enough to make her sick.

Miranda darted a look at Marlow. She should accept his apology. He was always working, doing things for Griffith long into the evening and early in the morning. He was an exemplary servant and—

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, frozen before she could utter a syllable. The second part of Marlow's statement was sinking in. He hadn't been born a servant. The implications swirled in her mind, refusing to form a solid thought, leaving her unsure of herself and what she wanted.

“You are, of course, correct, Marlow.” She smoothed her skirts to give her hands something to do. What fabric remained of the riding habit had been trampled in the mud. “This is a most remarkable situation. We are relying on each other for our very safety. There is no reason to stand on ceremony. We shall be equals for as long as it takes us to return home.”

She felt quite proud of herself as a flash of shock flew across Marlow's face. This was the perfect solution. They could get to know each other better. Surely when the mystery wore off her confounded attachment to this man would fade. Once they returned to the estate, their relationship would return to normal. It was perfect, as long as Marlow agreed.

“My given name is Ryland.”

Their eyes met and held for a long moment. Miranda's heart beat loudly in her chest.
Ryland Marlow
. The roar of blood surging through her ears seemed to carry his name, making him even less of a servant in her mind. He didn't seem to move as he stared at her, daring her to make good on her plan.

“Ryland.” It came out a strangled whisper as she nodded her head in his direction, as if this were their first introduction.

“Miranda.” His voice felt like crushed velvet running over her skin. Maybe the plan wasn't so prudent after all.

A thick drizzle was all that remained of the rain as they left the shed. Ryland poked his head out the door before opening it wide and bowing Miranda through. She swept out, pretending she was entering London's most exclusive ballroom.

Her foot sank in the mud.

“Oh, bother.” She tried to tug her heel out of the sucking mire without lifting her skirts. The blue woolen riding skirt was already a lost cause, while her dignity and modesty had yet to suffer a fatal blow. She wanted to keep it that way.

“What's wrong?” Ryland asked. How surprisingly easy it was to think of him as Ryland.

“My boot. It's stuck.” Miranda tried once more to tug her heel free. All she managed was to work more of her foot into the ooze.

Ryland knelt by her feet. “Let me help you.”

“Have you bacon for brains?” She swatted at his hands reaching for her leg. “You cannot grab my leg.”

He sighed. “Then I'll pry out the foot.”

“I am certainly not lifting my skirt.”

He propped his arm on his raised knee and glared up at her. She crossed her arms and stuck her nose away from him.

Ryland rubbed his hand over his face and through his long hair. He had long since lost the strip of leather tying his hair back and his dark locks were as disheveled as her own. “What do you propose, my lady?” His voice was slurred as if spoken through gritted teeth.

She was being silly, trying to maintain propriety in the middle of a cow pasture. There was nothing proper about this scenario.

“A lady
never shows a man her ankles.”

Miranda frowned at her mother's voice. A lady was never supposed to spend the night in a shed or walk alone in the woods either. Perhaps it was time for practicality to rule over lady lessons.

“Be quick about it.” Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her skirts the barest of amounts.

Even though she knew it was coming, it still startled her to feel Ryland's strong hand wrap around her ankle. No one but herself and Sally had touched her feet in years. Certainly a man had never had cause to do so.

“On three,” Ryland said quietly.

Miranda eased her eyes open and looked down, expecting to see Ryland's bent head. Instead she became snared in his intent gaze. A twirl of excitement flittered from her throat down her spine.

No wonder ladies weren't supposed to let men touch their feet.

“One, two, three.”

Miranda forgot to pull her foot until she felt the tugging against her ankle. She yanked, grimacing at the slushy sucking noise that accompanied her foot's freedom.

She stumbled forward, and Ryland landed on his backside.

With a grunt, he jerked to his feet, diverting his gaze to the surrounding area.

“Thank you.” She primly set her clothing to rights as well as she could.

“Do you know where we are?”

Miranda looked around, trying to find a significant landmark. They'd had no sense of direction last night, had only run blindly. “I don't recognize a thing, which makes me think we went east. Griffith's lands extend quite far to the north, and the village is to the south.”

“So we could be west as well?” Ryland looked at the sun peeking through the clouds, clearly trying to orient himself for heading off in their chosen direction.

“Unlikely. Had we gone west we would be on Raebourne's land. I have spent a great deal of time there the past few years.”

Ryland raised a single brow.

Miranda blushed. “With Griffith, of course. The two are quite close. I would never visit the marquis on my own. Besides the man is married now. Happily. To Amelia. You have not yet met Amelia.”

She should stop talking, but as the insufferable man kept standing there, one eyebrow hitched up his forehead, condescension oozing from his eyes, her mouth just wouldn't listen to her brain.

“Not that a valet would normally meet a visiting marchioness, but Amelia's different. She meets everyone. Even knows my scullery maid, Lisette. She and Anthony took a belated honeymoon trip. They should be back before Christmas. May even be back now.”

Every time she finished a sentence, she thought surely she was done spouting off information he didn't need or care for. But one glance in his direction set her off again, further explaining ridiculous things. She bit her tongue to keep silent.

“What about Crampton's land?”

Miranda shook her head. He knew an awful lot about the
local gentry. Did he and Griffith discuss the area often? “The earl's house lies between ours and Anthony's, but his lands do not extend so far.”

“Then we head west.”

They trudged across the field with the watery sun at their backs. The rain stopped, leaving a thin film of grey clouds floating across a sky that was trying its best to become cheerful. He led her around the farm buildings, taking care to avoid the notice of anyone going about their morning chores.

“Why don't we ask them for help?”

He sent a speaking look across her appearance. “They're from this area. Do you really want them seeing the duke's sister looking like that?”

She sighed. He had a very good point.

Not far from the farm, they came to the top of a small hill. Miranda squealed and clapped her hands as she jumped up and down. “Look!”

Ryland looked where she was pointing, but the only things visible were fields of crops and a crumbling stone tower. Had she lost her mind? “What am I looking at?”

“The tower.” She grabbed his hand and started pulling him between the dormant crop rows at a brisk pace. “That's the old watchtower on the corner of Griffith's property. I know where we are.”

“Oh. That's good.” Ryland needed to get her home so he could track down Lambert, Smith, and Donkey. He shouldn't be enjoying every minute he spent with her away from their normal societal roles.

“It's still a two-hour walk to the house, but at least we'll know where we're going.”

Two more hours, then. Two more hours where he was Ryland and she was Miranda.

They reached the crumbling stones at the base of the tower. Miranda veered off, sure of her direction but no longer running. She didn't let go of his hand, and he didn't mention it.

He'd traveled to this side of the estate once, but his search had been concentrated near the house. Miranda would know the landmarks better than he, so he let her take the lead. Though he had to question the meandering path they were taking. . . . “Are you sure you know the way home, my lady?”

Miranda looked up, mud streaked along her cheek. She let go of his hand and grinned. “I thought I was Miranda until we reached Riverton. I am certainly no one's idea of a lady right now. And yes, I know the way home. I also know where all the crofters' homes are and I'd just as soon not run into them in this state.”

He looked her up and down, taking in the torn, muddied dress. Her hair was a tangled mess around her grimy face, long tendrils escaping halfway down her back. Her hair was longer than he'd initially thought. “No matter your appearance, you are every inch a lady, Miranda.”

“Thank you.”

He offered his arm to escort her through a sheep pasture, the woolly creatures paying them no heed. “I think your habit is ruined.”

Miranda frowned. “I
know
it is ruined. Sally will faint away when she sees what I've done to it. Thankfully Mother isn't home to see it. This is not the way a lady should look.”

“Given the circumstances, I think your mother would allow you some lenience in your appearance.”

“Possibly. Although involuntary bodily functions have never been an excuse, so I don't see how a deliberate trek through the woods could be.”

Ryland choked on air.
Involuntary bodily functions? Really?
Surely he was not actually discussing—

“I sneeze constantly. It drives her mad.”

He sighed in relief. Sneezing. He could discuss sneezing. It was still a rather inappropriate topic, but he could muddle through it. “You sneeze?”

“Whenever I go outside, it seems. Particularly if it's a sunny day. I can feel in top form and still sneeze. Mother says it will send her to Bedlam one of these days. A lady simply cannot show the world such an unnatural weakness if she wants to be taken seriously.”

What could he say to that? There wasn't a whole lot to say about sneezes, and there was virtually nothing he could say about being a lady.

They lapsed into silence, trudging along, occasionally changing directions or climbing a fence. The aches and pains of the night before became more prominent, and he could feel the exhaustion seeping in. Part of him wanted to walk in dazed silence, allowing as much of him to rest as possible. But she had declared them equals for the day, and he didn't want to waste that opportunity.

“Do you often defy your mother's idea of being a lady?” It was a dangerous question. From the letters he knew that she did, indeed, chafe under some of her mother's stricter rules. He would have to be careful not to betray his knowledge if they followed this line of talking.

She laughed as she kicked a pebble and sent it plopping into a puddle. “I still remember my first lady lesson. I was five, and I wanted to ride like the boys did. She caught me coming back to the stable with a leg on either side of the pony and the groom with me as red as could be. She took me to her office, sat me in that blue chair, and proceeded to tell me how a lady should ride.”

The endearing picture made him laugh. Before long the conversation flowed freely from riding to favorite foods and even childhood memories. Ryland had to constantly remind himself to be careful how much he shared. While he was fairly certain he'd be leaving Riverton before the day was through, he couldn't cast aside his disguise until the mission was finished. “How much farther do you think?”

“I don't think it's much farther. We're closer than I thought we would be this morning.”

The escaped locks of her hair danced in the breeze. He loved her hair. It was like sunshine. Not the sunshine he saw here in England, but the all-consuming sun found on the open water, traveling between England and France. The vast spread of waves magnified the glory of the sun by reflecting it back on you until the golden glow swallowed you whole. That was her hair.

And when had he become so lyrical? He looked at the soggy landscape. That should displace his poetic tendencies. “It shouldn't take long.”

She shrugged and wrapped her arm a bit more securely around his. Her side pressed against his arm, making him wish they were at a party where he could twirl her around the dance floor in his arms.

“What did you do before getting work as a servant?” Miranda asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you weren't always a servant. What did you do before?”

What should he go with? Lie or partial truth? A lie would be safer, but he was planning on seeing her again when this case was finished. “School.” He
had
been at school. Oxford to be precise. For all of two months before the shadows swallowed him up. “I was going to school, but my circumstances changed and I had to go to work.”

“How sad. Was there no family to help you? I know Griffith has sent a few of our distant relations to school long enough to prepare them for a profession. He's even helped some enter the church or the army.”

He let her assume his changed circumstances were money related. She'd soon find out money wasn't a problem for him. He'd have some explaining to do then. “I'm afraid I, er, we are the head of the family. There was no one better off financially.”

“Oh.”

“I had family that needed me.” Why was he still talking? He couldn't tell her about his cousin being trapped in France without giving away his identity. “I had to . . . leave the life I knew in order to help them.”

“That's very brave.”

Silence stretched, and he fumbled around for a new topic to introduce. If they kept talking about family circumstances he was either going to have to outright lie or his evasions were going to become apparent.

She spoke before he had a chance to. “How far would fifty thousand pounds go?”

Ryland lowered his eyebrows as he looked over at Miranda in confusion. “Where are you wanting to send it?”

“Could someone live on that much?”

“Depends how they spent it.” He could not fathom where her question was coming from.

“If someone started life with fifty thousand pounds, would they be able to live comfortably?”

“Of course. Modest, yes, but extremely comfortable. If invested right, fifty thousand pounds would . . .” Ryland trailed off as the significance of the number suddenly struck him. He'd come across the papers while sifting through Griffith's study. Miranda had a fortune of twenty-five thousand pounds from the
passing of her father. Her dowry was an additional twenty-five thousand pounds. She could marry a penniless man and they would start life with fifty thousand pounds. He choked on his next sentence and had to swallow before trying again. “Why do you ask?”