A Noble Masquerade (18 page)

They didn't speak for the rest of the dance. After bowing to her and escorting her back to the edge of the floor, Ryland slipped out of the party via the back garden.

Tomorrow he would call on her and everything would be revealed.

Tonight she had been awestruck by him. Tomorrow she was bound to be spitting mad. He climbed into the carriage he had waiting in the alley and made himself comfortable. He had more plotting to do.

“The Duke of Marshington will be coming by today.”

Miranda's needle slipped, jabbing her in the finger. She restrained the flinch and the urge to suck on her injured finger. Hearing her sister say the words that had been circling through her own mind all morning was more shocking than the missed stitch. How did Georgina know that he intended to call?

“Darling, it was a masquerade.” Mother inspected Georgina's hair and dress, giving a slight nod of approval. Not a blemish could be allowed on their first “at home” day since returning to London. “There are always one or two gentlemen claiming to be the esoteric duke at these things.”

Miranda could have informed them that he was indeed the real Duke of Marshington, but then she would have to admit to corresponding with him, and that was certainly not going to happen.

“He had the ring, Mother.” Georgina adjusted her skirts as she made herself comfortable on the white-and-gold settee.

This was the most formal of all the drawing rooms in Hawthorne House. Decorated during Miranda's second Season, it was done entirely in gold and white. Fortunately, by then she
had convinced her mother to let her build her wardrobe with cream and the occasional light pink or green. The idea of wearing white while sitting on a white couch in front of white-on-white silk wall coverings had been enough to make her shudder. Georgina didn't seem the least bit bothered.

“The ring? I suppose that does make a difference.” Mother chose a gold brocade armchair. She settled into it with her own needlework. “Did you bring anything to occupy yourself between callers this morning?”

Georgina arched her eyebrows at her mother. “I don't think there will be any need. Several people mentioned calling on me today. We shall find ourselves quite busy. Especially when word goes around that the Duke of Marshington has come out of his self-imposed exile for me.”

Miranda snorted.

Her mother glared at her.

She considered shrugging. It was what she truly wanted to do. In the end, lady lessons won out and she murmured a quiet, “Pardon me.”

“You think otherwise, dear sister?”

It was time to remind Georgina that while her older sister wasn't as popular, she was not quite on the shelf yet. “Has it not occurred to you,
dear sister
, that maybe he wants to call on me today? You are not the only eligible lady in this house.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hurt your feelings. That was never my intention. But don't you think if you were the enticement he would have come back sometime in the last three years?”

A sudden urge to jam her embroidery needle through her sister's perfect nose gripped her. The mental image was satisfying enough, so she stayed in her seat.

“Georgina, that is uncalled for. A lady never mentions another's unwed status, particularly if they have been socializing for a while. And Miranda, a lady never emits noises more suited
to a pig.” Mother peeked up from her needlework to spear both of her daughters with her sharp green gaze. Her message was clear. The visits today would set the tone for the entire Season, and she was not going to allow anything untoward to happen.

“Yes, Mother,” Miranda said.

Georgina murmured her own agreement.

Ten minutes later Gibson, the butler, announced the first caller.

He was a young gentleman Miranda remembered meeting the year before. She thought he might be a second son, which she knew would hold no appeal to her younger sister. Georgina's rejection could take many forms and Miranda felt sorry for the poor man.

“The flowers are beautiful Mr. Sherbourne. Were you aware that my sister, Lady Miranda, adores carnations?” Georgina's face was the picture of angelic innocence. Her eyes were wide enough to disguise their slight exotic tilt, and her smile was soft and natural.

Miranda wasn't fooled for a moment—bitterness rose up her throat to coat her tongue as her sister's game became clear. Anyone she didn't want was going to be aimed in Miranda's direction. She had to remind herself repeatedly that Mr. Sherbourne wasn't at fault in this little play.

After a moment of awkward silence, Mr. Sherbourne extended the bouquet to Miranda. “A lady should always have a bouquet of her favorite flowers. Please accept these, Lady Miranda.”

“Of course. I am honored that you thought of me.” Miranda almost choked on the words. The truth was she had never been particularly fond of carnations. She much preferred tulips or lilies.

They talked for a few minutes, Georgina constantly drawing the conversation back to Miranda. The skill would truly have
been impressive if she had been helping Miranda land a man she actually wanted. By the time Mr. Sherbourne left he probably believed he'd arrived to see Miranda instead of Georgina.

And so the morning progressed. Wealthy, attractive men with lofty titles or at least the prospect of a lofty title were met with coy smiles and soft laughter while Miranda was all but ignored. Everyone else was shuffled off as Georgina played the adoring younger sister.

A few women stopped by to see Miranda, though more came to visit with her mother. Georgina's friends were all having their own at homes or resting up for the night's festivities. Few of them had been allowed to attend last night's masquerade.

The visitors were a steady stream through the drawing room. No one stayed overly long and everyone mentioned how lovely Georgina looked in her white embroidered muslin. Miranda wasn't having a grand time, but it was not quite as bad as she'd feared.

Then Gibson announced the Earl of Ashcombe.

One glance at Georgina's face revealed her delight. The earl was considered a decent catch. He was quite handsome, and his family had ample funds. The burn of bile rose in Miranda's throat. She could not sit and visit with that man and maintain the ladylike civility her mother insisted upon.

She rose to slip from the room through the side door that led into the dining room, but she wasn't fast enough. The earl entered, his bright green coat catching the corner of her vision, and she couldn't stop herself from stealing a better glance. By design, she had avoided him for the past two years—an impressive achievement considering the closeness of London's high society.

He was still breathtakingly handsome. He was a bit taller than Miranda, which would put him a good head over Georgina. His carriage was perfect, his smile held just the right level
of enthusiasm. His eyes met Miranda's across the room and he winked.

The man winked.

She darted through the door, hoping her mother would remember what he had done to Miranda during her first Season. Then she would understand why Miranda had fled and she would do everything in her power to move him along before he could shatter the innocent illusions of another Hawthorne sister.

Ryland sat in the middle of Grosvenor Square, watching the callers coming and going from Hawthorne House. Colin sat next to him, rolling a plucked blade of grass through his fingers.

“Think any of them are here to visit her?” Colin twisted the blade of grass into a circle and tried to toss it around a nearby branch.

“Only the smart ones.”

“So none, then.”

Ryland laughed at his friend's assessment of the parade of Quality. While he agreed with the sentiment for many people, there were a few men that had better heads on their shoulders. Of course, even a level head could be turned by a woman of Georgina's beauty. Had Ryland not witnessed her shallowness while working at Riverton, he would have been a bit awed as well.

Colin stood. “This isn't a campaign, chap. We either go in or we don't.”

Ryland hated to admit that his friend was right. He couldn't treat this courtship like a mission. He was officially retired. As hard as it had been, he'd turned over all of his findings on Lambert and the still-open investigation. It was time for him to move on and let someone else protect the country.

The butler opened the door before they even had a chance to knock. Colin immediately extended his calling card. Ryland had actually forgotten about the practice of presenting cards with one's name on it. Leaving a paper announcing your presence wasn't high on a spy's priority list.

He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and removed a stack of parchment rectangles. Jeffreys had not forgotten. Ryland figured that made up, at least partially, for the atrocious outfit the night before. He held his card out to the butler.

Where Colin's had gotten him nothing more than a quizzical stare, Ryland's card got them immediately issued into the front hall. It occurred to Ryland how easily someone could fake being him. He ran his thumb over the heavy signet ring on his right hand. It had been in the family for generations and was actually the only personal effect he had carried with him on his travels. Dangerous, yes, but he couldn't risk his cousin finding it. It was the only proof he'd had when communicating with his managers.

“If you will wait here, I will announce your presence.”

“Hold, man,” Ryland said softly. “Who all is in the drawing room?”

“Lady Blackstone and Lady Georgina, sir.”

Ryland clapped a hand on Colin's shoulder. “Enjoy their company, my good man. I've business with Griffith to take care of first.”

Colin's eyes narrowed.

Ryland headed down the corridor before his friend could protest the arrangement. He knew where the study was, having spent time in the house as a boy. He had come with Griffith to town on a school holiday. Griffith's uncle had traveled with them. None of the ladies in the family had been present.

Trusting that Griffith would be hiding from the horde of callers, he knocked softly at the door. Instead of hearing a call
to enter, he saw the door swing open to reveal Trent, Griffith's younger brother.

“Marsh! Good to see you without the mask on. I couldn't believe it when you told me who you were last night.” Trent had been a few years behind Griffith and Ryland in school, but they had gotten to know each other some before Ryland's sudden retreat from the country.

“It is good to see you as well, Trent. Is Griffith within?”

“Of course. My sister Miranda is as well. Said she couldn't stomach the simpering anymore and needed a respite.” Trent pushed the door the rest of the way open to allow Ryland to enter.

His hopes for arranging a private interlude with Miranda crumpled. The scene when he entered that study was not going to be pretty. It was going to take Miranda a moment or two, but she would be able to put all of his identities together.

And then she was going to get angry. Well, he assumed she was going to be angry. Women tended to go a bit queer in the attic about things like this.

Staying in the corridor would solve nothing, though. The last thing he needed was for her to encounter him there. At least the study provided a modicum of privacy.

Time slowed to a crawl. Everyone seemed to move through water.

The first thing he noticed was Miranda's shy but excited expression. That she had been looking forward to seeing him again gave him courage. He heard Griffith moving around, making introductions, saying some nonsense about the party the night before. Miranda's face filled his vision. As her eyes met his, he saw the brows lower in confusion. He could almost hear her thinking.

She would be trying to explain away what her eyes were telling her.

Every conceivable alternative would be flittering through her mind.

Finally she would settle on the fact that the only option, no matter how ridiculous, had to be true. And that option did not put Ryland in a very favorable light.

As understanding worked its way into her expression, he considered her possible reactions. He thought she might yell. It wasn't the ladylike thing to do, but at her core Miranda was a bit too vibrant for a traditional lady. In moments of heightened emotion he was sure those emotional tendencies would escape. Leaving the room was another option for her. It was the exquisitely rude option for a lady to cut a man in that fashion though. Of course, the ultimate in ladylike behavior would have her properly greeting him and then making excuses about seeing to refreshments.

He didn't think that third option a very likely one.

The journey across the study carpet took forever. Did time seem slower to anyone else? “Lady Miranda,” he said, executing a slight bow.

Miranda's fist connected with his nose.

Miranda shook her hand out. Had she really just hit a man? The sting in her knuckles and the pain in her wrist indicated she had. So did the shocked and angry look on her eldest brother's face.

“That was an option I didn't consider,” Ryland murmured. He brought a hand to his nose, a wry smile twisting his lips as his gaze remained fixed on her face.

She grunted in irritation. If she was going to hit someone, couldn't she at least have knocked him over?

Poorly suppressed laughter sputtered through Trent's lips, while Griffith rushed forward, berating his sister. “What were you thinking, Miranda? Marsh is a guest in our home.”

“I thought he was your valet. Pardon me, your former valet.” The shock dissipated, leaving anger in its wake. This man had played with her and her emotions. She thought through all the conversations. The trip through the countryside.

The letters. The letters were by far the worst. She crossed her arms over her middle, trying to banish the feeling of exposure. She was covered from neck to ankle, but she felt as if she were standing there in only her shift.

Her eyes connected with his. With no guise between them,
the full power of his focus nearly knocked her over. She heard Griffith's voice; the angry, confused tone washed through her head but none of the actual words registered. All of her mind's energy was caught up in trying to discern Ryland's thoughts, if that was indeed his actual name. Griffith had always referred to him by his title or the shortened version of it. She made a mental note to find a copy of Debrett's Peerage when this was over and look up his given name.

Ryland's head tilted to the side, but his eyes never left hers. She wondered if he was trying to read her mind as she was trying to read his. He knew so many of her inner secrets. Had he read the other letters? The ones she kept in a trunk in her room? The mere possibility made her want to hit him again. Her emotions were too raw to contain the urge.

She surged forward, her already sore hand raised in a fist.

Griffith's brawny arm snagged her in midstride. He hauled her up against his chest, his forearm digging into her stomach. Miranda's arms and legs flung wildly through the air as she tried to reach her nemesis.

“How could you do that to me?” she screeched. It was possible they could hear her in the drawing room, but she didn't care. “I trusted you!”

Those dynamic silver eyes shifted from her face to her swinging arm.

“You'll break your thumb if you hit me that way.”

She gave up the ineffectual struggle and simply hung in Griffith's grip. “What?”

He gestured toward her still-clenched fingers. “Your thumb. It's tucked into your fist. You can break it that way. Too much pressure on the knuckle if you hit with any force. I can teach you the proper way.”

Miranda blinked. “You want to teach me how to hit you?”

“If you like.”

Trent laughed so hard he fell back into a chair.

Miranda could feel Griffith lean to the side, presumably to glare at his younger brother. That never worked. It only ever made Trent laugh harder.

Griffith placed Miranda's feet on the ground and slowly released her. Her heart was pounding, her breathing was too fast—as if she had run all the way home from Hyde Park. The next few moments could change her life.

Ryland had crushed her heart when he walked away from Riverton. Her confidence was in shambles because he had come back as someone else. He had destroyed what remained of her fragile trust in men. He held the power to ruin her socially and publicly embarrass her beyond repair. She had to know the extent of her danger and his intentions.

“How many did you . . .” she whispered. She couldn't finish the sentence. Her brothers were still in the room, and they were listening to every word. There was going to be enough to explain without mentioning the letters. She would have to find another way to determine whether or not he'd found the trunk full of years of private thoughts and ramblings.

“Only the ones you know about,” he answered. Chills ran down her spine at the knowledge that he was so attuned to her that he'd known what she was asking. And knew there'd been more letters.

Griffith stepped between them, his head swiveling back and forth to look at both of them. “Would one of you please tell me what is going on here?”

Miranda turned to her brother with a sigh. Curiosity was evident, but there was no shock in his eyes. Wasn't he surprised to see Ryland? It was obviously the same man. The hair was different, but—

She snapped her head back to Ryland. The long black queue had been replaced with short brown hair. “Your hair . . .”

“Silver nitrate,” he answered, ignoring Griffith completely.

She'd heard of people using it to color their hair black. When used for excessively long periods it tended to discolor the eyes so he must have used it for the express purpose of fooling the occupants of Riverton. Only Griffith had not been fooled.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at her oldest brother. The head of the family. The man sworn to protect and care for her. He'd known who Ryland was. The two of them had been eighteen the last time they saw each other, at least to her knowledge. Old enough to be able to recognize each other, even so many years later. And Griffith had kept in touch with Ryland. So he knew. He had brought the impostor into their house for some reason she could not imagine, to trick them all and then show up in London to prove them to be utter fools.

She turned her wrath on her sibling, lunging for his throat. His height meant that she hit his chest instead of his neck, but surprise sent him stumbling back several paces until he bumped against a large footstool. Using one foot to launch off the upholstered stool, Miranda went for his head.

Trent laughed so hard he fell to the floor.

“You did this!” She yelled as she hammered at Griffith's broad shoulders. “You made fools of us! Every one of us! He's no more a valet than I am!”

Ryland snatched her off of Griffith, who had been struggling to shield himself from her blows and shake her off without hurting her. Once more she found herself pinned to a man's chest, but this one did not belong to her brother, and she couldn't have been more aware of that fact.

Lean muscles moved and bunched against her back as Ryland hauled her across the room to the window. His body heat was immense. It felt as if she were standing against a roaring fire. When he set her down and turned her around, her first thought was to throw herself back into the warmth. The emotional upheaval was exhausting her.

He took her shoulders in his hands and leaned down. His handsome face was earnest as he searched her eyes.

“Miranda, I—”

“No. No, I can't do this. I don't know why any of this happened—and right now, I don't care.” A look at her brothers revealed worry and confusion. She must look like a madwoman. Even Trent had stopped laughing and looked concerned.

Humiliation swelled as she came to her senses. She had not had such an emotional outburst since she was a child. Years had passed since she'd allowed herself to let go and give her emotions such free reign. Mother had taught her well. Under no circumstances did she allow herself to lose control anymore.

Shame blurred her vision. She would never recover from this. Eventually she would have to face Griffith and Trent—they were family—but Ryland was a different story.

A lady could always avoid any unpleasant person if she tried hard enough, even at an intimate dinner party.

Miranda was a lady. It was time for her to remember that.

She squared her shoulders and stuck her nose in the air. With conscious, controlled movements, she strolled to the door.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she murmured as she opened the door. She slipped into the passageway and closed the portal quietly behind her. Maintaining a steadfast grip on her forced calm, she went up the stairs and entered her room, utterly thankful she passed no one on the way.

Then she threw herself onto the bed and cried.

Ryland watched Miranda's stiff back depart the study. He wanted—no, he needed—to explain things to her, but now was not the time. The surprise, shock, and concern mingling now on her brothers' faces revealed that they'd had no idea
of the riotous emotions that boiled beneath Miranda's serene surface. The glimpse he had gotten in her letters had prepared him somewhat.

When the door clicked, Griffith turned his attention to Ryland. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”

Ryland debated how much to tell Griffith. In the end the letters weren't his secret; they were Miranda's. He was good at not divulging secrets. His friendship with Griffith was important. His integrity was more so. “I've decided to return to London.”

Griffith's eyebrows rose. “So I see. Should I regret allowing you into my home last year?”

“That avenue of information to the French is broken. I consider that a worthwhile outcome.” Ryland crossed to the decanter and poured himself a glass of brandy to give himself something to do. Knowing Griffith, it was likely the same brandy that had been here three years ago, when he had made a brief visit to his friend.

“And my sister?”

“With any luck and God's blessing the war will never touch her directly.” Ryland swirled the brandy and contemplated the shifting ripples. How long could he stall his old friend? No matter how strong their ties were, family was more important to Griffith. That was as it should be. The fact that Ryland would choose Griffith's well-being over that of his aunt and cousin was more an indication of his lack of connection to his relations than the strength of his ties to his old school chum.

Griffith leaned back against the desk, looking deceptively relaxed. Ryland had seen him use similar tactics in school to lull people into a false sense of security before maneuvering them right where he wanted them. Ryland kept his guard up.

The slightly larger man cleared his throat and examined his hand. “I'm not well trained, but I do know not to tuck in my
thumb.” His gaze rose to meet Ryland's. “And I think sheer size will give me a little more power.”

“I won't stop you.”

Griffith tensed, though he remained against the desk. “Are you saying I need to?”

Trent stepped between the two, hands raised, poised to keep them separated should one of them decide to lunge for the other. There was no danger from Ryland. Should Griffith decide to call Ryland on the carpet for misleading his sister, he had no defense without divulging more than Miranda would like. It was alarming, but what Miranda would like was increasingly important to him.

“Now, look,” Trent said, his head swinging back and forth between the two older men. “I don't know what's going on here, but I do know one thing. Marsh is an honorable man. Griffith, you have held him up for me as an example of a man triumphing over his circumstances and—”

Ryland bit back a chuckle.

Trent threw him a dirty look before continuing, “—and I am sure that he has done nothing to dishonor our sister.” He turned to face Ryland fully. “But if he has, let me take a go at him. I've trained.”

Griffith had spoken often about how worried he was about how his younger brother would turn out without a father to guide him through his formative years, but somewhere along that span of time, Trent had become a man under all the joviality and charm. Ryland was glad to know it.

Trent crossed his arms over his chest. “So tell me. Did you hurt my sister? Because I can plant you a facer right now that will leave your ears ringing for a month.”

Griffith's hand appeared on Trent's shoulder. “I will handle this, Trent.”

“She's my sister too. You may be a giant, but I've seen you
fight. We could bring Miranda back down here. At least she can jump on his back.”

Ryland grinned, his respect and liking of Trent rising even with the threat of having to engage in fisticuffs with him. It was a rare man who could effectively threaten a bloke and tease a brother in the same breath.

Ryland let his gaze fall to Trent's hand, already starting to curl. Apparently he was taking too long to answer the younger man's question.

Recalling Trent's choice of words wiped the smile from Ryland's face. Trent hadn't asked if Ryland had been honorable. The question had been whether or not he'd hurt Miranda. Had he? Some of the emotion boiling through her right now was bound to be hurt, but that would go away when he explained everything. Wouldn't it?

The truth was she'd taken his unmasking a bit harder than he'd anticipated, which could be an indication that she wouldn't view the entire business the same way he did.

So what did that mean the answer to Trent's question was?