A Noble Masquerade (19 page)

Ryland prided himself on being an honest man, particularly when not on a mission. It could be said that he had frequently implied things that weren't true, but rarely had he actually lied. It was a fine line, and one that meant little to anyone but himself given his chosen profession, but the line was there nonetheless. He'd gone nine years in subterfuge without crossing it and he wasn't about to start now.

“I think her display speaks for itself. Women don't like to be deceived. I believe she thinks I have misled her and taken advantage of my former position as a servant at Riverton. I believe we can safely say that I have hurt her, though I don't think it is irrecoverably so.” Ryland finished his speech and braced himself for the first blows.

Silent moments passed. He began to wonder if Trent was going to choose calm discussion over the effectiveness of a well-placed fist.

“Darken his daylights,” Griffith rumbled.

Trent swung his left arm and Ryland braced himself for the blow. The power of the right uppercut to his chin caught him completely by surprise. The pup had been honest as well. He
was trained. Ryland was going to have to be a more active participant in this fight than he originally planned. His first line of defense was always his tongue.

“She's probably more miffed than hurt.”

Trent feinted right. Ryland narrowly missed the next punch by leaning sideways. He needed to talk quickly before Griffith decided to hold him in place while Trent pummeled. Griffith might not know how to swing a fist properly, but those were genuine muscles filling out his jacket, and Ryland didn't want to fight both of them.

“She thought I was a servant, and now she's found out I'm a peer. It's enough to make anyone feel a bit cork-brained for not seeing it.”

Trent paused and considered Ryland's statements, hand raised at the ready. Cautiously, Ryland stopped his backward dance along the carpet.

Griffith stepped forward. “What about the trip?”

Trent's eyebrows rose. “What trip?”

Ryland rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I was abducted and Miranda got caught up in the whole mess. It took us a while to get home.”

The brothers exchanged dark looks.

“He was with her all night?” Trent asked.

Griffith's nod was grim. “And then he refused to marry her.”

As soon as the words left Griffith's mouth, Ryland lifted his hands to defend against what was sure to be a significant blow. Trent's dart slipped around Ryland's raised fists, clipping him on the cheek hard enough to toss his head back, throwing his balance off. Fire sliced through his face. Gentleman Jack was certainly turning out some prime fighters these days. He braced himself for the next blow but then remembered he was in front of the high carved fireplace mantel. Blessed darkness covered him before he hit the floor.

Miranda stared at the ceiling, eyes dry, head throbbing. She didn't know how long she'd been hiding in her room, but her mother was bound to come in search of her soon. Fortunately she could blame her distress on the earl. Mother never needed to know about the rest of it.

That was assuming Trent could keep his big mouth shut. When it came to getting his sisters in trouble, the man had looser lips than twelve society matrons. If his laughter was any indication, he was going to delight in telling Mother Miranda had actually hit a duke. Two dukes if she counted her brother.

She bit back a groan as the door swung open with a quiet
swoosh
. When no polite tirade on ladylike qualities split the air, Miranda lifted her head to see who had come in. It was her maid, Sally, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Bless you, Sally.” Miranda pushed herself up against the pillows while Sally arranged the tray. “Did my mother send you? She's probably counting the minutes until she can come and berate me.”

“Lady Blackstone has been a bit preoccupied.” Sally leaned over to begin repairing Miranda's coiffure.

“Would you like me to sit in front of the mirror, Sally?”

“I'm sure I can manage, my lady. Your hair needs minimal attention. If the tea restores you well enough, you'll want to return downstairs as soon as possible.”

The thought of trying to relax with a cup of tea while Sally leaned awkwardly over the bed was decidedly unappealing. She moved to the chair, bringing the steaming cup with her. Sally followed with the tray.

Once they were situated again, Miranda bit into a warm biscuit. She sought Sally's eyes in the mirror. “My mother is preoccupied?”

“Yes, my lady. She did ask after you, but I don't think she's had much time or energy to plan your next lady lesson.”

Miranda grinned. Sally was the only person who had heard Miranda's term for her mother's constant improvement sessions. Well, Sally and the now all-too-well-known Duke of Marshington. “What has her so engaged?”

“Trying to get the body out of the house without anyone noticing. It took quite a while to come up with a plan that wouldn't attract the attention of everyone in Grosvenor Square.”

“The body . . . the . . . Wait, what?”

Miranda jumped up, scattering biscuits across the carpet. She lurched to the door and ran to her brother's study.

Griffith and Trent were still there.

“How could you?” she wailed. “It was a misunderstanding! There had to be a reason—you wouldn't have let him into Riverton without a reason!” She stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, trying to hold back tears and losing the fight. Yes, she had been mad at him. Yes, she had wanted to cause him bodily harm. But she hadn't wanted him killed!

Her brothers both rushed forward, hands awkwardly extended to pat her shoulders. Trent was the first to actually speak. “He all but asked us to, Miranda. He had every opportunity to defend himself.”

“We couldn't let his hurting you go by unpunished,” Griffith added.

Their calmness stunned her. She would never have thought them capable of such violence. “He'll never have the chance to make it right! I'll never get to see if maybe, just maybe, he was everything I originally thought him to be.”

Griffith tilted his head, brow knit in thought. “I suppose that is a possibility. Although I know much more about him than you do, Miranda, and I'm not sure I'd have let him court you even if this whole misunderstanding hadn't happened.”

“I never knew you were so high-handed!”

“Yes, you did, Miranda. I won't let this emotion cloud your memory. I've been plenty high-handed over the years. I've shown several suitors the door before you received so much as a flower from them.”

“But I still
see
them. I'll never see Ryland again!” Miranda lost her battle with the tears and began crying earnestly. She hadn't yet made up her mind to forgive Ryland, but she hated having the choice removed. Something told her that eventually they would have made peace with each other. Should that have happened, there was the slightest possibility he could have been everything she'd ever wanted.

“You'll see him again, Miranda.” Trent extended his handkerchief and then discreetly turned his back. “I doubt we could keep him completely away from you unless we locked you up in the country.”

Trent's words cut through Miranda's emotion fogged brain. She took a closer look around the room. There was no weapon, no blood, not even an overturned chair. “So . . . he's not dead?”

“You thought . . . you thought . . . Why did you . . . ? I mean . . .” Trent tried to speak between shouts of laughter.

Griffith shook his head in bemusement.

“Sally said Mother had to get the body out of the house,” Miranda grumbled and crossed her arms over her chest.

Griffith got control of himself first. “Trent punched Marsh and knocked him into the mantel. Set the man out cold. Mother was concerned with getting the unconscious body out of the house without anyone seeing it. His friend was here visiting Georgina, so he said he would see that Marsh got home.”

“Oh.” Miranda felt all kinds of foolish. When would she learn to think things through before letting her emotions jump to conclusions? Of course her brothers hadn't killed anyone. If
she had taken a few moments to think before she reacted, she would have avoided making a total cake of herself.

She glanced quickly at her brothers before easing her way toward the door. “Well, I'll be . . . going, then. Since we understand each other.”

Griffith raised an eyebrow at her. “I believe you might have some explaining to do. That was quite a scene.”

“Well, I thought you'd killed a man!” Miranda's hand closed over the door latch. Escape was nearly hers.

“I meant earlier.”

Trent rocked back and forth on his feet, grinning.

“Earlier?” She was lifting the latch. Once in the corridor, he wouldn't chase her with accusations.

“Yes. I didn't tell Mother about it, but I think we need to talk. Had it been anyone but Marsh, your reputation would be shattered.”

Had it been anyone but Marsh she never would have had the emotional outbreak in the first place. The latch clicked open.

“Do not open that door, Miranda.”

Air rushed from her lungs. She was tired, her head hurt, and she really didn't know what she wanted to have happen next. Until she sorted out her own thoughts, she couldn't answer Griffith's questions.

A soft knock at the door preceded her mother's entrance. “Oh, there you are, Miranda. I need to speak with you. Privately.”

She caught Miranda's gaze and tilted her head toward the open portal. Then she turned on her heel and walked off.

Mother's tone was menacing. There could only be one meaning behind that stern tone. Miranda glanced at Griffith before fleeing after her mother. She had never looked forward to a lady lesson so much in her life.

Ryland's first thought was that he was going to be sick. His second was that there was no way he was going to cast up his accounts because he would have to move his head in order to do so. And his head hurt. Twin points of pain radiated torturous pulses across his face and the back of his head. A groan escaped before he could catch it, grating against his ears.

“I was hoping you'd stay out until I got you home.”

Ryland struggled to place the voice. The pain acted as a filter until it sounded like someone was speaking through a long tunnel. As the rest of his brain engaged, he deducted that his bed was too small and it was swaying, which meant he was probably in a carriage. Colin had been at the house, so it was likely that he was the other carriage occupant. Ryland forced one eye open to confirm his suspicion.

Colin sat across the carriage, swaying along with the conveyance, a grin giving tell to the fact that he wasn't totally sympathetic to his friend's plight.

Gingerly Ryland raised a hand to feel the damage to the back of his head. He vaguely recalled falling back toward the fireplace after Trent's last punch. His head must have connected with the ornately carved mantel.

He hoped he'd broken it.

Questing fingers found an enormous bump but not the sticky wetness of blood or the sting of broken skin. That was good. Within a couple of days the headache should cease and he could begin squiring his way around town, trying to pin Miranda into a private conversation that would allow him to explain.

The carriage stopped.

“Thank you, Lord,” Ryland whispered. He had managed to avoid injuring himself very often, but one couldn't be in his line of work for any length of time and not experience a couple of devastating blows to the head. He hoped this would be his last.

Colin flung the door open and hopped to the ground. “Wait here. Don't move.”

As if he would even try. Ryland wasn't fool enough to make things worse unless his life were hanging in the balance. In this case it was just his dignity, and he couldn't muster up the energy to care about that. A peek at the carriage opening showed a disgruntled footman, standing at attention. No doubt he was miffed that Colin had the audacity to open a carriage door and jump down without the aid of the step.