A Noble Masquerade (2 page)

Now, more than ever, he had to immerse himself in the role. He had to think, act, even breathe as Marlow, valet to the Duke of Riverton. An untold amount of privileged information crossed that man's desk every day. How much of it could be of use to Napoleon was anyone's guess.

The slightest mistake could mean doom for the entire mission. His final mission.

He pushed the thought away, not wanting to think of the number of men who had gotten injured, captured, or killed on their final trip to the shadows. Vigilance would let him actually see retirement from this business rather than only speaking of it.

He refused to die as Mr. Marlow. The name was horrid, which was why he'd chosen it for this mission. It would keep him from getting comfortable, from forgetting that he was in this home as an employee of the powerful Duke of Riverton, not as his friend.

Once the family had departed for the country dance, it didn't take long for the servants to set the house to rights for the night. While the last maids bustled around the upper floors, Marlow occupied himself with preparing the master chambers for Griffith's—no, His Grace's—return.

He'd searched the duke's room upon arrival this afternoon. Every part of him vehemently rejected that his oldest friend had knowledge of the traitorous activities taking place on the estate, but Marlow couldn't afford to ignore the possibility.

Everyone was a suspect at the beginning.

The unoccupied bedchambers were easy to search and quickly discarded from his suspicions. Using those rooms on a regular basis would have drawn someone's notice. His targets were most likely using a much more public area for their nefarious activities. It was always easiest to hide in plain sight.

He paused outside of Lady Miranda's room, hand poised over the handle. A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered her charging through the door like Henry V running “once more into the breach.”

The passionate determination on her face had surprised him. He knew he'd been in the shadows for too long, but he hadn't
realized the mere sight of honest emotion would affect him so much.

Moments passed and still his hand hovered over the latch. He should go in, search her room. Being a beautiful, emotional female did not exempt her from suspicion. To some it would increase it. His instincts told him she was cut from the same cloth as her brother, but he couldn't afford to trust the vague intuition. His head had to be convinced.

With a jerk, he pulled his hand back. He started to stab it through his hair but remembered it was slicked back into a queue. A vital part of his disguise, the perfect—and annoying—hair style needed to remain impeccable in case someone saw him. He released his frustration by spinning on his heel and jerking his lapels into place.

Miranda's room would still be there tomorrow. He could start his search in the more public rooms and deal with his strange hesitation later. It didn't mean she was innocent, simply that he was allowing his instincts to dictate which people were more pressing to investigate. He all but knew it had to be a staff member, so he might as well start with rooms most of them had access to.

As he stepped silently down the stairs, he almost believed himself.

“Did I see you dancing with Mr. Ansley?”

Miranda turned to see an excited smile on the face of her friend, Mrs. Cecilia Abbott, formerly Miss Cecilia Crosby. The two women had shared many a whispered conversation in the corner of this meeting room.

“Yes.” Miranda shifted so that her shoulder touched Cecilia's and they could watch the room while they spoke. “He wanted to know if my sister enjoyed hunting. Apparently his family is planning a hunt.”

“Poor man. He'll never catch her eye with outdoor pursuits.”

His lack of title inhibited his suit far more than his affection for the outdoors did, but Miranda loved Cecilia for not pointing that out. “She told me this morning that less open space was one of the things she looked forward to about London. Outdoor events are limited to riding in Hyde Park and strolling through the Pleasure Gardens.”

“Hmm.” Cecilia darted a glance around the room before looking at Miranda from the corner of her eye. “You also danced with Lord Osborne.”

Heat burned in Miranda's throat. She had hoped no one
would put any significance on that turn on the dance floor. “Yes, I did.”

Cecilia cleared her throat. “And did he ask about Georgina as well?”

Had it been almost anyone but Cecilia, Miranda probably would have lied. Even to her many other friends, she would have laughed and made up a story about how delightful the interlude had been. But Cecilia had no social aspirations whatsoever. She hadn't even gone to London for a Season, choosing instead to stay in Hertfordshire and find a respectable man who loved her for who she was.

Fortunate girl.

Miranda smoothed her glove over her skirts and stared straight ahead. “He asked if we were planning on going to Town for the winter. Offered to take us skating on the Serpentine if it froze over.”

“What a dreadful reason to trap oneself in London for the winter.” Cecilia's face scrunched into a frown of disgust.

“Mr. Quinn asked if she enjoyed theater as much as I did.” Miranda smiled, and hoped it looked natural. Too much frowning would draw attention. “He at least remembered I enjoy the theater.”

Cecilia winced. “They aren't all dancing with you because of Georgina. Or because of your brother, the duke. You do know that.”

“Possibly. Although I've received considerable more invitations to dance than the normal group of family acquaintances and friends' husbands provides.”

“That's because you've turned down everyone else.”

“Not everyone.” Miranda watched her sister twirl around the floor, smiling up into the eyes of Lord Eversly, a man who lived nearly twenty miles from the village of Hawthorne. Had he come for the purpose of meeting Georgina?

Miranda had known these men for at least four years, and they'd barely seen fit to speak to her before—much less ask her to dance.

Georgina's horde of admirers had grown steadily throughout the evening. Happiness warred with resentment as Miranda pressed a hand to the beaded details on her gown.

“Is this what it will be like in London, Cecilia? I'm not positive I can withstand the humiliation. Everyone will compare me to her. I'll be relegated to the spinster corner.”

Miranda pinched her finger to distract herself. Tears were threatening, and she could not allow them to fall.

“A lady
never reveals her emotions in public.”

The subconscious reminder of her mother's frequent admonishments felt as real as if the woman herself were speaking in Miranda's ear. It even sounded like Mother's voice.

“You are hardly a spinster. It will only be your fourth Season. More than one lady of considerable means has waited. It's the desperate ones that make it appear that matrimony must be achieved during the first sojourn to Town.”

Miranda said nothing. There was some truth to Cecilia's statement. Miranda was more afraid that her determination to find someone who wanted her and not her family connections would keep her from wedded bliss. If her sister found love before she did, what would that mean?

“Besides,” Cecilia continued, “can you truly be a spinster if you're turning down offers of marriage? There were two last year, weren't there?”

“Yes,” Miranda mumbled, not wanting to think about those insulting offers. Offers that did nothing but solidify her determination not to settle for anything less than a man's complete devotion. Men's desire to marry for political or material gains didn't surprise her anymore, not as it had that first Season when she'd thought herself in love with the
Earl of Ashcombe only to find he was in love with a piece of Griffith's property.

“None of that, now.” Cecilia hooked her arm with Miranda's. “You're beginning to look maudlin. Let's see what interesting gossip the lovely ladies that truly do belong in spinsters' corner are discussing. Contrary to popular opinion, they are always in possession of the latest
on-dits
.”

The huddle of unmarried ladies stood as far from the dancing as possible. After scooping up glasses of lemonade to give the appearance of taking a rest, Miranda and Cecilia strolled a few steps to their left, keeping their backs to the group to avoid disrupting them.

“Did you hear? Mr. Barrister returned from London yesterday, and he said Lady Marguerite is trying to get her nephew declared dead again!”

Miranda glanced over her shoulder at the women sipping lemonade and ignoring the rest of the room.

One of the women snapped her fan open. “It will never happen. They can't declare a duke dead without any evidence.”

Miranda looked at Cecilia with eyes open wide enough to stretch the surrounding skin. This was interesting news indeed. It wasn't every day that someone tried to snag a dukedom for her son. She turned her head to hear better over the music.

“What if he is dead? How long will they wait?”

“His steward says he receives letters from him on a regular basis with instructions on managing the estates and business holdings.”

“Anyone could be doing that. Why, I heard—”

“Would you care to dance?”

Miranda jerked abruptly at the interruption, sloshing a bit of lemonade onto her glove. She looked up to find Mr. Barrister himself standing there, his hand poised to accept hers and lead her onto the floor.

“Yes, yes of course.” Miranda handed her glass to a giggling Cecilia and put a bit more effort into her smile. “I would be delighted.”

She forced her eyes to meet his bright blue ones as they faced each other amidst the other couples. Many young ladies in the area had written very bad poetry about Mr. Barrister's lively blue eyes. They weren't nearly as appealing as stormy grey ones, though.

Her feet stumbled, nearly sending her careening into the woman beside her. Where had that thought come from? She should not be thinking about another man's eyes while she danced with Mr. Barrister. She shouldn't even be thinking about her brother's valet at all!

The next hour passed in blessed uneventfulness, but Miranda still breathed easier when her mother came around to collect her.

“Leaving a bit early keeps the idea of Georgina's youth in mind.” Mother wrapped her shawl around her shoulders as they exited the ballroom. “I need a good night's rest as well. I have a long trip home ahead of me tomorrow.”

“When are you returning?”

“I'll return to help you pack for London—late February, I suppose. When we return from our trip to the coast, we're going to visit Lord Blackstone's daughter for a bit.” She paused, moisture pooling in her green eyes. “She wants the children to call me Grandmother.”

“Why wouldn't they? You'll love them as if they were your own grandchildren. And Lord Blackstone will love our children as much as he does those of his own daughters.”

Mother gave a little sniff and turned from emotional to stern in a single breath. “Assuming any of you ever get married and have children.”

Miranda suppressed a groan.

“A lady of intelligence and breeding has a responsibility to
pass that on to the next generation of the peerage. Some say all the brains come from the father, but I assure you that is not the case.”

Miranda's groan turned to a grin. Mother was using her admonishments in ladylike behavior to encourage her daughter to wed now. The woman must be getting desperate to marry off her children.

Griffith and Georgina joined them, preventing Miranda from having to come up with an appropriate response.

“What a glorious evening.” Georgina settled into the carriage with a deep sigh and a look of utter satisfaction. “I think being an adult suits me. Did you see all the gentlemen?”

Mother gave Georgina's hand a light squeeze.

“You appeared to have a splendid evening.” Miranda was proud of the smile she wore. It felt almost genuine.

Georgina's lips flattened. “Very few of them are ones I would consider eligible, of course. We are in the country, after all. There will be more sophistication in London.” She speared Miranda with green eyes too mature for eighteen. “Miranda, you could have warned me how wonderful it would be to have so much attention.”

If someone had accused Miranda of growling at her sister's admonishment, she would have heartily denied it. No one said anything, though, allowing Miranda to take solace in the fact that if she had indeed emitted an animalistic sound of annoyance, no one else had heard it.

When they arrived home, Georgina twirled her way through the front entrance hall. The light from the candelabra sought her out, making her the brightest object in the room.

Miranda shook her head. Had she been this giddy after her first social outing? Probably. She'd been a success by normal standards, just not the Incomparable her sister looked to be becoming.

With a kiss on her mother's cheek and a wave to her siblings, Miranda started up the stairs. “Good night, everyone. If I miss you in the morning, Mother, have a good trip.”

“You're going to bed?” The pout was evident in Georgina's voice. “Can't we talk more? Didn't you find Lord Eversly's dancing divine? I think he was my best partner of the entire evening.”

“I didn't dance with Lord Eversly this evening.” In fact, Miranda had never danced with Lord Eversly. Not even in London, where they saw each other at functions two or three times a week during the height of the Season. Lord Eversly never had much to do with marriage-minded young ladies. That he had danced with Georgina tonight placed a seal on her top-tier status.

Miranda faced her sister, focusing all her tension into her white-knuckled grip on the banister. The smooth wood provided little to grip, so she curled her fingers until the nails bit into the underside of the wood. “I am glad you had such a wonderful time. I promise we can relive every detail tomorrow.”

She prayed a good night's sleep would help her push past this ridiculous resentment so that she wouldn't ruin her sister's good time. The stairs blurred as she viewed them through unshed tears and flickering candlelight.

The family made a great deal of noise as they entered the front hall. But why wouldn't they? It wasn't as if they were sneaking about trying to find places someone could hide in order to obtain secret information.

That was his job.

The family's return meant he had to cease his investigation for the evening. Like it or not, his current cover came with a job. It didn't matter that his employer was aware of the entire
scheme; someone had to care for the clothes and help Griffith out of that well-tailored coat.

Marlow slipped out of Lady Blackstone's room. Since she was departing tomorrow, he'd had only tonight to search her things, even though it was nearly impossible for her to have a part in the treachery he was investigating.

He pressed into a curtained window alcove as Lady Miranda reached the top of the stairs. She looked lost in thought, almost to the point of sadness. Her deep, fortifying breaths echoed in the corridor.

They didn't matter. She couldn't matter. Her door closed softly behind her, and he proceeded toward Griffith's room, making special effort to maintain his even stride as he passed Lady Miranda's door.

She was a distraction.

Distractions brought failure, and even death.

This particular distraction had almost caused him to miss the opportunity to search Lady Blackstone's room before she departed. He could not allow Lady Miranda to send this mission down the River Tick. The next chance he had, he was searching her bedchamber, no matter how much the idea unnerved him.

He reached the master bedchamber moments before Griffith did.

“How was your evening, Your Grace?” Marlow helped Griffith out of his jacket and began seeing to the remainder of the evening duties.

“Exhausting.” Griffith paused in the process of shrugging into a deep-green dressing gown. “How was your evening?”

“Would you care for anything else this evening, Your Grace?”