A Noble Masquerade (31 page)

Ryland waited at the door, listening to Miranda's movements within the study. The echo of stomping feet and disgruntled mumblings approached the door, and he braced himself for another argument. When the sounds shifted in the direction of the corner bookcases, he allowed his muscles to slowly relax. Air rushed through his lips in a silent sigh. The chink of the teapot and the slight squeak of chair leather indicated Miranda had accepted her confinement and settled in with a book and a cup of tea.

He waited for another moment or two before making his way down to the kitchen to meet with Price and Jeffreys. If their note-sender wasn't Baron Listwist, they needed to figure out who it was—and quickly, before the man moved on to threatening the entire aristocracy.

Memories of the recently shared kiss flitted at the edge of his mind, tempting him to forget the operation and return to the study.

Wanting this entire business behind him the next time he held her in his arms spurred him down the creaky side stairs into the servants' domain. Besides, Miranda would probably throw the teacup at his head if he so much as peeked inside the door.

He was nearly to the kitchen before he realized that he was smiling. The curve of his lips felt large and a bit ridiculous. Considering he rarely allowed more than a smirk to indicate his humor, a full-fledged lovesick grin was bound to draw attention he didn't need or want. It was hard not to smile when he thought of Miranda's barely concealed passion, though. For years she had hidden it beneath a sheen of ladylike predictability. It was nice to know he inspired more emotion than her carefully crafted shell could contain.

Still, the smile had to go.

He smacked himself on the cheeks, the hard, calloused palms grating against his face as he screwed up his nose and fought to gain control of his facial muscles. Feeling composed and in control once more, he strode into the kitchen.

It was empty save his three cronies. They sat around a rough wooden table, Price filling up one bench while Jeffreys and Jess shared the other one. Ryland reached a hand into his pocket to pull out the notes as he approached the table.

Only one paper resided in his pocket. He wrapped his fingers around it, trying to remember where the other note might be. He must have dropped it in the study. With a silent prayer that Miranda wouldn't find it, he flattened the one note onto the table.

Three sets of hardened, experienced eyes stared back at Ryland. He was the leader of this mission. “The same note showed up at Griffith's house. If I can figure out why, I think we'll have our man.”

Miranda twirled the paper in her hand, shadows from a nearby candle causing the words to go in and out of focus. Whoever was making menacing overtures wasn't very creative. Sending the same message to two different peers seemed a very foolish thing to do.

Of course, leaving it on a tea tray in hopes that it would be delivered to your target was quite foolish as well. Whoever penned the scrawling black words must have a few attics to let. She hated to think that any of their staff would be driven to attack the family, but who else could have left the note?

Wind whistled by the closed French doors, sending a spattering of rain against the glass panes. It was a miracle that she had managed to arrive at Ryland's home without mishap. She should have been soaked to the skin and shivering from the swirling night wind.

Huddling deeper into the chair, she stared at the candle flame until it became a yellow and orange blur and her eyes began to feel dry and crusty. There was something she was missing. Something the wind and the rain kept trying to bring to the forefront of her mind.

“Lord, this would be much simpler if you would just tell me. Maybe write it down or make it appear in the tea.” Well, maybe not the tea. She'd heard tales of people thinking the future could be discerned by tea leaves. It seemed illogical and a bit unnerving to her.

A quill and ink set on the desk caught her eye.
Writing.
How many times in her life had she organized her thoughts and figured things out by writing? At least half of her letters to Ryland had served that purpose.

Paper and quill at the ready, she sat at the desk and started to write. Out of habit, she started the paper with
Dear Marshington
, but nothing else came to her. Even in a situation as difficult as this one she couldn't push past the inability to write letters the way she used to.

“Okay, then, I'll talk to him. He's probably still in the house. I'll find him, and we can talk this out. He'll realize that I can help him.”

Her fingers grasped the door latch and pulled. The door rattled but didn't open. He had indeed locked her in. For a moment she debated banging on the door, but after they'd gone through such pains to hide her presence from his aunt earlier, it didn't seem the wisest course of action.

She eyed the glass doors on the other side of the room but dismissed them immediately. There was no guarantee that she could get back into the house if she exited that way. She could find herself stranded between the row of homes and the wall bordering Carlton House's vast gardens. The option was not appealing.

“I shall simply work it out myself, then.”

She bounced slightly as she dropped back into her chair, staring at the familiar note and willing her brain to work.

It didn't.

Frustrated, she popped back out of the chair and began to
pace. She eyed the quill one more time but knew that was no longer an option. Until she invented a new mythical friend, it seemed her journaling days were over. Her hands found her hips and she huffed, making her sagging ringlets dance around her head. She needed someone to talk to.

A quick scan of the room revealed a surprising lack of portraits. What peer's study wasn't overrun with portraits of the title's previous holders? A small globe sat on the shelf, its metal base glinting in the firelight. She draped her napkin over the top like a hat.

It would have to do.

She paced back and forth in front of her new friend and began talking. After repeating everything she knew, nothing was any clearer than it had been fifteen minutes prior.

“I don't understand. It always works at home. What am I missing?”

Ryland stabbed his hand through his hair. “What am I missing?”

Jess looked around at the men's faces. “Perhaps you could ask—”

“I'm not asking Miranda. I will not involve her in this.” Ryland bit off the words, cutting short the suggestion Jess had made five times in as many minutes.

“She is the one who found the other note.” Jeffreys examined the toes of his shoes, avoiding Ryland's murderous glare.

“No. I will not put her in any more danger than she is just by being here.”

Jess sighed and dropped her forehead to the table. “You would only be talking to her, Ryland.”

“No.”

“All right, then. I'm going to bed. Unlike you lazy blokes, I have to get up and stoke the fires in the morning.” Jess pushed away from the table and headed for the stairs. “I suggest you all turn in as well. There's obviously a clue we have yet to find and I doubt it's here in this kitchen.”

“Jess.” Ryland leaned against the table, his shoulders slumped beneath the rare feeling of desperation. “One more time. Let's go over everything one more time. Then I'll need you to help me get Miranda home. She can't stay the night in my study, and I can't take her myself.”

Tense silence filled the room. Jess finally returned to the table. “Okay. When did the first note show up?”

“It's ridiculous, really,” Miranda said to the globe. “Why the tea tray? It could have gone to anyone. Mrs. Brantley always keeps several at the ready when the weather is bad because we are forever ringing for tea to warm our insides. It's not always worth the hassle of lighting a fire.”

She paced back and forth, hands clasped behind her at the small of her back. Five steps to the edge of the carpet, turn, five steps to the other edge, repeat.

“Ryland obviously doesn't have the same philosophy. Of course, his house seems to be a bit draftier than ours. He should really look into fixing that.

“It was under the teapot, so whoever left it was in the kitchen. That makes nearly every servant an option. We didn't have the paper this morning. Gibson said it was because even the delivery boys were having trouble slogging through the weather. It really makes me wonder what drove Mr. Montgomery to drive out in it. It took him nearly half an hour to dry off in . . . the . . . kitchen . . .”

Miranda stared at the note. What if it hadn't been meant for Griffith? What if it hadn't been for anyone at Hawthorne House? That would explain Ryland receiving an identical note. If the culprit thought he'd lost the first one, he could write a second one. And who had more to gain from Ryland's untimely death than the next in line for the title?

Ryland didn't know that his cousin had been to visit Miranda. He would never think to tie Mr. Montgomery to a threat on Griffith. He could be in mortal danger right now! If Miranda was right, and Mr. Montgomery had decided he would rather be referred to as “His Grace,” then the killer had free rein of his target's house.

She ran to the door, prepared to bang on it until she broke through if that's what it would take to get Ryland to listen to her. Her hand stalled inches from the door. Was Mr. Montgomery home? No one had said he was home, but if you were planning on murdering someone wouldn't you claim to be elsewhere?

Banging wasn't an option. She couldn't risk gaining Mr. Montgomery's attention before attaining Ryland's. She knelt and pressed her eye to the keyhole, hoping to see the guard Ryland had promised. There didn't appear to be anyone outside the door. Had he counted on the mere threat of a guard to keep her inside?

She tried the latch. It was truly locked.

She flattened to the ground and peered underneath, looking for a shadow or shoes. Though how she could know whether or not they belonged to Mr. Montgomery was beyond her.

Nothing.

What else could she do? She stood and looked around the room, praying for inspiration. The embroidery of the bellpull caught the firelight, mocking her. Why hadn't she started there? Despite Miranda's lack of affection for the woman, Jess would be able to get the information to Ryland.

Miranda's stomach churned at the thought of the disdain on Jess's face when Miranda had to admit she needed the other girl's help. It wasn't Miranda's fault she was raised as a normal person. Everyone couldn't be spies.

She stomped her way across the room and yanked on the pull with a force fed by the surge of agitation. The top of the pull slapped her in the head before falling useless to the floor. It wasn't the first time she'd dismantled a bellpull with an overly enthusiastic tug, but it was certainly the most inconvenient.

No bellpull, no guard, no way of making sure Ryland was the one who heard her if she yelled. All her life Miranda had been told to be a lady, to do as instructed, to stay out of trouble, but Miranda could never live with herself if she stood in this study while Ryland's cousin tried to kill him.

What would her mother do if she were locked in the study with an urgent message? Miranda frowned at the tea. Her mother would have gently rung the bell and then finished her tea while she waited.

What would Jess do if she were locked in the study with an urgent message? Probably pick the lock.

Miranda kicked aside the useless bellpull. She couldn't be a lady like her mother or a partner like Jess, but she could find a way to help Ryland. Rain pelted the doors leading to the back garden. There was more than one way into the rest of the house. With a deep breath, Miranda flung the doors open and darted into the rain.

“That's it, Ryland. We'll have to wait until we know something else. I'll go see Miranda home for you.” Jess rose from the table once more and made her way to the stairs.

“Don't ask her anything, Jess.” Ryland rolled his neck back and forth.

“Is she such a hothouse flower, then? If she's so delicate, what do you see in her?”

Price placed a heavy hand on Ryland's shoulder. “She's been gently bred, Jess. Remember how you were. I remember hauling your carcass out of a pond when you didn't consider that a dock could have been rigged as a trap.”

Jess huffed and looked the other way. “All right, I won't ask her anything. But if she can't handle this, Ryland, can she handle being married to you?”

She darted silently up the stairs. Ryland hated that she'd asked the question he'd been ignoring. Even if he never did another minute of spy work, Ryland would never be the same as his peers. What kind of life was that for Miranda?

“Shall we retire, Your Grace?” Jeffreys stood as a servant awaiting instruction. Considering that five minutes earlier he had been hotly arguing for an inquisition of the entire household, his servient posture struck Ryland as funny. He understood Jeffreys' underlying message though. It was time for Ryland to remember that he wasn't a spy any longer. He had chosen to resume his duties as a peer of the realm.

“Yes, Jeffreys, I think that would be best.”

Jess came falling back into the room. “She's gone.”

Ryland's heart froze, his breath evaporated.

“Was there a struggle?” Price came forward and slapped Ryland between the shoulder blades.

“There's a globe with a napkin on it, but it doesn't look like it put up much of a fight.”

Ryland tried to wrap his mind around that statement, but it was stuck back at
“She'
s gone.”