A Noble Masquerade (4 page)

He set the tea service on the worktable with utmost care. What he really wanted to do was hurl the thing into the fireplace. That would wake the housekeeper though. He didn't doubt his abilities to calm any ruffled feathers waking her would cause, but he preferred no one found out he'd taken tea with the lady of the house.

Servants frowned on uppity airs such as that.

Marlow. He was Marlow. He must remember to be no one but Marlow.

He dumped the tea leaves from the pot and plunged the dish into the wash bucket. Why had he told her about his family? Not all of it, granted. The cousins in Derbyshire were a bit removed and mostly on his mother's side. The aunt and cousin residing in London were much closer relations, but he never mentioned them.

Most of the time he tried to forget they were there.

Life would have been simpler if they weren't. If not for his cousin, he'd have never gone to France, never been caught up in the mystique of espionage, and never found himself shining boots at a duke's country estate.

Which meant he would never have taken midnight tea with Lady Miranda . . . and that would have been a shame.

He smiled as he left everything in the kitchen the way he had found it. No one would suspect a middle-of-the night forage.

Thoughts raced through his mind as he returned to the li
brary. He went over every moment of the exchange, examining angles and motivations. Why would she invite him to drink with her? He'd brought a second cup, intending to finish the pot after she had retired. He never expected she'd invite him to sit with her.

The small writing desk caught his eye as he entered the room. She had left it hastily when he returned with the tea. Was she hiding something?

Dread pooled in his stomach. By necessity, everyone in the house was a suspect until proven otherwise, but he had never truly thought Griffith or his family were behind the leaked secrets.

What if he was wrong?

Thoughts of Miranda's charming and generous nature fell to the wayside. With absolute calm he sorted through the papers on the desk. Letters to family and other social equals were of little interest to him. There was nothing out of the ordinary there, and the post had been the first thing the War Office had searched.

His eyebrows rose at the blue paper at the bottom of the stack. It was folded crookedly, unlike the precise lines of the other letters, and it bore no direction.

He flipped it open and couldn't believe his eyes. She was writing to the Duke of Marshington? Breath whooshed from his lungs as he read the letter. She wasn't just writing to the duke, she was pouring her heart out to him. It indicated an intimate relationship.

He sat on the couch and stared at the dancing flames of fire. This changed everything.

Despite having succumbed to sleep mere hours before dawn, Miranda found herself staring at the ceiling as the sun tried to push its first rays past her curtains. Why couldn't she sleep a little longer? She had nowhere to be, no pressing schedule to keep. That was the beauty of being in the country—her time was her own.

She allowed herself the luxury of an enormous yawn as she stood and reached for the bellpull. Her fingers slipped over the embroidered velvet before snagging on the tassel at the end. The awkward momentum sent her stumbling. The pulls had been installed two years earlier. One would think she'd be managing them better by now.

Hoping the light seeping around her drapes signaled a beautiful morning, she crossed to the window. The warm glow of bright sunlight greeted her as she drew back the green brocade. She searched the sky for any sign of impending rain. Not a single cloud drifted through the blue expanse.

A light sneeze turned her face away from the window to see her maid, Sally, slipping in the door.

“Good morning,” Miranda called over her shoulder as she took one last look at the beautiful countryside.

“Good morning, my lady.”

Miranda turned from the window to see Sally laying out a cream-colored morning dress. Cream. Only slightly better for her complexion than white. With a sigh, she went forward to get dressed for the day. Maybe later she could get out and take a walk with Georgina. She would have to wait hours for that, however, since her sister rarely stirred herself for any physical activity before noon.

Sally was placing a final hair pin when a soft knock sounded on the door. Curious, Miranda went to open it herself, leaving Sally to put away the nightdress and dressing gown. Who could be coming around this early?

Possibly her mother, with some last bit of wisdom or instruction. Or Georgina, so excited that she'd yet to go to sleep? The housekeeper wouldn't seek her out unless there was an emergency.

Her brother's valet hadn't even made her mental list, yet there he stood, looking crisp and professional and not at all as if he'd spent the night polishing boots in the library.

“Oh, good morning,” Miranda said. She poked her head out the door and looked back and forth, expecting to see someone else in the corridor as well. “Marlow? Is something wrong with Griffith?”

“No, my lady. He sent me to request you meet him in his study at your earliest convenience.”

“He did?” Miranda's forehead scrunched in confusion. When did Griffith start sending the valet instead of a footman?

“Yes, my lady.” Marlow bowed smartly and made as if to leave. He stopped short and turned back to Miranda. “I also wanted to let you know that I posted the letters you left in the library. His Grace had some urgent correspondence this morning, and I took care of yours as well.”

“Oh!” Miranda smoothed her hand over the ruffles marching down the front of her morning gown. Were all valets this considerate to other members of the family? Herbert never bothered to deliver messages or care for anyone other than Griffith and occasionally Trent, but then again, the man had been old when Miranda had been born.

“Thank you,” she said with a small shake of her head. “In his study, you said?”

Marlow nodded and turned to retreat down the corridor. Miranda slipped out the door and followed him. Two steps down the corridor, Marlow stopped and turned, his grey eyes piercing straight into her own.

“May I help you, my lady?”

Miranda blushed slightly. The reaction spurred her to try to regain the upper hand in the relationship. There was no call for embarrassment. She was, after all, the lady of the house, and after last night's tête-à-tête over tea, she needed to remind both herself and Marlow of that fact. “No, thank you, Marlow. That will be all.”

Marlow's eyebrows rose slightly even as he nodded and continued down the corridor.

Miranda's blush deepened.
That will be all?
Even she cringed at the supercilious tone of her voice. What was wrong with her? She shook her head and continued down the corridor as well.

He glanced sideways at her as she caught up with him. Miranda turned her head to look at him, her stride remaining purposeful and steady.

“I am on my way to Griffith's study.”

“Of course, my lady.” Marlow nodded at her as he continued to walk. He appeared to be strolling, even as he kept even with her brisk pace.

“That is where he is waiting, is it not?” Miranda lifted her chin another notch. He was being gracious and helpful, with
the appropriate amount of emotional distance, but she couldn't help thinking that underneath that perfect subservient shell, he was laughing at her.

“Yes, my lady. Table.”

“Table?”

“Table.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes at the man. What was he talking about?

Marlow's hand shot out and grabbed her arm, forcefully steering her away from the wall and toward the middle of the passageway. Heat bloomed where his ungloved hand met the bare skin of her upper arm. She stopped short and glared at him, her insides dancing with the new understanding of why everyone was supposed to wear gloves to a ball.

With a flick of his hand, he directed her attention to the tall, narrow table holding an elaborate floral arrangement that stretched almost to the ceiling. Had she continued on her previous path, she would surely have run into it.

“Table.” He swiftly stepped around her and continued down the corridor, leaving her staring at the offending furniture with considerable bemusement.

Miranda turned her face to the sun, soaking in the warmth and unusual brightness. Griffith's suggestion of a long leisurely ride and picnic was brilliant, though she still didn't understand why she'd been summoned to the study for him to suggest it.

The summons from her brother had been unusual. The request to ride was even more so, but she spent so little leisure time with the man who had acted as her father figure for so many years that she wasn't about to complain about the opportunity.

Georgina did not have the same view of things. “As much as
I love you, and you know I do,” she'd said when they invited her, “you are not enough of an inducement to get me to eat out-of-doors and without a table. There are insects.”

Miranda smiled as Griffith settled into his saddle. “It would be nice if Trent were here to join us.”

Griffith murmured agreement and led them away from the stable.

He probably missed their brother as much as she did. Trent was in London, however, reveling in his freedom, visiting his club and friends, and generally having the enjoyable time young, unencumbered gentlemen tended to have.

It was yet another indication of how old she was getting. Trent was not even a full year older than her and he was out of the house before she was. That was not a good sign.

Miranda gave herself a stern admonishment, though she kept the conversation in her mind. No sense making Griffith worry that she was empty in the attic in addition to being a spinster. Besides, one night of self-pity was more than enough. There was a limit to how much she would let herself languish in misery.

It was a new day. She was out with a brother she saw much too little of. She had a wonderful family and fabulous friends. There was really very little to be sad about.

“This is our last chance to do this for a while, I suppose,” Miranda said.

Late October was generally not conducive to leisurely mornings outside, but today was lovely and unseasonably warm.

“True. Before we know it Christmas will be here, and after that we'll be heading to London.”

Miranda groaned. “That is all Georgina can talk about. I'm sure we'll be attending gobs more functions than the last two years. She will insist upon it.”

Now it was Griffith's turn to groan. Miranda had heard him
talk several times about how much he preferred the quieter life of the country. The hours, the relaxation of social stricture, and the privacy were all very alluring. He endured the city to be near his socializing family and to fulfill his political obligations in the House of Lords.

“She's already started listing what we will need in our wardrobes,” Miranda continued. “She is planning on being out and about every night. I tried to tell her how exhausting that would be. She stuck her nose in the air and called me old.”

“And then of course there are all her opinions about her ball.” Griffith gave an over-the-top shudder. “Even I have heard about that.”

Miranda ducked slightly as her horse walked under a tree branch. “She is determined to be a success. While last night proved she should be more than adequately popular, I haven't got the slightest idea how she intends to become the Season's Incomparable. She is, after all, quite commonly blond and even more commonly empty-headed.”

Griffith opened his mouth, presumably to defend his youngest sibling. After a moment he closed it again. He must have realized that sometimes the truth was just the truth, no matter how harsh it might seem.

Her mother's voice started reproaching her in her mind.
“
A lady never insults her family, even in private.”
Miranda mercilessly squashed the mental chastisement.

“Perhaps she plans on snagging a confirmed bachelor.”

Miranda laughed. “Oh, most definitely. She has already told me the normal top-tier bachelors would not do. She wants to be utterly admired when she is the centerpiece of the wedding of the Season. She has a list, you know.”

“A list?”

“Um hm.” The memory of Georgina reciting her list caused Miranda to laugh so hard that her horse skittered a bit to the
side. She took a moment to compose herself and her mare. “She has your friend from school on her list.”

Griffith raised a brow at her as they worked their way to the edge of the woods. “Cottingsworth?” he said, referring to the Viscount of Cottingsworth in surprise.

Cottingsworth was a good man, and one Griffith had suggested to Miranda a time or two. She'd never considered him after Cottingsworth commented about how well suited they were because of his connection to Griffith. Picturing Georgina with Cottingsworth only made Miranda laugh more.

Griffith shook his head. “I am stunned that Georgina is aiming for a title that low. I would have said she would never set her sights, at least not initially, on anyone lower than an earl.”

“Oh, no, no.” Miranda took deep breaths to calm her giggles. “The duke.”

They broke through the edge of the woods into a large rolling field of green grass. Birds trilled in the trees around them, and a sprinkling of wildflowers nodded in the slight breeze. Miranda nudged her mare into a trot, preparing to race across the field like they normally did. After a few paces, she realized Griffith had stopped at the edge of the trees. “Griffith?” she said, turning in the saddle.

“The Duke of Marshington?” Griffith asked incredulously. “But, no one's seen him in nine years! He disappeared during our first year at Oxford, and to my knowledge, he hasn't been seen at all, much less at a social function.”

Miranda circled around to pull up beside him again. “She thinks her reputation of beauty and grace will be so astounding it will pull him out of his rustication, wherever he may be.”

Griffith looked blankly across the field before a grin split across his face. “I cannot imagine her being . . . er, popular enough to make him come out of seclusion, but one never knows.”

“Are you being serious?” Miranda gasped. If her ever-practical brother considered the Duke of Marshington's reemergence being even the slightest bit possible, he must foresee Georgina being more popular than Miranda could imagine. She shifted in her saddle, trying to alleviate the sudden tightness in her midsection. “You think she could do it? You think he'll actually come to London this year?”

Griffith appeared to give the thought careful consideration. “I think,” he said slowly, “that if he comes to London this year it will be pure coincidence.”

Miranda narrowed her green eyes at him, the dread gnawing at her belly giving way to the nagging prick of curiosity. A slight nudge was all she required to steer her well-trained horse right up against Griffith's. “Have you heard from him?”

She stared her brother down, all but daring him to keep this information from her. Miranda confessed to having a weakness for good gossip and anything related to the missing duke was good gossip indeed.

Marshington's disappearance from Oxford was legendary among the
ton.
His aunt and cousin had frequently made noises about passing along the dukedom, but his steward, manager, and solicitor claimed to receive communications and instructions from him on a regular basis. The dukedom had in fact been managed well over the last few years, prospering and growing and providing a good living for Marshington's grasping relatives.

Griffith nudged his horse into motion, forcing Miranda's mare to step sideways. “I've gotten letters from him a time or two over the years.”