A Noble Masquerade (6 page)

“You plan on finding a spy by pressing my clothes and shaving my chin? I still don't think I'm comfortable with that. Are you sure you know what you're doing?” Griffith ran a hand around his neck, as if ensuring himself it was still in one piece after Ryland's morning ministrations.

“I would hardly have asked you for the position if I didn't.” Ryland raised a single brow. He'd never shaved anyone other than himself, but false confidence had gotten him through stickier situations. “Was there anything else before I return to being Marlow?”

“What did my sister want?”

“She seems to be missing a letter.” Ryland turned back to the soiled clothing, afraid his friend would be able to read more than he wanted to admit. Did Griffith know what was in those blue letters?

“A blue one? I don't know what she's constantly scribbling on those papers, but she is certainly protective of them.”

Ryland froze, still avoiding looking at Griffith. “You don't know what she's writing?”

“No. I will admit to being curious about them, but she's never seen fit to share them with me.” Griffith leaned toward the mirror, inspecting Ryland's handiwork on the cravat.

Ryland took advantage of his altered position and stepped around his friend to take the clothing out of the dressing room. The sooner he removed himself from this conversation, the better.

“Ryland,” Griffith said in a low voice. “Why would she think you would know where her letter was?”

Deciding his best defense was to revert back into his servant persona, he turned back around with a bow. “I do beg your—”

“Enough.” Griffith hauled Ryland back into the dressing room with one hand and slammed the door with the other.

Ryland forced slow breaths through his nose as he faced off with Griffith. The fresh scent of soap mingled with the more pungent aroma of Griffith's riding clothes.

Griffith jabbed Ryland in the shoulder. “New rule. In this room you are not Marlow. I realize there are prying eyes everywhere else in this house, but in here, it's just you and me, however awkward that may be.”

Several moments passed while Ryland and Griffith stared at each other, measuring the other's determination. Griffith's gaze was green stone, hardened by years of responsibility and maturity. The old soul from their school days had grown into itself.

If Ryland wanted to stay, he was going to have to give in to this request.

“Very well.”

Griffith nodded, looking a bit stunned that it had been so easy to gain Ryland's acquiescence. What Griffith didn't know, couldn't begin to understand, was that Ryland had almost forgotten how to be himself. It was one of the reasons he wanted out.

Propping his wide frame against the washstand, Griffith pinned Ryland with serious green eyes. “Now, why does Miranda think you have that paper? Are you investigating my family?”

Ryland plopped down into the chair he used to set out Griffith's clothes. He extended his booted feet and crossed them at the ankles. That gave the appearance of comfort, didn't it? Hopefully it would be enough of a change of character to make it seem that he was being totally natural. “I'm investigating everyone, Griff, including you. I've already cleared your family though. It didn't take very long to see that the evidence pointed in a lower direction.”

“And the letter?”

“She wrote it in the library last night.”

Griffith's eyes narrowed. “You were polishing boots in the library last night.”

“Yes.”

Griffith rubbed his finger along his thumb, an old habit Ryland instantly recognized. The man was agitated. It wouldn't be long until he couldn't contain the nervous energy to his fingers. Ryland sat back to enjoy the show. It was oddly entertaining
to watch the enormous man pace in the small confines of the dressing room. It took only three paces before he had to turn and start the other way.

“You were in there together? Alone? At night? I don't like this, Marsh. I didn't think of my sisters' reputations when I agreed to this.”

With a sigh, Ryland rubbed his forehead. He should explain without making Griffith dig for it. It wasn't in his nature, and life had taught him that he was better off keeping his mouth shut, but Griffith was closer than a brother to him, and he deserved better.

“Griff, I'm a servant here. She couldn't sleep. She came downstairs. I made her tea. She was writing the letter when I returned from the kitchen. She drank her tea and went back to bed. If it had been any other servant you wouldn't think a thing of it.”

Griffith sighed. “That's true.”

Ryland stood and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an alternate personality to resume.”

He gathered the dirty clothes and left the room before Griffith could ask him any more questions. The blue letter seemed to burn a hole in his jacket pocket the entire way down the corridor.

Curiosity, a spy's greatest asset and deadliest liability, made his fingers itch. Ignoring the letter wasn't a possibility. He had to learn more. The only question was how?

He found her in the upstairs parlor watching plump raindrops splatter and roll down the window pane.

All afternoon Ryland had told himself not to seek her out, that his curiosity must be ignored and the mystery of the blue letter was best left alone. He couldn't seem to help himself, though. He'd reread that letter at least ten times, and every time it raised more questions. Why him? How long had she been writing her feelings this way? Were the letters always addressed to him?

If so, where were the rest? Because he was finding himself very distracted by the desire to know more about the woman who had poured her emotions onto that paper.

And Ryland never got distracted.

“Are you feeling better?”

Miranda jumped. A brief wince was the only betrayal of how much she must not want to see him. “Very much so, thank you.”

“I didn't tell His Grace about your, er, collapse.”

She nodded, eyes fixed upon the rain. “Thank you.”

He should leave. Simply being here was overstepping the boundaries of his role. She thought him a valet. If he were to
say more, push more, even stay in the room a minute more, he would be vastly overstepping his station in her eyes.

“I feel I should apologize, my lady.” That was good. Ladies always loved apologies.

She shook her head. “Do not trouble yourself. You were merely being . . . efficient.”

Ryland's eyes widened. That was incredibly generous of her, considering he'd had to open the letter to see whom she had addressed it to. Had she forgotten that part?

“I don't know how it was at your previous station.” She turned and the anger he'd expected was evident in her face. “Here we do not open personal correspondence, even with the best of intentions.”

He bowed. “Understood, my lady.”

Her eyes were the same color as Griffith's. Strange how different the shade looked in the face of a pretty woman than in the face of a man. He needed to get out of there. Fast.

“Did you read it?”

Ryland stopped and faced her, lowering his gaze from hers for the first time. He locked his eyes on the velvet bow on her sleeve. Sleeves were safe. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“The letter. Did you read it? I know you opened it.”

“I . . .” What to do? Lie and leave or tell a small bit of truth and maybe help her sort out the bundle of unasked questions she'd spilled the night before? “Parts, my lady. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

She was silent for a while. Much longer than he was comfortable with. If she went to Griffith demanding his dismissal, he'd be in a tough spot.

“Did you share it?”

“No!” The word scraped out, harsher and louder than he intended. The aristocratic duke he'd hidden for the last decade had crept out in that single moment of outraged denial.

Miranda only nodded.

She looked sad.

This was dangerous. He knew a lot about Miranda. Even before this case necessitated his investigating her, he'd known about her from stories Griffith shared of his family.

Now faced with the woman she had become, he felt drawn to her. Wanted to sit beside her on the blue-and-white-striped sofa and talk about all the troubles she'd laid out in her letter.

But he couldn't. Not as Marlow. An idea began to bloom in the back of his mind. It was insane. Perilous, even, considering the mission he was on.

In any case, he couldn't leave her here, on the verge of tears. He had to give her something to chase away the agony. “If I may, my lady.”

She nodded, a resigned look on her face.

“I know I am but a valet.”
And a duke, but we won't consider that at the moment.
“I know little about moving around in society.”
Certain amount of truth to that. A
decade of sneaking and hiding kept a man out of touch.
“But any man who prefers Lady Georgina's company to your own isn't considering anything below the surface.”

Her lips twisted in a wry smile and her eyes cast down to the worn wooden floorboards.

You've cork for brains, Ryland. You just told the woman her sister
is prettier.

“What I mean is that they are looking only for easy conversation and surface social niceties.” He cleared his throat. Might as well throw everything out there and completely jeopardize his cover as valet. He was truly going to have to avoid this woman after this encounter. “You're more than passably pretty.”

She looked up, eyes wide, that same twist of the lips still on her face. “You didn't read the entire thing, hmm?”

Repeatedly.
Until I have parts memorized because I wonder
what about
me made me the target of such confessions.
“I merely glanced at it, my lady.”

She nodded and turned back to the window. “I thank you for your thoughts, Marlow. Perhaps one day I'll meet a man of my station who feels the same way.”

Ryland wondered how a man of servant status would consider that comment. His first instinct was to be affronted at her dismissal of Marlow's opinions simply because of his status, but the truth was, any other view on things would have thrown a servant-class Mr. Marlow into very strange and unexpected territory. Her dismissal was much more along the expected lines.

He left the room, cursing himself for seeking her out in the first place. What had he been thinking? God's grace alone had kept him from shredding his cover back there. He ducked behind a curtain, taking a moment to pray for God's wisdom and protection. More than one miracle had kept him alive and whole during the past ten years. All he needed was one more with his name on it.

It continued to rain for the next week. Fat, plopping drops drifted lazily down from the clouds one day. Shards of water sliced through the air on another. Even when there was no actual precipitation, grey clouds shrouded the sky and a fine mist made a walk in the garden a drenching endeavor.

Miranda sat at the breakfast table, watching raindrops meander down the window. She pushed the coddled eggs around on her plate without thought. Her shoulders slumped, her back slouched, and a small pout marred her face. Even with her mother living hours away, she could still hear the lecture on proper posture ringing in her ears. She ignored it. She was tired of rain.

With a sigh, she pushed her plate aside and sat back against the ornate wooden arches of the dining chair. As long as it continued to precipitate she was stuck indoors, writing letters and applying herself to embroidery and pianoforte plunking. She needed something to break the monotony. Her siblings certainly weren't providing her with much entertainment. The most exciting thing she'd had to do all week was avoid Griffith's new valet—a not surprisingly easy endeavor.

Griffith had plenty to keep him busy—rain did not affect the expectations of a duke. He had spent the last several days holed up in his office, working diligently on whatever it was that kept his many estates running smoothly. Whenever he needed anything, he sent his new valet for it. Marlow had been running all over the estate.

Georgina could think and talk of nothing but the coming Season in London. While Miranda was determined to be happy for her and refused to let jealousy reside in her heart, she saw no reason to test her fortitude more than she absolutely had to.

A rustle accompanied a soft set of footsteps down the corridor. Miranda sighed and adjusted her posture into a more appropriate position.

Georgina entered the room with a delicate yawn. The ruffles of her morning dress fluttered in the air as she spun in a small circle. “Do you like it?”

Miranda raised a single brow. “Is that one of your new dresses?”

“Yes. Isn't it pretty?”

“Indeed. It's also meant for London.” Miranda turned her attention to her plate and took a small bite of eggs.

Georgina shrugged. “Mother isn't here. Besides, what could possibly happen to it? I'm hardly going outside in this weather. I'll probably spend the rest of the morning playing the pianoforte and working on my embroidery.”

Her excitement over the very activities Miranda was dreading inspired a short laugh. She had to acknowledge the veracity of her sister's statement, though. It was highly unlikely that anything would happen to the dress. She felt rather petty for having brought it up in the first place.

The butler entered as Georgina settled into her seat across from Miranda. A stack of correspondence filled the silver platter in his hand. “The post, my lady.”

“Thank you, Lambert.” Miranda set her toast to the side and began sorting through the stack. She could have Lambert sort through them, but she liked having an idea of everything that went on in the house. Taking over the housekeeping duties after her mother remarried had given her a sense of accomplishment when she'd desperately needed something to value about herself.

There were two letters addressed to Georgina. Miranda slid them across the table, knowing they would be ignored for the time being. Georgina handled all of her correspondence, what little there was, in complete privacy. A time or two Miranda had wondered if she chucked the things into the fire, unwilling to be bothered with anything that wasn't immediately pressing in her life.

There was nothing for Griffith—hadn't been for more than a week now. Somehow Marlow got to the post before anyone else and pulled anything for Griffith out of the stack.

Was it normal for valets to be so involved in every aspect of their master's affairs? The question was quickly banished to the back of her mind. She may be bored silly, but she still didn't need to concern herself with Griffith's valet.

She frowned again at the rain. Perhaps it would clear this afternoon and she could go visit some of the crofters. Mary Blythe was supposed to have a baby soon.

There was a bill from the dressmaker, an invitation to a country house party, and a handful of personal letters from
friends she'd made in London. Answering those would give her something to do with her morning.

The last letter had no identifying marks and the handwriting was decidedly masculine. Her brow puckered in confusion. It was clearly directed to her, not Griffith. A cousin, perhaps?

The seal was plain pressed wax, without a crest or even an initial pressed into it. She eased her fingers under it, nodding and making affirmative noises to whatever Georgina was blathering about. It had something to do with society and London and her planned coming out in a few months. Georgina was quite capable of performing a dozen monologues on the subject, so there was no real need for Miranda to contribute to the conversation.

She picked her mug of chocolate up to take a sip as she flattened the paper on the table. A glance at the contents was all it took for her to start sputtering and choking as she inhaled the hot, sweet liquid. Her hand flailed in front of her mouth as she tried to regain her breath and composure. One errant swing knocked the edge of her plate, sending eggs, toast, and marmalade flying through the air.

A loud shriek accompanied Georgina's scurry out of her chair as she avoided the shower of breakfast food. She frowned at her sister. “You made your point. I'll go change my dress.”

She swiped up her letters and left the room, muttering under her breath about overbearing siblings.

Miranda dismissed her sister's pique. She'd been bound to upset the younger girl at some point in the day. Right then, though, she had a much bigger problem requiring her attention.

With both hands, she held the letter up and read it again, disbelief, shock, and terror careening their way through her heart. There was no greeting on the letter, but there was no doubt that it was meant for her and her alone.

Do we know each other?

Regards,

Marshington

A second dollop of wax rested beneath his name, his seal clearly pressed into it.

The letter had reached him. The Duke of Marshington, whose location was the subject of a thousand London rumors, was apparently not very far from Riverton. He had received and responded to her letter in a mere week.

She buried her face in her hands, crumpling the paper. She could still smell the ink on the parchment. How close was he? Not that his location really mattered. He could be sitting at this very breakfast table and that wouldn't alleviate her problem. What was she going to do?

Breathe. In. Out.

Using both hands to brace against the table, she rose on shaking legs.

Deep, slow breaths.
Do not panic. Do not faint.

A footman entered and stumbled to a halt as he saw the scattered remains of her breakfast. His face screwed up in confusion before composing itself back into its appropriate servant's blandness. The conversation downstairs would be interesting this morning.

“There was a slight mishap. . . .” Miranda allowed the sentence to trail off. There was really no getting out of this situation with her dignity intact. Food was strewn all about the room and it was clearly from her plate.