A Noble Masquerade (7 page)

“A lady never gives
the servants something to gossip about.”

“Oh . . . bother!” She scooped up the stack of mail and fled the room.

She locked her gaze to the floor, watching the toe of her slipper peep out from beneath her hem with each step she took. Up
the stairs, down the corridor, a quick dash into a guest room to avoid a passing maid, and then, finally, the blessed privacy of her room.

Once inside she leaned back against the door and took a few moments to just breathe.

“It is simply my imagination. All of it. I never sent him a letter accidentally. I never received one.” She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand and groaned. “Why am I lying to myself? My life is ruined!”

If the Duke of Marshington finally chose to come out of hiding and showed that letter to anyone else, Miranda would become a total social pariah. There would be nothing that could save her. This man she had never met held her future in his hands. It was a very sobering thought.

She paced back and forth across the Aubusson carpet she had treated herself to at the end of her second Season, when she had come back to the country without a single marriage prospect in sight. At least not one she was actually willing to consider.

“I can fix this. There must be a way to fix this. Think, Miranda!”

That single line written by a missing aristocrat seemed burned into her vision. Wherever she looked, she saw it.
“Do
we know each other?”

“What kind of a silly question is that? What would it matter if we knew each other? I could not send a letter like that to any man, even if I had known him from childhood.”

Her feet stopped their erratic pacing near her small writing table. She didn't write there often, preferring the larger windows of the parlor and library to brighten her writing space. A small stack of paper rested in the shallow drawer, though, and a quill and ink were always kept ready.

She fell into the chair with a thud. With trembling hands, she smoothed the duke's letter on the table in front of her.

“I can do this. Pretend this is a London ballroom and I have to smooth over an awkward moment with an eligible gentleman.” The most awkward moment ever created.

Slowly, carefully, she placed a piece of clean, white paper on the desk in front of her. She slid the quill into the ink with utmost precision, careful not to drip excess ink on the paper. Everything about this response had to be perfect.

Moments passed.

Silence descended upon the room. Even the faint click of the rain upon the windowpane ceased.

The ink began to dry on the tip of her quill.

With a groan, Miranda yanked a blue paper across the desk and began scribbling, pouring her heart out in a river of black ink.

Marsh,

You will be aghast over what I have done. I have inadvertently sent you a letter. It is extremely embarrassing to know that my first introduction to you is through an emotionally raging journal entry. What must you think of me?

What else could the man think? There had always existed the high probability that they would meet one day. Writing to him for the past several years was too tempting for fate to resist. Not that Miranda believed in fate, but apparently God had decided she needed to be taught a lesson about using people without their knowledge. Or something. There had to be a lesson in there somewhere, because it could not be happening just to ruin her life.

The thing is that I have been writing to you for years, ever since my brother told me stories about you. You were my fictitious, yet real, companion that I could tell anything
to. I have a trunk FULL of these letters. I can't believe I actually sent you one!

What is worse is that you must be in the district somewhere to have gotten my letter and replied so quickly! I don't know how Marlow knew where to send it.

And now I have to reply. I can't not reply. Marsh, what am I going to say to you?

I hope you don't mind that I think of you as Marsh. It is what Griff refers to you as when he speaks of you, which isn't often. He wrote of you when you were in school, of course. What am I doing? I have to write you a real letter!

Having churned out much of the chaos within her head, Miranda took a deep breath, and set the written tumble of craziness off to the side. What could she possibly say to explain what the duke had received? She had to think of something fast, because if he was nearby he was probably in contact of some form with Griffith, and the last thing she needed was her brother knowing she wrote to his friend as if she were some child with a
tendre
for one of her big brother's playmates. Even if that was uncomfortably close to the truth.

With a deep breath, Miranda straightened up in her chair. She shook the ringlets back from her face and set her teeth with determination. She returned her attention to the white paper and picked up her quill again.

Your Grace,

I am deeply ashamed at the letter you received. I cannot imagine what you must be thinking. Please know that it was never meant to be posted, and I hope that, should our paths ever cross in the future, you will be able to forget this ever happened.

It is a silly childhood habit I have of spilling my thoughts
to people I do not know. I find it much more cathartic than the mere keeping of a journal. It was a simple misunderstanding that caused this rambling to wind up in the post.

My deepest apologies.

Yrs,
Lady Miranda

Miranda read and reread what she had written. It was calm and collected and most importantly did not sound as if she
always
wrote to the Duke of Marshington, but that she wrote many different people. That was much better—in her opinion, anyway.

By the time she had finished reading and checking it several times, the ink had dried and she could fold the note for posting. She wrote the duke's name on the front and then froze. She would have to locate Marlow to discover where to send the letter. Feelings tumbled through her faster than she could recognize them.

How did she feel about seeing him again?

Since their encounter in the parlor last week, the man had been avoiding her as diligently as she had been avoiding him. Considering how often they'd bumped into each other those first two days, it was surprising that she had only seen him at a distance since then.

She tapped the folded letter against the desk. Where would Marlow be in the middle of the morning? Hopefully he was still in Griffith's room. They would be assured of more privacy if he were there.

The crooked lines of her journal letter caught her eye as she stood. She should lock it away and not risk anyone else finding another letter, but she was already losing her nerve to send the real one. A book from her bedside covered most of the letter, hiding the paper from all but the most determined of snoops.

She straightened her dress, took a deep breath, and marched determinedly to the door, real letter in hand. If she had to waylay every servant in the house to find Marlow, she would. A quick jerk of her wrist pulled open the door without requiring that she slow her pace. Nothing would stop her from getting this letter posted this morning.

Then she got punched in the nose.

Ryland lurched as the door he'd been about to knock on disappeared only to be replaced with Miranda's determined face. His fist, already in motion, connected with her nose.

“Oh!” Her gasp corresponded with his surprised outcry.

“My lady!” Thank God he hadn't called out her name. No doubt he had years of covert experience to thank for that.

Miranda collapsed backward on the floor, both hands flying up to cover her nose. Her eyes were shut tightly against the pain that was sure to be shooting through her face.

He winced as he crouched down next to her.

“Are you all right?” That sounded appropriately desperate. Griffith was not going to take kindly to the news that Ryland had knocked his sister to the ground. If he had been a real valet, he would be very afraid of dismissal at that moment.

She pulled her hands away from her face and frowned. “I'm bleeding.”

Her voice was flat, probably still stunned. Ryland would be willing to bet the girl had never been struck in her life. There probably hadn't even been a switch in the nursery growing up.

He peeked at her hands to see a few small spots of familiar
bright red. He had not hit her as hard as he feared then, for blood was not streaming from her pretty nose. Ryland shook his head. The last thing he needed to focus on was how pretty Miranda's nose was, even with a few spots of almost dried blood around the edges.

She held her hands up for him to get a closer look. “I'm bleeding!” she said again, with considerably more feeling.

“Well, not much, truth be told. I've seen considerably worse.”

That was probably not the best thing to say.

She glared at him. A tense few moments passed where Ryland had nothing to do but stare into narrowed green eyes. He could think of far worse ways to spend his time, but her eyes belonged in the same category as her nose: currently off-limits. Once this mission was over, he could consider spending a great deal of time focusing on her features, but right now it was a bad idea.

He fully expected a thrashing, emotional setdown. All evidence he'd seen thus far indicated she was a boiling pot of high emotion, cleverly concealed behind a shield of ladylike behavior.

“I suppose I should put something on it. Trent always puts meat on his nose when he gets busted up.” A delicate shudder passed through her frame before she continued her monologue.

Her practicality nearly knocked him off his feet.

“This is going to be revolting. I like my meat thoroughly cooked and covered in sauce. That is an entirely English sentiment, I know, but I have never been anywhere else, so I cannot really bring myself to care.”

Did she even remember he was in the room? He never knew a well-bred lady who talked to herself. It was rather endearing. “The cold is said to help, my lady.”

She jerked her face back toward his, blushing. So she
had
forgotten he was in the room. A rather humbling thought, that.

One hand whisked through the air, as if pushing the awkwardness aside so she could focus on what was important.
“Would you see that this letter gets sent? You can direct it however you did the one last week.”

Years of keeping emotions from his face made it easy to hide his pleasure at the idea that she'd answered his letter so quickly. Confusion soon followed, however. Her hands were empty. Nothing was on the floor around her. Unless she was sitting on it, he didn't have a clue where the letter she was talking about was. “What letter, my lady?”

Miranda frowned at her empty hands, then looked around much as he had just done. She gestured toward her writing desk across the room. A white rectangle rested halfway between him and the chair. He raised a brow at the haphazard pile of remaining correspondence littering the floor but chose not to say anything.

“Over there. Addressed to the Duke of Marshington.”

As he bent to retrieve the letter, he heard her groping her way to the bed. Was she dizzy? She apparently needed the assistance of the sturdy furniture to stand. He respectfully gave her a few moments.

While he waited he took in the rest of the writing desk. A small corner of blue paper peeked out from underneath a slim volume of poetry. He battled back a grin. Had she written two letters in response to his single line?

A soft, feminine groan had him jerking back around to face her. Miranda stood, one hand on the bedpost, one pressed to her forehead.

“I barely tapped you,” he grumbled under his breath. He'd lost more blood shaving himself in a hurry without a mirror, so it must be the emotional trauma causing her to weave her way across the floor. He'd seen enough injuries to know that even mild ones could knock a person senseless.

“What was that?” she mumbled.

“I was merely wondering if I might be of assistance, my lady.”
Ryland threw the letter onto the desk and crossed the room to steady her. A soft scent he couldn't quite place tickled his nose. It wasn't floral in nature, but it suited her well.

“Just help me get downstairs.”

He held her arm while she took a few slow, shaky steps on her own. At the rate she was moving, it would be time for dinner before she made it anywhere.

“If I may, my lady.” Ryland scooped her up in his arms, appreciating the feel of her clasping his shoulders in surprise and, perhaps, a bit of fear. She probably had not been carried since she was a little girl.

“Put me down!” she hissed.

“My lady.” Ryland knew his tone was belittling, but he couldn't help it. When he opened his mouth, it sounded as if he were talking to a child. “This is the fastest way to convey you to your desired location.”

“Put me in the family parlor, then. You can fetch Sally and have her bring the meat up to me.” Another shudder racked her body.

Ryland was much more aware of it this time, since she was in his arms. He began to sweat.

“Of course, my lady.”

After gently depositing her on the sofa in the family's private parlor, Ryland bowed himself out the door. He sent a footman to find Sally before returning to Miranda's room to retrieve the letter.

Feeling a little guilty about throwing her morning into chaos, he gathered up the dropped letters beside the desk. He traced a finger over the vine running through the carpet's pattern. It was vaguely reminiscent of a splendid carpet in his own home in London. At least, the carpet had been in the library the last time he had been home. It was possible his money-hungry cousin had sold it, but he doubted it. He paid his steward and
estate manager obscene amounts of money to keep his greedy relatives in check.

He placed the stack of letters on the desk, then picked up the white letter she'd asked him to mail. The corner of blue peeking out from under the book of poetry caught his eye once more. With a grin, he pulled it out and looked over both letters. She thought to give the Duke of Marshington a brush-off, did she? The formal tone of her intended letter didn't suit his purposes at all.

The blue paper found its way into his pocket and the white one replaced it under the slim book. This was sure to muddle Miranda's mind a bit, but the slight knock to the head would have her wondering if she were remembering things clearly.

He was halfway back to the door when it occurred to him that he was in Miranda's room.

Alone.

He'd felt no discomfort going through Georgina's things and only a bit uncomfortable searching Griffith's room, but the idea of invading Miranda's private chambers felt wrong. Wrong enough that he almost continued walking from the room. It wouldn't be the first time an agent's personal feelings had gotten in the way of his job—which was why Ryland jerked open her closet door and searched every pocket, bag, and hemline.

His search wasn't as thorough as it might have been but it was enough to satisfy his professional guilt. Dropping to his knees he did a quick look under the bed, surprised to find a large, shallow trunk.

All of the luggage trunks were kept in another area of the house. Why was this one here?

It was incredibly heavy as he pulled it out. And it was locked.

Heart pounding, Ryland grabbed a couple of hair pins from the dressing table and went to work on the lock. The last thing he expected when he popped the lid was paper.

Letters to be precise. Hundreds of them. All addressed to the Duke of Marshington.

As much as he wanted to, he didn't read them. What he was doing with the recently written letters was bad enough. He didn't need to compound the problem.

There was one bit of curiosity he had to satisfy though. Digging in the back of the trunk he found the oldest letters, written on plain white paper. He flipped one open to look at the date.

1800. The woman had been writing to him for twelve years.

How was he ever going to live up to the ideal man she'd created in her mind?

Miranda waited until the last possible moment to go down for dinner. She successfully avoided meeting with Griffith and Georgina in the drawing room beforehand, but there was no way to avoid the actual meal unless she begged off as ill, which would create a host of other problems.

Georgina's nose wrinkled as Miranda took her seat. Miranda feared it wasn't a reaction to the unpleasant aroma wafting up from the onion soup. She'd avoided looking in a mirror, not wanting to know if her encounter had left a mark.

“What happened to you?”

Miranda sighed. Her sister's question brought Griffith's scrutiny. “What did happen to you? There's a bruise across the bridge of your nose.”

She couldn't tell him his new valet had done it. He'd probably drag Mr. Herbert back from retirement. “A bit of a clumsy moment is all. I didn't even bump it that hard. It must have hit exactly right.”

Georgina snickered into her serviette as Griffith's eyes narrowed. “What hit you exactly right?”

He sounded calm, but he looked suspicious. She'd never been very good at telling lies.

“The, um . . .” She spied a painting on the wall across the room. A woman reclined on a chaise with a book in her hand. “Book!”

His eyebrows shot up. Georgina's snickers turned into a laughing cough.

“A book?” he asked.

“Yes!” Miranda shifted in her seat, feeling confident in her inspired story. “I was reading in bed and I fell asleep and the book fell right onto my nose.”

Griffith ate some soup. “What book was it?”

He wanted to know what book it was? Miranda shoved a spoonful of soup into her mouth, wishing it were something that required a large amount of chewing. A bite of soup only delayed the conversation for a moment. “It was . . .” Another frantic visual search of the room brought nothing to mind. “Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Yes.”

They all lapsed into silence as the soup was removed and the next course placed on the table. Miranda felt ill simply looking at it. She'd never view meat the same way again.

Georgina grinned. “I've always loved his work. Which one were you reading?”

There should be a law against bratty younger sisters. Georgina couldn't name three Shakespeare plays if her life depended on it. “
Twelfth Night
.”

Where had that come from? Oh yes, that was what Marlow had been reading in the library the other night. Fitting choice, then.

Griffith stared at her. “
Twelfth Night
?”

“Er, yes. But I'm not very far into it, so I can't make much discussion about it.”

Miranda began to worry about her older brother. He looked deep in thought, as if he were trying to remember something that was just out of his mental reach.

With a shake of his head he gave her a tight smile. “We should talk about something else, then.”

Miranda stuffed a bite of meat into her mouth. This was going to be a very long dinner.

Griffith's bed was exceptionally comfortable. Ryland was going to have to look into getting himself a mattress like this one when he got home. Of course, it could have been the years of sleeping in hovels and low-class rooms that made the high-quality mattress seem that much more comfortable.