A Noble Masquerade (8 page)

The large four-poster walnut bed, however, he could do without. It had been in the family for generations, and Griffith frequently described it as horribly ugly, but the last six dukes had slept in it, and he was a sucker for a sentimental tradition.

Ryland shrugged and settled farther back into the pillows. What was he going to do with Miranda's letter? He had to answer it, of course. It was only a matter of time before she realized the wrong one was still on her writing table, and no one would receive a letter such as the one in his hand and not respond somehow—it was simply too absurd! He'd established a week-long response time, so he had a few days to figure it out.

He glanced at the clock. Probably an hour before Griffith required anything of him.

What a ridiculous assignment. His friendship with Griffith made maintaining his disguise extremely difficult. He'd always been able to immerse himself in the role before, forgetting his true past for long stretches of time. That was an impossibility on this assignment. Sometimes it felt as if he and Griffith were
back at Eton, before the world took them in such different directions.

It also didn't help that the mission wasn't going very smoothly. He'd searched every room of the house, and his suspect list was considerably narrowed. Within a week the Office should be able to send him anything they knew about the people on his list. There was something bothering him, though. Something missing, but he didn't know what it was.

He didn't like not knowing.

He had determined that at least one upper servant was involved. Someone had thrown a letter into the fire in the drawing room the upper servants shared. One corner hadn't burned. And while Ryland wanted to know what the rest of the letter had said, there was enough there to know someone had been receiving instructions that weren't friendly to the Crown.

Finding that letter had taken more diligence than he would have thought. The scullery maid came through twice a day to sweep out the burnt ashes. Who knew what other clues he'd missed because of her dedication?

Besides the house servants, he had several grounds workers he wanted to look into more. Everyone in the stable was suspect. What better place for moving messages than one with ready access to some of the best horses in the country? He'd seen how often they took the horses out to exercise them. It would be a simple matter to rendezvous with another spy.

The stable staff's quarters were more difficult to gain access to, their proximity to the stable meaning constant activity in and around the rooms. Like it or not, he was going to have to get Griffith involved, have him do something that required all the grooms to leave the stable at the same time.

Until then there was little to do but keep an eye out for more mistakes and wait for the Office's report on whether or not any of the people on his list were more than they seemed.

Patience, the quality most needed in work like this, was running thin for him. He didn't want to wait for opportune moments or for his culprit to make a mistake.

He reached into his pocket to look at the singed scrap of condemning instructions, but his fingers wrapped around the neatly folded square instead. Pulling out the blue paper, he smiled.

Focusing any thought on his friend's younger sister was ill-advised, but he couldn't seem to stop it. The idea that she would choose him as the target of her journal amused him to no end. What had Griffith put in those letters home from Eton? Somehow he doubted they had detailed Ryland's many scrapes and run-ins with the school authorities.

Set to become two of the most powerful personages in the land, the two of them had tested everything to see how far their titles could get them. Nothing horrendous, of course. Ryland could thank Griffith's faith and steady influence for that one.

The door opened and Ryland jerked to his feet. His eyes flew to the clock. Was dinner completed already?

Griffith stopped a few steps into the room, eyeing the mussed covers. “You're in my bed,” he muttered.

“It's more comfortable than mine,” Ryland returned.

“I would imagine so, since I am the duke and you are the servant in our little play.”

Ryland shrugged. He refolded Miranda's letter and slid it into his pocket.

Griffith's gaze concentrated on Ryland's pocket. “Didn't I see you reading
Twelfth Night
earlier this week?”

Ryland lifted an eyebrow as he moved behind Griffith to help him out of his coat. What had happened at dinner? “I was reading it. It's possible you saw me.”

Griffith spun around before Ryland could remove the jacket, his eyebrows lowered ominously. “What's in your pocket?”

“Some personal notes.” Well, that was true after a fashion. “I have many suspects to keep track of.” Mentally he cringed. He hadn't lied, not really, but he hated how easily he had deliberately misled his friend with his disconnected statements. Yet another sign that it was past time for him to get out of the information-gathering business.

“Miranda's very protective of that blue paper.” Griffith began shrugging out of his jacket, whatever suspicion he'd had apparently appeased.

Ryland moved to assist him once more, glad it took him out of visual range for a few moments. “It was convenient.”

“Don't let her see you using it. She guards that stuff like gold.”

Not surprising. Tinted paper was expensive but not worth as much as the words she wrote on it.

Ryland examined Griffith's white shirt. Streaks of sauce marred the fabric. “Bit clumsy tonight?”

“Must be.”

“How convenient that it only spilled in places your coat could cover.”

Griffith began examining a small thread on the edge of his trousers. “I've always been rather lucky.”

Laughter threatened as Ryland envisioned the scene. Had the duke removed his coat? Shifted it to the side? Ryland flipped the coat inside out, looking for matching streaks. Had he simply shoved the food inside? “You did this on purpose.”

Griffith grinned, free of any trace of the earlier tension. “I would hate for you to get bored.”

Ryland shook his head and set about his work. His nightly duties didn't take long. As he left the room, he looked at the dirty shirt with a grimace. A decent effort and a lot of time could probably get it clean. Instead of going down to the laundry to soak it, he retreated to his own room, one floor up from Griffith's. He shoved the garment under the mattress. He'd buy Griffith a new one when this was all over.

Two hours later, Ryland was still awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. While it was true that Griffith's bed was considerably better than the one Ryland had been assigned, he had no cause for complaint. In the past decade he had come to appreciate the opportunity to sleep on anything other than the ground. Many a night had been spent tucked into a copse of trees or snuggled into a rocky crevice.

Truth be told, the personal connection was the biggest drawback to this assignment.

He closed his eyes and began mentally composing his response to Miranda's letter.

Life was a very strange thing. As a servant he could knock on her door, be alone in a room, or even go with her on an outing,
but he couldn't talk to her as an equal. The unexpected boon of the letters gave him a way to do that.

It was probably mean of him to toy with her. It was definitely not the gentlemanly thing to do.

He grinned as sleep crowded the edges of his mind.

It may not be nice, but it was definitely fun.

Miranda flattened herself against the wall and slowly reached over to grasp the doorknob. She eased the door open and looked both ways down the corridor. Finding it empty, she left her room feeling utterly ridiculous. She couldn't seem to help it. Ever since Marlow had arrived, the portal to her room had been a much more eventful place than she was accustomed to.

After he conked her on the nose a week before, she took extra precaution exiting her room. Sometimes, like today, she eased the door open. Other times she hauled it open and scurried out of the way in case something lay in wait on the other side. It was enough to make a young lady feel very foolish. Then again, so was getting hit in the nose by a servant waiting to knock on your door.

Thankful that no one had noticed her irregular exit, she walked down the corridor, ready to accomplish her tasks for the day. Cook wanted to go over menus this morning. She also needed to find the gardener and have a word with him. The grounds had been looking quite shoddy of late. At least one of the undergardeners was doing a halfhearted job. Her only hope was that he was lazy and not a drunkard. Lazy was much easier to fix.

“Good morning, my lady.”

Miranda shrieked as she heard Marlow's voice behind her.
She whirled around. “Marlow.” She took a deep breath. “Good morning.”

“I'm glad I found you, my lady.”

“Oh?”

He held out a small stack of letters. “The post was late this morning. I have pulled His Grace's out.”

She stared at the stack of paper in his hand. It had been one week. Had the duke written back? What would he say? Her very future lay in the hands of a man she had never met, a man most of her acquaintances had never met.

“My lady?” Marlow pushed the letters toward her once more.

She should take the letters. They weren't going to bite her. She snatched the folded parchments from his hand. “Thank you.”

One eyebrow rose in silent inquiry, but all the valet did was bow and continue down the corridor.

Miranda watched him go. She couldn't remember having many encounters with Herbert, but Herbert had been a rather unassuming fellow. He did his job and kept quietly to himself.

Marlow was not at all like his predecessor. She couldn't fault the execution of his job; at least she had heard no complaints from Griffith. The man seemed to be everywhere, though. Maybe she just noticed him more. She had to admit that her eyes were drawn to him whenever he was in the room. Something about him didn't fit. Something seemed off.

With a shrug at her groundless notions, she flipped through the post. There it was. In the same bold black writing as before, with a plain seal on the back. Her hands shook as she made her way back to her room. She sank onto the chair of her writing desk with slow, precise motions. With great care, she set the remaining letters on the desk. Sally didn't need another scattering of letters to wonder about.

Two deep breaths fortified her enough to break the seal and open the paper. Still unwilling to read it, she smoothed it on
the desk surface, flattening out the creases and blocking the writing with her hands.

No sense putting it off. The words weren't going to change.

Dear Lady Miranda,

I confess that I am flattered by your letter, if a bit confused. As you are aware, I have removed myself from society for the last several years. Normally I do not answer correspondence in a timely manner so as to augment my secrecy. I trust you to keep my whereabouts as our own little secret, given you have such a high regard for me. A trunk full of letters you say? I would be intrigued to read them.

I do apologize for the fact that our unorthodox introduction has flustered you so. I don't believe you meant to send me that last letter, seeing as you ended it with the intention to write me another one. A real one.

You fascinate me, my lady. I find myself anxiously searching the post for a little blue piece of paper. I have not looked forward to something this much in a long time. Please do not let your embarrassment cause you to cease our correspondence. I cannot see you blush through the paper.

And while you can call me Marsh, I fear your brother is the only one who still does. How are you amusing yourself in the recent turn of weather? Rain rarely curtails my own activities, but the drenching we have endured lately has been inhibiting.

Regards,
Marsh

“No,” Miranda whispered. “No, no, no, no, no!” She could not have sent him another journal letter! Tightness gripped her
chest and made it difficult to breathe. Her hands fluttered in front of her face, as if they could magically change the past or rewrite the words on the paper in front of her.

Calm down. I must calm down.
As the man said, he couldn't see her blush through paper, which meant that he couldn't see her have conniptions either.

Deep breaths helped her pounding heart ease enough to allow her to think. She had written both letters here, in her room. Then there had been the horrific experience of having her nose busted by Marlow.

Marlow.
Marlow had mailed the letter. He had mailed a
blue
letter. Hadn't Sally told him never to mail the blue letters?

She ran for the door, but a loud crash brought her to a stop. The desk chair lay behind her on the floor. She should probably right it. With a wave of her hand, she ignored the overturned furniture and left the room. With a bit more speed than was prudent, she charged down the stairs.

Where were all the servants? Irrational desperation was beginning to well up in her stomach. Finding Marlow would not unsend the erroneous letter, but it would settle her nerves to figure out what had happened. A footman was entering the great hall as she finished descending. “Marlow!”

“Er, no, my lady. My name is Charles. May I assist—”

“No, no, have you seen Mr. Marlow?”

“Yes, my lady. He was going into His Grace's study.”

“Thank you, Charles.” She forced herself to walk sedately around the footman. It wouldn't do for the servants to start thinking she had lost her senses.

Again.

It might get back to her mother.

Griffith's study sat next to the library, a short walk from the main hall. How should she start the conversation with Marlow?
She turned the knob and pushed open the door without much thought.

Ryland jerked his head up to find Miranda standing at the door, her mouth pinched at the corners and a determined set to her chin. He was fortunate enough to be sitting to the side of the door, out of her immediate line of sight. Her attention was arrested by Griffith, standing by his desk, book in hand, mouth slightly agape in surprise that his sister would barge in without knocking.

Easing to a standing position so that he wouldn't draw attention to himself, Ryland prayed that Griffith would be able to cover his being in the study. While it wasn't the ensured privacy of the dressing room, they had thought the study safe enough to have a hushed conversation about what Ryland needed Griffith to do.

They hadn't counted on Griffith's sister barging in.

Griffith's eyebrows lowered. “Is something wrong, Miranda? Is Georgina all right?”

She shook her head and placed her hand on her forehead. Her eyes closed on a sigh. “No, no, everything is fine. I am so sorry to have barged in like that, Griffith. I was, um, looking for someone.”

“I'm afraid it's only myself and Marsh-low.”

Ryland hoped Miranda didn't notice Griffith stumble over his assumed name.

“Actually, Marlow is the one I need to talk to.”

“You need to talk to my valet?” Griffith speared Ryland with a direct look. “Has he been causing problems?”

Ryland kept his face void of expression. Was she going to mention the letters?

“Oh no. He's been ever so helpful with a special, er, project of mine. I just need to know how a certain phase went.”

Griffith's eyes narrowed. Ryland tried to subtly shake his head, though what message he was trying to convey was unclear, even to him. He only knew he did not need Miranda getting suspicious about his relationship with his “employer.”

“May I borrow him for a moment?” Miranda continued.

“Of course. We've finished our business anyway.” Griffith turned back to his desk, appearing to dismiss the servant without a second thought.

Ryland strode out the door before Griffith could throw any more questionable glances in his direction. There was sure to be an inquisition in the dressing room later that evening.

“How may I be of service, my lady?”

Miranda looked up and down the corridor before grabbing his hand and pulling him into the nearby library. Her hand was small and delicate in his own, the skin cool and soft. Memories of their late-night chat niggled at the side of his attention. He tried not to remember that though it had clearly been awkward, she had tried to relate to him as a servant.