A Noble Masquerade (9 page)

She would never know how much he had learned about her in the space of that shared cup of tea. He was just beginning to acknowledge to himself how much he liked what he was learning.

“You mailed my letter.”

He knew, of course, which letter she was referring to. It was probably best if she thought he didn't. “My lady?”

“Last week. After you . . .” She trailed off and gestured toward her nose. “After the incident. You mailed a letter for me.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“It was blue.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Why would you mail the blue one?”

“I assumed since the last one I sent for you was blue that it was the proper letter.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I thought Sally told you not to mail the blue ones?”

“I do apologize, my lady, but I didn't see any other addressed to the Duke of Marshington.” Ryland paused for a moment and then decided to try to draw her out more. “Begging your pardon, but why are you writing letters you don't want to send?”

A blush began creeping up the sides of her neck. His cheeks burned with the effort of holding back his grin. How would she handle the question? He doubted she would confess her journaling tendencies to him.

A shadow crossed the floor as someone passed in front of the glass doors leading from the library to the garden. Miranda's gaze shot toward the door, relief pouring over her features.

“I have to go. That was the gardener.” She began moving toward the doors. “I have to speak to him. The west garden is in terrible shape. We may need to hire another undergardener. I think one must have taken leave.” She opened the door and paused. Her mouth opened, but she apparently decided against saying anything else, because she went racing after the gardener.

There was a missing undergardener? Did that mean anything? He could have quit. Maybe he did shoddy work. Of course, a gardener would have run of the grounds. Could retrieve and hide notes and packages. He'd been watching them as best he could, but with even more freedom than the grooms, they were hard to keep track of. And difficult to tell apart when viewed from the house.

Ryland resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair in frustration. More places to examine outside. It was going to be difficult.

He turned to find the butler standing inside the library door, one eyebrow raised in derision. How had he not noticed the man had entered the room? Berating himself for not listening
for footsteps in the corridor, Ryland gave the man a slight bow. “Mr. Lambert.”

“Mr. Marlow, what are you doing in here?”

Good question. For that matter, what was the butler doing in the library? “I was discussing something with Lady Miranda.”

Lambert gave a pointed look around the now empty room.

“She left out the doors there in search of the gardener.”

“Ah, I see. Well, there's much to be done belowstairs. We can't be dallying in the library.” The man turned on his heel and led the way from the room.

What had the butler been doing in the library? If one was considering freedom of movement, the butler had the most when it came to the house itself. Someone was searching Griffith's papers and correspondence for information, and it would have to be someone above being questioned by the other servants.

Ryland followed Lambert from the room. At last he had a suspect he could focus on.

Ryland's gut clenched as he flipped through the post and found a letter from Griffith's old school friend, Sir Gilbert Hughes. Since the real Sir Hughes was holed up in Wales drawing disastrous wildlife sketches, the Office had felt safe using his name in their coded communications with Ryland.

He hoped this post would contain the information he needed to seal his investigation. It had been six frustrating weeks since he'd come to Riverton, four since he'd narrowed his suspect list down to four. But last week he'd finally figured out what was bothering him about the whole setup. No one seemed to be in charge. Even the letter in the fireplace had indicated that someone was giving instructions from elsewhere.

While they certainly wanted to shut down the passage of information, it was important they destroyed the head of the snake as well. The idea of anyone getting away with treason made him ill.

As much as he'd resisted pulling Griffith into this mess, Ryland had finally admitted it was the easiest way, and his friend was more than willing. Griffith had been adamant that they do
whatever it took to close the information leak. He'd even gone into horse racing to aid Ryland's investigation.

It was a good thing no one dared question the eccentricities of a duke, because when Griffith declared he wanted to race all of his horses against each other to decide which would be a good one to enter in the races next season, no one challenged him. They'd simply emptied the stable of both horses and grooms and took them to a distant field to determine which steed was fastest.

And Ryland had searched every nook and cranny of the stable. A good thing, too, because he learned one of Griffith's grooms was the son of an aristocratic Russian Napoleon supporter and an English baron's daughter. But was the half-Russian blue blood shoveling horse manure to aid his father's cause or avoid his father's wrath?

Griffith had been increasingly clumsy with his correspondence for the past three weeks, leaving letters lying around here and there. Nothing of importance yet—mostly business inquiries Ryland had gotten from a good friend of his who made a living managing investments. Colin McCrae had sent regular details about a mining venture. The mine was doomed for failure but whoever was reading Griffith's letters didn't need to know that.

They'd mixed these letters in with meaningless personal correspondence from distant family members so there would be enough variety to keep from raising anyone's suspicions.

Ryland opened and quickly decoded the letter, years of practice restraining his grin. Finally everything was in place to catch themselves a traitor. It was time to place the bait and hope they caught a fish.

The Office had set up false information drops. Ryland would write four letters to be left in places where each of his four suspects would find one. The letters would ask Griffith to support a new tactic in the war against France. They would then
specify a time in which the particulars of this tactic would be given to a messenger.

Four different exchanges had been set up. If someone showed up to the false drops, they'd know who their man was and be able to trace the path and take the entire network down.

It almost made the long weeks of skulking around and pressing Griffith's shirts worth it.

For the next two weeks there would be little to do but wait. Ryland was surprised to find he didn't mind it. His weekly letters to Lady Miranda were quite the diversion.

Hot chocolate scalded Miranda's tongue. She held a serviette to her mouth, trying to keep from sputtering the drink across the table. Her eyes widened as she took in the elaborate mass of curls on her sister's head. “That's a bit fancy for a morning in the country.”

Georgina gave a delicate, one-shouldered shrug and crossed the room to admire her reflection. “A lady should always be ready to present herself. I'm trying a few styles to see what I want to do for my first outing. I'll only get one chance to make a name for myself, you know.”

Miranda blew across the top of her mug before taking a hesitant sip. “London is still months away.”

“True. But it never hurts to prepare. I want nothing left to chance. I do wish I knew who was going to be holding balls at the beginning of the Season. Leaving that strategy to the last moment is so risky.”

Lambert placed a small tray at Miranda's elbow. The top letter was addressed with now-familiar bold strokes. It was the eighth letter she'd received from the duke. She grazed a finger across the black ink, a small smile tugging at her lips despite
her attempt to hide it. How soon could she leave the room and still be polite?

“Is there a letter from Mother in there?”

Georgina reached for the tray.

Miranda snatched the stack of letters up and began flipping through them, not really reading any of them. “I, uh, I don't know. Let me see. Were you expecting a letter from Mother?”

She flipped through the stack once more, slower this time. At the bottom she found the loops of her mother's handwriting.

Georgina plucked it from Miranda's hands. “I wrote her a fortnight ago about a theme for my ball. I want mine selected early, before all the good ones are taken.”

“A theme?” Miranda slid the duke's letter into her sleeve before thumbing through the rest of her correspondence. Her ball hadn't had a theme. Unless simple elegance was a theme. “What are you considering?”

“I considered Greek or mythological, but Lady Matilda did that last year.”

“Lady Matilda was immensely popular. She married the eldest son of the Earl of Mountieth. There are worse people to emulate.”

Georgina frowned. “Emulate? Why should I emulate anyone? I intend to be an original. That only happens with planning.”

“Amelia didn't plan it.” Miranda hid her smirk with a bite of toast. Georgina wouldn't like being reminded of Miranda's friend who had stumbled into the social scene last year and walked away as the new Marchioness of Raebourne. The whole family knew that Georgina had been hoping to marry the marquis herself. And that Georgina had done everything possible to keep him from marrying Amelia.

Georgina glared but said nothing.

A bit of guilt wormed into Miranda's consciousness. This was her sister, after all. She was supposed to love her, not force her to wallow in past mistakes. “Themes?”

“French.”

Miranda choked again. It was becoming dangerous to eat around her little sister. “French? But we are at war with France!”

A wide smile stretched across her face. “I know. So no one else will be doing it.”

“Because it is a bad idea.”

“No it's not. The
ton
loves all things French. The food, the clothes. I'll make it old France. Before all of this war nonsense.”

Miranda set her fork down. “Please, please rethink this.”

“It's an original idea, Miranda.” She waved the note from Mother in the air. “Mother is sure to love it.”

Mother was not sure to love it, Miranda was certain. Georgina was going to be disappointed in the contents of that letter. And Georgina disappointed was more difficult than Georgina excited.

“I think I'll go for a ride,” Miranda announced as Georgina sipped her own chocolate, the letter sitting unopened at her elbow. Was she that certain of her mother's agreement? Miranda would have been bursting with curiosity if she had asked for something so ridiculous.

Miranda walked out the door, casting a glance over her shoulder as she went. Maybe Georgina knew her theme was not going to work and wanted to read the news in private.

The wind bit through her riding jacket as she crossed the lawn to the stables an hour later. She circled around to the side paddock, expecting to see the horses saddled and ready.

She was not expecting to see three.

Griffith's large stallion was standing beside her mare, looking bored. Next to him was one of the spirited mounts Griffith kept for company. Did they have visitors? Had Trent come up
from Town? She was always glad to have the company of her brothers, but she had been hoping to find a quiet place to read the letter in her pocket.

“Miranda, what are you doing here?”

Miranda whirled to see Griffith and Marlow rounding the corner of the stable. Was Marlow going riding? Herbert had never gone riding with Griffith, but maybe that was only because he was so old. Or maybe he had gone riding and Miranda had never noticed.

“I sent word down an hour ago that I wanted to go for a ride.” She gestured to the trio of horses. “I thought you must have heard about it and decided to join me.”

He darted a glance at Marlow. “Er, no, but I also sent word down an hour ago. They must have assumed we were going together.”

“Oh.” Her heart sank a bit. Why was she disappointed? Hadn't she just been lamenting the company of family?

“No matter. Our plans are easily altered. Please, join us.” Griffith tugged on his riding gloves.

In no time they were mounted and riding their horses out of the stable yard. Miranda inspected Marlow's seat with quick glances. The man was a very competent horseman. Where had a servant learned to ride so well?

He hung back a bit, allowing Griffith and Miranda to ease their horses ahead of his. It was, of course, the proper thing for a servant to do, but it felt somehow wrong to Miranda. As if he should be riding alongside like their neighbor Anthony, Marquis of Raebourne, used to do before his recent marriage.

“When did you start riding with your valet?” Miranda pitched her voice low and leaned toward Griffith as they crossed through a small patch of trees.

“You and Sally go for walks.”

Her mouth fell open, the argument of that being completely
different resting on the tip of her tongue. But was it? She did take her maid on walks. Sometimes the choice was between Sally's company and Georgina's. Miranda was sad to say that the maid often won.

She was a terrible older sister.

They rode on in silence over a small rise.

“Your Grace!”

They pulled to a stop. Griffith's steward was climbing the other side of the hill, from the direction of a small cluster of cottages.

“Pardon me a moment.” Griffith turned his horse and trotted over to meet the steward.

Leaving Miranda alone with his valet.