The Emerald Swan (39 page)

Maude looked doubtful. She didn’t think she’d agreed to anything and yet Miranda was talking as if it was all settled. “What will he talk about?” She was sobering rapidly.

“Oh, this and that. Nothing that you won’t be able to manage. Just be yourself and don’t say much. I was very quiet at breakfast, so he won’t expect you to be dancing a jig or anything.”

“But I’ve never been alone with a man.” Maude realized that somewhere along the line she had implicitly agreed to this mad substitution.

“You won’t be alone. There’ll be the watermen and a maidservant as chaperon.” Miranda took Maude’s hands. “You
know
you could do it, Maude. And you can satisfy your curiosity about the duke at the same time.”

Maude chewed her lip. The idea terrified her, but it also excited her. She looked around her chamber and suddenly it seemed confining instead of comfortingly familiar, boring instead of reassuring. She wouldn’t be exposing herself to any risks. She wouldn’t be compromising her position in any way. She was just doing Miranda a favor … and satisfying her curiosity. One might as well take a look at what one was rejecting.

“I don’t know how good I’ll be at deception,” she murmured.

“But it’s not a deception,” Miranda pointed out.
“I’m
the deception, you’re the real one.”

Maude stared down at her feet swinging clear of the floor as she still sat on the bed, then suddenly she looked up with an air of resolution. “All right, I’ll do it. I’ve never done anything truly daring in my life, and if
it will help you, then I’ll do it.” She jumped off the bed and went to the linen press. “What should I wear? What would be suitable for a morning upon the river? What do you think of cherry stripes?”

“Perfect,” Miranda said, trying to enter into Maude’s enthusiasm. But she felt as if a great leaden weight was in her chest, a weight of unhappiness, a whole ocean of unshed tears, and keeping that from Maude was one of the hardest acts she’d ever had to perform.

Maude, arrayed in the cherry-striped silk gown, her hair concealed beneath a jeweled coif, examined her wavery image in the beaten-steel looking glass. “Come here and stand beside me. Let’s see just how alike we are … Oh, it’s uncanny.” She put her hand to her mouth, staring at her twinned images. “No one could ever tell us apart if we were wearing identical gowns.”

Miranda felt a strange shiver run up her spine as she stood beside Maude and stared with her into the mirror. It surely wasn’t natural. “You’re to meet the duke belowstairs at ten o’clock,” she said, moving away from the disturbing image. She unclasped the serpentine bracelet from her wrist and held it up to the light. “The duke will expect to see his gift on your wrist.”

She fastened the bracelet around Maude’s slender wrist. Maude held up her wrist to examine the bracelet more closely. “I don’t like it,” she said with a puzzled frown. “I don’t like wearing it.”

“Perhaps because it belonged to your mother,” Miranda said. “But I own I don’t like wearing it, either. It’s very beautiful … or perhaps that’s not quite the word for it. But it’s unique, I’m sure.” She reached to touch the emerald swan. “The charm
is
beautiful, though. But it doesn’t seem to make the bracelet any the less sinister, does it?”

“No,” Maude agreed. “It feels strangely familiar, but how could it be?”

Miranda frowned. “I thought that, too. How very odd.” Then she shook her head, dismissing what she had considered from her own point of view to be a fanciful if powerful reaction to the piece of jewelry.

“The duke’s courtship seems to be going very well, my lord. He tells me he’s to take Maude on the river this morning.”

Gareth looked up irritably at his betrothed’s sugary tones. She had penetrated his own private sanctum, something that even Imogen did sparingly. “This is an unexpected pleasure, madam.”

Mary had been about to step farther into Gareth’s privy chamber, but changed her mind and remained in the doorway. “Have I disturbed you, sir?” She gave a tinkly little laugh. “Forgive me. I was so anxious to have private speech with you. We’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves since you returned from France.”

Gareth forced himself to smile. He rose from behind the table to bow.

“Goodness, what a muddle,” Mary said, indicating the paper-strewn surface of the table. “You need a wife, my dear lord, to keep you tidy. When we are married, I shall ensure that all your documents are filed away where you can easily lay hands upon them. I should think this must drive you to distraction.”

“On the contrary,” Gareth said. “If you tidy them away, I assure you that that will drive me to distraction.”

Mary laughed again, but a little uncertainly this time. “I was saying that the duke’s courtship is going well. You must be feeling very pleased.” Now she stepped into the
room, lowering her voice confidingly. “I do trust that Maude will not do or say something indiscreet when she’s alone with His Grace.”

“Why would you think she might jeopardize her chances for such a splendid match?” Gareth inquired, taking up his pipe from the mantel.

Mary closed her eyes against the smoke and wafted it away with her fan. “Such a terrible habit, my lord.”

“I smoke only in the privacy of my own sanctum,” he said pointedly.

“I am disturbing your privacy,” Mary tittered uncomfortably. “But I feel there is so much we have to talk about. The wedding arrangements, for instance. You haven’t said when you wish the ceremony to be performed. I had hoped before May Day, maybe even in the new year. If we were married before Maude, then I could assist Imogen with the arrangements … help to prepare your cousin.”

Gareth rather doubted that Imogen would welcome Mary’s collégial assistance. He allowed Mary’s chatter to wash over him, but he heard little or none of it. His thoughts for some reason were circling endlessly around Henry’s river excursion with Miranda. But they weren’t circling to good effect. For some reason, he couldn’t settle on what was troubling him about the expedition. But something was.

“So, I shall ask Her Majesty for leave to celebrate our nuptials on Twelfth Night, then?”

Gareth came back to the room with a start. “What? I beg your pardon?”

“Twelfth Night?” Mary repeated. “We have agreed to celebrate the wedding next Twelfth Night.”

Four months away. A mere four months away.

Mary took an involuntary step back at the look in
Gareth’s eye. He seemed to be staring at her, and yet she was sure he couldn’t be seeing her. He had the air of one who’d come face to face with the devil.

“Let us wait until I’ve drawn up the betrothal contracts between the duke of Roissy and my ward,” Gareth said, his voice distant and discordant. “Once Her Majesty has given her leave, the arrangements will be set in stone. I must take care of Maude’s future first.”

“But surely our marriage needn’t wait upon Maude’s?” Mary’s tone was suddenly acidic. “The girl cannot expect her life to take precedence over her guardian’s.”

“My ward is my responsibility.” Gareth set down his pipe. “You would not have me renege on such a responsibility, madam. It would not bode well in a future husband.”

Mary was stymied. She managed a stiff smile and an even stiffer curtsy. “I’ll leave you to your privacy, my lord. Perhaps we can discuss this again when Maude’s betrothal contracts are signed.”

She left Lord Harcourt and went in search of Imogen, hoping that the earl’s sister would say something, offer some reassurance to combat Mary’s growing unease, this creeping sense of foreboding. The ground was suddenly very slippery beneath her feet and she didn’t know why. But she looked with ill-concealed venom at Lady Maude, who was crossing the hall on the arm of the duke of Roissy, on the way to the waiting barge at the water steps.

Maude had been feeling very sick as she’d descended the great staircase when the clock chimed ten. She knew that even to her own eyes, her resemblance to Miranda was complete, and yet her knees were still
knocking, her palms still damp. Only the length of her hair would betray the deception, but her coif was fastened securely enough to withstand a midwinter gale on the river. Nothing could go wrong. There was nothing that
could
go wrong.

Instinctively, she touched the bracelet at her wrist as if, despite its sinister qualities, it could give her courage to face the small knot of people in the hall. Her cousin and her husband, two of the French lords, and the duke, whom Maude immediately recognized from her brief peep the previous night. But she hadn’t been aware then of the sheer physical power of his presence. He seemed to be too big for the hall. He towered over the others, and yet she could see that he was not that much taller than his French lords. It just seemed as if he were. He appeared to be paying scant attention to the conversation but slapped his gloves into the palm of one hand with an air of impatience that made Maude’s heart jump painfully.

He glanced toward the stairs and smiled. “Ah, there you are,
ma chère.
I grow impatient for the sight of you.” He came with quick step to the bottom of the stairs and extended his hand to her.

Maude’s heart lurched again in panic. But she laid her little hand in the duke’s large, square one and smiled shyly. “My lord duke, forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.”

“No, not at all. I sadly lack patience, I’m afraid.” He smiled rather ruefully. “I trust you’ll not take it to heart if I seem unreasonably fretful at delay … but how well you’re looking now. I thought you a little peaked at breakfast, but you have recovered your looks.”

Maude couldn’t help a smile of pleasure at the compliment. It was couched in such terms as to deny any
hint of flattery; indeed, she rather thought this rough-hewn man would be incapable of flattery.

“The prospect of a morning on the river in Your Grace’s company would bring out the best in any young woman,” Imogen said with an obsequious smile.

The duke raised an eyebrow in such comical fashion that Maude was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. It was no wonder Miranda liked the man. She laid her hand on the duke’s arm and they proceeded through the garden to the river. It was only as they passed through the wicket gate that Maude realized they were unaccompanied. Her foot faltered and she looked behind her.

“Is something amiss?” the duke inquired, pausing as he was about to hand her onto the barge.

“I … I was wondering where our companions are, sir. My … my chaperon?”

“Ah. I thought we could dispense with chaperons and companions on this occasion. My time is too short to spend overlong on formalities. I have your guardian’s permission to be alone with you … although we are hardly alone.” He gestured with a laugh to the bargemen, who stood at their oars.

Maude’s heart was beating very fast. Miranda had assured her she would not be alone with the duke, and for all his jocular references to the boatmen, it was as clear as day that they would not be looking at their passengers. She hung back and the duke, with a laugh, caught her around the waist and lifted her bodily onto the barge.

“My lord duke!” she protested with a squeak. He’d said he was an impatient man. He clearly knew himself very well.

“Such a delicious little packet you are,” he murmured
with another of his rumbling laughs. “And I have to tell you that, while I’m sure you are virtuous as the Virgin Mary, you are not as demure and shy as you make out.”

Maude gripped the rail, unable to find her voice. The duke laid a hand over hers but when she jerked it free with a little gasp, he smiled and rested his hands on the rail beside hers as the boatmen pulled the barge into the middle of the river.

Maude had very rarely been on the river. Her life as a reclusive invalid had granted few opportunities for such outdoor activities and for a moment she was able to forget the duke and enjoy the sights as they glided past the mansions lining the riverbanks, and the city of London passed slowly before her eyes. The cupola of Saint Paul’s, the palace of Westminster, the great gray hulk of the Tower, the dreaded Tower steps, thick with green river slime, leading up to Traitors’ Gate. Maude knew that very few people who entered the Tower through that grim portcullis ever emerged.

The sun shone on the river although there was an almost autumnal chill to the breeze and she was glad of her cloak. The sounds of the river entranced her—the shouts and curses, the ribald exchanges from craft to craft, the flap of sails, the smack of oars hitting the water, the watery sucking as they emerged dripping. And the variety of craft. Barges flying the pennants of the rich and noble, or the queen’s standard as they went about Her Majesty’s business between the palaces of Westminster, Greenwich, and Hampton Court. Flat-bottomed fishing boats, the wherries ferrying people across the river and from steps to steps along the city, the rowboats laden to the gunnels with fish and meat going to the great markets.

Henry leaned beside her on the rail, his eyes resting on her profile. The wind was whipping pink into her cheeks and there was something about her rapt expression that he found peculiarly endearing. “You’re very quiet, Lady Maude,” he said after a while. “Something more than usual is interesting you?”

“It’s all so busy and so alive,” Maude confided. “I hadn’t realized how many people there are in the world and how much there is to do.”

Such a curiously naive observation puzzled him. “But you have been on the river countless times. It’s always thus in the daytime.”

“Yes … yes, I realize. But each time I see it as if for the first time,” Maude improvised, cursing her unruly tongue. She must be more careful.

That made Henry smile. She was quite enchanting. “How delightful you are,
ma chère
.” He laid his hand over hers, and this time, when she tried to withdraw it, he tightened his hold. “Let us sit in the bow and talk. We have much to talk about, I think.”

There seemed nothing for it but to accede. When they were seated, the duke kept hold of Maude’s hand and she began to think that it was rather pleasant to sit in this fashion with a companion whom she had to admit was as pleasant and congenial as anyone she had ever met. She let her head fall back against the cushions behind her and closed her eyes against the warmth of the sun, listening to the soft plash of the water against the bow, the rise and fall of the oars, the distant calls of the river traffic. Her hand continued to lie passively in the duke’s.