The Emerald Swan, page 28
Imogen's color rose. Kip frequently made her feel confused, as if he was poking fun at her, and yet she could never quite see the joke. But there was danger here, very obvious danger.
"Such bounce she has," Mary commented with less than approval. "Have you noticed, Sir Christopher, how Lady Maude bounces around the floor?"
"Bounce is not the word I would have used, madam," Kip said. "There's a deal more grace in the lady's movements than that implies."
Mary looked a little sour. "I wonder that you don't suggest she cultivate a little more modesty, Imogen. It's hardly becoming in a debutante to be so forward."
"Perhaps she's anticipating her suitor's arrival," Kip suggested. "It is tomorrow that you expect the duke, madam?"
"Yes, by sunset, I believe," Imogen returned from behind her fan.
"I would hate to think that Lord Harcourt's ward could be so immodest as to display herself in such fashion because she's expecting to make a grand match," Mary said. "Indeed, I can't believe that Gareth would permit such a thing."
"I don't believe there's anything immodest in Maude's behavior." Miles spoke up. "She's young, high-spirited, enjoying her first forays into society. I've heard no adverse comments from anyone about her behavior, and, indeed, I understand the queen finds her quite refreshing."
"Bravo!" Kip applauded softly, but his eyes were penetrating. "And I meant no criticism, Dufort, none whatsoever. I was merely struck by how the Lady Maude whom I used to know could become quite so… so… delightfully outgoing," he finished. His bland smile circled the group, then with a bow, he walked away.
"I wonder where Harcourt is," Lady Mary said, a touch plaintively. "I barely see him these days. He's forever talking politics." She laughed, but it was a brittle sound.
"Be thankful, my dear Mary, that your future husband has his interest well in hand," Imogen said. "It's a fortunate wife whose husband looks to his own advancement." Here she cast a baleful look at her own husband.
Miles was too accustomed to such attacks to attempt a defense. With relief he addressed a newcomer to the circle, a battleship in saffron velvet, with a cartwheel ruff that held her head rigid. "Lady Avermouth. How charmingly you look," he said warmly." That particular shade of yellow suits you so well."
The lady bridled with pleasure. Such favorable comment from an acknowledged arbiter of fashion was always welcome.
Imogen smiled with faint skepticism. As far as she could see, the color merely increased the lady's jaundiced pallor. But Miles was an accomplished hypocrite when it suited him and she knew better than to denigrate that particular social skill. Lady Avermouth made a bad enemy.
Miles, duty done, excused himself with a bow and walked away, his skinny shanks covering the distance between his wife and the haven of the card room with remarkable speed.
"Your young cousin is causing quite a stir," the countess observed, looking back to the dance floor. "She has a grace in the dance."
"She has had all the best teachers," Imogen said.
"But even the best teachers cannot instill grace and rhythm in those who don't have it."
"The girl is accomplished enough," Imogen said neutrally.
"I understand the duke of Roissy arrives on the morrow to press his suit?" The countess's eyes gleamed as she prepared to glean as much tittle-tattle as she could.
"He is to visit us for a week or so," Imogen replied. "To complete negotiations for the betrothal contract."
"Such a connection, my dear madam. You are to be congratulated." The countess raised her eyebrows, no mean feat since they had been plucked to a fare-thee-well. "If, of course, it comes off." She tittered behind her fan.
"I can see no reason why it shouldn't," Imogen said haughtily. With a stiff curtsy, she excused herself and moved away with an imperative glance at Mary, who followed her at once.
"Odious woman!"
"Envy, my dear Imogen," Mary said, laying her hand supportively on the pale cream sleeve of the gown that Lady Dufort wore beneath her black silk ropa. Then her voice took on a slight edge. "Entertaining the duke under your roof for two weeks will be an arduous task. I trust Maude realizes how fortunate she is to have guardians who take such pains for her future."
She glanced toward the dance floor again. Maude was smiling up at her partner, but suddenly her head swiveled. Mary followed her gaze to where Lord Harcourt, with a group of men, was emerging from a small chamber off the vaulted hall of Whitehall Palace. Maude's expression was for a moment rapt, her attention entirely devoted to the knot of men, then she turned back to her partner with a distracted smile.
Mary frowned, cast a quick sideways glance at Imogen, and saw that the lady too was watching Miranda, and her expression was far from sanguine. "Has your cousin always been so devoted to Lord Harcourt, Imogen?"
Imogen's mouth pursed. "Maude shows dutiful respect to her guardian."
"Indeed?" Skepticism infused the single word.
Imogen's mouth grew smaller yet. "Gareth is not one to insist on formality with his family," she said. "As you will no doubt discover."
"No doubt." Mary smiled thinly.
As the galliard came to its stately end, Miranda curtsied to her partner. "I beg you to escort me to my guardian, sir." She smiled warmly at the young man who had partnered her. "There is something I most particularly wish to say to him."
The gentleman looked reluctant to yield up his partner, but he gave her his arm and they moved across the floor where couples were gathering for the next dance.
Gareth felt Miranda's approach before he saw her. The fine hairs on his nape lifted, the skin of his back rippled as he sensed her coming up behind him. Casually he turned. She was enchanting in a gown of apricot silk, with a high ruff embroidered with sapphires that set off her eyes and framed her face, accentuating the high cheekbones, the small well-shaped chin, the wide mouth with its long, sensuous lower lip. Her throat, white and slender as a swan's, rose from the lace partlet at the neck of the gown.
Once again, he experienced a paradoxical sense of dismay, of loss almost. The gypsy acrobat had vanished beneath the poised elegance of the courtier as thoroughly as if she'd never existed. He should be delighted at how successfully she was playing her part, should be delighted at the way eyes followed her approvingly, should be delighted at her escort's besotted simper as he displayed his prize on his arm, but instead the attention she was drawing annoyed him. What did this simpering, affected crowd of courtiers know of the true
Miranda? And he had a most unreasonable urge to wipe the silly grin off her partner's face.
"Milord." Miranda curtsied as she reached him. They hadn't spoken privately since returning from the city that morning, and her eyes held a hint of challenge as they met his. She had no more time for his talk of dreams now than she had had then.
"My ward." He took her hand and bowed over it, his own gaze neutral and calm. The emerald swan on the serpent bracelet swayed gently as he lifted her hand. "You are acquainted with His Grace of Suffolk."
"Yes, indeed, sir." Miranda turned to the duke with another curtsy. "But perhaps His Grace does not remember me."
The duke's thin mouth twitched appreciatively. "I would deserve the pillory, madam, if such were the case."
"Brother… my lord Suffolk." Imogen's thin tones shattered the small smiling circle. She curtsied with rigid back. "I have it in mind to return home. My cousin has need of her rest."
"Oh, but indeed, madam, I am not in the least fatigued," Miranda protested.
Imogen's chilly smile ignored her and remained fixed upon her brother. "Do you accompany us?"
"No, I don't believe so," Gareth said. He caught Miranda's look of chagrined disappointment and deliberately turned away from it, before he could yield.
"Well, I'm afraid there are preparations to be made for our visitor's reception," Imogen continued with a slight sigh, managing to imply a martyr's sense of duty. "So, I must bid you good night, my lord Suffolk. Come, cousin." She flicked her fan at Miranda, rather in the manner of one calling a dog to heel, and moved away, summoning a servant with a lift of her finger.
Miranda hesitated for only a moment, then she curtsied demurely and followed her ladyship.
"Inform Lord Dufort in the card room that his wife bids him attend her," Lady Imogen was saying as Miranda reached her side.
The servant scurried off and Imogen stood tapping her foot, flicking her fan. They were standing in the long corridor outside the dancing chamber, and Miranda with desultory interest examined the design on a tapestry wall hanging that closed off a small chamber.
A rumble of voices came from behind the screen and Imogen, her expression suddenly alert, stepped closer. Miranda cocked her head. She recognized Sir Brian Rossiter's booming bass, and his brother's lighter, more reasoned tones. It took her a minute to realize they were talking about her. Or at least about Lady Maude.
"You don't see anything untoward in Lady Maude, Brian?" Kip asked.
"Good God, no. What could be untoward about such a dainty little thing. So bright and lively-"
"Exactly," Kip interrupted. "Bright, lively, full of smiles, and a damnably quick wit. She's not the Lady Maude I last saw. And look how Gareth is in her company. Positively delights in it. Yet he's always said his cousin is a tedious nuisance with her megrims and ailments, her petulant obstinacy and whining complaints. Does that description fit this lass?"
"Well, no, I grant you it doesn't. But devil take it, Kip, if the lass is feeling well again, then maybe she's showing her true colors. Chronic sickness can weigh a body down, y'know."
"Aye" was the monosyllabic and unconvinced response.
Miranda looked quickly at Imogen. Her attention was riveted on the tapestry, and she almost had her ear pressed to it. Her expression was grim.
"Ah, my lady, are you-"
"Shhh." She waved imperatively at Miles as he approached. "Listen!"
He cast a puzzled, slightly comical look at Miranda and came to stand beside his wife. " They're talking of the girl," Imogen hissed.
"Mayhap the girl's excited about her wedding," Brian went on." Y'know how young ladies get with talk of nuptials. And Roissy is a brilliant connection. I expect that's what's livened 'er up."
"No, it's not that simple," Kip said, his voice low and thoughtful. "It's ridiculous, Brian, but I'd almost swear it was a different girl."
Imogen's breath whistled through her teeth and even Miles looked startled.
"Funny you should say that," Brian declared. "That Lady Mary Abernathy said almost the same thing to me. Something about what could possibly have wrought such a change in Gareth's ward. A changed character altogether, she said. But that's just a woman's fancy. She's probably a bit watchful with Gareth being so fond of the wench and all. Probably a touch of the green eye, wouldn't you say?"
"I told you so," Imogen whispered, moving back from the tapestry. "Didn't I tell you so, husband?"
Miles was unsure what his wife had told him but he judged it expedient to murmur an affirmative.
"I knew this would never work. The whole court is talking about the wench… and now here's her suitor due tomorrow." She seemed to have forgotten all about Miranda. "What's to be done, I say? What's to be done?" She set off down the corridor muttering vigorously to Miles, who skipped a little to keep up with her.
Miranda shrugged and followed them from the palace out into the great courtyard where the heavy iron-wheeled coach awaited them.
Sir Christopher was certainly uncomfortably sharp-eyed and it was awkward that Lady Mary should be making such remarks, but Miranda couldn't see that any great harm was done. So long as she continued to play her part, people would become accustomed soon enough to the new Lady Maude d'Albard.
But it became very clear on the way home that Imogen had a different view.
Miranda sat back in a corner and listened at first idly to Imogen's monologue. But after a while, she began to pay closer attention. Lady Imogen's diatribe was going somewhere.
"Something has to be done," the lady muttered into a momentary silence. "Gareth has no idea what he's doing." She looked toward Miranda, shadowed in the corner." That imposter will never pass for Maude."
"But she has already done so," Miles ventured. "Rossiter's questions will cease soon enough… once the novelty wears off.”
"Now that's where you're wrong!" Imogen sat up in triumph, jabbing a finger at her husband. "If they're asking questions now, how do you think people are going to react when they actually see the real Maude? Even people who haven't been asking questions are going to notice the difference. And Rossiter and his like will start prodding and probing… you just see if they don't.
"And if the Frenchman sees her first, then sees Maude, he'll never be deceived. Just look at the girl. How could anyone ever truly mistake a vulgar vagabond for someone as gently bred as Maude?"
"Maude is certainly paler."
"Paler! Is that what you call her whey-faced complexion and her dieaway airs!"
"But I understood you to mean such attributes indicated gentle breeding, my dear madam."
Miranda, despite being the subject of such an unflattering discussion, choked back her laughter.
Imogen didn't seem to have heard, however. "Everything will be for naught!" she muttered, tapping her mouth with her gloved hands, glowering into the dimness. "The betrothal contract will be voided. I can't understand why Gareth doesn't realize this. Why does he persist in this pointless charade?"
Miles prudently kept his opinion to himself and Miranda knew that her own would hardly be welcomed. The carriage rattled through the gates of the Harcourt mansion, drawing up before the front door. Imogen didn't immediately move to alight, however. She sat still tapping her mouth with her fingers, then she announced, "I shall have to take matters into my own hands. Gareth is too soft and I'll not stand by and see him make the same mistakes he made with Charlotte. If he'd taken a stand there, then it wouldn't have been necessary…"
Her voice trailed off and then picked up again. "I always have to rescue him from the consequences of his blindness. And I don't suppose he'll be in the least grateful, but if this venture is to succeed, then it's up to me to do something before it's too late."
She alighted from the coach and sailed into the well-lit house. Miles looked apologetically at Miranda, then said, "I think I'll return to Whitehall, my dear. It's rather early to call it an evening." He leaned out and instructed the coachman to turn around as soon as Lady Maude had been seen into the house.
Miranda was very thoughtful as she entered the house and made her way upstairs to Maude's chamber.
Chapter Seventeen
Miranda entered Maude's chamber without a knock and was for a moment too occupied with Chip's ecstatic greeting to speak to Maude. But finally she had Chip perched on her shoulder, patting her head and whispering into her ear, and she could concentrate. "You're back early?"
