The Emerald Swan (12 page)

“I don’t like it,” Miranda persisted, a note almost of desperation in her voice as she tried to unfasten the intricate clasp with her free hand.

“How strange,” Gareth mused, unfastening it for her, holding it curled in the palm of his hand. “It’s unique and very beautiful. You will have to wear it to play your part.”
What if he told her the truth? Told her that it would not be a part?
For a moment he toyed with the idea. Would it make it easier for her or harder?

“I expect I’m just being fanciful,” Miranda said. “Perhaps it’s because I’m a little anxious about things.”

It would come as too much of a shock, he decided. When she’d settled into this new life, then the truth would be easier for her to accept. The last thing he
wanted was to frighten her off. And on the surface the story was so incredible, it would be more natural for her to disbelieve it and suspect some evil design, than embrace the truth.

“There’s no cause to be anxious,” he said bracingly. “Nothing will be asked of you that will not come easily. In a day or two, you’ll be astonished that you could have worried.”

Miranda did her best to believe him.

Chapter Seven

“W
E
’
LL SEE
how she likes a diet of black bread, gruel, and water!” Lady Imogen strode the length of the gallery, her gown of purple damask swaying over its massive farthingale. She smacked her closed fan into the palm of her hand in emphasis. Her ordinarily thin mouth had almost disappeared and her eyes beneath the well-plucked eyebrows were hard as small brown pebbles.

“Forgive me, my dear, but I believe Maude relishes the role of martyr,” Lord Dufort ventured from the safety of the doorway.

“Nonsense!” was all he got for his pains as his lady wife swirled and came toward him, snapping her fan. “The girl will soon tire of being confined to her chamber without fire and without all the little delicacies she is used to commanding.”

Miles was not convinced. Lady Maude seemed to thrive upon opposition; indeed, it seemed to him that she was looking more robust on her guardian’s punishment regime than ever before. But maybe it was just the determined gleam in her blue eyes that enlivened the wan pallor of her countenance.

“I will have her submission before Gareth returns,” Imogen declared. “But where in God’s name is he?” She paused at one of the long, arched windows that looked down onto the courtyard formed by the two wings of the mansion and a high fence of sharp metal
railings. The great iron gates set into the fence stood open to the street and its ceaseless traffic of horsemen, carts, iron-wheeled coaches, rattling over the hard-packed mud. A barge horn sounded from the river behind the house, mingling with the shrill cries of the ferrymen.

But Imogen saw nothing of the scene below. Her heart was filled with dread. Could something have happened to Gareth? His boat gone down on the Channel crossing? An attack by footpads? Or even soldiers? France was a country at war, and the highways were wild and lawless.

If disaster had befallen Gareth would it be her fault? She had sent him there. Gareth hadn’t wanted to go, but she had pushed and prodded until he’d given in. But she’d forced the issue to give him a purpose, an aim in life. To try to drive out the cynical lethargy that had dogged him for so long. She was so desperate to see once again the old sharpness in his eyes, the vibrancy in his bearing, the crispness to his manner—all the characteristics that his marriage had destroyed.

Not once in the years before Charlotte had Imogen doubted that her brother would attain the heights of power and influence due a man of his ambition, character, wealth, and lineage. She had nurtured him, thought of nothing but Gareth, his happiness, the dazzling future ahead of him. He had been deeply enmeshed in the political life of the queen’s court and intricately involved in the affairs of the Harcourt family in France suffering under the religious persecution of the Huguenots. And his sister had watched his advancement with pride, a pride that was utterly personal. Everything she had done since their mother’s death had been for Gareth, all her thoughts and plans
were directed toward her younger brother’s interests. She knew his potential, knew what he was owed, and with every last fiber of her being, she had striven for his benefit. And she had watched her efforts come to fruition.

Until the slow poison of Charlotte’s madness had seeped into him.

He had been so desperately in love, so deeply in thrall to his beautiful, deadly wife, and his sister had watched helplessly as he’d withdrawn inch by inch from the world he was beginning to dominate. Nothing she could say or do had had any effect. All her influence was as naught. She had understood his shame, but she hadn’t understood why he would not disown the woman who shamed him. No one would have blamed him if he’d locked her away somewhere. Divorced her, even. Instead, he’d stood by as she’d destroyed him. And behind her stony countenance, Imogen had wept tears of rage and grief, her frustration a constant open wound as she watched the collapse of the man she believed she had created and the ambition that would serve them all.

Not even after Charlotte’s death had he recovered his interest in anything but the idle games of the courtier. In fact, if anything he had become even more withdrawn. And Imogen’s torment was increased a hundredfold. She had believed, she had had to believe, that once the irritation had been removed, Gareth’s wounds would heal. She had done the only thing that would right the wrong done her brother. But in vain.

Miles regarded his wife’s averted back, reading her thoughts with the long familiarity of their dreary marriage. He’d early on accepted Gareth’s place as the single recipient of Imogen’s affections and pride, and he
knew exactly how anguished she was at her brother’s prolonged absence. Unfortunately, her anguish tended to make life even harder for those around her.

He stretched out one foot and noticed with approval how the wedged heel of his cork-soled shoes gave a pleasing curve to his skinny calves, resplendent in black-and-yellow cross-gartered hose. He glanced up and met his wife’s scornful gaze.

“I’m surprised you don’t take up the new fashion in heels, dear madam,” he said tentatively. “A little extra height adds consequence.”

Lady Imogen’s frown became less derisive, more attentive. If there was one area in which she trusted her husband’s instincts and knowledge it was in the matter of fashion. “You think so, indeed?”

“Aye,” he said decidedly, thankful to have diverted her thoughts, even for a moment. “I have heard it said that Her Majesty has ordered three pair … one in leather, one in rose damask, and one in blue satin.”

Lady Imogen scratched the side of her neck reflectively, her long fingernail rasping against the yellowing parchmentlike skin. “Then I shall order a pair to go with my new black satin ropa. Crimson leather, I think.”

“A perfect choice, madam.” Miles bowed. “Are we expecting guests to supper?”

“You know perfectly well your sister and her boorish husband are coming. The man will drink himself insensible as always and your silly widgeon of a sister will witter and whine so that no sensible conversation can be held.”

The moment of accord was clearly over. “You could seat my sister with the chaplain,” Miles suggested.

“Of course. Whom else would I inflict her upon?”
Imogen returned to her morose observation of the court below.

“Ah, my dear Imogen, how glad I am to find you at home. And Lord Dufort, I give you good day, sir.” Lady Mary Abernathy swept into the long gallery, offering a curtsy to Lord Dufort, and her cool cheek to Lady Imogen. “I can stay but a minute. The queen has returned to Whitehall Palace for the night, and while she’s with Lord Cecil, I have a little liberty. I came straightaway to discover if there is news of Lord Harcourt as yet?”

She looked anxiously at Imogen. “I do begin to fear for him, so long has he been away.”

Imogen shook her head. “No news as yet.” She had chosen Lady Mary Abernathy as wife for Gareth not only because she was eminently suitable in birth and appearance to be wife to a man of power and influence, but because Imogen believed she could control the lady herself and ensure that she didn’t usurp his sister’s influence over Gareth. Gratitude was a powerful motivator.

She patted Mary’s hand, saying in bracing tones, “It will do no good to fret, my dear. We must wait and pray.”

Miles stroked his chin, reflecting that Lady Mary had good reason to fear. Gareth was her last hope of a triumphant marriage. In her late twenties, a childless widow whose husband had succumbed to smallpox after a mere year of marriage, the lady could be reasonably described as desperate. Her husband’s fortune had been entailed on his brother, and her own jointure had immediately been claimed by her uncle ostensibly to be held as dowry for a second marriage. The queen had given her a lowly position in her bedchamber, and in the years since her husband’s death, the widow had
languished at the queen’s side uncourted. No man on the lookout for a wife had quite trusted the lady’s uncle to come up with the requisite dowry, and a dowerless widow was not an attractive prospect.

But then Imogen had hit upon the Lady Mary as a perfect wife for Gareth. Gareth had treated the proposition with amiable indifference and allowed his sister to make all the arrangements. It was as clear as day to Miles that after Charlotte, Gareth could feel nothing for another woman, but since he must have a wife, his sister’s choice would do perfectly well.

“Lord Harcourt will surely send a messenger on ahead as soon as he reaches Dover.” Lady Mary’s voice now took on a slightly whining note that Miles had noticed before. He found it extremely grating.

“One would think so,” Imogen said with a decisive nod. “As soon as I hear anything, I will send to you directly.”

Lady Mary offered a wan smile from behind her fan. “I pray on my knees nightly for his safe return.”

“As do we all,” Imogen said. “Will the queen give you liberty to dine with us this evening?”

Mary brightened somewhat. An evening at the Dufort table was infinitely preferable to dining with the queen’s ladies. They were all either younger than she and full of the gossip and high-spirited chatter of young women who saw the world through fresh eyes, or established ladies of the court, with husbands and influence of their own. Mary knew she was regarded by both groups with a degree of pity and some contempt.

“I’m sure I can arrange it,” she said. “I should be delighted.” With a curtsy to Lord Dufort and an airblown kiss for Imogen, Lady Mary hurried away to the water gate, where the barge waited to return her to Whitehall.

Imogen began to pace the gallery again and Miles decided to beat a prudent retreat before his wife looked for an outlet for her rising frustration. He turned to leave just as the gate sentinel blew a long note on his horn. Imogen stopped in mid-stride.

“It would appear, madam, that your prayers have been answered,” Miles stated, going to the window, looking down at the grooms and servants scurrying forth from house and mews at the sound that heralded the return of the master of the house.

“It’s Harcourt. Thank God for His mercy. Gareth has returned.” Imogen stood for a minute, her hands clasped, her expression radiant with a relief that had little to do with piety. Then her expression changed, and Miles read the swift calculation in her eyes.

“Pray God his mission has prospered,” she said, almost in an undertone. Then more strongly, “I must greet him at once.” She turned and swept from the gallery, brushing past her husband, who was himself on his way out, as if he were no more than a spider clinging to a web in the doorway.

Miles decided that his own welcome couldn’t compete with his wife’s. He returned to the open window and looked down at the commotion below. His brother-in-law was riding through the gate on a large gray mare. Gareth looked very much as always, easy and relaxed in the saddle, not apparently as travel-worn as one would expect from a man who had been journeying for close on four months.

When the earl swung from the saddle, Miles’s gaze sharpened. He rested his hands on the sill and leaned out. A small figure jumped down from a pillion pad behind the earl. A girl in a shabby orange dress. That was astonishing enough, but then Miles’s jaw dropped
even further. Unless his eyes were deceiving him at this distance, a monkey in a red jacket and a cap sporting a bright orange feather was perched on the girl’s shoulder.

“Lucifer and all his devils!” Miles muttered, as his wife emerged from the house and sailed across the flagged court, hand outstretched to her brother. Miles watched, breath suspended with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Imogen’s hand suddenly fell to her side as she saw her brother’s companion.

Miles could hear nothing of what was said, but he saw Gareth take the girl by the hand and draw her forward as if to introduce her to Lady Imogen. The lady recoiled and the monkey leaped to the ground and began an impatient dance that had the fascinated onlookers sniggering behind their hands.

“Get that disgusting creature out of here!” Imogen found her voice at last. She turned to the chuckling grooms, who rapidly lost all desire to laugh. “Get rid of it. Wring its neck! Drown it!”