The Emerald Swan Page 5

  Ga­reth frow­ned. "Just a mi­nu­te, Mi­ran­da!" He re­ac­hed for her wrist and drew her back in­to the ro­om. Mi­ran­da's eyes spar­ked alarm. She tri­ed to pull away with all her si­nu­o­us strength but the fin­gers at her wrist tig­h­te­ned. Chip sud­denly shri­eked and ba­red his te­eth, only Mi­ran­da's hold ke­eping him from jum­ping at the man.

  "God's go­od gra­ce!" Ga­reth re­le­ased her wrist, half la­ug­hing, half exas­pe­ra­ted. The mon­key was a for­mi­dab­le bod­y­gu­ard. "I do as­su­re you I ha­ve no de­signs on yo­ur vir­tue. I'm just as­king you to he­ar me out in ex­c­han­ge for a de­cent me­al."

  He mo­ved away from her far­t­her in­to the ro­om. She re­min­ded him of a fawn on the banks of a stre­am, qu­ive­ring with wa­ri­ness as it pluc­ked up the co­ura­ge to drop its gu­ard eno­ugh to drink.

  He sat down on one of the sto­ols, res­ted his el­bow on the tab­le, and prop­ped his chin in his palm. The si­len­ce in the ro­om len­g­t­he­ned. Then she clo­sed the do­or and sto­od le­aning aga­inst it, her hand be­hind her on the latch.

  "The tro­upe is my fa­mily," she sa­id with a to­uc­hing dig­nity. "And the men in my fa­mily are not pimps and the wo­men are not who­res."

  "Of co­ur­se not," he ag­re­ed gra­vely.

  "I know pe­op­le think that tra­ve­ling pla­yers are-"

  "My de­ar Mi­ran­da, I don't know what pe­op­le think, but I am not one to ma­ke as­sum­p­ti­ons," he in­ter­rup­ted.

  Mi­ran­da re­gar­ded him with her he­ad on one si­de. A bang at the do­or ma­de her jump. She sto­od asi­de as two ta­vern wen­c­hes en­te­red with trays of fo­od and drink. Mi­ran­da's no­se twit­c­hed at the to­ot­h­so­me aro­mas and she fo­und her­self mo­ving in­to the cham­ber to the tab­le wit­ho­ut fur­t­her he­si­ta­ti­on.

  The two ta­vern wen­c­hes shot her as­ses­sing glan­ces as they left. Mi­ran­da knew per­fectly well what they we­re thin­king, but sin­ce they pro­bably sold the­ir own bo­di­es as fre­ely as they fil­led the tan­kards in the tap­ro­om be­low she didn't ta­ke of­fen­se at the­ir as­sum­p­ti­on that she was do­ing the sa­me.

  She re­le­ased her tight grip on Chip, who im­me­di­ately le­aped to the top of the bed ca­nopy, whe­re he cro­uc­hed chat­te­ring.

  Mi­ran­da ca­me over to the tab­le, hun­g­rily exa­mi­ning the of­fe­rings. "Whi­te bre­ad," she mur­mu­red in awe. Whi­te bre­ad was not the stap­le fa­re of the la­bo­ring clas­ses on eit­her si­de of the Chan­nel. She to­ok the se­cond sto­ol and wa­ited, po­li­tely con­t­rol­ling her eager­ness, for her com­pa­ni­on to ma­ke the first mo­ve.

  "I be­li­eve this is a jug­ged ha­re." Ga­reth snif­fed ap­pre­ci­ati­vely at the con­tents of an ear­t­hen­wa­re stew-pot. He dip­ped his kni­fe in­to the pot and cut off a pi­ece of rich dark me­at, spe­aring it on the po­int of his kni­fe. He tas­ted it and nod­ded. "Excel­lent." He ges­tu­red that she sho­uld help her­self and bro­ke off a chunk of the soft fresh whi­te bre­ad.

  Mi­ran­da ne­eded no se­cond in­vi­ta­ti­on. She dip­ped her spo­on in­to the sa­vory ju­ice and was abo­ut to use her fin­gers on the me­at when she re­mem­be­red that her com­pa­ni­on had used his kni­fe. Such ni­ce­ti­es we­re not the ha­bit of the tra­ve­ling folk but she was adept at imi­ta­ti­on and fol­lo­wed su­it. It was with re­li­ef ho­we­ver that she saw he didn't ha­ve any scrup­les abo­ut dip­ping his bre­ad in­to the com­mu­nal pot.

  Ga­reth pa­used in his eating to fill pew­ter gob­lets from the le­at­her fla­gon of Rhe­nish wi­ne. He was co­vertly wat­c­hing the girl at her sup­per, no­ti­cing how da­in­tily she was eating, how she wi­ped her fin­gers cle­an on her bre­ad in­s­te­ad of lic­king them, how she che­wed with her mo­uth clo­sed.

  Chip le­aped from the top of the bed and per­c­hed on the end of the tab­le with his he­ad on one si­de and a so­mew­hat mo­ur­n­ful air. "He do­esn't eat me­at," Mi­ran­da ex­p­la­ined, bre­aking off a pi­ece of bre­ad and hol­ding it up to him. "He li­kes fru­it and nuts, but he'll ha­ve to ma­ke do with bre­ad to­day."

  "I ex­pect mi­ne host can pro­du­ce a dish of ra­isins and a co­up­le of ap­ples," Ga­reth sug­ges­ted, lo­oking pa­ined. "Do you think you co­uld en­co­ura­ge him to le­ave the tab­le? I don't ca­re to eat in the com­pany of even well-be­ha­ved ani­mals."

  Mi­ran­da lif­ted Chip off the tab­le but he promptly jum­ped on­to her sho­ul­der, still clut­c­hing his pi­ece of bre­ad. "I don't think I can per­su­ade him to go any far­t­her away," Mi­ran­da sa­id apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly.

  Ga­reth shrug­ged in re­sig­na­ti­on. "As long as he stays off the tab­le." He to­ok up his gob­let. "Yo­ur fa­mily are French?"

  Mi­ran­da ga­ve the qu­es­ti­on rat­her mo­re tho­ught than such a sim­p­le in­qu­iry might or­di­na­rily ha­ve war­ran­ted. " The tro­upe are French, En­g­lish, Ita­li­an, Spa­nish. We co­me from all over," she sa­id even­tu­al­ly. "Is that what you me­ant?"

  "What abo­ut yo­ur own fa­mily?"

  "I don't know. I was fo­und." She sip­ped her wi­ne. It al­ways em­bar­ras­sed her to ha­ve to con­fess to be­ing a fo­un­d­ling, even tho­ugh she had ne­ver lac­ked for a sen­se of fa­mily.

  Lord Har­co­urt, ho­we­ver, se­emed to find not­hing to con­demn abo­ut such a ca­re­less be­gin­ning. He me­rely as­ked, "Whe­re?"

  Mi­ran­da shrug­ged. "In Pa­ris so­mew­he­re, when I was a baby."

  He nod­ded. "And how old are you now?"

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad. "I don't know exactly. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de thinks I must be abo­ut twenty. She fo­und me in a ba­ker's shop and sin­ce I didn't se­em to be­long to an­yo­ne she to­ok me with her. And now she wants me to marry Lu­ke. Which is ab­surd. Lu­ke's be­en my brot­her all my li­fe. How can one marry one's brot­her?"

  "Wit­ho­ut be­ne­fit of clergy."

  Mi­ran­da grin­ned at this dry res­pon­se. "You know what I me­an."

  He just la­ug­hed and re­fil­led her gob­let. "So the tro­upe is the only fa­mily you've ever known. You spe­ak En­g­lish as if it's yo­ur mot­her ton­gue."

  "I spe­ak lots of lan­gu­ages," she sa­id al­most in­dif­fe­rently. "We all do. We tra­vel all over, you see… Oh, Chip!" She ga­ve a mor­ti­fi­ed cry, grab­bing up the mon­key, who had slid from her sho­ul­der whi­le her at­ten­ti­on was di­ver­ted and was now dig­ging in­to the stew-pot. He flo­uris­hed a pi­ece of car­rot bet­we­en two fin­gers be­fo­re cram­ming it in­to his mo­uth, chat­te­ring gle­eful­ly.

  "I do beg yo­ur par­don, mi­lord. He must ha­ve re­ali­zed the­re we­re ve­ge­tab­les as well as me­at in the pot." Mi­ran­da lo­oked stric­ken. "His fin­gers are qu­ite cle­an, tho­ugh."

  "How re­as­su­ring," Ga­reth rep­li­ed wit­ho­ut con­vic­ti­on. "For­tu­na­tely, I've sa­tis­fi­ed my ap­pe­ti­te for the mo­ment, so you might as well let him dig to his he­art's con­tent."

  "It's very kind of you to fe­ed Chip, mi­lord," Mi­ran­da sa­id as they wat­c­hed Chip fo­ra­ge. "So many pe­op­le se­em to be af­ra­id of him. I can't un­der­s­tand why, can you?"

  "Yo­ur fel­low pla­yers pre­su­mably ac­cept him."

  "So­me of them don't li­ke him." Mi­ran­da sip­ped her wi­ne. "But he earns his ke­ep. The crowds lo­ve him and he's very go­od at col­lec­ting mo­ney af­ter our act… and Rob­bie lo­ves him. He ma­kes him la­ugh." Her smi­le was sad, her lo­vely blue eyes mo­men­ta­rily sha­do­wed.

  "That's the lit­tle crip­pled boy?"

  She nod­ded. "One fo­ot is badly for­med and one leg is shor­ter than the ot­her. It me­ans that he can't do much to­ward ear­ning his ke­ep, but I sha­re my ta­kings with him and he do­es what he can."

  "Who­se child is he?"

  "No one k
nows. He was fo­und, too. I fo­und him in a do­or­way."

  Ga­reth was star­t­led by his res­pon­se to this sim­p­le spe­ech, to the sim­p­le ge­ne­ro­sity and the depths of hu­man fe­eling that lay be­hind it. The girl had so lit­tle to gi­ve, but what she had she fre­ely sha­red with tho­se even less for­tu­na­te than her­self. And no one co­uld des­c­ri­be the hand-to-mo­uth exis­ten­ce of a strol­ling pla­yer as a for­tu­na­te one. He'd grown ac­cus­to­med to the idea that his own bet­ter na­tu­re had di­ed with the dis­co­very of Char­lot­te's bet­ra­yal. Li­fe had se­emed so much easi­er on­ce he'd stop­ped ex­pec­ting an­y­t­hing from pe­op­le that he had em­b­ra­ced his own cyni­cism with ple­asu­re and re­li­ef, but this di­mi­nu­ti­ve scrap se­emed to ma­ke non­sen­se of such cyni­cism.

  "So what is yo­ur pro­po­si­ti­on, mi­lord?" She chan­ged the su­bj­ect, res­ting her chin on one el­bow-prop­ped palm, her ot­her hand firmly clut­c­hing Chip's jac­ket.

  "I wo­uld li­ke you to stand in for so­me­one," he sta­ted. "In my ho­use just out­si­de Lon­don, I ha­ve a yo­ung co­usin who is fre­qu­ently un­well. She lo­oks rat­her li­ke you… in fact you are as­to­nis­hingly ali­ke… and I think it might be hel­p­ful if you we­re to ta­ke her pla­ce in so­me si­tu­ati­ons that might ari­se."

  Mi­ran­da blin­ked in as­to­nis­h­ment. "Pre­tend to be so­me­one el­se, you me­an?"

  "Pre­ci­sely."

  "But this co­usin… won't she obj­ect? I wo­uldn't li­ke so­me­one pre­ten­ding to be me."

  His smi­le was a trif­le sar­do­nic and to­ok Mi­ran­da aback. She hadn't se­en such an ex­p­res­si­on on his fa­ce be­fo­re. "In the cir­cum­s­tan­ces Ma­ude will not mind," he sa­id.

  "Is she very ill?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad, and the sar­do­nic smi­le wo­uld not go away. "No. Ma­ude is mo­re of an ima­gi­nary in­va­lid."

  "What si­tu­ati­ons are go­ing to ari­se?"

  The ar­ri­val of the king of Fran­ce ex­pec­ting to woo the

  Lady Ma­ude d'Albard. Ga­reth stro­ked his chin, re­gar­ding Mi­ran­da in a si­len­ce that she be­gan to find un­ner­ving. The man she had felt so easy with a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re se­emed to ha­ve chan­ged. "Mi­lord?" she prom­p­ted.

  He sa­id briskly, "That I can't tell you at this po­int. I don't even know for su­re that I will want you to ta­ke Ma­ude's pla­ce. I don't know if it will be ne­ces­sary… in the end. But I wo­uld li­ke you to ac­com­pany me to my ho­use and stay the­re for a whi­le and prac­ti­ce con­duc­ting yo­ur­self li­ke the Lady Ma­ude d'Albard."

  Mi­ran­da's ga­ze drop­ped to the tab­le. This so­un­ded very stran­ge and not en­ti­rely ho­nest. "You want me to prac­ti­ce a de­cep­ti­on, mi­lord?"

  "I sup­po­se you co­uld call it that," he sa­id. "But I as­su­re you that no one will be har­med by it. Qu­ite the op­po­si­te. You'll be do­ing many pe­op­le a gre­at fa­vor."

  Mi­ran­da che­wed her lip. It still so­un­ded very pe­cu­li­ar. She crum­b­led bre­ad bet­we­en her fin­gers. "How long is a whi­le?"

  "Aga­in I don't know pre­ci­sely."

  "But I ha­ve to go back to Fran­ce and find my fa­mily," she sa­id do­ub­t­ful­ly. " They will wa­it in Ca­la­is for a we­ek or two, but then they'll ha­ve to tra­vel and I might ne­ver find them aga­in."

  Ga­reth re­ma­ined si­lent, sen­sing that pres­su­re from him wo­uld only dri­ve her away.

  "If I say I will co­me for two we­eks…?" she sug­ges­ted.

  Ga­reth sho­ok his he­ad. "No, you must ag­ree to re­ma­in un­til the task is com­p­le­ted. Then I will fee you with fifty ro­se nob­les."

  "Fifty ro­se nob­les!" Her eyes be­ca­me as ro­und as sa­ucers. One ro­se nob­le was mo­re mo­ney than she had se­en in her en­ti­re li­fe. "Just for pre­ten­ding to be so­me­one el­se."

  "J­ust for ag­re­e­ing to pre­tend to be Ma­ude," he cor­rec­ted. "You may not even ha­ve to play the part."

  "Oh." A de­ep frown cor­ru­ga­ted her brow.

  "But I'm af­ra­id the mon­key is not in­c­lu­ded," he sa­id gently.

  Her res­pon­se was im­me­di­ate. "Oh, no, then I co­uldn't ag­ree."

  "You wo­uld throw away fifty ro­se nob­les for the sa­ke of a mon­key?" Ga­reth was so in­c­re­du­lo­us he lost his ca­re­ful­ly pre­ser­ved calm.

  Mi­ran­da's mo­uth set and she sa­id firmly, "Chip be­longs to me. Whe­re I go he go­es."

  It was the set of her mo­uth that con­vin­ced him. How many ti­mes had he se­en Ma­ude lo­ok exactly li­ke that, the sa­me dam­nably stub­born ex­p­res­si­on in the ce­ru­le­an eyes, the sa­me li­ne of the mo­uth? Henry wo­uld ne­ver know the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en the two of them.

  He bit the bul­let and ac­cep­ted the ul­ti­ma­tum. "Very well. But God help us all when Imo­gen se­es him." "Who's Imo­gen?"

  "My sis­ter. And I'm af­ra­id you will not li­ke her." He sto­od up on the words. "Are we ag­re­ed, Mi­ran­da?"

  Mi­ran­da con­ti­nu­ed to he­si­ta­te. With fifty ro­se nob­les she co­uld do an­y­t­hing. Even buy Rob­bie the spe­ci­al sho­es that wo­uld lift his shor­ter leg. The cob­bler in Bo­ulog­ne had sa­id he co­uld ma­ke such sho­es for a la­me per­son. But he wan­ted fi­ve gu­ine­as for them, and whe­re was a strol­ling pla­yer to find fi­ve spa­re gu­ine­as? Un­til now.

  She lo­oked up, met his dark eyes, gra­ve and un­s­mi­ling now, but she was on­ce aga­in struck no­net­he­less by the ste­adi­ness, the sen­se of se­cu­rity, that ema­na­ted from his lar­ge lo­ose-lim­bed fra­me.

  He held out his hand and si­lently she to­ok it, as she sto­od up. "We are ag­re­ed, mi­lord."

  His hand clo­sed warmly over hers, then he smi­led and all the gra­vity was cha­sed from his ex­p­res­si­on. "Go­od, I be­li­eve we shall de­al ex­t­re­mely well, you and I. But it's la­te and we must le­ave at dawn. You may sle­ep up he­re to­night sin­ce you are now in my em­p­loy, and I sug­gest you go to yo­ur rest now. It'll be a long and ti­ring ri­de to­mor­row." With a lit­tle smi­le, he ra­ised her rat­her grubby hand to his lips. "I gi­ve you go­od night, Mi­ran­da."

  She to­uc­hed her hand whe­re his lips had brus­hed, swam­ped with a mix­tu­re of won­der and em­bar­ras­sment. No one had ever kis­sed her hand be­fo­re.

  The do­or clo­sed be­hind him be­fo­re she co­uld re­co­ver eno­ugh to re­turn his go­od-night.

  Chapter Four

  It was two ho­urs la­ter when the earl of Har­co­urt set down his tan­kard of rum punch in the tap­ro­om and ma­de his way back up the nar­row sta­ir­ca­se to the cham­ber abo­ve the was­h­ho­use. His car­rying can­d­le threw his gre­atly elon­ga­ted sha­dow ahe­ad of him on the half-tim­be­red plas­te­red walls. He step­ped ca­re­ful­ly over the stack of dirty sup­per dis­hes ne­atly pi­led out­si­de the do­or. Mi­ran­da ap­pa­rently had so­me in­c­li­na­ti­on for ho­use­ke­eping.

  He lif­ted the latch and en­te­red the cham­ber. It was dimly lit by the mo­on shi­ning thro­ugh the small un­g­la­zed win­dow. He set down his can­d­le and ga­zed aro­und, his eyes so­mew­hat un­fo­cu­sed. The lan­d­lord's rum punch had be­en po­tent and the com­pany in the tap­ro­om sur­p­ri­singly con­vi­vi­al.

  He blin­ked, frow­ning. The ro­om ap­pe­ared to be empty. Then his eye fell on the bed and a very small mo­und be­ne­ath the co­vers on the far si­de.

  He pic­ked up the can­d­le aga­in and ap­pro­ac­hed the bed. The soft yel­low light il­lu­mi­na­ted a slen­der whi­te arm cur­ved on the pil­lows, a pa­le tur­ned sho­ul­der, and two very bright eyes as the mon­key, cur­led in the cro­ok of Mi­ran­da's neck, re­gar­ded the earl so­mew­hat ba­le­ful­ly.

  Ga­reth sto­od lo­oking down at Mi­ran­da and de­ba­
ted. She was na­ked, but that was only to be ex­pec­ted. No one slept in the­ir clot­hes. He sho­uld ha­ve tho­ught abo­ut whe­re she was to sle­ep but it hadn't oc­cur­red to him. He glan­ced aro­und the cham­ber. Apart from the flo­or and the nar­row win­dow se­at, the bed was the only op­ti­on.

  It se­emed his in­ten­ti­on to ha­ve a bed to him­self, a pri­vi­le­ge for which he'd pa­id han­d­so­mely, was to be thwar­ted, he tho­ught ru­eful­ly. Re­ac­hing over, he eased the pil­low out from un­der her he­ad.

  Mi­ran­da was lost in the depths of a ple­asant if ill-de­fi­ned dre­am. Fe­at­her beds we­re a ra­re lu­xury in her li­fe and the warmth and sof­t­ness of this one had lul­led her to sle­ep wit­hin mi­nu­tes of clam­be­ring in­to it. But she was a light sle­eper and her eyes flew open the mi­nu­te Ga­reth le­aned over her. Di­so­ri­en­ted, she blin­ked in the yel­low light of a can­d­le held clo­se abo­ve her, for a mo­ment unab­le to pla­ce the fa­ce ga­zing down at her.

  Then she re­mem­be­red. She flung an arm over her eyes to shi­eld them from the light. "Is so­met­hing the mat­ter, mi­lord?"

  "Only that I hadn't ex­pec­ted to find you in my bed," he rep­li­ed, sha­king out the pil­low he'd re­mo­ved from be­hind her he­ad.

  Mi­ran­da sat up, the co­vers fal­ling to her wa­ist, re­ve­aling a pa­ir of small but per­fectly for­med bre­asts and an ama­zingly nar­row rib ca­ge." The­re didn't se­em an­y­w­he­re el­se and I don't ta­ke up much ro­om. Ever­yo­ne I sha­re a bed with says I sle­ep very still. I won't dis­turb you."

  Ga­reth was not so su­re abo­ut that. Na­ked wo­men in his bed we­re in­c­li­ned to dis­turb him.

  "I'm su­re you're a very con­si­de­ra­te bed par­t­ner," he sa­id, le­aning over and thrus­ting the pil­low be­ne­ath the qu­ilt down the mid­dle of the bed. "Ho­we­ver, sin­ce I may be a so­mew­hat less tidy sle­eper than you, we'll cre­ate a lit­tle se­pa­ra­ti­on."