The Emerald Swan

Chapter Twelve

"Lord love us! Is this it, then?" Mama Gertrude pulled her shawl closer over her head to protect her velvet hat and its golden plumes that were becoming a little bedraggled in the fine drizzle.

"Bleedin palace," Bertrand declared in awe, taking another step backward to gain a more complete view of the Harcourt mansion across the road. "Don't look like no brothel."

"I 'eard tell the stews is all in Southwark, t'other side of the river," Gertrude said." This ain't no brothel, it's a gentleman's residence."

"But what's our Miranda doin' in a gentleman's residence?"

"She's been taken by that lord, fer 'is own pleasure," Jebediah said, relishing as always his doom-laden prophecies. "An' 'e's 'oldin' 'er in his 'ouse, till he's tired of 'er." He rubbed his cold hands together, the rough, dry skin rasping. " There's nowt we can do if she's in there. 'Tis a fool's errand, pissin' in the wind… I always said so."

"Oh, you're such a naysayer, Jebediah," Luke protested. "If this lord is holding Miranda against her will, then we have to rescue her."

"And just 'ow would you be a-doin' that, young feller-me-lad?" Jebediah hunched into his threadbare cloak. "You look crosswise at this Lord 'Arcourt, and 'e'll 'ave ye locked up quick as a wink, an' 'anged afore ye can say Jack Sprat."

"Is M'randa in that 'ouse?" Robbie finally caught up with the troupe, his little face squinched with the pain of his dragging foot. Wet weather always made the ache worse.

"Don't know fer sure, laddie." Raoul looked down at the child. "But the carter said this was the 'Arcourt mansion, so, unless we're on the wrong track, this is where we'll find 'er."

“The man in the livery stable in Dover seemed very sure it was a Lord 'Arcourt what 'ad taken 'er," Gertrude mused. "Isn't that so, Luke?"

Luke nodded vigorously. "A right noble lord, he said, and he described our Miranda to a T. Didn't like her one litde bit. He said she was an interfering doxy."

"There's some as would agree." Raoul chuckled, a rumble deep in his throat.

"But 'e didn't say this lord 'ad taken 'er agin 'er will," Jebediah reminded them, shivering. "Let's get outta this mizzle. It's gettin' into me bones."

"Aye, we need to find lodgin' afore the city gates is closed, Gert," Bertrand said. "An' Jeb is right. We don't know that Miranda was taken agin 'er will."

Gertrude's mouth pursed. "I tell you, she'd not 'ave gone with 'im of 'er free will wi' out a trick or summat. Our Miranda's not goin' to sell 'er virtue, an' if it's been taken from 'er by a trick, then we got to get 'er back."

"She's one of us," Luke affirmed with uncharacteristic fierceness. "We can't abandon her."

"No one's suggestin' any such thing, laddie." Raoul put a comradely arm around Luke's skinny shoulders and Luke's knees almost buckled beneath the weight. "We've done good work for today. We've found the 'ouse an' we'll make inquiries tomorrow. Let's find some lodgin' now. I'm fair famished fer me dinner."

Reluctantly, Luke bowed to the majority opinion, and the small group moved away from the Harcourt mansion toward the city gates, Raoul pulling the cart with their belongings. The bells would soon be tolling for curfew and if they wanted to be inside the walls for the night they had to hurry.

Robbie dragged along in their wake, but he couldn't take his eyes off the house. Was Miranda in there? He missed her with an ache that was almost as bad as the one in his foot. She used to rub his foot when it hurt. She put him in the cart when he was tired. She always made sure he had enough to eat. The rest of the troupe were not unkind, indeed they cared for him in a casual way, but they didn't look out for him as Miranda did, and sometimes, when he was far behind, he was desperately afraid of losing them, and he wasn't confident they would come and find him the way they were searching for Miranda. Miranda was much more important to them than a cripple, who cost more than he earned.

A commotion in the courtyard made him pause. The great iron gates were thrown open and four stalwart men trotted out bearing a sedan chair. Despite their burden, they overtook Robbie very quickly. A woman's hand drew aside the curtain and Robbie's heart beat fast as he tried to see in. A long, sharp-featured face peered out, greenish gray eyes skimmed over Robbie as if he weren't there, then the woman withdrew and the curtain fell back.

Robbie hobbled faster after the troupe. The woman had looked cold and unfriendly, coming from the house where Miranda was kept. What did she have to do with Miranda?

Lady Mary had not noticed the small boy hobbling along the road, and she didn't notice the troupe of strolling players with their cart. Her litter passed through the city gates without challenge; the bearers wore the queen's livery as Lady Mary was one of Her Majesty's ladies of the bedchamber. Not a very important one, but the position gave her free board and lodging and one new gown a year. Not insignificant benefits when her own money was held in the tight-fisted hands of her uncle, ostensibly in trust for her, although Mary was under no illusions that she would see much of it, even as dowry in her approaching marriage.

Her hands in their silk mittens curled into fists in her lap. Now that Gareth was returned safe, nothing could prevent her becoming countess of Harcourt by next May Day. A woman of consequence, a woman of wealth. And now the prospect was even more dazzling. With Gareth's ward married to the king of France's closest advisor, Gareth would be sure to gain advancement and influence, and his wife, his consort, would share in it. There were so many slights she had to avenge, so many rebuffs, so many whispers. She would watch the tattlers eat their words, the smiles of malice turn to the ingratiating smiles of supplicants. She would have favors to give.

Oh, it was a delicious prospect. And yet for some reason this afternoon it didn't fill her with the usual delicious anticipation. She couldn't put her finger on what was bothering her, but something was definitely tarnishing the gilt of her elation at Gareth's safe return from a successful mission.

Every time she tried to identify the unease, she thought of Maude. But that was ridiculous. She'd known Maude for two years, she knew that Gareth found her irritating and had little sympathy with her megrims and many ailments. She had always thought of the girl as a nonentity. Even as the duchess of Roissy, Maude would still be unimportant except as a conduit for her family's advancement. But Maude had somehow changed. Her eyes were as large and blue as always, but they held a sparkle, a glint that was new, and her wide mouth, instead of its customary downturned corners, was more often smiling. And then there was the laughing ease she showed in Lord Harcourt's company.

Earlier, Gareth had come into the parlor where Mary and Imogen were talking, waiting for Maude to join them. He had come in with Maude and Mary could still hear their laughter, could still see Gareth's smile, the soft glow in his eyes that had lingered long after he had turned his attention away from Maude and greeted his betrothed.

But Mary knew that the glow was not for her. She'd never caused it before, and she didn't expect to. She expected the same dutiful attention from her husband-to-be that he would accord her after their marriage, but anything stronger than that was unthinkable. Theirs was a connection of convenience and duty. She would do her duty by her husband as he would by his wife. She would give him heirs, God willing, because that was part of her duty, but her whole being shrank from anything as vulgar as expressed emotion.

So why did it trouble her that Gareth seemed to take such sudden and unusual pleasure in his ward's company?

Mary uncurled her fingers slowly, aware that the nails were biting into her palms. She was accustomed to the cool, composed Gareth, a man who smiled rarely, who never said anything that was not rational and carefully considered. And now he had taken to talking and laughing and teasing a chit of a girl in the most inappropriate fashion, and the girl responded with lamentable lack of the deference due her guardian, the supreme authority in her life. And instead of putting his ward in her place, Gareth seemed to encourage it. Mary couldn't begin to understand such a complete turnaround in her betrothed's attitude, she only knew she distrusted it as much as she disliked it.

The litter turned into the outer courtyard of Whitehall Palace and the bearers stopped at the farthest staircase where Lady Mary shared cold and inconvenient lodgings with two other ladies, lesser members of the queen's train.

Lady Mary hurried up the stairs as the clock struck three. She needed to make adjustments to her dress. Her Majesty was holding court at Greenwich this evening and the barge transporting her ladies from Whitehall would be leaving from the water gate within the half hour.

"So what do you think?" Miranda turned around before the tiny mirror of leaded glass, trying to get a look at her back view.

"You look every inch the courtier," Maude commented from her bed, where she lay pale and weak after the morning's bloodletting. The comment had a slightly acidic tinge and Miranda frowned.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Not if that's what you want to be."

"Why wouldn't I?" Miranda asked curiously. "A life of luxury, fine clothes, dancing, feasting…"

Maude's expression was answer enough. "It's empty, pointless, nothing but hypocrisy," she said scornfully.

Miranda perched gingerly on the edge of Maude's bed, arranging her skirts around her. "So, tell me about it. Lady Imogen has been bombarding me with instructions about how to stand, how to curtsy, who to talk to and who not to, when to speak and when not to. She makes me as nervous and cross as two sticks, so I forget to listen.

"And milord just seemed to think that it'll come naturally and I don't need any instruction." She opened her palms in a helpless gesture. "I'm terrified, Maude. I have no idea what to expect."

Maude hitched herself up on the bed with a rather livelier air. " There's no need to be frightened. They're all silly and empty-headed. Just remember that they can't see anything beyond their noses. They'll believe you're me because they've been told so, and because you'll look like me and be wearing the right clothes and be vouched for by the right people. It wouldn't occur to any one of them that someone might have the audacity to perpetrate a fraud."

"A fraud… you mean like foisting a traveling player on them as an honest-to-God noble lady?" Miranda's eyes sparkled, some of her trepidation disappearing.

"Precisely." Maude smiled, a touch maliciously. "Just think of how easy it is to deceive them, and you'll see how stupid they are and you won't be in the least intimidated."

"But what of the queen?" Miranda said soberly now. "Don't tell me she's stupid, too."

Maude shook her head. "No, but it would never occur to her that anyone, let alone Lord Harcourt, could do something so… so treacherous as to foist an impostor on her. Even if she disapproves of you a little, even if you make a tiny mistake, she still wouldn't suspect anything."

"But if she disapproves of me, milord will be disappointed," Miranda said, almost to herself.

"You won't have to say anything. Just curtsy, look sufficiently humble, and wait until she dismisses you."

It sounded simple enough… too simple." Tell me if I'm curtsying correctly. Lady Imogen made me so confused this afternoon, I can't remember about all the different depths. But at least I should get it right for the queen."

She slid off the bed, took several steps back, pointed one toe, and sank gracefully onto her rear, her emerald skirts settling in a corolla around her.

Maude examined her critically. "You need to lower your eyes, keep your head down for a few more seconds, hen rise slowly, lifting your head at the same time."

Miranda did so. "But was the depth right? Was it low enough? Any lower and I'm afraid I'd sit down."

Maude chuckled. "That really would cause a stir. One's not permitted to sit unbidden in the queen's presence, and if she does tell you to sit, you have to rise the minute she stands up."

“That seems logical."

"Yes, and it won't happen anyway. I've heard it said that the queen delights in keeping ambassadors and courtiers on their feet for hours because she doesn't care to sit herself. So she stays upright, walking around, until the people in her presence are dropping with fatigue. She particularly enjoys doing it with men,"

Maude added with another little chuckle. "I believe she likes to prove that she's stronger than men in every way."

Miranda, with a piercing stab of loss, thought of Mama Gertrude. It was she who held the troupe together. She who made the decisions, kept up their spirits, managed the finances. Raoul was physically stronger, but then so was a cart horse. Where were they? Were they thinking of her? Worrying about her?

"Why do you look sad?" Maude asked.

Miranda shook her head. "I'm just wishing my feet didn't hurt so. I don't know how I shall bear it all evening." She bent again to the little mirror. "Can you tell how short my hair is?"

She touched the high front of the delicate jeweled cap that sat low on her forehead, leaving visible only an inch of smoothed-back dark hair. A narrow pale green veil depended behind, falling down her back to form a train.

"Not at all," Maude assured her, her eyes narrowed slightly. "But you did look sad." She frowned, a little puzzled. "In fact I felt that you were sad about something. As if I was feeling it myself."

Miranda looked aj her, a frown in her eyes, then she said, abruptly changing a subject that made her feel confused and uncertain, "Are you certain you don't wish you were coming to court? It must be so dreary lying here while other people are listening to music and dancing and feasting."

"I have my psalter and my breviary," Maude said stoutly. "And Berthe and I shall say our rosaries together. In fact…" A light flared in her eyes. "Can I trust you… yes, of course I can. Father Damian is to come when you've all left. He'll hear my confession and say mass."

"How… how…" Miranda searched for a suitable adjective, but came up short. For all their uncanny similarities, even the strange moments of connection when they seemed to be thinking the same thing, she could not begin to imagine how Maude could find pleasure and satisfaction in the miserable prospect of confessing sins and receiving penance.

"Until you answer God's call, you will continue to live in darkness," Berthe pronounced with what seemed to Miranda like a degree of satisfaction. The elderly woman looked up from her mending, her eyes glittering with near-fanatical conviction. "But our Holy Mother is waiting for you. You must open your heart, my child, offer yourself in all humility, and give yourself up to the Madonna's intercession."

Miranda doubted she had sufficient humility to accept anyone's intercession, but she didn't say so. "Will you be able to look after Chip while I'm gone, Maude? Will Father Damian mind, do you think?"

"No, he loves all God's creatures," Maude responded, stroking Chip, who was sitting on her pillow, nursing Miranda's old orange dress and looking very forlorn. He was well aware he was about to be abandoned again.

The clock struck three and Miranda stiffened her shoulders, her nervousness returning. "I had better go 'own."

"Just remember whose tender reputation you hold in your hands," Maude said. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Then she looked astounded, realizing that she had made a joke, the first she could ever remember making.

Miranda grinned, bent to kiss Chip, who stroked her cheek and muttered under his breath.

“There, there," Miranda said. "Maude will look after you.

"Yes, see what I have for you, Chip." Maude slipped a hand under her pillow and drew out a folded lace handkerchief. "Sugar plums and almond comfits."

Chip, with an excited jabber, reached out a hand and delicately selected a sweetmeat from the palm of Maude's hand. Miranda smiled and slipped quietly from the chamber.

Maude stared at the closed door. The room seemed lifeless all of a sudden. The prospect of Father Damian's arrival took on a gray cast, and she felt as leaden as the gray sky beyond the window. It was the bleeding, she told herself resolutely.

Miranda's smile faded when she reached the head of the stairs leading down to the raftered hall. The maids who had dressed her in her finery had told her she was bidden to present herself in the hall at three o'clock. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. She wiped her palms on her skirt, flicked open her fan and waved it vigorously to cool her suddenly burning cheeks. Then, swallowing her, trepidation, she descended, one hand holding the wooden banister, feeling its smooth coolness grounding her.

Three people stood in the hall at the foot of the stairs and they turned as one to look up as Miranda reached the bend in the staircase.

For a minute Gareth almost doubted what he knew to be the truth. Surely this was Maude. It could be no one else. Beside him Imogen's breath whistled through her teeth as she too stared, astounded. Lord Dufort, however, saw no more than the success of the costume he had selected.

"Ah, how charmingly you look, my dear," he said warmly, clapping his hands softly together. "Is she not charming, Harcourt? Is not the gown perfect for her?"

"Perfect," Gareth agreed. This was Miranda, not Maude. Her coloring was too robust for the wan invalid, her frame too supple. But that morning, he'd enjoyed the wonderful contrast of the lady and the vagabond contained in the one person. Now the vagabond had disappeared completely and only the lady remained, the perfect courtier. And for some perverse reason, he found himself disliking the very perfection of the imposture.

Miranda paused three steps from the bottom. Lord Harcourt wore a short cloak of silver cloth lined with peacock blue. His doublet was of silver embroidered with turquoise, his very brief trunk hose of darker blue slashed to reveal bands of silver from his underhose. A jeweled belt clasped his hips, and one gloved hand rested on the gem-studded hilt of his sword.

Her color rose, pure delight was pouring through her veins, all her trepidation vanquished by the same turbulent sensations she'd experienced in the inn at Rochester, when she'd watched him washing, changing his shirt, every simple movement filling her with the strangest hungers.

She raised her eyes to meet his and read the shock of recognition in the lazy-lidded brown eyes. She moistened her lips, tightened her thighs, trying to control their quivering.

"Do I please you, milord?" But she knew the question asked much more than it appeared to.

"It is a most remarkable transformation," Gareth responded deliberately. "Is she not most amazingly transformed, sister?"

"Yes, indeed," Imogen said. "I congratulate you, brother. I would never have seen such a complete match in the girl when I first laid eyes on her."

Gareth extended his hand in invitation and Miranda laid her own in it, descending the last three steps. The serpent bracelet glittered on her wrist. Gareth turned it around with one finger. "Are you more comfortable with this now?"

"Good heavens, why should she be uncomfortable with it?" Imogen exclaimed. "It's the most beautiful piece."

"I don't care for the bracelet," Miranda said firmly, "but the swan charm is exquisite." She lightly traced the shape of the emerald swan.

"Well, how very fortunate that you should find it so," Imogen said waspishly. "I daresay you've seen many such jewels and are well qualified to judge of their quality."

Miranda flushed and Gareth said, "Come, it's a good hour along the water to Greenwich and we have no time to waste."

Miranda said no more until they were all seated in the barge. Two liveried footmen accompanied them and two of Imogen's maids. Lady Imogen took one of the two chairs in the stern and the maids arranged her skirts, settled the cloak around her shoulders, and then backed off to stand in the bow.

"Sit with me, Gareth." Imogen gestured imperatively to the chair beside her.

"I believe my ward has some questions for me and they will be best asked quietly," her brother responded.

"We shall sit on the bench amidships. Miles, do take the chair beside your wife."

Miles didn't look too happy about the arrangement, but hastened to seat himself, examining the duck-boards before carefully placing his feet in the soft red leather slippers neatly side by side. "Do be careful of your shoes, my dear madam. I believe there is some moisture just beneath your chair and kidskin stains so badly."

Imogen glanced down, her nose twitching. "You… man… come here and wipe the boards," she commanded one of the menservants, who rushed over with a canvas cloth, sliding on the slick boards as he dropped to his knees to mop up the few errant drops.

Miranda took her place where the earl indicated on a wide bench in the middle of the barge. The bench was thickly cushioned and a canopy had been erected although it was no longer raining and a fitful sun now flirted with the clouds. The black-and-yellow pennants flew the Harcourt colors from both stern and bow, and the four boatmen wore black-and-yellow livery, plying their long poles as the barge slid into the middle of the river, weaving through the traffic.

"Will Maude's suitor come soon?" Miranda asked as Lord Harcourt sat beside her, swinging his sword to the side.

"I imagine so. He intended to start off from France soon after me."

Miranda played with the bracelet. “The queen will approve this match?"

"Most certainly."

"And people will believe me to be Maude?" Despite Maude's reassurances, she needed to hear it from the earl's lips.

“They have no reason to believe otherwise." He confirmed Maude's reasoning. "My cousin has not yet made her debut at court. You are making it for her this afternoon."

"Will the queen wish to talk with me?"

"She will talk at you, if she notices you beyond a mere nod," he told her. "You will have no need to speak, indeed, it will be considered unseemly for you to do so. You will curtsy, keep your eyes lowered, and speak only if asked a direct question. And you will keep your answer very short and simple."

This was just as Maude had said, but her apprehension would not be stilled. "Will you stay beside me, milord?"

He glanced at her. "Lady Imogen will be your chaperon."

"But I think I will need you beside me. For confidence… to tell me what to do if I'm in doubt." She wondered if she sounded as desperate as she felt.

"You will not be in doubt," he said in bracing accents. "You will find that you'll know exactly what to do. But remember to call me by my name."

Why was he so impervious to her fears? Just what made him think this was all so easy? "Gareth?" she inquired innocently.

Gareth looked momentarily startled, then annoyed, then slowly he smiled. "Touche, firefly. I'll stick closer than your shadow."

Miranda was satisfied.

It was close to five o'clock when the barge arrived at the water steps of Greenwich palace. A long line of barges waited to unload their passengers, and boatmen, jockeying for position, shouted out their employers' names as they asserted their rights of precedence.

Gareth, much more unconcerned at being kept waiting than his servants, stood in the bows, assessing the crowd, looking for familiar faces, for anyone who might, having seen Maude, look askance at the present embodiment of Lord Harcourt's ward. Maude had been seen by so few people and was intimately known to none but their own household, so he was not expecting any difficulties, nevertheless he was aware of a quickening of his blood as his eyes raked the throng.

"This is disgraceful," Imogen declared. "Who is ahead of us? We must take precedence over almost everyone here."

"Not over the duke of Suffolk, madam."

"Nor His Grace of Arundel," Miles put in.

Imogen subsided but Miranda jumped to her feet with such energy that the barge rocked alarmingly. Gathering her skirts, she picked her way to stand beside Lord Harcourt.

"Sit down, girl!" Imogen exclaimed. "Sit down until we are ready to disembark! It's most unseemly to gape and gawk in that fashion."

Miranda hesitated, resenting Lady Imogen's tone. It would have been so simple to have asked her to return to her seat, but the lady didn't seem to know how to ask.

"Come," Gareth said pacifically. "Let us both sit down. We'll be in the way when the bargemen have to tie up."

Miranda couldn't see that this would be so, but she recognized the compromise. She'd noted before that milord chose to avoid direct conflict with his sister. "Coward," she whispered, but with a catch of laughter in her voice.

"On occasion, discretion is the better part of valor, firefly," Gareth observed in the cool, dry tone that always made her laugh. He placed a hand in the small of her back, urging her return to the bench.

Miranda felt the warm pressure through the layers of gown and petticoats. The fine hairs on her nape lifted, little prickles of sensation ran down her spine, and a jolt of something akin to fear shivered in her belly. Without volition, she looked over her shoulder, up at his face.

Gareth met the deep blue gaze. Her eyes were always open and honest, easily read by whoever chose to do so. And they were no different now. He inhaled sharply at the naked desire they contained. A desire mingled with confusion and apprehension. A curiously innocent desire that stirred him to his core. Miranda didn't know exactly what it was she was feeling.

But Gareth knew what he was feeling. His hand dropped from her back. Miranda sat down again, aware of the rapid pattering of her heart, trying to control her speeding blood, the confusing sensations that set her emotions tumbling wildly so she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The minute the craft was securely tied, Miranda jumped up. She leaped lightly to dry land, disdaining the bargeman's offered hand, and caught Imogen's sudden hiss of indrawn breath.

First mistake! She must concentrate, forget this confusion and remember where she was and whom she was supposed to be. Hastily she composed herself, adjusting her skirts, opening her fan with a casual air as she glanced around, hoping no one had remarked her less than decorous disembarkation.

Gareth came up beside her. "Step aside so my sister and her husband can go before us. They take precedence over you at the moment."

Miranda stepped off the narrow path and Imogen swept by on her husband's arm.

When she was married to Henry of France, this waif and stray would take precedence over all but Elizabeth of England. Gareth looked down at Miranda, noting her supple grace, the elegance of her posture, the natural confidence, almost arrogance, in the tilt of her head, the assured gaze, the set of chin and mouth.

They walked up from the river along the red-tiled path running between clipped yew trees. Although it was still light, lampboys at regular intervals held pitch torches to illuminate the heavily shadowed path. The Harcourt party walked behind a footman who proclaimed their presence and approach to the palace in a continuous cry of "Make way for my lord Harcourt, Lord and Lady Dufort, Lady Maude d'Albard."

Miranda was aware of the interest her name caused among their fellow courtiers in the long procession to the palace. Curious glances came her way, whispers were exchanged. She felt another surge of stage fright, her palms dampening, her heart beating fast.

The path emerged from the high hedges, opening onto a gravel sweep before a wide terrace. The terrace was thronged with courtiers, and the incessant chatter of voices fought and won the battle with the groups of musicians positioned on the terrace and on the lawns below.

Imogen moved forward, her husband bobbing at her side, like the buoy attached to a vessel in full sail, Miranda thought. And then she had no more time for irreverent thoughts as they were engulfed in the crowd. Her three companions were greeting and being greeted and she was being drawn forward and introduced. She curtsied, murmured responses, tried for a modest demeanor but found it impossible to keep her eyes lowered. She was far too fascinated with the sea of faces, the gorgeous apparel, the effete mannerisms of those surrounding her. But she was instantly aware when Lord Harcourt moved away.

She took a step after him but Lord Dufort laid a hand on her arm, gently restraining her. She looked startled and he said in an undertone, "You must stay with us. Gareth will be back. He has just gone to let the chamberlain know that we're here." Then, still holding Miranda's arm, he greeted a passing acquaintance and introduced his wife's cousin, Lord Harcourt's ward, and Miranda found herself once more back in her role.

Imogen was astonished. The girl looked the part to perfection, but Imogen hadn't expected her to act it with the same natural ease. And yet the impostor seemed much more at home in this society than the real Maude, who would have glowered and sighed, and responded with faint and fading murmurs to all communications. Imogen's respect for her brother's scheme was growing by the minute.

Miranda was beginning to relax when she saw two gentlemen pursuing a very deliberate path in their direction. She recognized them immediately as the two men from the livery stable in Rochester. They hadn't seen her then, but Lord Harcourt had said they knew Lady Maude rather better than most people beyond the immediate family circle. Her heart speeded. How was she supposed to respond to them? She didn't even know their names.

"Lady Dufort." Kip Rossiter bowed deeply. "And my lord." Brian, looking even more immense than usual in a violently embroidered lavender doublet and scarlet trunk hose, bowed in his turn.

"Sir Christopher, Sir Brian." Imogen acknowledged the greeting with a stiff curtsy, her stately tone holding more than a hint of disapproval. She thought both men vulgar and socially unworthy of her brother's friendship.

"Lady Maude." Kip bowed in Miranda's direction. "I haven't seen you before in society, my lady."

"No, indeed not." Brian bowed in turn, swaying slightly, a miasma of strong ale wafting around him. "And may I say how cruel of you to have deprived the court of such an enchanting presence." With a jocular chuckle, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Indeed, I must take Harcourt to task for permitting such a flower to bloom in the dark."

Miranda had an urge to laugh at this large gentleman's extravagant compliments. She curtsied, keeping her eyes demurely lowered to hide the laughter. At least she knew their names now.

"My cousin is of an unfortunately weak constitution," Imogen said in freezing accents.

Kip Rossiter's gaze was sharp as it rested on Miranda's face. "Lady Maude, I am delighted to see you've regained your strength."

"I thank you, sir." Miranda spoke in carefully measured tones. There was something in Sir Christopher's eyes that made her uneasy. He looked as if he was searching for an elusive memory.

"I must compliment you, my lady, on your cousin's looks," he said to Imogen. "She is blooming with health. Your care of her must be commended."

Imogen's lips moved in the travesty of a smile. "You will excuse us, sirs. We are expecting a summons to the queen's presence. Ah, here is my brother now."

"Kip… Brian… I give you good day." Gareth greeted his old friends carelessly. There was nothing to fear here, they hadn't seen Miranda before.

"We was just complimenting Lady Dufort on your ward's good health, Gareth," Brian boomed, punching his friend's shoulder in merry fashion. "Such a peach… such a pippin…"

"You're making the lass blush," Gareth protested.

"Nay, I believe you're making the Lady Maude laugh," Kip observed, his sharp eyes still resting on Miranda. "And rightly so. No sensible young lady would pay a farthing's attention to your extravagances, Brian. Isn't that so, Lady Maude?"

At this Miranda was forced to raise her eyes from their sedulous scrutiny of the ground at her feet. Her azure gaze was brimming with laughter. "Indeed, Sir Christopher, I believe so," she managed, a choke of mirth in her deep, melodious voice.

Kip's gaze grew yet sharper. He seemed to remember that his friend's ward possessed a rather faint and reedlike voice, and he'd certainly never before seen so much as a smile enliven her somber, almost sullen countenance.

"My lord Harcourt, Her Majesty will see you and Lady Maude d'Albard." The chamberlain, resplendent with his gold chains of office, his black rod, and crim-son-and-silver suit, appeared through the crowd.

"If you will excuse us." Gareth nodded pleasantly to his friends. "Come, my ward." He offered his arm.

"Her Majesty does not summon Lord and Lady Dufort?" Imogen demanded of the chamberlain.

"No, madam." The man bowed.

Imogen's little mouth pursed, and she turned with a sniff to continue her progression along the terrace. Miles stood back to examine Miranda's appearance. It took a little tuck of the ruff and some fussing with the fall of her skirts before he was satisfied. "There, my dear. Not even the queen could find fault." He smiled, patted her cheek, then scurried away in his wife's billowing wake.

"Will she be looking for fault?" Miranda asked, her voice sounding very small.

"I don't imagine so," Gareth replied in bracing tones, laying her hand on his arm.

"But I am terrified," Miranda whispered frantically. "A few days ago I was turning somersaults to please the crowd and now I'm to have an audience with the queen of England!"

"Just don't turn any somersaults to please Elizabeth and all will be well."

The familiar dryly humorous tone immediately restored her composure. Miranda straightened her shoulders, looking fixedly ahead as they passed through a series of rooms, lined with courtiers who looked enviously at them as they followed the chamberlain, who swept a path before him with his rod of office. Audiences with Her Majesty were highly prized and the jostling crowds at the doors to the presence chamber were all trying to catch the chamberlain's attention. But that august gentleman looked neither to right nor left.