CHAPTER SIX
Simon stared in bemusement down the hallway after Miranda. It took several moments before he realized that she had refused his offer – again. Would he have had this much trouble if he had proposed marriage five years ago? He spent several more moments battling his astonishment before he realized that she meant to leave Anderlin as if that were the end of the matter.
His surprise was quickly overtaken by a trifling sense of something out of place, not quite right about Miranda's hasty departure. He carefully reviewed the previous conversation.
She had been nervous, but that was to be expected. She had thought to escape unscathed from her escapade.
He frowned. She had even dared chide him, reminding him of the leather pouch of papers she seemed so damnably curious about.
Still, he held an unshakeable conviction that something was off. A small yet significant inconsistency came to his attention. Miranda had not been wearing a bonnet when she left.
To his knowledge, young ladies, even unconventional young ladies like Miranda Fenster, did not go visiting engulfed in shabby, oversize cloaks and forget their bonnets.
Sprung into action by that small inconsistency, Simon clapped Valentine on the shoulder. "Don't look so glum. I'll have her smiling at me by the time we take our vows."
Valentine looked at him dubiously. A smile crept to his lips, chasing away the shadows in his gaze for a moment. "You will, if anyone will. Good luck, Your Grace."
Even though the smile faded quickly, the deep weariness that had etched his face when Simon found him foxed and distraught in his study was somewhat faded. There was a spark of life in the blue eyes that had not been there at the first.
With a confidence he had not felt but a moment ago, Simon held out his hand to Valentine. "As we are to be brothers, please call me Simon. I'll leave you to handle Grimthorpe alone. Perhaps it will be wise to imply the engagement is of long standing."
Valentine shook his hand heartily. "Certainly. Anything but Miranda's tale – can't count how many people have seen her about, even these last few days. She's always been one to fly off to someone else's aid.
Simon wasted no time getting to the stables. There was no sign of Miranda. Both of her horses were unsaddled. Where the devil was she? Before he could leave the stable, he heard voices.
Quietly, so neither of the speakers would make note of his presence, he slipped to the door. His view of the yard was good, but he was disappointed to see that it was not Miranda that Grimthorpe had accosted, as he had first thought, but a heavyset older woman, obviously a servant, dressed all in gray with a yellowed linen cap covering her head, obscuring her face.
"Where is your mistress?" Grimthorpe demanded for the third time. He was no more patient this morning than he had been in the hunter's cottage with Betsy's mother.
The servant, her head bowed low, spoke in a thick German accent. "Vich mistress do you mean? His Lordship is not married and he hast six sisters."
"Do you expect me to be interested in any schoolroom misses? It should be obvious that I mean his eldest sister, Miss Miranda Fenster."
"Oh. Dat one." The servant scoffed. "She hast been gone two veeks, a mont'."
"Gone? Gone where?" The doubt in Grimthorpe's question echoed Simon's own. When had she had time to coach her servant about her story?
"Avay. Far avay. She'll not be home for veeks."
"Nonsense. I'm certain I saw her but a day ago."
"Be off vith you, foolish boy." The servant shook her head and began to sweep the courtyard vigorously, raising a choking cloud of dust.
Grimthorpe raised his handkerchief to his nose and changed his approach. Smiling, despite the dust which had settled on the shoulders of his coat, he said silkily. "I stumbled upon a pair of her boots and I wish to return them. Surely your mistress would be pleased to have her boots returned?"
With a sweep of her broom, the servant aimed a large cloud of dust at Grimthorpe's insolent form. "I told you, Miss Fenster is avay. Her boots vith her. Go and ask his lordship if you cannot believe the likes of me. I have no more time for you. I haf vork to do."
Grimthorpe's smile dropped into a sneer. With an oath that made the servant's jaw drop, he shouldered his way past the woman into Anderlin's kitchen entrance.
Wishing Valentine well, Simon prepared to step out and question the serving woman himself. Before he could move, however, she dropped her broom in the dust and took up the dark cloak that had been slung over a nearby bush. She started down the garden path, moving with a speed and grace that greatly belied her age and bulk.
As she passed by the stable doors, she uttered an oath. He recognized Miranda's voice at once. The little minx had thoroughly fooled Grimthorpe and nearly outwitted Simon himself. What the devil was she up to? He doubted that she meant to care for an invalid, as she had told her brother.
He watched as she took the path that led to the village. He'd have to follow her. And he'd have to be very careful to ensure she did not catch him trailing her. There was no telling what she would do if she discovered he'd penetrated her disguise.
Shortly thereafter, Simon had his answer. He waited in an inconspicuous seat at the side of the livery barn, hidden by a team of horses freshly unhitched from the coach from London. He had tethered his own horse out of sight. He did not know if Miranda would recognize his stallion on sight or not. Still, knowing Miranda as he was rapidly coming to know her, it was best not to risk the chance.
Calmly, he waited, hoping she had not switched costumes before emerging into the village, or he would have no hope of spying her. Fortune was with him. Shortly afterward he caught sight of her gray matronly figure, dingy yellowed cap hiding the lustrous curls. She crossed the road and shouldered her way onto the top of the coach to London just as the new team was harnessed.
Simon resisted the urge to mount his stallion and head to London. He remained where he was, ever conscious of Miranda's impulsive nature, until the coach lurched off and he could be absolutely certain she was indeed on her way to London.
When the dust had settled, Simon followed and soon overtook the coach. With only a moment's indecision, he passed the lumbering vehicle in a wide arc that kept him out of sight of the passengers. He wanted to arrive well before she did. As he rode, he considered how to organize his campaign to find out what she was about, leaving her home in such a disguise without her brother's knowledge or consent.
He urged his mount on. He would need several hours to gather the things he needed for the plan he had in mind ....
Hours later, he watched as Miranda, clad in her bulky disguise, climbed from the coach. He was relieved to see that she had actually arrived, and not disembarked at some earlier stop. It was obvious she knew where she was going. She asked no directions, spoke to no one, and was careful to avoid the less respectable of those abroad the teeming streets.
He followed her for a short distance, careful to stay far enough away that she would sense no danger.
Fortunately for his temper, her destination was not far. He recognized the street they were upon; a block of lesser-known jewelers he had never frequented himself, but he knew of others who had bought their mistresses' trinkets in these streets.
A burst of intuition told him that she was going to sell some of her few remaining valuables in order to keep her family in funds. He wondered for a moment at his assurance, and then remembered the faded patches of wallpaper and nearly bare mantelpiece he had noticed at Anderlin. There was no reason for the relief that flooded through him at the realization.
After all, Miranda had turned down marriage with him under the very mistaken impression that she could take care of herself. What else might she be capable of?
He had not truly thought that Miranda's errand might be a visit to a lover, or something more sinister. Now that he knew her destination, it was time for him to teach Miranda Fenster a lesson of which she was sorely in need. When next she met the Duke of Kerstone, she would fling herself into his arms and beg for marria
ge.
He adjusted the padding of his own hastily acquired costume so that his right shoulder seemed to reach to his ear. With a squint on his mud daubed — and now whiskery, thanks to a theatrical friend — face, he hunched low to disguise his true height. He enjoyed the irony of playing the beast to her beauty. He wondered if she would appreciate it once he was through.
His powerful, fluid gait transformed into a more awkward, rolling one, as if his legs were of two different lengths. The distance between them closed rapidly. He was confident that Miranda would not recognize him when he drew up to her side and bore her into the nearby alleyway before she had any notion of what was happening to her.
"How dare you, sir," she said, struggling against him. "Unhand me."
There was no immediate sign that she understood the dangerous situation she was in. He did not find that a surprise.
"Where be ye going, girlie?" he asked in a harsh rasp as he pinned her up against the rough brick and deliberately let his breath assault her. It was worth the three cloves of garlic he had chewed to see the expression on her face.
"That is none of your concern, sir," she answered sharply.
But he noticed her lower lip begin to tremble as she realized the depth of trouble she had gotten herself into. He hoped that she realized she had been a fool to come unescorted to London.
She drew breath to scream, and he pressed his hand against her mouth. He did not want his prized pupil rescued before the lesson had even begun. "Be quiet, girlie. I've got a knife. Do you understand?"
Fighting tears, she nodded.
"Where be ye going?" he asked again.
"I have business in the street," she answered.
Though her voice was shaky, her eyes were fierce as they trained on him.
He was thankful for the dimness of the alleyway, not certain his disguise would hold against her inspection if given the full light of day. "Would your business be with any of the jewelers?"
"No." Her eyes narrowed, betraying the truth even as she denied it.
"Ah. Would it be Dofflinger ye be seeing?"
She shook her head. "I told you I'm not — "
"Wendell then. Wendell would be a good man for buying from a pretty piece."
"A pretty piece!" Miranda's eyes widened in astonishment. "I'm as large as ... " She clapped her jaw shut, cutting off the words. With a lift of her chin, she started over. "Never mind, that is of no consequence. My business is my own, sir. I choose not to share it with you."
"I've no wish to share yer business — only yer profits."
"Then you must free my arm so that I can reach my purse."
Simon stepped slightly away, but warned by the light of hope in her eye, he drew his forearm across her throat, keeping her pinned to the wall.
The reticule she had clutched so carefully to protect it from the pickpockets was quickly fished from a deep pocket. She held it out to him. "Here. This is all that I have."
Simon accepted the bag with a small bow, although he kept his forearm tight across her throat. He dared not lower his guard where Miranda was concerned. She was likely to contrive to bring her lesson to a premature end by getting rescued by some courageous swain.
He rummaged in the bag, but there was nothing of value save a few coins, not even a single strand of pearls. He realized she would expect him to find those few coins interesting, but he knew there had to be more. "Is this it, just a few shillings? Is that the best ye can do when ye have business in this street?"
Miranda shook her head. "I am not a wealthy woman. I am a simple fishmonger's wife."
"A fishmonger's wife, eh?" He eyed her speculatively. "I've known a fishmonger or two in my time to make good money. Perhaps you have some silver hidden away?"
Her face went white, and he knew. He knew. But where on earth did she have it concealed? She carried no more bags with her.
Unless ... of course, it had to be hidden in the bulk of her costume. But where?
A memory came to him unbidden, of Miranda with her gown clinging damply to her. Even in the candle glow of the cottage he had seen enough of her to know her true shape. Perhaps she had hidden her treasure in the bosom of her gown — much fuller than the Miranda he remembered. Or under the bulky skirts?"
He hesitated, reluctant to physically search her. Such an assault was more than the lesson he intended. But for a reckless fool like Miranda, the more severe lesson might be sorely needed. She had taken an awful chance to come to London on her own. He could be a real cutthroat. And a real cutthroat would have no mercy upon an unprotected woman.
"Have ye nothing under your skirts, girlie? I know some women what hide things under there. Ye've enough room for a set of silver, I'd wager."
Again, Miranda blanched. "You are mistaken. Take what I have given you and go. The coins are all I have, including my fare home. You are stranding me in London. Isn't that enough for you?"
"Nay girlie," he answered. "Give up what's under yer skirts – and maybe whatever you have tucked into your bosom, if you please." He tried for a leer and found it surprisingly easy as he visualized what lay under her bulky gown.
She clutched her hand to her bosom. "No." He sighed loudly, making sure to aim his garlic-laden breath directly into her face, but she gave no quarter, saying only, "I am as poor as Cinder Ella before she married her Prince Charming, I assure you."
She was not going to make this easy. And Simon did not want to prolong the lesson overmuch. Any moment some gallant swain might rescue her. "I've no time for foolery," he muttered, lifting her skirt just enough to let her know he was serious.
She snatched the fabric from his fingers. "Just a moment." Her voice trembled as she turned away from him with a dignity and modesty that surprised him. Truthfully, he could not understand why she was not down on her knees, in tears, begging for her life.
He was a sight with the busy, unkempt beard he had borrowed, and the clothes that stank from unwashed years on the beggar from whom he had bought them.
Impatiently, as she fumbled with the ties, he moved to help her. The back of his neck had begun to prickle with the second sense that had kept him alive through many a skirmish.
She started at his touch and a bag fell at his feet with a clink. Silver, definitely. She picked it up with a nervous laugh and handed it to him. He opened it to see the silver candlesticks she had no doubt hoped would afford her family some ready.
He hefted the bag, make sure to clink the silver loudly. "Thankee girlie." As he turned to leave, the look of overwhelming relief that spread over her face stopped him. Was she holding something back? "Is there any more girlie? Perhaps something to balance out the heft of these?" He clinked the bag again, pleased by her wince of disappointment.
Again, her face betrayed her.
He did not want to wait while she fumbled yet again with nervous fingers to untie the second bag. Drawing her tight against him, he untied the bag hanging against her slender hip. Her heart was beating rapidly. This was a lesson he hoped she would never forget – although he would see she was never in such want again. He found himself fiercely glad of that fact. He took the second bag without examining the contents.
Remembering that he held all her coins, he selected a few from the reticule. "This is good booty. I can be generous with ye, and leave ye fare to get home again. Such as ye should not be visitin' London, I'm thinking. Send yer husband next time."
The tears welled up in her eyes and he flung a few more. "Here's enough for a room for the night and a cup of tea while yer waiting for yer coach."
He turned to leave then stopped once more. He couldn't have her enlisting the aid of any sympathetic young gentleman as soon as he left her here. "Don't be calling for help girlie, don't think there's won't be questions about where a fishmonger's wife got her hands on a pair of silver candlesticks."
As he left the alley, he was accosted by a sharp-eyed older man who wore clothes almost as disreputable as Simon's. "Hold, guv. Those bags look heavy. Show me what
ye got."
Simon held the bag up, as if to show his booty, and then, using one of the candlesticks as a club, he struck the man a blow to the side of the head. The man released him and Simon turned to find Miranda staring straight at him, as if she might challenge him. He frowned ferociously at her and was satisfied to see her turn and walk away at a fast clip, staying far away from entranceways and alleys.
The man at his side made a feeble grasp for his coat, but Simon struck his hand away easily. Free, he ran.