Chapter 33

Running from the warm study into the rain had not been her brightest moment. Worry for Ryland made her do things without considering the ramifications. Even if she found a way back into the house, was Ryland even still there? Had he left to search for clues? To confront the enemy?

Rain had long ago seeped through the final layer of her clothes, making her ambivalent to the stream of water coursing down the back of her neck. Much more annoying were the lank strands of hair the wind kept flinging across her eyes. What had once been light, fashionable curls framing her face were now heavy, sopping hanks of hair, whipped hither and yon by the dancing wind, occasionally catching on her lashes, and once entangling in a holly bush.

She tried every door and window on the ground floor, but all of them were locked and none of the rooms held Ryland. Her best chance was the front door. Returning to the study would gain her nothing. She needed to find Ryland.

Unfortunately getting to the front door was easier said than done. Montgomery House shared walls with its neighbors, making a trip from the back to the front of the house a long walk. A long walk through a series of gardens where anyone could lie in wait for her or sneak up behind without her noticing.

“Think like a spy, Miranda. Show Ryland that you can play at his party. I may not be as proficient as Jess, but I will not let her be the only courageous woman in his life.”

She listened to the sounds of the garden. It seemed to pulse, with occasional periods of extended rustling as a long, angry finger of wind stabbed through the hedges. If she varied her pace, she should be able to make the same sort of unpredictable noise pattern. Maybe she could avoid drawing attention to herself.

Making her way from garden to garden proved easier than she expected. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the delineation in the wall to mark the change from house to house. Some of them had walls and fences, others hedges or pathways. Sooner than she expected, she saw the decorative gate around Marlborough house, indicating she’d reached the western end of Pall Mall.

Stepping onto the footpath alongside the cobbled road, she attempted to shake out her skirts. The soggy muslin clung to her legs and the lightweight cloak did little to hide the indecent fit of her wet gown. She quelled at the thought of Ryland seeing her like this.

“A lady never goes out looking less than her best.”

Years of lectures and training told her to go home as quickly as she could. But if Ryland didn’t know who his enemy was, he could put himself in danger inadvertently.

Traffic was incredibly nonexistent. Had the weather been better, the roads would have been crowded with carriages returning from the night’s festivities. The most dangerous part of her walk was going to be the expanse across St. James’s Street, where many of the gentlemen’s clubs were. If anywhere was going to be filled with people, it would be there.

Sure enough, a curricle pulled onto Pall Mall from St. James’s as she walked past the intersection. She wanted to run but restrained herself. Running would only make the curricle driver more curious about her.

“Well, hello!”

Miranda glanced around the side of her hood, intending to continue walking without acknowledging the greeting. Her eyes made out the shadowy face, nose, and cheekbones highlighted by a small carriage lantern, shielded from the rain by the half top of the curricle.

Her feet froze. Water numbed her toes and she realized she was standing in a puddle, but still, she couldn’t move. Of all the things she had considered, running into Mr. Montgomery wasn’t one of them.

She had to move. Walk on. If she kept her hood up and her face averted, she could avoid the light from the gas streetlamps. Her only hope was to make it to the safety of Montgomery House before he recognized her. As that was probably Mr. Montgomery’s destination as well, she prayed that Ryland or his butler were very close to the front door.

The curricle kept pace with her, and it became increasingly difficult to evade the light from the lampposts. Ryland would have to live on the most well-lit street in London.

Miranda turned her head as she passed another lamppost, using the movement to see if she could guess Mr. Montgomery’s next actions. Lightning suddenly illuminated the street, causing her to blink at the sudden brightness. Miranda turned her gaze to the heavens and then to Gregory’s face, locking eyes with his startled gaze. “Truly, God? You couldn’t have waited another five seconds?”

In that instant, he had recognized her. What would he be thinking? What reason other than the truth could he come up with for her being so near to Ryland’s house, alone, at this time of night?

“Lady Miranda?”

Her feet screamed at her to let them run toward Ryland’s house. Another part of her brain told her to stay calm. If she drew attention to the fact that she was now terrified of this man, he would know he’d been discovered. Who knew what he would do then?

She would brazen it out. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot stay. Unfortunate circumstances force me to seek shelter at my brother’s home. You understand.”

Blood pounded in her ears as she fought every instinct she had. Calmly turning her back on him, she crossed the street as if she were headed home instead of toward Ryland’s. Her breathing grew harsh and loud, combining with her pounding heart to obscure all sound. Was Mr. Montgomery driving away? Walking after her?

St. James’s Square came into view.

“Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.” Miranda repeated the mantra. If she could maintain these two things, she would make it to Trent’s house. She crossed into the park area of the square without incident. The trees at the far side of St. James’s Square beckoned her. Beyond them, she could lose Mr. Montgomery by taking a number of different streets and alleys to cross over to Mount Street.

She looked over the square as she emerged from the small park. Empty. Damp air filled her lungs as she took her first full breath in five very long minutes. All she had to do was jog down York Street and she could wend her way over to Mount Street with no one the wiser.

Just beyond the square, however, York Street was blocked.

Mr. Montgomery tipped his hat. “I cannot allow you to walk in such horrific weather, my lady. Allow me to escort you home.”

Water dripped off the brim of Ryland’s hat as he rode through the rain. He covered the length of Pall Mall and was making his way along the back alleys and side streets. Alarm was now spreading through the Hawthorne household, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d had to know if Miranda had somehow made it home, and it was either break into his friend’s house or bang on the door until the butler was roused.

Banging on the door was considerably more efficient.

She hadn’t made it home. Nor had she gone to Trent’s house. It would be a while before Trent would know of his sister’s disappearance since he was waiting the storm out at his club as far as his valet knew. That meant she was likely somewhere in between.

It was possible she had ducked into the house of a friend, but who would she trust that much with her reputation? For it was sure to be ruined after roaming London alone. Not that he cared. He would marry her anyway. If blemished reputation mattered to him, he would never have done anything as scandalous as become a spy.

An hour later, he slipped in his front door, shucking his dripping overcoat and gloves. Not wanting to spread more water through the house than necessary, he sat on the floor to pry off his wet boots. After several minutes he gave up and stretched out on the cold marble floor.

He needed to think, and he desperately needed some sleep, but being defeated by a pair of soggy boots left him despondent. It wasn’t the first time he’d ridden through the rain. Had his boots been so much looser before? Probably. He’d generally worn peasant clothing when on a mission and those men didn’t have the luxury of a valet to pry tight leather from their legs.

Ryland’s eyes drifted shut. Where is Miranda?

“What in the name of . . . Are you dead?” Aunt Marguerite’s voice seeped into the edges of his brain. Was she talking to him?

Something hard and blunt poked him in the ribs. He managed a grunt.

“Are you really going to oblige me by expiring in the middle of the front hall? Is there blood? Are you shot? I don’t want to ruin the floors in here.”

More poking. It hurt. Ryland snatched the offending object and flung it across the hall. The sound of glass breaking was followed by a scream from his aunt. The demise of a vase distressed her more than the potential death of her nephew. How touching.

Ryland frowned. In fact, she seemed to relish the possibility of his untimely end. Maybe he should continue the charade, though after that splendid display of reflexes, he’d be hard-pressed to convince her of his impending doom.

What would she expect of a person when they were about to die? Ryland had seen more than his share of death over the years, but he doubted Aunt Marguerite knew anything about it. If he put on a good show, she would probably believe it. He groaned as low and loud as he could, before thrashing about on the floor, slipping through the growing puddle of water. Slowly he calmed the thrashing to the occasional twist, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, in case she was watching for the rise and fall of his chest.

“Ryland?”

He twitched. His knuckle cracked against the marble floor. He bit his tongue to contain the groan.

“Ryland?”

She had retrieved the cane and started poking him again.

“Are you breathing?”

The pokes traveled to his chest. Ryland held his breath.

“It worked. I can’t believe it worked. Oh, my bright, bright boy. I don’t know how you did it, but you won’t regret it.”

Booted heels clicked on the marble as she circled Ryland’s body.

“A witness. I need a witness.”

Fabric grazed his cheek as she settled near his head. What was she doing?

“I despise getting wet,” she mumbled. And then she wailed.

Ryland almost gave up the game when the ear-splitting scream rent the air. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear that the woman crying about his demise was authentically upset. His aunt was quite the thespian.

Steps rushed from all corners of the house. Hushed murmurings of “Your Grace?” came from every direction. Ryland waited for something, some sign that he had enough to solve the mystery of his aunt’s desire for his death. There had never been any love lost between them, but he’d never truly wished her ill. The same apparently couldn’t be said for her.

“Ryland? Your Grace?”

A sigh of relief almost escaped Ryland’s lips. Price had returned.

His aunt managed to speak and sob at the same time. “I heard the door and thought Gregory must have returned, but then I saw . . . him . . . here . . . Oh, what could have happened?”

Regret that he could not witness the splendid theatrical production himself nearly made Ryland smile. Why hadn’t he thought to roll over in his thrashings and hide his face? Next time he pretended to die, he would do so on his stomach. It would be much easier.

“My lady, I . . .” Price sounded more perplexed than concerned.

Aunt Marguerite hiccupped. “I suppose you’ll have to see to the body, Price. It can be your last official duty.”

“My lady?”

“Well, my son Gregory is the duke now, so I’ll be managing the house. You are dismissed. Without a reference.”

The tableau was almost over. Was there anything to gain by pretending any longer? He couldn’t perpetuate the scam for several days. She would be expecting a visit from the Prince’s committee and a funeral.

Perhaps more could be gained by scaring his aunt out of her wits. Ryland sat upright. “Don’t heed that, Price. I think I’d like to keep you on as butler.”

Aunt Marguerite’s scream was sure to leave everyone’s ears ringing for days. It was a good thing that she was sitting on the floor. Ryland didn’t extend his arms to catch her as she fainted.