Jane Feather - The Emerald Swan

The lane outside was quiet. "I think it's safe for me to leave now. I won't trouble you further, milord."

Gareth looked surprised. That deep melodious voice had an edge to it. "If you're sure it's safe," he said. "You're welcome to remain in here as long as you wish."

"Thank you, but I should go." She turned toward the door. "And thank you again, milord, for your many kindnesses." She offered him a rather jerky little bow and disappeared from the taproom. The monkey leaped back on her shoulder and offered Gareth an obscene gesture with one prehensile digit, letting loose a stream of chatter that sounded unmistakably belligerent.

Ungrateful beast, Gareth reflected, drawing on his pipe. But the girl's astonishing resemblance to Maude continued to occupy his mind. It was said that for every person on earth there existed a double, but he'd never given such a fancy the time of day before.

"You'll be wantin' supper, my lord?" Molton reappeared in the taproom.

"In an hour." Gareth finished his pipe and ale. "I'm going to the livery stables to look at that horse. And I'll

need a bed for the night. I'll pay for the privilege of one to myself, and a private chamber if you have one."

"Oh, aye, m'lord. A nice chamber above the wash-house, just right for one." Molton bowed, his head almost knocking against his knees. "But I'll have to charge a crown for it, m'lord. I could put three folk in the bed without it seeming a crowd."

Gareth's mobile eyebrows lifted. "But I thought I heard you to say it was just right for one?"

"It's perfect for one, m'lord," Molton explained with dignity. "But it's suitable for three."

"Ah, I see. The situation is now perfectly clear." Gareth picked up his jeweled gloves from the bar counter. "Have my traps taken up to the washhouse chamber then, and I'll sit to table when I get back." He strolled out of the inn, leaving Molton nodding and bowing like a jack-in-the-box at the earl's retreating rear.

The horse on offer in the livery stable was a mere nag, but it would carry him the seventy miles to London if he nursed it, and it wasn't as if he was in a desperate hurry. Imogen would be on tenterhooks, of course, and Miles would be scurrying around in search of a hiding place from the relentless barrage of complaints and speculation. But Gareth's ears were already ringing in anticipation of his sister's shrill excitement together with her husband's weak counterpoint, and he was not eager to face the reality.

Not for the first time, he wondered how he had let his sister assume the responsibility of his household. After the dreadful debacle with Charlotte, lost in the maze of his own secret guilt, he had somehow dropped his guard, and Imogen was a past mistress at seizing any opening where her brother was concerned. Before he had been fully aware of it, she and her entire household, including the incredibly annoying Maude, were installed in his house in the Strand, Imogen's mission to comfort him in his grief and keep house for him. And five years later they were still there.

Imogen was a difficult, temperamental woman, but her one all-consuming passion was for her young brother's well-being. On the death of their mother, she had taken on the ten-year-old Gareth as her life's commitment. Twelve years older than he, she had smothered him with an affection that had no other outlet… and still hadn't. Her hapless husband, Miles, had to make do with whatever crumbs fell from the table. And Gareth, while steadfastly resisting the smothering, hadn't the heart to deliberately hurt his sister. Oh, he knew her faults: her overweening ambition for the Harcourt family that had its roots in her ambitions for her brother, her violent temper, her lack of consideration for her servants and her dependents, her extravagance. But he still couldn't bring himself to shut her out of his life as he so longed to do.

And Imogen in her zeal to organize her brother's happiness had even found him a perfect prospective wife to fill Charlotte's shoes. Lady Mary Abernathy, a childless widow in her late twenties, was an impeccable choice. An impeccable woman. One who, in Imogen's words, would never put a foot wrong. She would know exactly how to perform as Lady Harcourt and Gareth need never fear that she would fail in her duty.

Gareth's mouth took a wry turn. It was impossible to imagine Lady Mary failing in her duty wherever it might lie. Unlike Charlotte, who had had no concept of duty at all. But Charlotte had been a scarlet vibrant creature where Mary was as pale and still as an alabaster monument. The first had brought him misery, shame, and guilt. Mary wouldn't take him to the dizzy heights of bliss, but by the same token she would be incapable of hurling him into the depths of humiliation and raging despair. A man had but one chance at happiness and he'd wasted his, so he supposed he must be prepared to settle for peace and quiet.

His lip curled involuntarily. For some perverse reason it always did when he reasoned with himself along these lines. Not that domestic peace and quiet was a likelihood in the near future… once Imogen had come to grips with Henry's proposal of marriage to Maude.

He was officially Maude's guardian, appointed when her father had died and she had been sent to her nearest relatives in England. But Imogen had always taken responsibility for the girl and until recently he had barely noticed the existence of the pale ailing shadow living in a corner of his house. But once Imogen had decided on Maude's future he'd been forced to pay attention to his ward's character-one that seemed to veer between chronic long-suffering invalidism and mulish obstinacy. She would not easily accept the future prepared for her.

He left the livery stable and strolled through the balmy August afternoon back toward the quay, intending to sharpen his appetite for the Adam and Eve's supper with a dose of sea air. Gulls wheeled and called above the smooth waters of the harbor and the white cliffs took on a rosy tinge from the setting sun. It was a peaceful-enough scene until he saw the splash of bright orange against the gray sea wall and a curious sense of inevitability-or was it foreboding? — crept up the back of his neck.

The monkey was sitting beside her on the stone wall, examining his hands intently. The girl was staring out at the quiet harbor, swinging her legs, her wooden pattens thudding rhythmically against the stone. The only boats in the harbor were swinging at anchor and Gareth saw that the tide was running out fast. Of the performers, there was no sign.

He came up beside her. "Why do I get the impression circumstances are conspiring against you today?"

She looked up at him dolefully. "I knew I shouldn't have left my bed this morning, as soon as I saw the beetle."

"Beetle?"

"Mmm." She nodded. "Big black stag beetle in the milk churn, swimming for its life. They're bad cess, you know."

"I didn't." He leaned companionably against the wall at her side." They've left you behind?"

Miranda nodded again. "I knew they couldn't let the tide go but I didn't realize how much time I'd been away chasing after Chip." Her gaze returned to the water.

Gareth too looked out over the harbor, saying nothing for a minute, aware of her beside him and aware that he took pleasure in her closeness.

"What will you do?" he asked eventually.

"I'll have to wait for the next packet to Calais," she said. "But I gave the money I took from this morning's performance to Bert, so I have nothing. I'll have to earn my passage, but how am I to do that in this town after the hue and cry?"

Gareth's eyes fixed upon the horizon, on the slowly sinking sun. It was not foreboding he had felt earlier, but excitement, he now realized. The rush of excitement when a completely unexpected solution comes to light.

He asked casually, "Would you be interested in a proposition?"