Maude closed her eyes under the soothing strokes of Berthe's fingers. Lady Imogen would be beside herself, but she would discover that all the torments of the saints couldn't shake her young cousin's faith. She would show them all what true fortitude was.

The landlord of the Adam and Eve didn't look best pleased at the return of the monkey. "I trust that wild beast won't be roamin' around, m'lord."

"I shouldn't think so," Gareth said carelessly. "Show me to that private chamber you promised me and then bring supper for me and my companion." He gestured to Miranda, moving her in front of him.

Molton's little mouth pursed but he turned to ascend the stairs ahead of them.

"His mouth looks just like a chicken's arse," Miranda observed in an undertone, taking a firm hold on Chip.

"An accurate if infelicitous comparison," agreed Lord Harcourt, gently prodding her to follow the fortunately oblivious innkeeper.

"In here, m'lord. Clean and sweet as you could wish." Molton lifted the latch on a small narrow door under the eaves and flung wide the door with a grand flourish. "Nice an' quiet it is, too. Away from the street and the taproom. An' there's no washday until Wednesday, so you'll not be disturbed by the girls heating the coppers below."

Gareth glanced around the apartment. The ceiling was so low he had to duck his head, but the bed was of a reasonable size. A round table and two stools stood beneath the small window that was graced with a narrow window seat. The air was stuffy, infused with the acrid residue of lye and the sickly smell of the soap made from rendered beef fat wafting from the washhouse below. But it was private and far enough away from the main part of the inn to ensure continued privacy.

"It'll do," he said, drawing off his gloves. "Now see to that supper and send up a couple of bottles of Rhenish."

"Aye, m'lord." Molton bowed, his little eyes darting toward Miranda, who stood just inside the door, clutching Chip. "The young person'll be stayin', will she?" An oily lascivious note was in his voice.

Gareth turned slowly and stared at him. Both indolence and humor had vanished from the brown eyes and the landlord backed out hastily, closing the door behind him.

Miranda wetted her lips that were suddenly dry again. The landlord's question, but even more Lord Harcourt's refusal to answer it, had banished her hunger. Her previous wariness returned in full measure. How could she possibly know that a complete stranger could be trusted? His lordship might appear unthreatening but Gertrude had said many times that smooth surfaces were also slippery, particularly when it came to gentlemen.

She reached for the door latch with the hand that wasn't holding Chip. "I… I think I've changed my mind, milord. I… I don't think I'm interested in a proposition and it wouldn't be fair to take your supper in bad faith."

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."