Miranda listened to her heartbeat echo in her ears, waiting for Amelia to say more.
“You would be destitute.”
“My circumstances would be reduced, yes, but I would hardly be destitute. I bring a fair amount of money with me. He said a person could live modestly on the income that would bring.”
Amelia sputtered. “You . . . you actually talked about . . . I mean, you and he . . .”
“No! No. I hate to admit it, but I’m not very aware of money. I’m starting to think I’ll never marry, and I wondered about taking my dowry and my inheritance and setting up house somewhere on my own. Georgina is out this year, and she’s going to be so very popular. And . . . I . . .” Tears sprang to Miranda’s eyes, and she choked on the sob.
“Oh, Miranda.” Amelia’s arms wrapped around Miranda’s shoulders and she rocked her friend back and forth, making gentle cooing noises as Miranda sobbed.
Miranda began speaking between hiccups and shaky breaths. “I don’t want to be—hiccup—a spinster, Amelia. I want—cough—I want a family, and I don’t—” Miranda’s heavy crying cut off the remainder of her sentence. She pulled a handkerchief from the table by the bed and blew her nose.
“There are many men in London who would marry you, Miranda. You don’t have to settle for a servant, no matter his birth.”
“Lord Brigham offered for me last year.”
Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. Lord Brigham was considered a fine catch indeed. He was handsome and rich and was known to take good care of his business and family responsibilities.
Miranda sniffed. “First, he asked if I thought I had any sway over Griffith’s voting decisions. Then he asked me to marry him.”
“Well, that wasn’t very well done of him.” Amelia huffed and crossed her arms.
“No, I am afraid the only men who seem to like talking to me are scandalously below me, or nonexistent, for all intents and purposes.” Once Miranda started talking, everything seemed to spill out. She told Amelia about the letters with the duke and her many encounters with the valet. “So you see my romantic prospects are nigh on hopeless.”
“I think you need to sleep.” Amelia guided Miranda to a more conventional position on the bed. “When Sally returns with the tray, you are going to eat and then go to sleep. While you do that I am going to sit here and read to you so your mind doesn’t go off on some despondent bent. In the morning, you’ll see that things are not quite so hopeless.”
Amelia tucked the blankets around Miranda as the maid returned with a loaded tray. Miranda snuggled into her pillows and began to eat. Amelia went to the desk where Miranda kept the Bible her brother had given her the year before her debut Season. It took a few moments for Amelia to situate herself in the chair beside the bed with the large book open on her lap.
She began to read from chapter twenty-nine in the book of Jeremiah.
“‘For thus saith the Lord, that after seventy years be accomplished at Babylon I will visit you, and perform my good word toward you, in causing you to return to this place. For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.’”
Miranda set her barely touched tray aside and eased down under the cover, closing her eyes as she listened to Amelia’s sweet voice drift through the room.
“‘Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.’”
Sleep pulled at her, offering blissful peace and quiet. Her thoughts meandered as she relaxed into the pillows. She’d be a lot happier if she knew that God’s plan for her included marriage, because she wanted to seek God. If that involved giving up her dream and expectations . . . did she have enough faith to see it through?
Georgina proved extremely helpful in keeping God at the forefront of Miranda’s mind over the next several weeks. As Christmas approached, her excitement could not be contained. She talked of nothing but her debut in London. It was enough to make the stoutest saint beg God for mercy.
Miranda felt the loss of Ryland more than she could have ever imagined, considering he’d never been part of her everyday life. Knowing he wasn’t there made the house feel different. She still expected him to pop around a corner just as she did something foolish or unladylike.
He didn’t.
The letters stopped as well. She knew it had been a mistake to tell the duke about Ryland, even in passing. She wanted to write him again, find out if he would be in London, but she had never obtained the direction for the duke’s letters. It had been her excuse to see Ryland. She’d clung to it jealously and now she suffered for her indulgence.
Her heart pounded when a letter finally arrived—on her birthday of all days—marked with that now familiar bold, slanted script. She tore into the note, anxious for a miracle. It contained only one line.
I have not forgotten you.
What did that mean? It was nice to know, of course. But did that mean she was a pleasant memory? That he intended to seek her out in London? That he wished she’d write him again? Frustration poured through her.
It didn’t matter what he meant. She couldn’t respond. There was no way to get his direction without explaining to Griffith why she was corresponding with a man she wasn’t related or engaged to. Just the prospect of the conversation made her wince.
With no other outlet, she continued to pour her heart out in letters, although she found herself occasionally writing to Ryland as well.
On Christmas Eve, unable to sleep, pen in hand once more, she sat before the brightly burning Yule log and pleaded with the duke to come to London this year. If they could connect as well in person as they did through letters, he might be her only hope of a happy marriage.
She read over the letter, something she rarely did. Despair and self-disgust dripped from the pages. Was that really how she saw herself? Her life? She tossed the journal entry into the fire, watching the pages curl in the festive holiday flame. Maybe she should drag the entire trunk full of misbegotten letters down to give them the same funeral.
Why was it so important that she marry? Between her three siblings and Amelia, there was certain to be enough children around to dote on. She was more than the men she had lost, the men she had never truly had to begin with. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend.
She watched the flame burn until her eyes began to cross and she drifted off to sleep on the sofa.
Weeks passed and the Christmas cheer faded. To Georgina’s delight, Miranda focused on the people in front of her. As much as Miranda loathed the constant trips to the modiste for fittings and perusing the shops for matching hats, gloves, and slippers, she enjoyed putting a smile on Georgina’s face.
It had the added benefit of providing Miranda with her smartest spring wardrobe ever.
If Miranda found herself quoting certain Bible passages in an attempt to deal with Georgina’s exuberance, well, that was a good thing as well. How else was she to find the patience to listen to one more prediction of what the confirmed bachelors would do once Georgina appeared in the ballroom door?
When Mother returned at the first of March to make final preparations for the family’s journey to London, Miranda was able to find a glimmer of excitement within herself for the coming Season.
Maybe God had a gentleman in London for her.
Maybe He had a servant waiting in Kent.
It was possible He had a different future for her entirely, helping the widows and sick on her brother’s estate. Whatever it was, she finally felt ready for it. The verses Amelia had read all those weeks ago had become etched in Miranda’s brain. She recited them frequently to herself.
The time had finally come to brave London and all of Georgina’s potential admirers. She patted the lid of her last trunk, indicating to the footmen they could take it down to the waiting carriage. The prospect of putting her lack of jealousy to the test was both exciting and nerve-
wracking. All she could do was pray and hope.
The twitter and chirp of birds and the scent of the first spring flowers greeted her as she walked to the carriage outside the front door.
Mother and Georgina were already within. Griffith and Lord Blackstone—who still doted on Mother after more than a year of marriage—were on horseback, leaning in to converse with the seated ladies. A footman handed Miranda into the carriage and they were off.
The countryside rolled by, a sea of changing fields and budding trees. Life was beginning anew. There was a grand adventure in front of her.
Chapter 16
Ryland threw his greatcoat across the bed as he fell into an upholstered club chair by the window. Jeffreys, his valet, scooped the coat up and shook it out while raising his brows in inquiry.
“Nothing,” Ryland muttered. Agitation propelled him back out of his seat. He braced himself against the window frame, letting his forehead rest against the cloudy glass. The small four-room apartment served him well as an unobtrusive base of operations. The window looked down on an alley many criminals traversed on a regular basis.
“Whoever he’s working for is either very good or very negligent.”
Jeffreys frowned at the wrinkled coat. “Negligent, sir?”
“Yes, negligent, and when did you start calling me sir?”
“Just practicing, sir.”
“In that case, you might want to try using Your Grace instead of sir.” Ryland smiled as he watched Jeffreys take a brush to the mistreated coat. The servant’s strokes were efficient. The casual observer would not notice that his left hand bore only four fingers.
The fifth was left in a Parisian alleyway, blown off by a bullet meant for Ryland.
“The negligence, Your Grace?”
“Lambert is still here. In town. Doing nothing but drinking and taking the odd job here and there.”
“I don’t suppose you mean the occasional chimney repair kind of job.”
“No. A man paid him to rob an apothecary. Seems he was having trouble getting his hands on enough laudanum.”
Jeffreys hung the coat on a peg in the closet. “You let him do it.”
Ryland shrugged. “If he disappears, I lose my last connection to whomever his boss is. But the fact that his boss is letting him stay here doesn’t feel right. If someone’s watching Lambert, they’ve also seen me. I haven’t taken pains to hide from anyone but him.”
He shoved his hand through his hair.
A knock at the door gave both men pause. Not many people knew where Ryland was staying. He changed his rooms on a regular basis. Had Lambert or his boss had him followed?
Jeffreys picked up a pistol from the side table and hid it behind his back as he eased the door open. Ryland rose from his seat, ready to fight if the need arose, though he couldn’t see through the door from his position.
“Please don’t shoot me, Jeffreys. I’m quite fond of this coat.”
The familiar voice had Ryland relaxing and Jeffreys laughing as he opened the door wider.
Mr. Colin McCrae strode into the room looking like he belonged in a Grosvenor Street drawing room instead of a set of rented back-alley rooms. A tall hat sat atop his head, reddish-brown hair curling around the edges. Unlike Ryland’s discarded greatcoat, Colin’s appeared freshly brushed, pressed, and cared for.
Ryland dropped back into his chair, waving an arm toward the only other seat in the room. “What brings you by?”
Colin sat in the wooden chair, crossed his booted feet at the ankles, and placed his hat in his lap. “Other than the joy of welcoming you back to town, you mean?”
“I haven’t officially returned.”
“And I’m not officially here.” The tinge of Scottish brogue that seeped into Colin’s words told Ryland that whatever the man had come to say, it wasn’t good.
Ryland sat up a little straighter at that. Colin didn’t, strictly speaking, work for the War Office, even though they’d done their best to recruit him when he stumbled into the middle of Ryland’s mission five years ago. There were times, however, when certain pieces of information would find their way to Colin and he would see fit to use his incredible business acumen, observation skills, and contacts to assist the Office’s cause.
He said no often enough to keep the Office from taking advantage of him though. Most of the other agents weren’t sure what to think of Colin, but Ryland had always considered him a friend. Saving each other’s lives formed a remarkably strong bond.
“You have news?”
Colin nodded. “There’ve been inquiries about the mine.”
“The mine?”
“Yes. The one I sent you information on a few months ago when you asked for a fake investment letter.”
Ryland frowned. “The doomed one?”
“It should be. I refused to handle the venture, but I knew a less discerning gentleman who agreed to see investors. The idea was so abysmal that the venture was soon dead. When you inquired about a fake investment, it seemed easier to pretend Griffith and I were discussing the mine instead of making up something completely new.”
“Are you saying it’s not dead anymore?”
Colin nodded. “Someone’s invested in it, someone who thinks to find something worthwhile in that mud, though Mr. Burke isn’t saying who.”
Ryland scratched his chin as he contemplated the importance of this development. He’d known there was someone else in the game, someone powerful. This confirmed that he was looking for someone of means, quite possibly an aristocrat. That one of his peers would betray England like that turned his stomach. He’d bought enough secrets from high-powered Frenchmen to know that wealth and title didn’t particularly mean loyalty to their country. Treasonous Frenchmen were considerably easier to stomach than treasonous Englishmen though.
“All the more reason to come out of hiding, Your Grace.” Jeffreys hauled a small trunk from under the bed and began folding clothes into it. Ryland watched, amusement creeping over his agitation, as his valet quietly stored the room’s meager contents in the open baggage.
“And have you also planned where I shall make my debut?” Ryland finally asked.
Jeffreys extracted a small white card from his pocket and flipped it across the bed. Ryland snatched it out of midair, crumpling the corner a bit. It was an invitation.
“She’s going to be there?”
Jeffreys nodded. “The servants have been speaking constantly of the various costumes their lords and ladies have procured. That invitation was meant for your aunt. Price said it was a shame she never received it.”
Ryland couldn’t help grinning. His hulking, unconventional butler had not only gotten him into the party but kept his troublesome aunt out. As he read the details of the event, excitement unfurled in his belly. He couldn’t have planned it any better.
God was certainly watching over him.
Colin leaned over and read the card. “There’s a she?”
“What is her costume going to be?” Ryland tapped the invitation against his palm, ignoring Colin while he considered the ramifications of attending the ball.
“We aren’t sure, though we know it’s blue. She and her sister and mother were all seen at the modiste ordering dresses especially for that event. The sister was quite excited. The mother was less so.”
“Not surprising. Masquerades are not known for keeping the faint blush of youth in a young lady’s cheeks. I wonder at Lady Blackstone letting that be Lady Georgina’s first society appearance.”
Colin coughed. “Lady Georgina Hawthorne?”
“The hostess, Lady Yensworth, is a particular friend of Lady Blackstone’s—otherwise I’m sure they would be skipping the event.” Jeffreys pulled a pair of boots from the bottom of the closet. “Are we keeping these?”
The boots were beyond ruined in appearance but still comfortable. Ryland raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Your Grace.”
“What?”
“Only reminding you that
you are a duke. I don’t know a whole lot about the aristocracy, but I know they don’t wear boots that look like this.”
Ryland sighed. He hated to admit that Jeffreys was right. Many of the comforts and idiosyncrasies he’d become accustomed to were going to have to fall by the wayside. A few quirks would label him eccentric. Too many would make him a social pariah.
Colin rose and grabbed Ryland’s shoulder, shock covering his normally unreadable features. “You’ve intentions to court Lady Georgina Hawthorne?”
“What? No.” Ryland shifted in his seat.
Colin turned an inquiring look to Jeffreys.
“The older sister, sir.”
“Ah.” Colin grinned.
Ryland glared at Jeffreys as the valet strode about the room gathering items. He was efficient and loyal, but hardly subservient. Ryland had been slowly filling his staff with people like him. People who’d helped him over the years and needed a safe place to earn a living.
It was also a subtle way of reminding his aunt that the house, title, and power were still his. He grinned, thinking again of Price, the butler he’d installed in the town home. A man the size of the Tower of London, with a face just as craggy. His aunt had been outraged, according to Ryland’s steward.
He hadn’t considered that his unconventional staff would come back to haunt him. “Why are you telling Mr. McCrae my secrets, Jeffreys? Isn’t your loyalty supposed to be to me?”
“Of course, Your Grace. That’s why I didn’t tell Mr. McCrae that you’ve been brooding over the young lady since you left your position at her house several months ago.” Jeffreys threw the dilapidated boots into the trunk. “Only the least discreet of valets would reveal that you’ve actually paced the floor as you contemplated what you’d do when she returned to London.”
Colin laughed so hard he fell back into his vacated chair holding his right hand to his side underneath the ribs.
Chagrin quickly replaced Ryland’s outrage. If Ryland were going to make a successful return to society he was going to need help. Trust Jeffreys to take care of that when Ryland was too stubborn to do it himself.
A Noble Masquerade Page 14
