Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She looked up and saw a deck of cards splayed there.

  “Indulge me,” Ruel said.

  She stared at him, dumbly. “But you don’t like to play.”

  “I think we both need the distraction—” He glanced up at the ceiling. “At least take pity on me and give me some friendly distraction until my girl’s pride wears thin and she calls for me.”

  They decided upon vingt-et-un and he dealt the cards but they both played listlessly.

  “Danvers will return from America a wealthy man.”

  “You are kind and beyond generous to have done this for him,” she said.

  “The favor is all on his part. I need someone close to me. Someone I can trust.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I have a wife and young children now. I have my duties in the House of Lords. I cannot simply pack my valise and travel to manage these matters.”

  “These matters?” she asked.

  “I hope that Adrian develops a taste for the variety and excitement of travel. A taste for the kind of life that wealth and its resultant power can bestow upon him.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The scandal of your marriage will haunt the two of you. The incident with Brentwood is but a taste.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, sadly.

  “I need someone in the Orient, to be my eyes, my ears. I need someone who can make instant judgments and decisions that I can trust.”

  Hearing Lord Ruel talk of this job made it seem all the more real.

  “Yes, Adrian mentioned this.”

  “Aye, he did?” Ruel raised his light brown brows. “And may I pry into a wife’s confidence and ask what he thought of the whole matter?”

  “Adrian is an Englishman.”

  Ruel chuckled. “That’s what he said to me too. But once he has a taste of his own real wealth, that’s going to be a temptation that will prove hard for him to resist.”

  Miranda’s heart began to beat hard. Not because she wished Adrian to take this job. No, she feared this job.

  Yes, Adrian would likely become accustomed to the wealth. But at what price?

  He was a grown man and if he accepted a longer-term job from this protective older cousin, it would be like being owned by another man.

  She didn’t think that would be a good thing.

  But who was she to say? Adrian was a man and an earl. He was used to making his own decisions, and any wife had to accommodate herself to a husband’s decisions.

  Especially a countess.

  More so for an unsuitable countess.

  The sound of running feet made her turn her head.

  Two young housemaids came bursting into the hall.

  “My lord,” the taller, older appearing one said breathlessly. “Lady Ruel is calling for you.”

  Chapter Five

  Miranda took George Jonathon Lawrence Lloyd, or Laurie as he was called, from his mother’s arms, being careful to place her hand under his bottom and to refold the blanket over his tiny chest.

  He stared up at her with his mother’s dark blue eyes and he already sported a thick thatch of coal black hair. She studied his light-olive hued face. The tiny slashes of black brows and surprisingly long and lush eyelashes for a boy.

  The sight of the baby, the feel of him in her arms, always brought such her longing to hold her own child in her arms.

  Adrian’s child.

  She would likely already be pregnant if he had not left her.

  Anne sat back in her chair and sighed. “All these months and not even a sniffle. He is as healthy as his sisters.”

  She glanced down at the floor near her feet, where the Ruel heir, Midhurst, sat on a blanket, stacking colorful wooden blocks. Her gaze was full of love but also a fierce protectiveness.

  As Miranda understood it, Midhurst had suffered several life-threatening lung fevers in his infancy.

  Miranda and Davey no longer lived with Lord and Lady Ruel. She was only here for a visit to their Mayfair townhouse and she had left Davey behind in the care of his nurse.

  There had been some difficulty and awkwardness in her leaving.

  Miranda remembered that night that Lord Ruel had come to the hall, drunk and anxious about his countess. It had been a long one for the entire household that had stretched into morning.

  A few moments after the grand walnut clock had rung eleven in the morning, the maids who had been working half-heartedly and finding any excuse to haunt the upstairs corridor broke into shrieks of joy.

  A second son had been born into Blackmore Castle.

  Lady Ruel rose from her bed within the week and became all but obsessed with the complete care and well-being of this infant son. In addition, she was nearly as vigilant about the elder, Jonny, who she was determined would not contract any lung fevers this year.

  She literally never left the nursery wing.

  In her absence, Lady Charlotte became a regular hellion, if not more truthfully told, a bully.

  Davey was loath to raise a hand, even in defense, to a cousin who was younger, much less a girl.

  Under the circumstances, Miranda pled a graceful exit and, not eager to face a full staff of servants who were potentially still loyal to Jane Sutherland, she escaped with Davey to her house in Chelsea.

  When informed of the change via letter, Adrian had not been exactly happy about her decision. But he had accepted it.

  In fact, his letters had become shorter and terser in tone as time had gone on.

  Now he had been gone seven whole months.

  Heaviness weighed on Miranda’s chest and she took a ragged breath and forced herself to smile and make pleasant talk with Anne.

  All the awkwardness and bruised feelings in the wake of her departure from Blackmore Castle had eased by now. Thankfully.

  Lady Ruel was one of the quietest women that Miranda had ever known but one must only direct the conversation to her children and she became most animated, her olive face glowing with love and pride.

  But Miranda had come today so that she might speak with Lord Ruel.

  She couldn’t help glancing at the doorway, each time her heart seeming to leap into her throat as her anxiety rose.

  Finally, the sound of boot falls echoed in the withdrawing chamber and she looked up to see his tall, powerful frame in the doorway.

  Lord Ruel’s face bore a shadow of stubble and the lines about his hard mouth seemed deeper as though with strain or fatigue. He still wore his blue and buff suit that marked him as a Whig. He had likely just come from a night of debate in the House of Lords.

  Never had his fierce visage inspired such a warm feeling in Miranda, a relieving balm over her sore heart.

  Surely, he would know the truth. And then she could stop her endless worry and the heaviness would lift from her chest.

  She could eat and sleep again.

  “Papa! Papa!” Midhurst cried excitedly, standing on his thin legs and rushing over to meet his father. “Will we go riding?”

  Lord Ruel ruffled his son’s dark hair, his tired expression lightening and his dead eyes coming alive. He exchanged a quick, amused glance with Anne. “Aye, we’ll go riding but later,” the earl replied.

  The boy chortled, dancing a bit in his obvious joy. Then he turned towards Miranda. “Lady Danvers has come for a visit.”

  Ruel smiled. “Good afternoon, Lady Danvers.”

  Miranda longed to simply blurt out her questions. But she knew she couldn’t be so rude.

  Like automation, she smiled and exchanged greetings, only with great effort holding back from gushing the questions that burned on the tip of her tongue.

  But she must wait.

  Wait whilst he sat beside his wife on the rich burgundy velvet settee and bent close to kiss her cheek. Anne flushed slightly, her dark eyes sparkling.

  Midhurst climbed onto the settee, nearly slipping off the silken richly hued velvet but Ruel caught him and pulled the toddling boy, who was small for his age, into his lap.

  More pleasantries. />
  Lord Ruel patiently chatted with Midhurst, discussing what the child had been doing thus far today.

  Normally, Miranda adored this kind of family interaction and the fact that she was accepted into their fold and allowed to witness such intimate moments. But today, the questions burned to be asked.

  Yet, she must wait through a seemingly endless round of questions about her health. Davey’s health. His studies.

  Then finally, a pause. She took the opportunity to transfer Laurie back to his mama then settled back in her own chair. “I received a letter today from Adrian.”

  Lord Ruel looked up from a deep contemplation of the wood block that his son had handed to him. “Indeed, what does he say?”

  Her breathing quickened and her heart pounded with the increased angst the topic produced in her and had been producing in her ever since she had seen it.

  “He says he is in New Orleans now.”

  Ruel’s features froze.

  Her blood froze in response. “Isn’t that part of your plan?” she asked, unable to keep the anxiety from her voice.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Nor was this extended time away from England,” she replied, not even bothering to keep the vexation from her tone this time. She couldn’t help blaming Ruel for their Adrian’s continued absence.

  Did she see a shadow in the depths of those blue eyes?

  Now it was gone and he flashed her a quick grin. “I trust Adrian’s judgment implicitly. If he felt the situation warranted a longer stay or travel to New Orleans, he must have his reasons.”

  Miranda found herself perched on the edge of her seat, chest tight with both apprehension and some frustration. “But surely he’s told you what is keeping him there and why he must travel to New Orleans? Surely, you must know more.”

  Ruel’s look turned regretful, almost pained. “No, my dear, he hasn’t written to me since the last time.”

  Miranda folded her hands primly on her knees, as though by doing so, she wouldn’t lose sight of her manners. That she wouldn’t become demanding or shrill as the urge within her demanded. She took a deep, calming breath. “New Orleans. What business can he possibly have there?” she asked, a useless venting of her worry.

  And her hurt.

  Why wouldn’t he share why he had to stay so long in America? Why wouldn’t he tell her why he had to travel?

  Devil take it! She was his countess.

  His wife.

  And she was completely at a loss as to what he was doing.

  When she had first read his letter, worry and dread had consumed her. She had told herself that Ruel would have the answers.

  Now that hope had been proved fruitless, anger began to seep through her worry and concern.

  Damn, Adrian, what was going on the other side of the world to hold him there?

  A chuckle from Ruel jerked her from her whirling emotions. She looked up to see him grinning.

  “Ah, New Orleans.” His tone turned a shade wistful. “Where the liquor flows freely and the women are so exotically beautiful that they can ravish a man’s senses with just a look.”

  “Can they indeed?” Miranda asked, in a snappish voice that made her cringe. And betrayed the doubts that made her despise herself.

  “Yes,” Ruel said, “the finest of them are quite lovely in a dark, exotic way. Almost—” he turned to his countess. “Almost as exotically lovely as my lady.”

  His gaze seemed to caress Anne and then he leaned over to kiss his wife’s olive-hued cheek.

  A flush spread over Anne’s face. Then she seemed to shake herself and she turned to Miranda, her dark eyes kind. “Adrian has always been a constant and loyal man.”

  Ruel’s expression sobered. “Yes, of course he is. You needn’t worry, Miranda.”

  ****

  But Miranda did worry. Especially as she marked the days off on her calendar and another month passed.

  She received a letter from Adrian, saying that he had journeyed to another place in Louisiana called Natchitoches.

  And his words had been strung together oddly. His usual bold, yet neatly penned, script nowhere to be seen for the words were written in a jagged and messy manner. Hard to read.

  She remembered what Ruel had said about liquor flowing freely there.

  Had Adrian begun drinking heavily again?

  The thought made her feel sick.

  She had flown back to Mayfair, to Lloyd House and demanded to see Ruel immediately.

  He had not been at home and she had to go to his chambers at the Inns of Court.

  She felt every male stare burning into her. She imagined that she could hear their titillated whisperings among each other as she was seen entering the Earl of Ruel’s office.

  How unwise to come here but she couldn’t help it. She had to do something.

  Anything.

  When Ruel tried to make light of the matter of Adrian’s continued absence, to tease her, she thrust the letter under his nose.

  “Look, look at that. Is that your cousin’s normal handwriting?”

  Ruel frowned and took the letter, closely examining it. He glanced back up at her, his gaze serious. “If we do not hear something more assuring from him in another two weeks, I will go to America myself. I promise you. I’ll bring him home to you and Davey.”

  He refolded the letter carefully before placing it back in her hand. She tucked into her reticule. Then he enfolded her hand with both of his large, strong ones.

  The warmth of his hands bled through her silk gloves and the concerned, paternal aspect to his regard comforted her.

  She took a deep, ragged breath.

  “Now don’t worry,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice, not like a father, for he was too young for that. But he was her husband’s older, male cousin. A powerful, wealthy earl.

  And he was willing to be friendly to her, to offer his power and wealth and experience to aid and protect her.

  It was the closest thing she had ever known to being in the shelter of a regular family.

  She wasn’t alone in this.

  He cleared his throat softly. “Promise me that you will not worry and make yourself sick. You women have a way of doing that and it won’t solve anything.”

  “I’ll try not to worry,” she replied.

  He smiled, ever so slightly. “I’ll drag him home by his heels if I have to.”

  ****

  The night had seemed hotter than it should. Miranda rolled onto her stomach then thrashed her legs that seemed hopelessly tangled in the damp sheets but she couldn’t get comfortable.

  Eight months.

  Adrian had been gone eight months.

  Eight months of aching for him all alone in her bed. These last few months of worry over what was happening.

  Irritation poured over her and she rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling.

  Lord Ruel had his travel plans made and he would leave for America within the next week.

  More waiting.

  Waiting for him to arrive in America and to write to her.

  She would have gone with him. But Davey, in his growing sorrow and apprehension over Adrian being gone so long, had begun to suffer from nocturnal stomach aches and nightmares again.

  She didn’t want to subject him to the rigors of sea travel nor did she wish to leave him behind.

  She had written to Adrian about Davey’s condition.

  And heard nothing for over a month.

  Hot anger flooded her, making her feel hotter than ever. With a groan, she extracted herself from the damp tangle of sheets then arose from bed.

  She stumbled to the kitchen and asked her sleepy-eyed housekeeper for some tea.

  “Don’t you want some toast and cheese? There is some of that cold duck as well?” Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper, said, concern in her tone and her broad forehead creased with a frown.

  Miranda shook her head.

  She felt too sick at heart to eat.

  “My lady, forgive the imp
ertinence.”

  Miranda nodded, listlessly.

  “You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You just stay up, pacing in the corridor and the garden.”

  Miranda said nothing. She did not feel emotionally close to this new housekeeper and it was uncomfortable to have her personal moments watched so closely.

  The matron continued. “My lady, you are losing too much weight. You really should eat something.”

  Miranda placed a hand to her stomach. “Please, just the tea. Lots of honey and cream.”

  When it was ready, she took the tea out to the garden and sat there slowly sipping, watching the sky turn from night to a grayish sort of dawn.

  The wind began to gust, carrying the scent of rain. The briskness refreshed her and the growing violence of the breeze suited her churning emotions. At the first drops of rain, she held her face up to the sky. But when those drops became more of a torrent, she was forced to flee inside.

  The air was too hot, too humid.

  Even the fire didn’t help remove the dampness from the chamber. Waiting for Davey to awaken, she reclined on the settee and dozed fitfully.

  “My lady.”

  Miranda pulled herself from the world of her troubled dreams. “What?”

  “A letter came for you.”

  Her heart leapt into a rapid beat and she sat, rubbing her eyes, trying to clear the remaining sleepiness from her brain.

  The housekeeper placed the letter into her outstretched hand.

  “More tea, my lady?” the matron asked.

  “Yes, please,” Miranda said, without really thinking.

  She was staring at the crumbled letter. It bore several water splatters.

  And a Philadelphia postmark combined with the flourishing script that bore the name:

  Mr. Jan Sexton

  She flipped the vellum over. The heavy wax seal was as impressive and self-important as any English noble’s.

  She brushed her fingers over it. Then she tore the vellum open and scanned the contents.

  Dear Lady Danvers,

  I hope this letter finds you well. It is with the deepest regrets that I must inform you…

  Her heart seemed to stop. Her hands began to shake. She jerked her gaze away for she couldn’t bear to read any more—