by Julia Ross
THE Whitchurch Wing had been remodeled some fifty years before. Nothing much remained of the stark reality of ancient stone beneath the smooth plaster walls. Yet Ryder stood now in his bedroom—surrounded by the elegant simplicity of cool green, warm tan, and white—and stared from the window. Wyldshay lay enveloped in darkness.
His younger brother, Jack, in stark contrast, had chosen one of the oldest parts of the castle for his own. The round rooms of the Docent Tower stamped their unmistakable mark that Wyldshay was still a medieval fortress at heart.
Even as a child, Jack had been a romantic. As a younger son, he’d had few responsibilities other than his own amusement. So Jack—Lord Jonathan Devoran St. George—had cut a brilliant swath through both society and the world, then wed with stunning disregard for family tradition.
Anne Marsh—the new Lady Jonathan Devoran St. George—was a commoner, a dissenting minister’s clever, generous daughter. Jack had married her in the beginning from necessity, but in the end he had whisked her off to India with him simply because they loved each other so profoundly.
Ryder turned from the window and began to shed the evening clothes he had worn for dinner. The garments he had ridden home in earlier had been taken away to be cleaned and pressed once again. The contents of his pockets were arrayed neatly on a table.
He tugged open his cravat as he looked at them: his watch, some coins, her silver slipper. Her still-folded note had been ironed.
Ryder smiled a little grimly to himself. The fire beckoned. Yet he picked up the slipper and set it in a drawer before he took the note and held it to his nostrils for a moment.
Would it carry her scent?
Nothing, of course. Just paper and ink.
It took only the flick of his thumb to open it.
The four sentences burned into his heart as if she had written them in flame:My name is Miracle Heather.
I am London’s most notorious harlot.
When you found me in the boat, I had just murdered a man.
Thank you for all you have done or offered to do for me, my lord, but
you are well rid of me.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLACKBIRDS WOKE HER. MIRACLE OPENED HER EYES. IT WAS barely light. Dried leaves rustled in her hair. She sat up and brushed them out with her fingers, then sorted through her saddlebags for a comb and some food. Running water burbled beneath the birdsong, laughing as it rippled over stones.
She put on her boots, then—still wrapped in Lord Ryderbourne’s cloak—she followed the sounds to a stream that cascaded through the woods. She crouched to splash cold water over her face and arms.
A blackbird eyed her as she sat on the bank to comb out the night’s tangles and pin up her hair. Miracle winked at the bird and unwrapped a little bread and some cheese. When she rinsed her fingers again in the stream, the bird flew away.
“Here’s a fly turnabout for a brace o’ Jack Puddings!”
Miracle froze. Drops splashed into the brook from her fingers, but the tumble of water swallowed the sounds. The voice had drifted down through the woods from the direction of the hut: a man’s voice with a hint of nastiness beneath the rough accent.
“Well, well, you old dog,” a second man said. “When a nag droops about like a lobcock waiting for the next likely coves to’appen along, I say ask no questions and you won’t get no wrong answers.”
“There’s a moll about,” the first man said. “Lookee, here! A mort’s saddle and dress!”
“A bracket-faced hedge whore, most like! No bother to us—”
For several painful moments, silence invaded. Miracle strained to listen above the thump of her heart.
“Heave ho, then, m’ lad! A nacky setup, right enough! Worth the risk of a morning drop with Jack Ketch!”
Hooves struck hard as if a horse circled nervously. Rage instantly conquered fear. As if freed from a trance, Miracle raced up the slope. She broke free of the trees just as her gelding cantered away. The two thieves clung together riding double, perched absurdly on her sidesaddle and bouncing like ducklings on a pond.
As they disappeared from view, it started to rain.
LONDON was dirty and loud. Even the most fashionable houses wept streaks of soot down their faces. Ryder stepped from his carriage and glanced up at the facade of his townhouse. The duchy also owned a mansion—the duke’s official town residence—overlooking Green Park, but Ryder preferred the simplicity of this terraced set of rooms in Duke Street. No one in the family used them but himself.
Rain splashed and puddled. A footman ran out with an open umbrella.
“Ryderbourne?” some newcomer said in his ear. “By Jove! Didn’t expect to see you in town, my lord!”
The footman jerked to silent attention beneath the umbrella as Ryder turned to face the interloper. Hurrying head down against the rain, a bedraggled young gentleman in a wet greatcoat had almost bumped into him.
With a flick of the wrist Ryder raised his quizzing glass, pinning the fellow in place.
The man flushed scarlet. “Ah, my lord! I was just—Well, I—”
The footman tipped the umbrella to better protect His Lordship. Small waterfalls ran straight from the ferrules onto the head of the impertinent young gentleman.
“We have met before, sir?” Ryder asked. “Over a practice blade, perhaps? Mr. Lindsay Smith, I believe.”
Mr. Smith tried and failed to swallow his grin. His faced glowed like a gas lamp. A cascade now splashed straight onto his nose, but he seemed glued to the pavement.
“Honored to fence a few times with Your Lordship. Flattered Your Lordship would remember. Trounced, of course. But, well—Best be on my way! Your Lordship will forgive—Didn’t mean to offer any disrespect—”
“Not at all,” Ryder said. “I’ve just returned to town for a few days and would welcome a little convivial company. Later this evening, perhaps? A glass of wine and a hand of cards with a few other gentlemen?”
Lindsay Smith’s face shone like a polished apple above his drenched collar. Speechless, he managed to nod.
“Then that’s settled.” Ryder lowered the quizzing glass and turned toward his front door. “Ten o’clock?”
With the footman trotting beside him Ryder strode up the steps, leaving Mr. Smith beaming in the rain.
There were many compensations to being a duke’s heir. The ability to command lesser men was one of them. Lord Ryderbourne had remembered a plain Mr. Smith and had not cut him dead, even when that foolhardy young man had shown the temerity to accost His Lordship so rudely on the street. Lindsay Smith would be talking about this coup for days. If he had had any other plans for the evening, he would cancel them.
Ryder tossed his outer garments to the footman and walked into his study. A fire glowed in the grate. His preferred brandy sat waiting. His favorite armchair offered its respectful embrace. The room gleamed an immaculate welcome, as if His Lordship had just stepped out for a moment, though he had not been in town since the end of the Season.
In the hallway behind him, menservants thumped his luggage upstairs. The kitchen would produce any meal he desired, but they already knew his tastes so well that no one need ask. The smooth machinery of his life, where his every desire was anticipated and fulfilled.
He had always taken it for granted, as if an army of invisible elves existed only to wait on him.
Ryder filled a glass and sipped the rich liquor, frowning thoughtfully into the flames.
Where the devil was she now?
Like a madman he had brought her white slipper to London with him. He took it from his pocket and stared at the delicate satin, slowly pulling the ribbon through his fingers. Should he go from whorehouse to whorehouse, looking for the slender ankle and foot that belonged to the one woman it would fit? God! Such footwear might fit any of a thousand!
With a curse Ryder threw the slipper onto a table. Of course, she was not any of a thousand. She was—What? His obsession? And, now that he had read her note, his responsibility?<
br />
Since arriving back at Wyldshay, he had barely slept. He had even found himself striding up the spiral stair to the roof of the Fortune Tower to stare like a mooncalf at the stars. Jupiter hung caught in the net of constellations, staring back at him with a jeering yellow eye.
She had made love to him in payment, already planning what she would do the next morning. The idea burned and hurt, driving a desperate rage. He had refused her a loan, so she had purchased what she needed from him with her body.
It had taken several days of hard work before he could walk out of Wyldshay, but he had left all his ongoing business in the hands of Mr. Davis. If any emergency arose, the steward would send for instructions. Her Grace the Duchess of Blackdown thought he had come to London to pursue a little vice. Meanwhile, every mama in the home counties already knew by now that Lady Belinda Carhart had settled on Asterley, and that Lord Ryderbourne must still be looking for a bride.
The excitement would be intense. Myriad invitations would follow.
Too bad that he intended to disappoint them!
His butler entered like a ghost, seeing to His Lordship’s every last comfort and arranging the room for the party later that evening. Ryder barely noticed him. He ate alone in the dining room, leaving half the dishes untasted, then lingered over brandy as he waited for Lindsay Smith and the others to arrive.
He had sent his invitation to a select group of young rattles not generally so honored. His summons would be promptly obeyed, even if he offered them nothing more than a convivial game, some excellent wine, and his own company. No doubt every one of them had canceled other engagements and been thrilled to do so.
The clock struck the hour. The front knocker rapped, followed by the tread of shoes in the hall. Ryder set himself to be witty, to be welcoming, and to listen. His butler had seen to everything else, especially the unending flow of fine wine from one of London’s best cellars.
By midnight half a dozen young men shouted over the latest town gossip—the wagers, the races, the duels and entanglements, the latest crop of marriageable young ladies.
Lord Dartford, more sober than the rest, raised his glass. “A toast to Virtue, sirs!”
“Let’s toast Sin, instead,” Ryder said gently. He had hardly touched his own wine. “Her charms are surely more interesting?”
The guests roared with laughter. “To Sin!” the men bellowed. “To Sin!”
“And to the most glorious Sinner of them all!” someone yelled. “Miracle Heather!”
Heads tipped back as every man drained his glass once again—a hint of envy or lust or frustration in each drunken face.
His blood burning, Ryder forced himself to relax and signal for more wine. He had invited the men here for this. It would hardly further his cause if he threw over the table and punched out his guests. Yet he felt as if he were holding back a storm.
“Damned unlikely name, if you ask me.” Lindsay Smith had slumped back in his chair and was staring into his glass. “Who was ever christened Miracle?”
“Harlots don’t need christened,” a wit said. “Just rogered!”
Every man there guffawed without noticing the storm cloud gathering around the head of their host.
“I don’t recall the lady,” Ryder said. “She is pretty?”
“Gad, my lord! A raving beauty. Your Lordship must have seen her around town?”
“I couldn’t say,” Ryder replied. “I’ve been in the country.”
Smith leaned forward with conspiratorial intimacy, his focus blurred. “Alas, she’s too toplofty for the likes of me! Never kept company with less than a peer’s son. Went off to Dorset with the Earl of Hanley just recently—the damned rogue!”
“A relationship of long standing?” At the mention of Hanley’s name, Ryder’s fists had clenched beneath the table.
“A few months,” Dartford said. “Hanley was besotted. Yet he came back to town a few days ago without her.”
“Perhaps Miracle Heather has found a new lover?”
“If she has,” Smith responded, “the man better look out for the earl. They say he’s fit to be tied. To be so publicly embarrassed by a whore? Damme, sir! This game’s yours, as well.”
Dartford swept up the coins. Ryder stood up. The party was over. Dartford had emptied everyone’s pockets, including those of his host. Of course, unlike some of the others, Ryder could afford it.
In ones and twos the guests lurched onto the street, praising the best damned evening any of them could remember—not counting the time six naked women had served the drinks at Lord Asterley’s, of course. Ryder watched them go and wondered briefly how Lady Belinda would feel about that.
The only sober man among them, Dartford was the last to leave. He hesitated for a moment as he pulled on his gloves. A keen intelligence lay behind the man’s bland gaze.
“Rumors are already on the fly about the cause of Hanley’s comeuppance,” he said.
“I barely know the earl these days,” Ryder said. “It’s no concern of mine.”
“Then you’ve been out of circulation too long, Ryderbourne. If you’d ever met Miracle Heather, you wouldn’t soon forget her. They say Hanley went up to her rooms and smashed furniture, then raved at the maid like a madman.” Dartford took up his cane and smiled. “Were the rooms rented furnished? You should know. They were in Blackdown Square.”
The front door swung shut behind him. Ryder closed his eyes for a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed till it hurt. Blackdown Square! For God’s sake! She had rented rooms from the duchy?
Somewhere, in the interminable records of his affairs, her name might even appear as a tenant—though it was more likely that Hanley had used an agent to rent the place for her.
It was late. Almost morning. Ryder strode straight up the stairs to his bedroom, abandoning the foul ruins of his study to be scrubbed clean by the servants.
The slipper gleamed on his bedside table.
Whatever it took, he would turn London upside down until he found her—and damn Lord Hanley to hell!
IT rained on and off for three days. Miracle walked steadily north, finding thick hedges or empty barns—and once a hollow oak tree—where she could curl up in his cloak when darkness finally descended after the long summer evenings. It was damp, but not particularly cold, yet sleep came fitfully, or not at all.
Whenever the clouds parted, she gazed up at the indifferent heavens. Jupiter spun like a top, taking nine hours and fifty-six minutes to revolve about its own axis, at a huge distance from the sun. The sun was eighty-one million miles from the Earth. If she walked twenty miles a day straight up into the sky, she would take over ten thousand years to reach it. Yet the distance to the stars was immeasurably greater. More in miles than the number of grains of sand on all the beaches of the world, more than all the threads of cotton ever spun in all the mills of Derbyshire.
And she, Miracle Heather, was just an infinitesimal speck in all that infinite universe. A rather damp, undignified speck, with no money and almost nothing left to eat, absurdly clad in a silk dress. The thieves had taken everything else: horse, saddle, saddlebags, her spare clothes and supplies—even the riding habit—everything except a comb, a bit of bread and cheese, and the few contents of her pockets.
In comparison to the universe, of course, all that was splendidly insignificant. She hugged his cloak more tightly about her shoulders and laughed up at the vast, starry sky.
THE maid scraped a deep curtsy, her face shining like a beet. Her hands, too, were red, as if she had just finished scrubbing something.
“It’s all right.” Ryder smiled at her. “No one’s going to turn you out onto the streets.”
The girl mumbled something inaudible. A pretty and sadly insignificant creature, who had probably come up to London fresh from the country.
“Your mistress left for Dorset with Lord Hanley and didn’t return. The earl came here looking for her. When he didn’t find her, he lost his temper and threatened to dismiss you with
out a reference. However, this house is mine to administer. You have nothing to worry about.”
She fumbled with her apron. “Yes, m’ lord.”
“What’s your name?”
“Izzy, m’ lord.”
“Then sit down in that chair like a sensible girl, Izzy, and tell me everything that you know about Miss Heather.”
The girl collapsed as if punctured. She perched on the edge of an elegant chair and stared at her red hands. There was no sign of broken furniture, yet only one of what should have been a pair of vases still stood on the mantel, and the wall was marked here and there, as if the plaster had been damaged by a blow.
“I don’t know nothing, m’ lord. She never told me nothing about herself.”
Though strangely reluctant, Ryder strode over to an interior door and opened it. It was only a simple, white-painted bedroom with a pale-green carpet. Delicate gilt tracery ran around the ceiling. Not exactly the bedchamber the world might expect of a notorious courtesan.
He stared for a moment at the dumb sheets and ivory coverlet. Had she shared that bed with Hanley? As if his mouth and throat had just been seared by a flame, it felt painful to swallow. He closed the door and turned back to face the maid.
“Miss Heather never said anything about her family or her childhood? Where she came from?”
“Nothing, m’ lord.”
“When she left here with Lord Hanley, did they travel alone?”
“I couldn’t say, m’ lord. I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Never mind. What about her personal possessions?”
A second door opened on a small study with a shelf of leather-bound books. Some of the spines were scored, as if a blade had been dragged diagonally across them. Others were haphazardly piled, as if they had been thrust back too hurriedly after being flung from the shelves.
