Truly a Wife

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Good heavens, Daniel, you weigh a ton.

  Miranda’s complaint came back to haunt him so clearly that he could almost believe she was standing beside him. I take it back, Daniel. You weigh a ton and a half.

  “Tossing his clothes out the window and picking them up, though it took a while, was easy in comparison.”

  “I’d say you and Miranda St. Germaine have a lot in common.”

  “She stole your boots?”

  “She waltzed me out of Sussex House and practically carried me across the lawn on her own.” He gazed at Jonathan over the rim of his coffee cup. “If I remember correctly, she accused me of weighing a ton and a half. I still can’t believe she managed it.”

  “Miranda’s a big girl,” Jonathan reminded him.

  Daniel knew Jonathan wasn’t intentionally belittling Miranda. He knew Jonathan hadn’t meant his comment to be hurtful, but it stung. And Daniel realized, suddenly, how Miranda felt when he’d repeatedly reminded her that she was no featherweight. “She’s a tall girl,” Daniel corrected. “And I’m an even taller, heavier man. Getting me out of my clothes while I was unconscious and stitching me up must have been a Herculean task.”

  Jonathan’s shock showed on his face. “Miranda took care of you?”

  “Yes.” Daniel drank the last of his coffee, placed the cup on the saucer and set them on the table.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was her mother?” Jonathan asked. “And what about the footman? Where was he?”

  “I suppose Lady St. Germaine is in residence at Upper Brook Street. Miranda and I were not,” Daniel admitted.

  “Where were you?”

  “For her sake, I’d rather not say.”

  “And the footman?” Jonathan asked again.

  “He didn’t stay. He brought provisions, did chores, and ran errands. He’s been with Miranda for years and is entirely devoted to her.”

  “I hope you’re right, or else you may find yourself the topic of that”—Jonathan pointed to the newspaper lying on the table—“in the morning. Daniel, what the devil were you thinking to compromise her like that? And what the devil was she thinking to allow it? Miranda St. Germaine isn’t just a lady, she holds a title in her own right. You’ve been attracted to Miranda for a long time now, but I can’t believe you were so careless. Are you looking to ruin her? Are you looking to cause a scandal?”

  Daniel shook his head. He hadn’t deliberately set out to compromise her. It had just happened that way. “No one knows I was there except Miranda and her footman and driver, and they’re completely trustworthy.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “No one else saw you there?”

  “Perhaps a street vendor.” There was no perhaps about it and Daniel knew it. But the odds on the pieman recognizing him as the Duke of Sussex were very slim.

  Jonathan groaned. “And no one other than Miranda, her footman, and her driver saw you go in.” He looked at Daniel for confirmation.

  “As far as I know,” he answered. “I was unconscious at the time.”

  Jonathan asked one last question. “What about coming out?”

  “Thunderation!” He looked at his cousin. “Send word to Colin and Griff and Courtland. Tell them we’ll meet them at White’s.”

  “Impossible today,” Jonathan said. “Jarrod assigned us tasks before he left for his wedding and honeymoon. Griffin is meeting with the men at Whitehall about the need for a permanent training facility for ciphers, and that may take the rest of the afternoon.” He related the details of dispatches Colin’s wife had deciphered, the plot they’d uncovered to kill Wellington and prominent members of the English government—including them. “There’s a leak in the government somewhere, and Colin and his lady are trying to decipher the rest of the code in order to find it. And Courtland is preparing to make the next smuggling run to France. We’re to meet and brief Jarrod as soon as he returns from his honeymoon.”

  “When will that be?”

  “A few days. He’s scheduled to sail to Spain to brief Grant and Scovell at week’s end. And to warn Wellington in person.”

  Daniel thought for a moment. “Are we certain the leak is in the government?”

  “We can’t be absolutely certain,” Jonathan replied. “But if it isn’t there, where else can it be?” He looked at Daniel. “It’s not one of us. We’re collecting the information and bringing it back to Shepherdston. Scovell and Grant are gathering information on the Peninsula and sending it to Lord Weymouth. Weymouth and Shepherdston share information.”

  “We provide information to Lord Weymouth and to the men at Whitehall and Abchurch Lane. Lord Weymouth provides information to us and to the men at Whitehall and Abchurch Lane. But we work independently of the government, and we’re not the only ones collecting information,” Daniel reminded him, as the seed of an idea took root. “What about the couriers Scovell sends to Lord Weymouth? Are they reporting the same things we’re discovering?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “For the most part. But the information Colin and Gillian have deciphered has proven to be much more accurate than the information the men in Abchurch Lane have produced.”

  “Even after Lady Grantham furnished Abchurch Lane with a corrected cipher sheet?”

  “Even so,” Jonathan answered. “They’ve missed things Gillian found.”

  “Like troop movements?” Daniel asked, knowing that Lieutenant Colquhoun Grant’s staff was privy to that information before they were. Grant was in Spain. He had firsthand knowledge. The Free Fellows’ information came from a broader network of spies they’d recruited in London and Edinburgh, in France, on the Peninsula, and from the dispatches they received from Grant.

  “And a plot to kill Wellington and us because Abchurch Lane’s primary source of information is the dispatches Grant’s couriers deliver to Lord Weymouth, and Lord Weymouth …” Jonathan broke off.

  “Reports to Lord Bathhurst,” Daniel concluded. “Who would Lord Bathhurst trust to collect the dispatches from Weymouth? Who would Weymouth trust to deliver them? And do either Lord Weymouth’s or Lord Bathhurst’s names appear on the list of intended victims?”

  “Lord Bathhurst’s does.”

  Daniel took a deep breath. “I need to talk to Colin, Griffin, and Weymouth. Colin first,” he instructed. “Then Griffin and Weymouth at the same time.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I may have stumbled upon the possible leak in the government.”

  “Jarrod will want to know as well,” Jonathan reminded him.

  Daniel smiled. “No need to interrupt the man’s wedding trip unless my suspicions are correct, and I won’t know if they’re correct until I speak with Lord Weymouth.”

  “Shall I send a note around later this afternoon?”

  Remembering his hasty exit from Curzon Street, Daniel shook his head. “I think tomorrow before breakfast will be soon enough.” He looked his cousin in the eye. “I delivered the latest dispatches—or rather, Micah did, on my instructions. Colin and Gillian have deciphered them, and Jarrod’s already given the men at Abchurch Lane the results. Until Courtland makes the next run, there’s nothing else for the leak to discover.”

  Frowning suddenly, Daniel stood up and walked to the window in his stocking feet. Micah. A piece of a dream came flooding back. Daniel suddenly remembered grabbing Micah by the front of his nightshirt. “Damn it, man, if you’ve no vehicle then walk. And he may be a gentleman, but Shepherdston isn’t a snob. He won’t give a damn how you’re dressed.” Except Micah hadn’t been wearing a nightshirt when they’d left the coast. Or when they’d reached London. But there had been a nightshirt just like it lying in a puddle on the floor at Curzon Street … Atop a pair of wet dancing slippers. Green to match the ball gown Miranda had been wearing.

  Daniel squeezed his eyes shut. He had talked in his sleep and accidentally sent Miranda to Shepherdston’s on a mission.

  She’d
never breathed a word of it.

  All he could do was hope that she’d made it to Shepherdston’s and back unseen. He opened his eyes and looked at Jonathan. “If there’s any damage, I’m afraid it’s already been done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.”

  —Henry Fielding, 1707–1754

  “Have you seen this?” The dowager Duchess of Sussex demanded of her butler, Weldon, as she opened the Morning Chronicle the following morning, turned it to the third page, and read the latest “Ton Tidbits” column.

  “Yes, Your Grace, the article caught my eye while I was ironing it.” Part of Weldon’s responsibility as butler was to iron the newspapers and set the ink before the dowager duchess or her son handled them.

  “ ‘Has the long-standing feud between the Duke of Sussex and the Marchioness of St. Germaine finally come to an end? How else to explain the elusive duke’s early-morning departure from a house owned by the marchioness at Number Eight Curzon Street? The duke, who hasn’t been seen since he waltzed with the marchioness at his mother’s gala ball on Wednesday evening, appeared quite satisfied, despite his extreme state of dishabille, when he was seen exiting the house after spending two nights cozily ensconced in the home in which the marchioness was staying. The Marchioness St. Germaine left the house later in the afternoon for whereabouts unknown. Will the ton’s most frequent bridesmaid finally become a bride? Or has the marchioness, a peeress in her own right, decided to forgo the ceremony in favor of an illicit honeymoon? Will the duke present his mother, the dowager duchess, with a by-blow and a mistress, or a wife and an heir?’ ” After reading the column aloud, the dowager duchess carefully folded the newspaper so the column was visible, then set her toast and chocolate aside, threw back the covers on her bed, and swung her feet onto the floor.

  “What do you make of it?”

  Weldon averted his gaze as the duchess uncovered her limbs. “I don’t know what to make of it, ma’am,” Weldon told her.

  “Do you think it possible that his association with Lady Miranda has progressed to that level?”

  “I have no idea, madam, as I haven’t seen His Grace since the night of the party.”

  She looked at the butler she’d relied upon for nearly thirty years to run her household and to speak the truth. “Send someone to His Grace’s apartments and tell His Grace I wish to speak to him immediately.”

  “His Grace has been away from his apartments for nearly a week, ma’am.”

  “Then order my carriage brought around posthaste.”

  “May I ask where Her Grace wishes to go?”

  “Wherever my son is.” She glanced at the newspaper. “Which was apparently Number Eight Curzon Street, but is now most likely Number Fifteen Upper Brook Street.”

  * * *

  “The Duchess of Sussex is here to see you, milady.” Crawford, the St. Germaine butler, announced the unfashionably early morning caller.

  “My,” the dowager Marchioness of St. Germaine drawled, “how nice of the duchess to come calling.” She glanced at her daughter, took note of her red and swollen eyes, and knew that Miranda had spent the hours since her arrival at Upper Brook Street the previous afternoon and the time they sat down to breakfast, sobbing into her pillow. “And what a happy coincidence that you’ve returned from your visit to the country in time for the duchess to call upon you.”

  Miranda had planned to tell her mother the truth about her whereabouts when she returned to the house on Upper Brook Street, but the Morning Chronicle had beaten her to it, and the dowager marchioness was still smarting from it. “Perhaps she decided to call upon you to apologize in person for omitting your name from her invitation and guest list,” her mother continued.

  Miranda smiled at her mother’s sarcasm. “As you well know, the dowager duchess and I have a long, varied history. She’s come because she’s seen the article in this morning’s paper.”

  “It was rather eye-opening,” Lady St. Germaine acknowledged. “For a parent to read such news and to know it’s being read and shared with the rest of the city over breakfast. I don’t suppose she enjoyed being one of the last to know.”

  “Mother …”

  “Of course, she might have come calling because she’s interested in property you own on Number Eight Curzon Street …” Lady St. Germaine speculated.

  Miranda bit back a smile. There was no love lost between the dowager duchess and the dowager marchioness. “Or both.”

  “Shall I come with you to greet her, my dear?” Lady St. Germaine asked.

  “Can you keep a civil tongue?” Miranda shot her mother a quelling glance.

  “With the woman who gave my child the cut direct and continues to snub her at every turn?” Lady St. Germaine asked. “Are you joking?”

  “Then, no, you may not accompany me in greeting her.” Miranda pushed her chair back from the breakfast table and stood up. “I have enough trouble with the duchess …”

  “Dowager duchess,” Lady St. Germaine corrected.

  “Dowager duchess,” Miranda continued, “without your compounding it.” She turned to Crawford. “Where is Her Grace?”

  “In the Blue Salon, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Crawford,” Miranda smoothed her hair and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her skirts, straightened her shoulders, and pulled herself up to her full height. “Please bring a tray of refreshments to the Blue Salon.”

  “That’s a very nice touch,” Lady St. Germaine added, approving. “And Crawford.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “See if you can find a nice fast-acting poison to go in Her Grace’s beverage.”

  “Mother!” Miranda protested.

  “All right,” the dowager marchioness said. “A nice agonizingly slow-acting poison.” She looked at her daughter. “While the duchess cannot die fast enough to suit me, it might be a pleasure to watch her expire slowly.”

  “Mother, you may not like Her Grace, but she is Daniel’s mother …”

  “And isn’t it remarkable that His Grace has been able to overcome such a hardship?”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I most certainly do,” Lady St. Germaine informed her daughter.

  Miranda shook her head as she followed Crawford out of the breakfast room, down the hall to the Blue Salon.

  Bracing herself for an attack, Miranda curtseyed to the dowager duchess as she entered the room.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the dowager duchess demanded, waving the newspaper bearing the “Ton Tidbits” at Miranda as soon as she rose from her curtsey.

  “I believe the meaning is quite clear, Your Grace.” Miranda pretended a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Someone has set out to ruin my good name and reputation. And they are using your son as a means to accomplish it.” She looked at the duchess. “May I offer you a cup of coffee or chocolate, Your Grace, before we continue this confrontation?”

  The duchess frowned, forgetting a lifetime of admonitions not to frown in order to avoid premature wrinkling of the brow. She hadn’t expected the young marchioness to politely offer refreshments, or to have eyes that were bloodshot and swollen red from crying or a nose that was only slightly less red. “I did not come for coffee or chocolate,” she replied, refusing Miranda’s offer of refreshments. “I came for answers. Do you deny spending two days and nights with my son?”

  “I don’t deny it, Your Grace, or confirm it.”

  “Do not play word games with me,” the dowager duchess snapped. “I came for the truth, and I shall have it.”

  “I do not give credence to an article written by an anonymous columnist.” Miranda stood her ground. “And neither should you.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I should or should not do.”

  “Or what, Your Grace?” Miranda demanded. “You’ll put me in my place by giving me the cut direct? Or by snubbing me? Or slandering me? Will you seek to punish me by failing to invite me to your par
ties?” She smiled at the dowager duchess. “You’ve already done that. What more can you do to me?”

  “I can keep you from seeing my son,” Her Grace replied coldly.

  Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Can you?”

  “Inform my son that I wish to speak with him straightaway.” The duchess glanced around the room as if waiting for Daniel to appear.

  “Your son is not here,” Miranda answered truthfully.

  “Then where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The dowager duchess looked Miranda in the eye in an attempt to take her measure. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe me or not, Your Grace,” Miranda told her. “It’s the truth.”

  The duchess snorted in contempt. “You think if you wait long enough my son will marry you, but I shall never allow you to usurp my role as the Duchess of Sussex.”

  “Your son is fully grown, Your Grace. He doesn’t require your permission to marry anyone. And I have never had any desire to usurp your role as the Duchess of Sussex.”

  The duchess scoffed. “Of course you do. Every young girl wishes to marry a duke and become a duchess. Who wouldn’t want to live in Sussex House and have the best of everything?” She sighed. “I know I did.”

  “Perhaps you’re mistaken in assuming everyone is like you, Your Grace. I was born a peeress,” Miranda reminded her. “I may desire a husband, but I do not have to purchase my title or secure a fortune. I have grown up with the knowledge that my responsibilities and duties are equal to those of any male marquess. I’ve no need for a loftier position in society.”

  The dowager duchess firmed her lips into a thin line. “I knew your father. I liked him very much. But I don’t much care for your mother and I have never liked or approved of you, Miranda.”