Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  Jared looked around to see if his wife was in the supper room. His thick, black eyebrows drew together in annoyance as he spotted a cluster of fawning gallants surrounding her. That impudent puppy the Marquis of Wye was leaning over and grinning. Jared made his way toward her. “Madam,” he said firmly, “it is time for us to leave.”

  A chorus of groans greeted him, but Miranda put her slender hand on her husband’s arm saying, “Fie, gentlemen! It is a wife’s duty to accede to her husband’s wishes, provided, of course, that his wishes are not unreasonable.”

  Laughter greeted this witticism, and the young Marquis of Wye said, “But Lord Dunham’s request is not at all reasonable, Miranda.”

  Jared felt a fierce rage rising within him, but Miranda’s soft hand closed over one of his, and she laughed lightly. “I bid you all goodnight, gentlemen.”

  They bid their hostess goodnight as they left. The Prince Regent had already departed, which made their going permissible. Their carriage was brought around, and they were soon home. Not a word had been said between them during the drive, and as they climbed the stairs he said, “Don’t wait up for me, Miranda.” She nodded. He kissed her perfunctorily, and she smelled the faint fragrance of gardenia on his clothing.

  She made herself ready for bed and soon dozed off. She woke suddenly, not quite sure what had roused her. The house was quiet. Damn, she thought! Jared has gone to bed, thinking that I am asleep! She threw back the bedclothes and, without bothering with a robe, hurried through the door connecting their rooms.

  He was not asleep, she realized, for though he lay motionless beneath the blankets, his breathing was ragged. She moved to the big bed and sat beside him, reaching out to touch his cheek. He turned away. “You did not come to me,” she said softly.

  “Go to bed, Miranda,” he answered sharply.

  “If you do not tell me, Jared, it will lie like an ever-widening chasm between us.”

  “I have done my duty,” he said bleakly, “and the whole thing sickens me. I cannot get the stink of that creature out of my nostrils. For the sake of two countries I have betrayed you, Miranda,” he finished brokenly.

  “You have betrayed me only if you enjoyed coupling with her. Did you?” she asked evenly.

  “No!” he spat violently.

  “Then you have done your duty and no more, and I love you.” She nudged him gently. “Move over, m’lord, I dislike sleeping alone.” He had no time for protest before she had snuggled next to him, her loving warmth penetrating his chill.

  Miranda felt triumphant. This sophisticated and worldly man was suffering over what he considered a wrong done to her. She knew he wouldn’t feel this way if he did not love her, and this especially touched her. “Hold me,” she whispered in his ear, licking the inside of it with her pink tongue. Rolling over to face her, he grasped a handful of her soft, gilt hair, breathing in the perfumed sweetness of it. Then his arms went around her, and his mouth was hungrily on hers. He kissed her until she was breathless.

  His hands were on her, drawing her silk nightgown away, caressing her slender body with gentle fingers until she ached. His lips explored every inch of her until she thought she’d burst with the desire he was kindling. He covered her body with his, entering her gently, and she sighed deeply, climaxing quickly with him.

  “Say it!” he growled, his voice sure once more.

  “I love you!” She smiled. “Say it!”

  “I love you!” he answered. “Oh my darling, I love you!” She had cleansed him. He was healed, and whole again.

  They lay side by side holding hands, and much later she asked softly, “We will not be able to go home until your secret duties are all over, will we?”

  “No,” he answered. “We cannot go home, my darling.”

  Suddenly he realized she was weeping. Raising himself up on one elbow, he looked down into her face and asked, “Do you want to go home on Dream Witch? She is still here, and could easily run the English naval blockade.”

  “No,” she sniffed. “My place is with you, Jared, and with you I shall stay. We will go to Russia together. And when there is peace between England and America once more, we will return to Wyndsong. I am homesick, but then my real home is where you are, my love, isn’t it?”

  “You are becoming an amazing woman, wildcat,” he said. But he did not tell her that he intended traveling to Russia alone.

  To draw attention to his departure could be fatal to his mission, for Gillian Abbott and her friends were not the only French spies in London. The season was just about at its end, and he and Miranda would travel up to Swynford Hall near Worcester, ostensibly for a summer visit. Adrian would be given a letter of explanation from the Secretary of War, Lord Palmerston, and Jared would depart secretly, leaving his wife in Lord Swynford’s care. There would be no fashionable visitors to note his absence, for the newly weds would not be entertaining this summer. Jared would be back in England by early autumn. It was all perfectly arranged.

  Chapter 8

  JARED HAD AN INCREDIBLE PIECE OF LUCK—OR, RATHER, Miranda did—and it happened at the last ball of the season, at Almack’s. Jared and Miranda circulated together and separately, chattering among their friends. After several hours of gossiping and dancing and innumerable glasses of lukewarm lemonade, Miranda made a trip to the necessary room. Settling herself on the canned commode behind a silk screen, she suddenly heard the door open and then close again.

  “I thought we’d never get away.” The voice was speaking in French.

  “Neither did I,” came the voice of Gillian Abbott, also speaking French. “I have some very expensive information for you.”

  “How expensive?”

  “Double what you have paid me to date.”

  “How do I know it’s worth it?”

  “Surely I have proved reliable by now,” was Gillian’s exasperated reply.

  “Why this sudden and urgent need?”

  “Look,” snapped Gillian, “Abbott is on his last legs. When that nephew of his and his horse-faced wife come into the title, I’ll have nothing but a dower house in Northumberland to call my own. The whole damned estate is entailed, and I’m not to get a penny! Not a bloody penny! I can’t catch myself another rich title in Northumberland, and I don’t see the next Lord Abbott giving me living space in the town house. Well,” she amended, “he might, but his ugly wife wouldn’t, so I must provide my own living quarters. That costs a lot of money.”

  “I don’t know,” her companion hesitated.

  “I’ve got an impeccable source,” wheedled Gillian. “The American, Lord Dunham, is my lover. He and Henry Temple are very close.”

  “Lord Dunham is your lover? Very well, madam. I’ll pay you double for your information. But if it proves incorrect or of little importance, then you will owe me.” There was a rustling noise, and then, the voice said, “Mon Dieu, it’s not necessary to count it! When did I ever cheat you?”

  “Oh, very well.”

  Miranda leaned forward carefully, and peeped through the crack where the screen was hinged. She saw Gillian Abbott stuff a velvet bag into her cleavage. The other woman was young and pretty, a petite brunette in a fashionable red silk gown.

  “Your information, madam?”

  “America has declared war on England,” said Gillian calmly.

  “The Emperor has been waiting for this!” gasped the Frenchwoman.

  “I told you the information was valuable,” Gillian replied smugly. “You know, it has always amazed me that Napoleon uses a woman to spy.”

  The Frenchwoman laughed. “There is nothing unusual in women spying. Catherine de’Medici, the wife of Henri II, had a group of women known as the ‘Flying Squadron’ who gathered information.”

  “The English would never do such a thing,” remarked Gillian.

  “No,” came the amused reply. “You spy only for others, and for personal gain! We had best go, madam, lest someone come upon us. Adieu.”

  “Adieu,” said Gillian, and Mi
randa heard the door to the necessary room close. Peeping again through the crack in the screen, she saw that the room was empty.

  As quickly as she could, Miranda hurried back to the ballroom to find Jared. He stood talking with Lord Palmerston, who smiled warmly at her.

  “As usual, ma’am, your beauty eclipses everyone else’s,” Henry Temple declared gallantly.

  “Even Lady Cowper?” teased Miranda mischievously, knowing that the beauteous Emily was Lord Palmerston’s mistress.

  “Lord help me, I am Paris with his damned apple,” said Palmerston in mock dismay.

  “I am the prettiest American in the room, sir, and Lady Cowper is the loveliest Englishwoman,” said Miranda.

  “Ma’am, you are a born diplomat,” chuckled the Secretary of War.

  “I am a better spy, sir. Who is the lady in red? The petite brunette dancing with Lord Alvanley?”

  Lord Palmerston looked where she pointed. “That is the Comtesse Marianne de Bouche. She is married to the first secretary at the Swiss Embassy.”

  “She is also the spy to whom Lady Abbott passed on her information. I was in the necessary room just now, and when they came in they believed themselves alone and spoke freely. I am quite fluent in French, my lord, and I understood it all.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” said Lord Palmerston. “A woman! No wonder we could never catch our French spy. A woman! All along it was a woman! Cherchez la femme, indeed! By God, Lady Dunham, you have rendered us a great service! I shall not forget this, I promise you.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “The comtesse will be sent home. She is a diplomat’s wife and we can do nothing about her except to inform the Swiss Ambassador of the lady’s activities.”

  “And Gillian Abbott?”

  “She will be transported.”

  Miranda whitened. “What will you tell her husband?”

  “Old Lord Abbott is dead. He passed away earlier this evening, shortly after his wife left him. After the funeral we will arrest her quietly. Her disappearance from society will be attributed to mourning. She’ll soon enough be forgotten. Her own family is dead and she has no children. Frankly, m’dear, the gentlemen who’ve been her lovers will not be sorry to see her go, and the ladies certainly won’t miss her. We will be discreet. No need to embarrass either the new Lord Abbott or the memory of the old Lord Abbott.”

  “But to be transported!”

  “It is either that or hanging, m’dear.”

  “I should far rather be hanged. And so, I imagine, would Lady Abbott.

  “Hanging would make the matter public,” replied Lord Palmerston, shaking his head, “and we don’t want to do that. No, Lady Abbott will be transported for life—not to a penal colony but to the new Australia territories, where she’ll be sold as a bondwoman for seven years. After that, she’s on her own, but she’ll not be able to leave Australia.”

  “The poor woman,” said Miranda.

  “Don’t feel sorry for her, m’dear. She really doesn’t deserve it. Gillian Abbott betrayed her country for money.”

  “But she will be virtually a slave for seven years.” Miranda shuddered. “I do not approve of slavery.”

  “Neither do I,” replied Lord Palmerston. “But in Lady Abbott’s case it is our only solution.”

  Miranda’s fears for Lady Abbott proved unnecessary. Gillian learned of her impending arrest and fled England. It could only be assumed that one of her lovers had learned of the sentence to be imposed upon her, and felt sorry enough for her to warn her. The King’s officers had followed the black-clad Lady Abbott after the funeral, so as to arrest her quietly in her home. But beneath the mourning veils they found a young London actress, not Gillian Abbott. Horrified by the realization that she was involved in a crime, Miss Millicent Marlowe burst into tears, and told all.

  She was a bit player with Mr. Kean’s company, and had been hired two days before by a gentleman she’d never seen before. As the poor, frightened girl was obviously telling the truth, she was released and sent on her way. Lady Abbott’s maid, Peters, was sent for, but she could not be found. A search revealed that Peters had also fled. The new Lord Abbott wanted an end to the situation. Afraid of a scandal, he gave out that the new dowager had returned to her dower house in Northumberland for a year’s mourning.

  Jared and Miranda Dunham closed the house on Devon Square and departed for Swynford Hall, outside the town of Worcester.

  The trip took several days. They traveled quite comfortably in a large coach made especially for long journeys. There were two extra horses who trotted along with the grooms when Jared and Miranda were not riding them. Roger Bramwell had arranged the stopovers at pleasant, well-run inns. It was a lovely trip, and Miranda enjoyed being with her husband for those few days in the English countryside. She enjoyed it all the more, knowing that they would soon leave England for Russia.

  The countryside was lush with midsummer growth, a perfect frame for Swynford Hall, an E-shaped mansion that dated from early Elizabethan times. The bricks were a mellowed rose color, but most of the house was covered in shiny, dark green ivy. The carriage rumbled through gates of brick and iron as the smiling gatekeeper stood by. His plump wife bobbed a friendly curtsey from the gatehouse door as the carriage passed. The driveway was lined by rows of tall oaks, and there was an attractive dower house beyond the drive. Miranda chuckled.

  “The dowager Lady Swynford is in residence, I see. I didn’t think Mandy could do it.”

  “I did,” replied Jared. “She’s as stubborn as you are, my love, but her angelic appearance deceives everyone into believing she is a biddable female.”

  “Why, sir, am I not the most agreeable of females?”

  “Oh very agreeable,” he said smoothly, finishing, “when you get your own way!”

  “Wretch!” she teased. “You are no better than I!”

  “Exactly, m’lady, which is why we suit each other so damnably well!”

  They were both still laughing when the carriage stopped in front of the entry to Swynford Hall, where host and hostess were waiting. The two sisters hugged each other warmly, and then Miranda stepped back to view her radiant twin. “You seem to be surviving marriage,” she smiled.

  “I have simply followed your good example,” Amanda teased back.

  It was the beginning of a wonderful week. They were housed in a beautiful corner apartment that overlooked the gentle hills of Wales to the west and the estate’s lake and gardens to the south. Amanda and Adrian were still honeymooning, and were the least demanding of hosts. The two couples met only in the evening for dinner. There were no other guests, and only on their first evening at Swynford Hall did Adrian’s mama join them. She left the following day to visit her dear old friend, Lady Tallboys, in Brighton. The simple country life was far too dull and confining for her, she declared.

  At the end of a delightful week of riding and long walks in the woods, Miranda entered their apartment to find Mitchum packing her husband’s clothing. Startled, she asked what was going on.

  “M’lord has said we must depart for Russia tonight, m’lady,” answered the tall, austere valet.

  “Has Perky been informed? Why is she not packing my things?”

  “I was not aware that you were coming with us, m’lady,” replied Mitchum, suddenly uncomfortable.

  Miranda ran from the room and downstairs to the garden salon, where the others awaited her. Bursting into the room, she shouted at Jared, “When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to leave me a note? I thought we were going together!”

  “I must travel quickly, and it would be impossible for a woman.”

  “Why?”

  “Listen to me, wildcat. Napoleon is about to attack Russia. He believes that England and America are so involved with each other that they will not be able to aid the Tzar. I must get to St. Petersburg to get Alexander’s signature on a secret treaty of alliance between America, England, and Russia. We must break Napoleon!”
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br />   “But why may I not go?” she demanded.

  “Because I must get there and be back before the Russian winter sets in, Miranda. Summer is half gone already and winter comes to the far north long before it comes to the rest of Europe and England. Dream Witch is anchored just off the coast. Mitchum and I ride out tonight. We can’t wait for a carriage and a lady’s maid.”

  “I’ll ride with you! I don’t need Perky.”

  “No, Miranda. You’ve never spent more than two or three hours in the saddle, and it will be a bone-shattering ride to the sea. You’re to stay here with your sister and Adrian until I return. If anyone decides to visit Swynford you can say I’m ill and keeping to my room. I need you here, wildcat. If we both disappear for several weeks it could cause talk.

  “Oh, my love, I want to go home to Wyndsong! I want to raise our horses, and send my ships to the far corners of the earth in safety. I want to found a dynasty built on the love we have for each other. We can do none of these things while the damned world is upside down!”

  “I hate you for this!” she said fiercely. After a moment, she asked, “How long?”

  “I should be back by the end of October.”

  “Should be?”

  “I will be!”

  “You had better be, m’lord, or I shall come looking for you!”

  “You would too, wouldn’t you, wildcat?” He reached out and pulled her roughly against him. She looked up into his face, her sea-green eyes devouring his visage. “I will come home quickly, my love,” he said huskily and kissed her hungrily.

  Watching them from a corner of the room, Lady Amanda Swynford reflected again that she far preferred the gentle love she had for her Adrian to this savage passion. Her sister and Jared were so intense, and when they became involved in each other the world about them ceased to exist. The blazing love that raged between her twin and Jared was somehow so … so primitive!

  Reading her thoughts, Lord Swynford approached quietly and put a reassuring arm around his bride. “It is just that they are so very American and you and I are so very English.”