Jason, however, had very definite ideas about the gowns in question, and these ideas did not coincide with her own.
“But Mr. Blakewell said mademoiselle was to have the best,” protested Madame Beaumont, when Miranda pointed out it was unnecessary for a day gown to have both glass beading and fox fur banding the hem.
“Mr. Blakewell is not the one who is going to wear this dress,” said Miranda, adding when Madame held up a second gown, “and one will be quite sufficient, thank you.”
Madame Beaumont threw up her hands in a gesture of Gallic despair. “But Mr. Blakewell wished to have a half dozen made up, at the very least!”
“If Mr. Blakewell wishes them made up, then Mr. Blakewell can wear them himself,” said Miranda. Accepting at least one gown from Jason was inevitable, but she had no intention of accepting more than one. “This will be perfectly sufficient for my needs.”
When she had finally persuaded Madame to depart, leaving behind only a simple dove gray day gown and a navy pelisse, Miranda dressed and pinned her hair without bothering to summon Harriet. Then, tidy and composed, she set out to search for Jason.
In truth, after the painful scene of the night before, the thought of facing him again made her stomach clench unpleasantly, but she told herself not to be a ninny. Jason had promised to help William, and she needed to know what steps he had taken to ensure her brother’s safety. Though her brother ought to be safe enough in Middlesex, she was uncertain how long he would be willing to remain there, and she had a sudden, unsettling vision of him setting out for London to search for her.
The best way to deal with Jason this morning would be to act as though absolutely nothing untoward had happened the night before. While she had agreed to his outrageous and insulting proposition, and permitted him to kiss her in the most scandalous fashion, she had no intention of encouraging his bad behavior. Whether or not she wanted him to kiss her again was entirely beside the point. For now, her first priority was William.
At the top of the steps, Miranda encountered a hall boy who informed her Jason was in his office. Remembering the route by which Oliver Harvey had brought her to the bedroom the night before, she found her way down to Jason’s office. However, a massive young footman now stood in front of the door, evidently to bar anyone from entering.
Miranda considered him for a moment and then, undeterred, swept forward. He bowed hastily.
“I am here to see Mr. Blakewell,” said Miranda, inclining her head.
“I’m sorry, miss,” said the footman, flushing deeply, “but Mr. Blakewell isn’t to be disturbed. He’s with Mr. Harvey and Mr. Page.”
“Mr. Blakewell will see me,” said Miranda.
The boy looked uncertain, and Miranda said gently, “Be so good as to inform him I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but I daren’t. It’s worth more than me post if Mr. Blakewell was disturbed in his office while he’s with Mr. Harvey and Mr. Page.”
“Don’t worry,” said Miranda. “Your post is quite secure. I shall see to it.”
The footman continued to gaze unhappily at her. Miranda sighed. “Very well,” she said. “If you do not wish to show me in, I shall announce myself. Please stand aside.”
A footman, even a footman with such obvious fear of his employer, was no match for Miranda, and though he continued to look anxious, he stepped aside and allowed her to pass. She turned the handle on the door and pushed the door open.
As the footman had informed her, Jason sat at his desk, deep in conversation with both Oliver Harvey and a man she had not met before but assumed was Mr. Page. This dapper gentleman’s drooping mustache and protuberant belly gave him a pronounced resemblance to certain species of Laptev walrus, and his voice was deep and sonorous as he said, “We shall require a new shipment of dice within a few—”
He broke off and glanced up. His eyes, set deep in his many-folded face, were as black and cunning as a fox’s.
Jason looked up as well. His dark hair stood on end, as though he had run his fingers through it in frustration. He had changed his clothes, but they were decidedly rumpled. In the late morning light his face was lined and tired, but his expression was as closed and forbidding as ever. He was evidently once again entirely in control of himself, and for a moment Miranda wondered if she had imagined the searing kiss and the highly improper bargain of the night before.
Well, if he could pretend nothing had happened, she was quite capable of doing the same.
“Good morning, Mr. Blakewell,” she said crisply. “Mr. Harvey.” She bowed to Oliver, then turned her attention to the third man. “Mr. Page, I presume?”
“Indeed, indeed,” said the third man, taking the hand she offered him and bending over it. “Enchanted to make your acquaintance. Miss Thornwood, is it?”
“It is,” said Miranda, smiling.
“Delighted to meet you,” said Mr. Page, pressing a gallant kiss to the back of her hand.
“Mr. Page is the inspector here at the club,” said Oliver Harvey, when it became clear Jason had no intention of performing the introductions. “He is responsible for play in the hazard room.” He cleared his throat discreetly. “We were just on our way out, weren’t we, Mr. Page?”
“Indeed we were, Mr. Harvey, indeed we were,” said Mr. Page. He bowed once again to Miranda, then cast a speculative glance at Jason. “Good day, Mr. Blakewell.”
Jason inclined his head without removing his gaze from Miranda. When the door had closed behind his two employees, he addressed her.
“Elliott has the strictest instructions not to permit anyone to interrupt my morning sessions with Olly and George,” said Jason. “I ought to dismiss him immediately.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Miranda. Since it appeared no invitation to sit was forthcoming, she took the chair Oliver Harvey had recently vacated. “You shall do no such thing.”
Jason did not respond. Instead, he raked her new dress and pelisse with a single dismissive glance. “I see Madame Beaumont kept her appointment.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “It was very kind of you to send for her.”
“As enchanting as it was to watch you falling out of that gown last night,” he said, “I thought it best if you had something else to wear.” He regarded her coldly, and Miranda did not permit herself to blush at the mention of the previous night. “What is it you wished to see me about, Miss Thornwood?”
“My brother, of course,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely. “I wish to know what you intend to do regarding our predicament.”
“Ah yes. Naturally. Your brother. I have already made arrangements. You need not worry. I shall take care of everything.”
Miranda, watching him, could well believe it. The man who sat before her was not the same boy she had loved so long ago, in what felt like another lifetime. This was not the boy who had taught her how to fish, how to skip stones across water, how to climb trees, the boy who’d had little understanding and even less interest in wealth, power or the nobility.
This was not the boy who had loved her. The man sitting before her, with his expensive clothes and his saturnine features, was hard and dangerous. This man, with his vitality, his indomitable will, his sheer gall, was the man who had beggared half the aristocracy of England while forcing them to accept him as one of their own.
He was not the boy she had known, but she had to believe that somewhere, buried deep behind this facade of a stranger, that boy still existed. That hope had carried her to London, and it was to him she now appealed.
“Thank you,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “I realize my presence here is not particularly convenient for you. Nevertheless, I wish to be kept apprised of your plans to help William. He is my brother and therefore my responsibility.”
Jason leaned back into his chair and raised a mocking brow.
“I am devastated, Miss Thornwood,” he murmured. “You do not trust me to take care of the matter?”
She met his gaze very steadily.
For the first time since her arrival at Blakewell’s the night before, a look of uncertainty crossed his face. It was quickly gone, but it had been unmistakable.
She drew a quiet breath.
“Give me Hannah’s address in Middlesex,” said Jason abruptly. He no longer looked at her. “I am sending out several of my men today to make inquiries in Hertfordshire. When they are finished, they’ll go to Middlesex and escort Hannah and William to my estate in Buckinghamshire.”
Miranda blinked and looked up at him. It was her turn to be surprised.
“You have an estate in Buckinghamshire?”
“Yes.” He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and said, “It was formerly Wycombe Manor, but Lord Wycombe elected to give me the deed in lieu of paying debts he owed to the club.”
“I see,” said Miranda. “And what is it you hope to discover in Hertfordshire?”
“I believe it would be interesting to see what has happened at Thornwood Hall since your uncle’s death,” said Jason.
Miranda frowned. “Why?” she asked. “No doubt they are planning his funeral and scouring the countryside for William.”
“Perhaps,” said Jason, “and perhaps not. Either way, I think it would be beneficial to discover what your aunt is about. In the meanwhile, if you’d like to write a note to your brother to reassure him, I’ll see that it is delivered.”
“I see,” said Miranda. “And yes, thank you.”
He removed a few sheets of foolscap from his desk and handed her a pen and inkwell. Miranda scribbled out a quick note, reassuring William of her safety and instructing him to go with Jason’s men to Buckinghamshire.
That Jason’s men would take William to Buckinghamshire and therefore place her brother out of her aunt’s reach filled her with a quiet sense of relief. Though Aunt Beatrice was unlikely to track William to Hannah’s village in Middlesex, someone might think to look for him there.
When Miranda finished writing and the ink had dried, she folded the foolscap very carefully. Jason slid the letter into an envelope, then scrawled something across the front in a bold, sprawling hand. An image of Jason sitting beside her in the woods behind Thornwood, scowling at her as she forced him to practice his penmanship, rose in her mind. She banished it.
“After William is safely removed to my estate,” Jason said, setting aside the envelope, “I’ll be able to conduct any investigation at a more leisurely pace. I’ve already written to my lawyers regarding the matter, and there are a few other lines of inquiry I wish to pursue.”
“What other lines of inquiry?” Miranda asked sharply.
“I wish to speak with your Uncle Clarence’s son, Laurence, for one.”
She gave an involuntary start. “Laurence? Why? Is he even still in town? I’d have thought he already removed to Hertfordshire to be with his mother.”
“Even after the night you say William killed your uncle, he has continued to gamble rather heavily here at Blakewell’s,” said Jason. “And according to his friend Mr. Murray, he’s also been playing heavily in a few other St. James clubs. I think it would be very interesting to ask him about his father.”
“Laurence is still here in London?” Miranda folded her hands and considered. “How very odd. It’s only been a little under a week since his father died. Why hasn’t his mother summoned him back to Thornwood?”
“It’s very odd,” agreed Jason. “I should like to find out more.”
“Very well then, sir,” said Miranda. She rose to her feet. “Thank you again. You will keep me apprised of your progress?”
Jason stood as well, inclining his head briefly. “If that is your wish, Miss Thornwood.”
“It is.”
He nodded, and she turned to leave, but the sound of Jason’s voice stopped her.
“Wait.”
She turned her head and found him regarding her from across the expanse of desk separating them.
“If you wish to leave the club today, inform Oliver,” he said. “He’ll send for the carriage and open accounts in your name at any Oxford Street shops that interest you.”
Miranda stiffened. The idea of spending Jason’s money filled her with instant distaste, though she ought to be beyond such niceties. She had, after all, already accepted the highly improper gift of new clothes earlier that morning, and moreover, she had consented to become his mistress only the night before. Though she was country-bred and not very worldly, she knew men customarily provided their paramours with all manners of gowns, jewels and other expensive gifts.
Nevertheless, the thought of everything they had once shared being reduced to a mere transaction made her sick. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit she had agreed to be his mistress because she was weak, and she had loved him more than life, and had never stopped loving him. If the only way she could have some small part of him once again was as his lover, she was willing to pay the price. But when she went to him, it would not be because of his promise to help her. She was not for sale—not for money, not for jewels, not even for her brother’s safety.
Aloud, she merely said, “That will not be necessary, thank you.”
“You would like to go riding then, perhaps?” He gestured to the green rolling parkland visible from the window behind his desk. “I can have one of my men arrange for the purchase of a mare at Tattersall’s this afternoon.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I would prefer to remain here. At Blakewell’s.”
“You would?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be exceedingly dull for you, I’m afraid. There isn’t a great deal for a lady to do at a gentleman’s club. I suppose you could read. There are the books in my suite, and if you want something from the library, have Olly or Mr. Page or one of the footmen fetch it for you.”
“Do not worry about me, sir,” said Miranda quietly. “I do not require entertaining.”
Dipping a slight curtsy, she turned on her heel and crossed the length of Jason’s office, stepped out and shut the door very gently behind her.
Not long after Miranda had returned to her room, Harriet brought up a light luncheon and laid it out on the small table.
“Thank you, Harriet,” said Miranda, though she was not particularly hungry.
The girl nodded and bobbed a quick curtsy. She turned, but for the first time that day, Miranda caught a clear glimpse of the girl’s face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her cheeks were splotchy. She had been crying.
“Are you well, Harriet?” Miranda asked quickly.
Beneath the fringe of her massive lace cap, Harriet’s eyes grew round and she gave another reflexive curtsy.
“Yes, of course, miss,” she said, but her mouth trembled.
Miranda gazed sharply at her. Before her aunt’s arrival, Miranda had been mistress of Thornwood since she was little more than a child. Along with the housekeeper Mrs. Andrewes and the butler Hawkins, she had once ruled over an entire battalion of ladies’ maids and housemaids, sewing girls and laundry maids, kitchen maids and scullions. She was intimately acquainted with the species; she had nursed them through head colds and measles, listened to their rapturous exclamations when they fell in love, and comforted them when they were betrayed.
Miranda had only met Harriet the night before and they had exchanged very few words, but she knew with a deep and unshakable certainty the girl was not well. Perhaps, despite the blotches on her face, Harriet was not actually ill, but something troubled her. From experience, Miranda guessed the girl had either been recently disappointed in love, or something was not right at home.
A certain relief flowered through her at being able to turn her attention toward someone else’s problems and away from her own. Miranda addressed the girl as she would have done a maid in her own home.
“Tell me at once what is the matter,” she said, her voice calm and implacable.
“No, no, it’s nothing, miss!” exclaimed Harriet, shakin
g her head so violently the enormous lace cap fluttered like cobwebs in a breeze.
“Harriet,” said Miranda gently, and then waited.
Inevitably, Miranda’s steely will eventually overbore Harriet’s wavering protests. With a faint wail, the little maid buried her face in her hands.
“It’s me mum,” she sobbed. “She’s fell sick real sudden-like last night. Me pa sent a message this morning and said he thought it was the fever. He’s worried the little ones would get sick too, and he wants me to come home.”
“I rather thought it was something like that,” said Miranda, patting the girl sympathetically on the shoulder. “Where is your family?”
“Hampstead Heath,” said Harriet, between sniffles.
“Well, then, why don’t you take a day and go home to visit her?”
“I can’t do that,” exclaimed Harriet, her round eyes widening.
“Mr. Blakewell does not give you time off?” Miranda asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
“Mr. Blakewell?” the maid asked. She stopped sobbing, evidently out of surprise at the question. “Oh, no, miss, I am not part of the club staff. The kitchen staff is employed by Monsieur Leblanc, and he would never permit it!”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “You are not permitted to have a day off now and then?” she asked.
“We ’ave a half-day every week, and a full day every month,” said Harriet. “But my next full day isn’t for another three weeks.”
“Nevertheless, your mother is ill, and you are needed at home,” said Miranda.
“But Monsieur Leblanc would be furious if I’m not around to help with the preparations for supper.”
Miranda considered for only half a moment before she made up her mind.
“I’ll deal with him,” said Miranda firmly.
Harriet looked up at her with watery eyes. “Miss?”
“I will go to the kitchens to speak with Monsieur Leblanc,” said Miranda. “You are to go pack your things.”
Lily Lang Page 4