“Well, it’s over now, at any rate.” The Prince Regent settled into a chair. “You’ll have to perform some other feat of strength, I suppose.” He laughed and pointed skyward. “Go fetch me a golden fleece, Jason!”
Chuckling, he took a healthy sip of the brandy and leaned back with a sigh. “Worthingtons! Always good for a laugh!”
Cas held his temper carefully. “Your Highness, respectfully, I did not come here to amuse you. I came to beg you to address a grave injustice, done to a woman who deserves better!”
Quickly, Cas explained the situation to the Prince Regent, emphasizing his own fault, Constance’s conniving, and Miranda’s extreme innocence. He brought forth the scribbled practice sheets, the newssheets with Constance’s accounting of Miranda’s parents. “It is all so unfair! Please, Your Highness, you must help her!”
Prinny yawned. “Why should I?”
Cas gaped at him. “Because it is an injustice!” He thought quickly. “Because Mrs. Talbot is a loyal subject, a respectable woman—and because the Scandal Clause is a terrible notion. You wouldn’t want that to become a regular practice, would you? Think of all the widows who would be forced to lock their knees!”
“Don’t preach policy to me, whelp.” The Prince Regent gazed at him impatiently. “You made this mess. You clean it up!”
Cas turned away, thrusting his hands through his hair. “I would if I only knew how!”
Prinny seemed to take pity on him. “I know what it’s like to get it all wrong,” he said quietly. “To do nothing but harm when you meant only the best.”
Cas knew the Prince Regent was thinking of his youthful marriage to his beloved Maria Fitzherbert, which had been declared invalid so that he could make a later state marriage.
The Prince Regent stood and poured himself another brandy. He lifted the hand with the glass and pointed one finger at Cas. “You’re the problem, you know. Not Poll. You’re the worst tomcat in London. The best thing you can do is to leave her alone. Leave her in peace. Hell, leave England!” He waved a hand, carelessly splashing the brandy on his blinding white silk weskit. “With you out of sight, there will then be half as many opportunities for people to be reminded of her notoriety.”
Cas went very still. “Yes. I could travel out to the West Indies for a time. I shall come back, when they forget.”
“Ha!” Prinny tossed the newssheet back at him with the retelling of Miranda’s scandalous parents. “They never forget.” He sighed. “Ever.”
“No, I’ll go—if it will save her. If I leave, will you help her?”
The Prince Regent swallowed the brandy he’d been swishing in his mouth. “You’d really leave England?”
Cas didn’t even hesitate—not with the image of broken Miranda locked behind his eyes. “I will board a ship at first light if it means she will regain what I have cost her!”
For a moment, the Prince Regent looked envious. Then he snorted. “Fine,” he agreed, clearly disbelieving. He raised his glass in vow. “When that ship leaves the harbor, I will overturn the will.” He scowled as he lifted his glass to his lips. “Bloody ‘Scandal Clause’! We wouldn’t want that to become a regular practice, would We? There wouldn’t be a willing widow left in all of England!”
The Prince Regent was fond of his widows.
Chapter Thirty-four
Miranda sat blankly, staring at nothing. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. How had she filled her days before the Worthingtons struck?
Then she remembered. She turned to Button and Cabot. “I fear I must go. I am quite late for a meeting with the matron at the orphanage.”
“Of course,” Button added thoughtfully as she stood to leave, “it will do you good.”
Miranda made some garbled reply and left the house as if she’d been shot from a cannon. It was not a visit she looked forward to. She had no choice but to inform the matron that she could no longer assist the efforts of the home financially. Indeed, any further association with her would only taint the very results they wished to achieve.
The silence on the ride in the carriage, at first relatively peaceful, soon made her remember when she’d clung to Cas, wet to the skin and freezing and how he’d warmed her.
How he had kept her safe.
Hot, silent tears dripped onto her folded hands as she stared blindly out the small square window, lost in memory.
When Miranda arrived at the children’s home, her heart still lay so heavy in her chest that it seemed only natural that she would find the matron in tears as well.
Then she shook off her melancholy and peered more closely at Matron Beetles. “Oh, dear, is something wrong? Is it one of the children?”
“Yes! I mean, no, not one of them—oh, Mrs. Talbot, I’ve made such a mess of things! And the children are so hungry!”
That last fact snapped Miranda from her dolor as nothing else would have. “How can they be hungry? I have made sure that everything they need is delivered right to your door!”
Matron Beetles dried her eyes with her handkerchief and returned it to the pocket of her starched pinafore. Then she stood before Miranda with her shoulders slumped in shame.
“I suppose naught will do but to show you.”
She led Miranda down a dark servant stair to the kitchens. On one of the wide, worn tables there, someone had deposited several large baskets covered in cheap burlap.
“This is the bread delivery, missus.”
Miranda drew back. “It doesn’t smell like fresh bread.” Reaching over, she whisked the burlap aside to see rather ordinary looking loaves. They were brown and fairly even. When she looked at Matron Beetles curiously, the woman picked up a loaf with one hand and tapped it on the table. A loud knocking noise resulted.
“Stale!” Miranda frowned. “As hard as rocks! But when was this delivered?”
“This morning, just before noon. Late it was, late it has been, ever since…” Matron Beetles shook her head. “That’s not the worst of it, missus. Stale I can work with. Cook could make a pudding with egg and currants, or we could make a bit of goose stuffing or some such. But…”
She pulled off the top lay of loaves one by one to reveal the next layer of black crusts and loaves edged in round, greenish patches. Miranda gasped. “Burned! And moldy as well!”
Furiously, she turned on Matron Beetles. “Why did you not inform me at once that the baker is cheating you?”
The woman paled and twisted her hands together. “After the first time, I thought I could persuade the baker to make it right. He scoffed at me, he did. He said that he’d found out what sort of children we kept here. He told me that if I dared to tell the authorities that he would tell them he’d caught one of my charges stealing from him and have the child locked away. ‘Who do you think they’ll believe?’ he said. ‘An upstanding tradesman or a bunch of infant thieves?’
“I told him we would take our custom elsewhere and he said he would just tell the world if I did.” The matron looked down at the carpet, her round features miserable. “I was afraid he’d make good his threat, missus. Word could get out, you see. People would take objection to the house, sayin’ the children ought to be put away with their parents, not left free to do mischief.”
Rage burned hot within Miranda. She knew firsthand the prejudice that Matron Beetles spoke of. She’d hoped to keep the primary mission of the home secret, which would hopefully allow some of the children a clean slate when they ventured out into the world. An “orphan” from a blandly respectable school might find honest work where a prisoner’s child would not.
It was a shame to build lives on lies, but how else when the truth would ruin them all?
She flinched from the obvious correlation to her own current difficulty and focused her fury on the perfect target.
“Let us go speak to this baker, shall we?”
* * *
The greedy baker’s name was Malden. Miranda recalled it on the walk of more than three blocks, and also recalled how piteously the man had bemo
aned the fate of the poor orphans last spring and had professed his desire to help.
“I’ll be sure to throw in a bit extra, just a few cakes now and then, missus. It’ll do me heart good to see them wee ones fattened up a bit. Wouldn’t want them to be getting sickly come winter, would we?”
From the perspective of her greater experience in the foibles of man, Miranda now recalled the gleam of avarice in the fellow’s eyes, which at the time she had taken for a friendly twinkle.
Heavens, she had been so credulous. If nothing else, she’d gained a more realistic perspective on human nature along with her other battle scars.
The bakery still appeared wholesome and honest, with its handsome wooden shelves and cases behind the counter filled with decadent buns and pastries.
Miranda strolled in, looking for all the world like a lady in search of a popover.
Malden stepped smartly up to serve her. He was a short, burly fellow with bushy … well, everything. Among the bushiness, his bright blue eyes gleamed like cold little stones.
Wiping his big hands on his apron, he regarded Miranda without recognition. Of course, she looked very little like the drab and serious housewife with whom he had originally bargained. In a swiftly borrowed Lementeur gown and a stunning bonnet, decorated and sent to her yesterday by Lady Wyndham in a supportive gesture, she looked ruthlessly stylish and very, very rich.
More lies, in a world built on lies.
She smiled sweetly at the baker. He ogled back. It didn’t hurt that she had removed her lace from her neckline and had given her bosom a nice plumping by bending over in the Button’s office and rearranging matters, aided by Cabot’s loan of two bath sponges.
She blinked vapidly at him. “What a pretty shop. What pretty breads! I think I’ll take them all.”
The baker smiled, not quite sure if she were joking or simply idiotic. She leaned forward over the counter—or rather, her bosom leaned forward—as she held out one gloved hand. “Will one of these do?”
Her palm was full of guineas, hastily borrowed from Button, who apparently kept them in jam jars, rolling about amid buttons and thimbles. A single guinea would buy a bakery full of bread, for weeks. Tucked in amongst the gleaming gold coins was a dull copper penny.
The fellow swallowed. “One of them might just about cover it. I suppose I’ll allow it, since you are such a fine and lovely lady.” He leered.
Flirting? Ugh!
Miranda clapped her hands with silly glee. Her conspiratorial bosom jiggled. The baker took the coin she dropped into his hand without so much as glancing at it.
“Children!” she called over her shoulder. “Do come in and help yourselves!”
In an instant, the shop was filled to bursting with children. Like locusts they descended—rather loud, rowdy locusts, swarming madly and voraciously as they filled their hands and pockets and pinafores and arms with bread and scones and buns and sticky sweet iced cakes and then ran out again, shrieking and giggling. There was nothing left but crumbs and a single, trampled loaf in the middle of the floor.
The entire event had taken place in less than ninety seconds. It had been positively Worthingtonian.
The baker looked shaken, but his fist simply tightened about the coin and he gave Miranda an obsequious bow.
“That’s precious generous of you, madam, given them urchins a treat like that. I would’ve rather delivered it all, for they’ve made a bit of mess in me shop.” Then he shrugged. “Still, I suppose the gold will cover it.”
Miranda smiled at him. “Gold? Did I say anything about gold?”
The baker opened his fist and examined the coin with a frown. It was the round copper penny.
“But … but…”
“You must be more attentive, sir.” Miranda shrugged. “I can’t imagine why you thought I gave you gold. Don’t you know the difference between a guinea and a penny?” She smiled at her little rhyme, righteousness burning in her veins.
The man finally found his voice. “You robbed me! I’ll have the law on you, I will!”
Miranda straightened and smiled with sugary ferocity.
“Oh, do. I wonder who the magistrate will believe: a lady or a cheating tradesman?”
* * *
Defying the baker gave Miranda courage. Her heart beat faster. Her lungs filled with air.
I remember this.
She’d found it once already. She’d been living quietly, if one could call it living, hoping that if she held on long enough, someone would rescue her.
Well, someone did. She did, with the help of her lover and her friend, who taught her how to speak and fight for herself.
She’d been wrong to blame Cas for everything that had happened. She’d knowingly stepped out from beneath the umbrella of propriety into the dicey rain—because she’d wanted more.
He’d certainly given that to her. He’d given her excitement, and passion, and dreams the like of which she’d never dared to dream.
The fact that her heart could break was the chance she had taken. She loved him.
She would not undo that love, even though he had so obviously not returned it. That deep and whirling maelstrom had made a woman out of a repressed girl. It had filled her, expanded her, shown her a world that glowed and shimmered and breathed. She refused to unsee that world.
I will never live under anyone’s thumb again. I will never again be afraid. I will be scandalous but free.
She smiled. She wanted to tell someone what she had realized—someone who would understand the dizzying intoxicating freedom that fizzed through her blood.
She wanted to share it with her family.
The Worthingtons.
Chapter Thirty-five
Miranda arrived at Worthington House with her heart bursting, ready to share her brilliant new understanding with everyone, up to and including Cas. She knew that seeing him would be painful, but she was not angry—not any longer. He’d not kept promises, for he’d not made any.
Her love for him would never fade, even were it not fed by his affections. However, there was no reason to deny herself of Poll’s friendship, and Attie’s stubborn loyalty, and Elektra’s bright and vivacious company, or even Iris’s dreamy insight!
However, Worthington House was as sad and drear a place as Miranda had ever seen. Philpott opened the door for Miranda, and answered her greeting with a sob. Tossing her apron over her face, she scuttled from the entrance hall as if she’d seen a ghost.
A pale and furious Attie sat on the bottom stair, staring hard at Miranda.
“I don’t hate you,” Attie said firmly.
Miranda nodded cautiously in greeting. “Nor do I dislike you.”
The child had made a real attempt to dress properly today. Her frock was quite nice, if a bit long and a bit loose in the bodice. She wore proper stockings and shoes, though she’d managed to tear a ladder into her stockings already and her shoes looked a little tight.
Her hair was the most astounding transformation. Attie saw her staring and raised her fingers to touch her elaborate hairstyle.
“Ellie asked if she could practice braiding on me. I liked the way it looked so I’ve been practicing, too.” Braids, indeed. There were perhaps seven or eight of them, sprouting from all areas of her head like a palm, or perhaps the legs of an octopus. Each glossy, perfect braid was tied off with a different substance. Ribbon, twine, clothesline, wire, sprung springs—it seemed that Attie had raided the infamous workshop Miranda had heard so much about.
Miranda hadn’t the slightest urge to chuckle. She was much too moved by the words “Ellie asked.” It seemed that the lovely Elektra had actually been listening.
Attie’s little freckled face screwed up into a hideous grimace. Miranda thought with some alarm that the child was either going to sneeze or possibly combust.
“I didn’t mean to do it!”
Miranda’s first response was, “Of course, you didn’t!” Then she thought perhaps she ought to clarify. “Ah … what precisely
do you think you didn’t mean to do?”
Attie knuckled her eyes for a moment. Miranda saw the tiny child still lurking just under the worldly-wise skin.
“I didn’t mean to make you notorious! I just thought that if you had lots of beaus that you wouldn’t make Cas and Poll fight—because they were fighting and they’ve never fought before—not since they were my age and Dade had to sit on them to make them stop—”
This was obviously a story Attie relished and to be frank, Miranda was a bit curious to hear more, but she stopped Attie with a gentle hand on her bony little shoulder.
“Attie, you didn’t make me notorious. Someone tricked me into going someplace I shouldn’t have gone, and someone who shouldn’t have seen me there did see me there and then they only told the simple truth—so it was really my own doing that I ended up notorious.”
She rather liked that word. She rolled it around in her mind while she waited for Attie’s response.
Notorious.
The Notorious Miranda Talbot.
And then, because she was in the privacy of her own mind and it was no one’s business what she dreamed of—
The Notorious Miranda Worthington.
“So there,” she told Attie. “Now, you’ve nothing to cry over at all.”
Attie’s face started to crumple once again. “Yes, I do! I do! Because Cas is gone!”
Miranda went very still. “Gone? Where has he gone?”
Attie laid her head down on her arms that were crossed over her bent knees. She said something damp and muffled that Miranda was quite horribly certain translated as “The West Indies.”
“Attie,” she said slowly. “I need to speak to Poll.”
* * *
Miranda found Poll easily enough. At first she wasn’t quite sure. When the stout housekeeper in voluminous striped muslin showed Miranda to the jumbled workshop, she saw the brooding figure leaning one elbow on the table, his jaw hard and his eyes narrowed as he stared unseeing at the coals in the iron stove.
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