The Price of Indiscretion

by Cathy Maxwell

  But Miranda wasn’t about to take such an accusation without a response. “I thought you considered him your friend.”

  She could feel Michael’s eyes boring into her in the dark. “He’s my blood brother. I loved him.”

  Miranda noticed the use of past tense. “I won’t come between you—”

  “You already have.” He put up the shade so that light from the coach lantern on his side could enter the compartment. He could see her, but his face was still in shadow when he said, “It would be different if I thought you offered him something, but you don’t. Since you’ve come into his life, he has behaved erratically. I’ve never seen him indecisive. He deserves better than you.”

  This was a switch. In the past, she’d always been told she deserved better than Alex, mostly because of his Indian blood. Now the charge was leveled at her, and for far better reason. She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “You may be right,” she agreed slowly. “I don’t want to hurt him. I never wanted to hurt him.”

  “He’s been nothing but hurt since the day you met him.”

  “How would you know? You weren’t there.”

  “I didn’t have to be, Miranda. I’ve always sensed there was a woman in his past.”

  “I don’t want to be in his past. I wish to be in his present.”

  “And you will destroy him if you are. You’ve already almost done it once, haven’t you?”

  She sat back in the corner. He was right. She had no defense.

  His expression sober, Michael said, “Let him go.”

  Miranda doubled her fists in the small bundle of clothes she held in her lap. “You just want me to marry Colster for your own gain.”

  “Aye, I’ll gain, but do you really believe that? Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Alex hasn’t been himself since the moment the two of you crossed paths in the Azores. I want him back the way he was, Miranda. I don’t want to lose my brother.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” she admitted.

  “You must. If you love him, you must.”

  At that moment, the coach pulled to a halt. Bolling, the butler, opened the coach door himself.

  She didn’t wait for Michael but hurried into the house and escaped to her room.

  A candle burned in a lamp by her bed. The bedclothes had been turned down. Alice wasn’t there. Miranda feared that this night’s work had cost Alice dearly.

  She dropped her bundle of stockings and petticoats and fell to her knees. For a long moment she stayed there. If she closed her eyes, she could recall the feeling of Alex being in her. She could taste his kisses and catch the memory of the warmth of his skin.

  She would not fail him. No matter what.

  Her mind set, she picked up the loose articles of clothes and, rising, placed them on the bench in front of her dressing table. She tossed on a night dress and climbed beneath the sheets. She didn’t expect sleep to come, but the moment she closed her eyes, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When she woke, she was looking into her sister Constance’s smiling face, and for a moment forgot where she was. Constance looked so happy to see her that all Miranda could do was smile back.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Constance said and then giggled, obviously pleased with herself for surprising her sister.

  “Good morning,” Miranda whispered even as everything that had happened the night before came rushing back to her.

  “I’ve never known you to sleep so much,” Constance chided. “Being in London has made you lazy.” She rolled over and jumped up from the bed, heedless of her skirts going every which way.

  Miranda pushed herself up, uncertain if she dreamed. Tears rushed to her eyes. Constance caught sight of them.

  “What is the matter?” she asked, all concern. “Charlotte, she’s crying.”

  Turning in the direction Constance looked, Miranda found her oldest sister standing by her dressing table inspecting the pots of beauty aids.

  Her beautiful, beautiful sisters were here.

  Charlotte had turned when Constance spoke and now looked at Miranda with concern. “What is the matter?” she asked, coming over to the bed.

  Miranda couldn’t speak. All she could do was throw an arm around each of her sisters and hug them for all she was worth.

  And they hugged back.

  For a long moment no one spoke. Charlotte pulled back first. She took a corner of the bedsheet and dried Miranda’s eyes. “You silly goose. I was worried when I was told we shouldn’t wake you last night.”

  She should have worried. But Miranda kept that to herself. She didn’t want anything to spoil the reunion just yet.

  “Did you have a good trip?” she managed to ask around the tightness in her throat.

  “I never want to sail again,” Constance declared.

  “She suffered from seasickness,” Charlotte explained. “I even had a touch of it myself. How did you fare?”

  “Being at sea never bothered me,” Miranda said. It was growing easier to speak.

  Charlotte took Miranda’s hand. “We are so proud of you.” She gave Miranda’s hand a squeeze. “When we discussed a duke, I didn’t imagine such a thing would happen. Why, even in Portsmouth they knew your name.”

  “Yes,” Constance agreed. “You are famous. Everyone knows you are going to marry the Duke of Colster, and they were ever so nice to us.”

  “And this house,” Charlotte said, looking up at the ceilings and around the room. “I could never have imagined such a place. I said to one of the servants that the duke couldn’t have such a fine place, and she assured me the duke’s homes are much finer and he has more of them.” She sat back as if she couldn’t contemplate such a thing. “My dear, dear sister, you have done very well with our money.”

  Here was the opportunity for Miranda to tell them what had happened. She knew Charlotte would not be pleased, but it must be said.

  However, before she could open her mouth, there was a knock on the door and, God help her, Miranda welcomed the intrusion. She hated disappointing Charlotte.

  “Come in,” she called.

  Isabel entered the room. Her gaze met Miranda’s as if she was willing to pretend nothing had happened last night. For a moment Miranda thought perhaps she didn’t know, and then dismissed the idea. Isabel and Michael were too close not to share such an important secret.

  “Have you met my sisters?” Miranda asked.

  “Yes, last night.” Isabel seemed relieved to have someone else to focus on other than Miranda. “How did you sleep?” she asked them.

  “Very well, thank you,” Charlotte answered. “Your home is lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Isabel turned to Miranda. “I had a note from His Grace, the Duke of Colster,” she said, her voice sounding slightly strained. “He asked if it would be possible to pay a call at eleven to meet ‘his intended’s’ sisters.”

  Miranda heard the subtle challenge in her voice, but her sisters didn’t. “What time is it now?”

  “Half past nine,” Isabel responded, and Miranda realized it would take her every minute of an hour and a half to prepare herself for the coming interview. Here was her chance to talk to His Grace and cry off.

  Cry off. It sounded terrible and yet it was what she must do.

  “A duke wants to meet us,” Charlotte said, more excited that Miranda had ever seen her before. “I can’t believe this is happening. What does one say to a duke?”

  “And do we curtsy?” Constance wondered, sounding a bit panicked.

  “You talk about the weather,” Miranda replied, answering the first question with the standard Lady Overstreet answer, and added, “Yes,” to Constance’s question. “Isabel, is Lady Overstreet up?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Perhaps she can give my sisters a quick lesson and then we shall have to have clothes.” Miranda jumped out of bed and walked over to the wardrobe.

  “But we have clothes on,” Charlotte said. “If these dresses aren’t
fine enough, we have another. We purchased them in New York the day Lady Overstreet took us out to shop for you, remember?”

  Miranda stopped. She looked at her sisters’ dresses, which now seemed so completely out of fashion. That was how far she’d come. She realized her mind had become filled with inconsequential details.

  She thought she liked her old self better…and, with Alex’s help, she would reclaim that woman.

  But for now she wanted her sisters to make the excellent impression they wished to present. She threw open her wardrobe and grabbed two of her best day dresses. One was emerald green and the other a bird’s-egg blue. She offered the blue one to Charlotte. “Here, wear these, and no one will know you are from America.”

  Constance whipped the green dress out of Miranda’s hand and turned to the mirror, holding the dress in front of her. “I like this.”

  “I’ve never felt such fine material,” Charlotte said. She was the one who sewed the best. She also did all the spinning and knitting. She looked past Miranda into the wardrobe. “How many dresses are in there?”

  “Quite a few,” Miranda answered.

  “And you could afford them with the amount we had in the chest?” Charlotte asked.

  Here was a touchy subject. “I did,” Miranda said, not wanting to go into Alex’s role in her largesse.

  Charlotte looked to Isabel. “I’d been led to believe prices were high in London, but obviously not if Miranda could afford all that and of this quality.”

  “She was careful with her money,” Isabel said dryly. “Come, let us go and find Lady Overstreet and give your sister a moment to dress.”

  As she started for the door, there was a knock, and then Alice came in carrying a tray of hot rolls and tea, Miranda’s customary breakfast.

  Both Charlotte and Constance stared at such decadence as dining in one’s room, but Miranda was more relieved to see Alice. For a moment, she was too overcome for speech.

  The maid set the tray on a side table and said, “Shall I help you dress now, miss?”

  Miranda nodded.

  Isabel seemed to know what Miranda was thinking. The look she gave Miranda told her that neither she nor Michael would sack a maid for Miranda’s foolishness. “Let us go,” she said to Charlotte and Constance. “We must prepare you, too.”

  She went out of the room, and Constance followed, but Charlotte lingered a moment. “You’ve changed,” she said quietly.

  Both Isabel and Alice froze.

  “What do you mean?” Miranda asked.

  “Your hair,” Charlotte said. “You didn’t braid it last night before bed. You always braided it because you hated pulling out the tangles. Your scalp was so sensitive.”

  “It still is,” Miranda answered. And she usually did braid it—except for last night after being with Alex. She was relieved that Charlotte had not noticed more. “It’s just that I have Alice now.”

  Charlotte glanced at the maid and smiled, her expression sober. “Constance and I will have much to become accustomed to.”

  “Yes, you will,” Miranda said vacantly, knowing that once she spoke to His Grace, there would be no servants…or dresses…or spectacular matches for her sisters.

  She sat on the stool in front of her dressing table, unable to bear the guilt of her actions.

  The door shut.

  Alice was pouring water in the basin the way she had every morning since she’d first started serving Miranda.

  “I’m glad you are all right,” Miranda said.

  The maid didn’t answer.

  Miranda turned toward her. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

  Alice paused in her work. “I will be. Please don’t fret, but I can’t help you anymore. The master was more than kind but very clear.”

  “I understand.” She was alone.

  Miranda stood. “Very well. Let us dress to meet His Grace.”

  Alice had just put the finishing touches on Miranda’s hair when a footman knocked on the door to inform her that His Grace had arrived and was waiting for her in the sitting room.

  Miranda had taken great care with her dress. She wore a somber brown day dress trimmed in lace, and her hair was pulled back in a chignon.

  She told the footman she would be there momentarily and took one last look at her reflection. She appeared older, wiser. She prayed she had the courage to do what she must.

  Her sisters’ room was down the hall from hers. She gathered them up, and the three went downstairs. Miranda heard Lady Overstreet’s twittering laugh and knew she was entertaining His Grace. When she reached the sitting room, she found Isabel there, too.

  His Grace came to his feet as Miranda and her sisters entered the room. He wasn’t alone. Miranda was surprised to see Sir William Jeffords in the gaudiest uniform one could possibly imagine. It had gold braid everywhere. Miranda had heard that officers could embellish their uniforms when in town, but he had gone a step too far.

  She came to an abrupt halt.

  The duke looked from her back to Sir William. He smiled. “I thought it would be a surprise. My cousin had told me the two of you met in the Azores.”

  Miranda had forgotten he and Sir William were cousins. And his manner toward her stiff and decidedly formal. She forced herself to speak. “How nice to see you again, Sir William.”

  “It is my pleasure, Miss Cameron.” He looked at her sisters expectantly. It was the prodding Miranda needed to gather her wits and perform introductions, all the while wondering how she could maneuver a moment alone with His Grace.

  She sensed Sir William hadn’t said a word to his cousin about his pursuit of her in the Azores. Indeed, he refused to look at her and focused on her sisters, who were more impressed with the Duke of Colster.

  Miranda could understand why. Phillip was handsome, polished, and well-respected. Since they were her sisters, he was doing all he could to charm them. Indeed, he came across as excited about his wedding, which would certainly be the event of the season. He was everything a duke should be.

  But he wasn’t Alex.

  Almost as if her thoughts had conjured the topic, Sir William, who had been boasting about his naval career without any interest from Charlotte or Constance, said, “I heard an interesting tidbit the other day that I found amusing.”

  “What was that, Sir William?” Lady Overstreet asked.

  “Remember that Captain Haddon we met in the Azores?” Sir William said, his gaze on Miranda. She wondered if he tested her. Did his loyalty to his cousin go that deep?

  Her Ladyship’s smile tightened. She did not give so much as a glance in Miranda’s direction. “I don’t know if I remember him.”

  “You must,” Sir William said to Miranda.

  “I do,” she answered, her own voice carefully level.

  “Then you might like to know what I learned,” he continued. “Turns out our Captain Haddon is the son of a General Alexander Haddon. Man deserted his post. Turned his back on king and country for a Frenchwoman.” He spoke as if finally putting Alex in his place.

  “A man would do that?” His Grace said.

  But Charlotte had heard something else. “Alex Haddon?” she repeated sharply, and turned toward Miranda.

  Eighteen

  “Why yes,” Sir William said in answer to Charlotte. “Do you know him also?”

  Charlotte recovered nicely. Seeing she had everyone’s attention, she sat back in her chair. “I’ve heard of his father. It was terrible scandal.” She addressed this last to Miranda, who could feel it being silently seconded by Isabel and Lady Overstreet.

  Yes, it would be. Miranda understood. She returned Charlotte’s pointed stare without flinching. She had no choice. She loved Alex.

  Constance had recognized the name, too. Her reaction was different. She dropped her eyes to the floor, suddenly fascinated by the pattern in the India carpet.

  The duke was not a stupid man. He could not have risen to the heights he had without learning to notice every nuance. “What is it?�
�� he asked, looking from one woman to another, his tone saying louder than words that he expected to be answered.

  Miranda rose to her feet. The gentlemen stood, too. There would never be a good time to break this news. She might as well do it now. “Have you seen the landscapes in the dining room, Your Grace?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he answered, his interest obviously piqued.

  “Then let me show them to you,” Isabel replied, also standing.

  “I’d like to see them, too,” Lady Overstreet agreed. She came to her feet.

  “As I,” Charlotte announced boldly, also rising.

  Constance and Sir William looked at each other as if confused why anyone would want to traipse around for some landscapes, but then they also rose.

  Miranda didn’t know what to do. She had to talk to His Grace privately.

  She was surprised when help came from the duke.

  With a smile that had charmed the crustiest soul in Parliament, he said to Isabel, “Please, I beg your indulgence. I would like to share a moment alone with my intended.” He took Miranda’s arm as he spoke and didn’t wait for approval, but guided her out of the room.

  Behind her, Miranda could sense Isabel and Lady Overstreet’s fears. A glance over her shoulder revealed that Charlotte watched her closely, her own doubts clear on her face.

  Sir William began talking about himself again, providing a distraction of sorts.

  The dining room was directly across the hall. It was decorated in warm rose colors, with a huge mahogany table that could easily seat twenty taking up the middle of the room.

  The duke closed the door, leaving a crack open for modesty’s sake. Miranda walked to the landscape over the sideboard, her mind churning over the best way to approach the delicate subject of crying off when he startled her by asking, “Where were you last night?”

  She turned. He stood by the door. Gone was the easy man who had been in the sitting room. This man had asked a question and expected answers.

  “I was with you at Lord and Lady Oglethorpe’s musicale.”

  “Later. When you left the house.”

  Her heart stopped. “How do you know I left?” she asked.