Marissa Day

by The Seduction of Miranda Prosper

  Through it all Miranda drank. Now Summerfields screamed and in front of her dazzled eyes, his form began to dwindle and darken. The handsome golden man was gone. His hand slipped from hers, as he toppled to the stones. Now there was only a tiny pale thing with twiglike limbs huddled on the floor at her feet.

  Then there was nothing at all.

  The power shut off so abruptly Miranda staggered and nearly fell, but Darius’s strong arms caught her. He held her so close she could feel the rapid drumming of his heart. In her chair by the fire, Mother blinked, shook her head, looked around her and began to scream.

  Miranda broke from Darius’s embrace and ran forward.

  “It’s all right!” she cried, wrapping her arms around her mother’s shoulders, blocking her line of sight with her body. “It’s over. It’s all right.”

  As if her words had been some kind of signal, Miranda heard the pounding of boots from the hallway outside. Corwin lurched to his feet from his position beside the collapsed Lord Thayer and opened the door.

  A crowd of people charged into the room, led by a small, rotund, bald man in a black coat and white stockings and trailed, improbably, by Louise.

  The black-coated man drew himself up and raised a hand. The crowd with him halted, panting and staring about themselves.

  “Mr. Rathe?” the man said in a stately, educated voice. “Mr. Marlowe? Would you care to explain why you no longer seem to be in need of rescue?”

  Twenty-five

  The rest of the night passed in a blur. Miranda and her mother were escorted out into the gardens where they shivered on stone benches surrounded by a crowd of serious men whom Miranda gradually understood to be a combination of military officers and Bow Street Runners, very far off their usual patch. Hallowgate was being turned upside down, very much over the loud protestations of the guests. The black-coated man, whose name seemed to be Smith, paid no attention to any of them. From the men’s talk, she gathered Smith was searching for Lady Thayer, and Lady Thayer was nowhere to be found.

  None of this touched Miranda much. She could not shake the cold that filled her, and she could not shake the memory of what she had done. She had not just failed in her duty; she had killed a ... a ... fairy. An enemy to be sure, and she had done it to save Corwin and Darius and Mother. She could live with that. But it had felt so good. It had felt like Heaven.

  That, she would never be rid of.

  And worse—oh, so much worse—she knew some dark, damned part of herself would always long to feel the sweet sensation of drinking living magic down once more.

  They said power corrupted. It was true. And when corruption felt like blessing, how could that urge fail to return?

  So when Corwin and Darius finally emerged from the crowd, and Corwin knelt beside her, Miranda turned from him. How could she look at him, knowing what she was and what she truly longed for?

  “Miranda ...” he began.

  She shook her head. “I want to go home,” she said. “You will have someone take us home, please.”

  Corwin stood. She was aware of him breathing heavily, of his hands dangling loose at his sides. She was aware of Darius coming up beside him, of him reaching for her. She drew away, huddling closer to Mother, and he let his hand fall.

  “As you wish,” breathed Corwin.

  And that had been that. Two of the Bow Street Runners had escorted them back to Mother’s house, and there they had remained. London was deserted and quiet. They had no callers, no visitors of any kind. They moved through the rooms almost like sleepwalkers, going through the mechanics of living, but at a remove. Days passed behind a shield of mental isolation Miranda found herself afraid to break.

  But even so, news filtered into them that Lord Thayer had been found guilty of smuggling, spying and white slavery. At first, Miranda thought it was nonsense. But then she realized it was not, because that was what he had been doing, but with the Fae rather than with the French, as the accusations read. In idle moments, Miranda imagined the shocked talk buzzing around the summer ballrooms at this development, but never for long. She seemed to lack the strength for such musings.

  Miranda was not surprised that Mother began to recover before she did. Daphne Quicke’s restless nature would not allow her to remain cut off from the world for very long. Mother was soon leaving the house to stroll through the summer parks, or to shop in the high street, although Miranda noticed no parcels were ever delivered after these trips.

  They still had no money, and Miranda had heard nothing from Corwin or Darius. That was good. She wanted nothing to do with them. If they were gone, she would not know the touch of magic again. She would not be tempted to drink too deep, to drain them dry for her unnatural pleasures.

  So June faded into July, and July began to shade into sultry August. Mother discovered she had a certain notoriety, having been brought out of Lord Thayer’s “secret den,” and concocted a story that went well with the public charges. Or maybe it was what she actually believed. Whichever it was, Mother began to be invited out to the country to tell her tales to the fascinated, horrified and extremely diverted ladies. At first she pressed Miranda to come with her. But Miranda just shook her head. To show she was not entirely the same as she had been, Daphne Quicke just laid her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, and left her alone.

  It was while Mother was away on one of these visits that a knock came at the door. Miranda was in the sitting room staring at the garden and did not bother to stir herself. But a moment later, Louise pushed open the sitting room door to admit a tall man in red and gold livery with a powered and curled wig on his head.

  The man bowed and held out a folded letter sealed in red wax. “From Her Royal Highness, Princess Augusta Sophia,” he announced.

  Princess Augusta Sophia! With numb fingers, Miranda took the heavy envelope, broke the seal and opened the paper. The handwriting underneath was flawless but it took a moment for Miranda to be able to make out the words, she was so shaken. Gradually it sank in that she held in her hands a royal summons from one of the reclusive princesses, a daughter of King George III, who was currently confined to his summer palace for his “health” while his son ruled in splendor and debauchery in his stead. The letter announced that she, Miranda Prosper, was expected at Buckingham House at four of the clock on the day mentioned.

  It was signed HRH The Princess Augusta Sophia.

  The day mentioned was today.

  Today! Miranda stared up at the liveried servant.

  “I am to wait for an answer, ma’am,” he informed her stiffly.

  “Yes, of course.” Miranda moved to her writing desk to take out paper and ink, but her hands were shaking so she could barely hold the quill.

  At last she was able to scrape out a reply, fold it and seal it, and hand it to the footman, who received it with another perfect bow.

  “I am charged to inform ma’am that this visit is strictly private. A carriage will be sent at three of the clock.” He bowed once more and made his exit, leaving Miranda staring at Louise.

  “What does it mean, Miss Miranda?” cried her maid.

  “I don’t know, Louise,” whispered Miranda. “I don’t know.”

  Three of the clock found Miranda dressed in her best white gown and pearls, ready and waiting when the unadorned carriage arrived. It was a well-sprung and well-appointed conveyance and Miranda had what was probably the most comfortable ride of her life. They crossed London to the very edges of the great royal parklands and the square brick edifice that was Buckingham House. Once inside the great doors, the footman turned her over to a thin, no-nonsense woman dressed in sober black and white. She introduced herself to Miranda as Lady Winslow, chief lady-in-waiting to the Princess Augusta Sophia, but had nothing else to say at all as she led Miranda through a dizzying array of corridors and up a host of broad staircases to a door, which another footman opened, and which led into a sitting room filled with glass cases of delicately painted china and fans.

  An aging woman wit
h a careworn face sat beside a fire, despite the fact that it was August and sweltering in the little room. She wore the heavy skirts and low-cut bodice of another era and the cap on her head made her look oddly like a market wife. She was not alone, however. The black-coated man, the one called Smith, stood behind her chair, eyeing Miranda calmly as she entered.

  “Miss Miranda Prosper,” announced Lady Winslow. Miranda, who had never been presented at court and had never expected to be, dropped into the deepest curtsy she had ever made.

  “Thank you, Lady Winslow,” said Princess Augusta Sophia. “You may go. Stand up, Miss Prosper. I’d like a look at you.”

  Miranda stood, but kept her gaze on the rose-patterned carpet, folding her hands in front of her.

  “Yes, yes,” she murmured. “There’s spirit there, despite all. You may sit.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Miranda bobbed another curtsy, wondered if that was the right thing to do, and all but groped for the little Queen Anne chair behind her so she could sit.

  “I understand we are in your debt, Miss Prosper,” said the princess crisply. “You helped unearth a traitor who has eluded capture for many years, and you destroyed a powerful enemy agent.”

  “I ... did what I had to, Your Highness.”

  “As do we all,” replied the princess wearily. “Nonetheless, I am grateful for your service and you will not find me ungenerous. As an acting agent of the crown, you are entitled to four hundred pounds a year. Mr. Smith will see to it.”

  Miranda’s head jerked up. “Acting agent of the crown ... ma’am?”

  “Yes,” replied the princess. “As of today, you may consider yourself in the charge and employ of Mr. Smith.” She waved at the bald man in his plain black coat.

  “But ... but ...” began Miranda.

  “This is not a request, Miss Prosper,” snapped Princess Augusta Sophia. “You know full well what a deadly serious matter we are involved in.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Miranda dropped her gaze again.

  “It has been the fate of the rulers of this island from time to time to have to repel invasion both open and subtle.” The princess’s voice grew hard. “Unfortunately, ours is not an unbroken line, and neither are the lines of command or defense. My father’s ... illness ... helped create a breach that has allowed the enemy to infiltrate once more. My brother, who should have taken charge, is interested in nothing beyond his pleasures. All his efforts are directed toward grabbing the throne while our father yet lives so he can pay for his palaces and his mistress. My sisters have enlightened themselves to the point where they cannot see what is plainly before them. So it is left to me to do what can be done. I require all hands to the defense of our island and our people.”

  The princess’s words were so strong and so steady, Miranda felt shaken at her own selfishness. Mired in her fear and misery, she had allowed herself to lose sight of the greater stakes being fought for.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Miranda forced some strength into her voice.

  “We are at a low ebb now,” the princess went on. “But it will not always be the case. By his arts, Mr. Smith has uncovered a prophecy that gives us great cause for hope.” Miranda risked a glance up, and saw Mr. Smith nod. “A new queen will soon take the throne, the greatest our land has yet seen. She will lead a decisive battle against the Fae court, possibly the final battle. We must hold the line for her coming. I trust, Miss Prosper, we may count on you?”

  Miranda stood, and dropped into another curtsy. “You have my word, Your Highness.”

  The princess reached out and touched her shoulder, in blessing and in acceptance of her service. “Thank you, Miss Prosper.”

  At the princess’s command, Mr. Smith was to escort her home. Miranda sat awkwardly in the carriage with the little man. She had no idea what to say.

  But Mr. Smith did. “They are fine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Rathe and Mr. Marlowe. They are fine. They have been helping chase down the last of Lord Thayer’s confederates, and, of course, hunting for Lady Thayer.”

  The memory of that terrible night came flooding back and Miranda’s mouth went dry. “Have they found her?” she croaked.

  “Unfortunately, no. We think she may have escaped abroad.” Smith looked grimly out the window. “However, should that be the case, certain measures are being set in place to make it ... difficult for her to enter the country again.” He paused and then said, “You will not be required to work with them if you do not wish to.”

  Miranda almost begged his pardon again, but she realized quickly what he meant. He meant she would not be required to work with Corwin and Darius.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Although I will not order it, I wish you would consider the matter carefully,” he went on. “First of all, you are clearly a powerful and effective grouping of the sort we are in desperate need of. Secondly, agents pining themselves sick for love are of a limited value to me.”

  Miranda started at this. Mr. Smith regarded her mildly. “Yes,” he said. “They are and have been. They hide it badly, and make themselves so generally unpleasant that if you do not take them back soon, I shall be forced to exile them to the north of Scotland.”

  Miranda’s hands began to tremble. She was glad she was sitting, because all the strength had drained out of her in an instant. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  Mr. Smith’s sigh was nothing short of exasperated. “Really, Miss Prosper. After all I have seen and heard of you, I did not expect to find you a coward.”

  The words stung, but Miranda had no answer and she and Mr. Smith rode on in silence. At last, the carriage dropped her off at the door of her house, and Louise let her inside. Miranda drifted into the empty sitting room and stood at the window, staring out at the garden and the street beyond.

  I did not expect to find you a coward. Mr. Smith’s words echoed in her memory.

  Is that it? Cowardice? No. I am a danger. I will hurt them. I will kill them and I will glory in it.

  But Corwin and Darius didn’t know this. They hadn’t shared what had happened to her; they’d only seen her defeat the Fae knight. Mr. Smith was right about this much: Corwin and Darius deserved an explanation so they could forget her and move on. They had each other, after all; they would soon heal from whatever wounds she had dealt them.

  Yes. It will be better that way. Miranda straightened her shoulders and tried to ignore the fact that her heart was breaking.

  Corwin’s house was even more imposing the second time than it had been the first, not in the least because the sight of it reminded Miranda of all that had passed inside. For a day and a night she had been happy. More than happy. She had been free. For the first time in her adult life, she had not had to guard her words or her actions. She could be wholly herself with two men who would neither judge nor condemn.

  Two men who loved her, and whom she loved.

  It was a long time before Miranda could make herself climb the steps and ring the bell.

  The span of time she waited after that was probably quite brief. Nonetheless it gave her plenty of time to regret coming, and to wonder how quickly she could retreat back to the waiting carriage. But before she could do more than edge away, Jacobs opened the door.

  “Good evening, Miss Prosper.” He stood back to admit her. Miranda stepped into the foyer. The setting sun shone through the stained glass fanlight, spreading colored patterns across the marble floor.

  “Good evening, Jacobs. Is Mr. Rathe at home?”

  “Not at present, miss.” Relief flooded Miranda. She did not have to face them today. She could go. “But I expect him and Mr. Marlowe shortly,” the butler went on. “Would you care to wait?”

  Miranda hesitated, but then replied, “Yes, thank you.” Get it done. Then you never have to come back. Then you can mourn what might have been and begin again.

  Jacobs led her up the stairs and into Corwin’s magnificent library. Miranda’s eyes pric
kled as the scent of paper and leather bindings again enveloped her.

  Miranda drifted into the middle of the room, and this time it was Jacobs who hesitated. “Is there anything you’d care for, miss? Some tea, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, Jacobs. That would be most welcome.”

  “Very good, miss. And, miss ...”

  “Yes?” she said without turning around.

  “I’m glad to see you have returned. I believe the master has missed you very much.”

  Miranda was thankful she had kept her back to him. It would not do to let the man see the tears that welled up in her eyes. “You may go, Jacobs.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  When she heard the door close, Miranda collapsed into the nearest chair and hid her face in her hands. I never should have come back here. She had thought she could stand to see the room. She had even fancied that it might even do her good to visit the place this last time so she could say farewell. But the memories were too strong for her. It was not possible to look about and not be reminded of the passion she had shared with Corwin and Darius here. The touch of their hands and their mouths, the glory of their heated bodies against hers, and under her hands, and their magnificent cocks inside her pussy, inside her mouth. Paradise for a few short hours. And now she was like Eve, ashamed of her nakedness and weakness, and Paradise was closed to her.

  The sound of boots thundering up the stairs made her start to her feet. In the next heartbeat the door burst open and Corwin and Darius both dashed inside.

  “Miranda!”

  She was in Corwin’s arms before she could protest and he was kissing her and crushing her to him, and she melted. She could not resist the touch of his mouth and she opened hers at once so he could slide his tongue inside, caressing, tasting, devouring.