by Julia Ross
“Not even a duchess can remake what I am,” she said. “You should have hidden me in a bower, as Henry the Second kept his Fair Rosamund—until his secret mistress was poisoned by Queen Eleanor, of course.”
He smiled back, though not with real joy. “For God’s sake, I’m not a king. I’m not even the duke yet. The Earl of Berkeley married a butcher’s daughter, and the world survived. As soon as it’s light, we’ll go down to Wyldshay. My mother wants to meet you.”
“Does she? I very much doubt it. Did you threaten her with fire and brimstone, and make her afraid that she’ll lose you? As soon as the chance presents itself, she’ll see me to the devil.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“I’ve had a long coach journey in which to think about this,” she said. “I must ask this, Ryder: Is there anything really between us but passion? We’ve known each other for such a short time.”
“Long enough to know the truth.”
“The truth is that I made love to Hanley in that bed. You cannot negate that, however much you think that you love me. The knowledge will eat away at your heart. You’ll get tired of me—”
Ardor burned in his eyes, as if she were a single fascinating flame. “No.”
“But when—”
A loud banging echoed. Ryder spun naked from the bed, lithe and lean in the candlelight. He was so beautifully made: all muscle, his belly taut, his buttocks lovely. The racket clanged again. Ryder pulled on his trousers and strode from the bedroom, barefoot and naked from the waist up.
Miracle followed him out through the drawing room and into the front hall.
Her hair tied in curling rags, Izzy had crept up from her bed off the kitchen, but now she stood staring at the door with enormous eyes, doing nothing.
The knocker hammered again. Ryder flung open the door.
Rain sheeted along the pavement and across the cobbled street, beating over the roofs of the houses.
A gentleman in a long cloak swayed on the step. Water dripped from his chin and ran in dark rivulets over his shoulders.
“Good God!” Ryder said. “Dartford? You’re foxed, sir!”
“Very,” Dartford said. “Drunk as a lord! Mush see you!”
Ryder stepped back. “You’d better come in and have some coffee.”
“Only sober when I’m gambling. Can’t afford to drink then. Have a message for you, Ryderbourne. Owe it to Miracle.”
Miracle clutched her robe to her throat with both hands as Lord Dartford stepped inside. Ryder glanced at her as she met Dartford’s wild, wet smile with one of her own.
“Please get dressed, Izzy. Bring hot coffee to the drawing room.”
Izzy curtsied, then ducked away back to the kitchen.
Dartford tore off his hat and shook out the water. He stepped up to Miracle and bowed unsteadily.
“Don’t want coffee,” he said. “Came to warn you. Hanley says you’re guilty of murder. Going to see you arrested before dawn.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“IT CAN MEAN ONLY ONE THING.” SHADOWS LEAPED ON THE bedroom walls as Ryder shrugged into his clothes. His voice was intense, filled with determination. “Hanley’s found the bloody papers, so he knows I was bluffing. And since he’s confident enough to threaten you, he must be certain that I cannot have seen them and have no idea of their contents.”
Dread turned in her stomach, but Miracle was determined not to let him see it. She sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on her half boots.
“Ah, well! Marry in haste and repent at leisure. I just hadn’t planned to repent on the scaffold.”
“You won’t have to, Miracle.” He wrung one hand over his hair. “For God’s sake! You’re my wife. You don’t need to be brave any longer.”
She smiled at him, though her unsteady heartbeat threatened to engulf her.
Fingers scratched at the door. At Ryder’s command, Izzy stepped in. Her hands plucked nervously at a hastily donned apron.
“Yes, Izzy?” Miracle asked.
“Lord Dartford fell asleep, m’ lady, in the chair. Shall I bring the coffee in here?”
“If you please,” Miracle said. “And fetch us some hot toast with butter, as well.”
“Very good, m’ lady!” The maid turned to leave.
“Wait!” Ryder said.
Izzy flushed and bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, m’ lord?”
“Did someone visit this house, perhaps just before I arrived a few days ago?”
Miracle felt the blood drain from her face. With sudden insight, she followed Ryder’s reasoning. Lord Hanley must have had very good reason to think that she’d had his papers to start with, or none of his behavior made sense.
“Sit down, Izzy, and answer Lord Ryderbourne. Did Lord Hanley come here again recently? Was he looking for something?”
Izzy plumped onto a chair, her eyes filled with doubt. “I never meant no harm, m’ lady. But His Lordship said as how he’d have me taken for a thief if I didn’t give him what he wanted. Though it was mine!”
“What was yours, Izzy?” Ryder asked.
The maid’s mouth crumpled. “My Bible, m’ lord. The one my mother gave me, though I never could read it too much. Too many long words and the print was too little.”
“You gave Lord Hanley your mother’s Bible?”
Tears spilled as Izzy glanced up. “He came here the day before Your Lordship arrived. He said I must have something that was really his—a book or something like that. I told him I didn’t have nothing, but he said that I must have and if I didn’t let him have it, I would hang. He gave me three days to think about it, but I wasn’t to tell nobody.” Her voice broke. “Though I only had the one book.”
“But you were afraid. So you gave him your Bible, hoping that would satisfy him? When was that?”
“Yesterday evening, m’ lord. I was so glad to have thought of it. Lord Hanley had a man waiting at the corner. He said I was a good girl and he gave me a shilling.” She wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron. “Was that wrong? I never meant no harm!”
“It’s all right, Izzy,” Miracle said. “Lord Hanley’s angry with me, so he thought to annoy me by upsetting you. Now, go and dry your eyes, then fetch us the coffee and toast. You only did what you thought was right.”
The maid nodded and stumbled from the room.
Ryder’s eyes shone with intelligence and ironic self-mockery. He ran his fingers through his already disordered hair and laughed.
“It’s not funny!” Miracle snapped.
“Yes, it is! Though I’ll get Izzy’s Bible back for her, if I have to wring Hanley’s damned neck.”
“I thought it was the wringing of my neck that was at issue. So Izzy had his papers here all along. Alas, it would appear that you married me for nothing.”
He spun about to face her, all laughter gone. “I married you because I want you for my wife. The only element of this farce for which I’ll have a hard time forgiving myself is that I didn’t guess about Izzy. After all, Hanley was so certain that Willcott had hidden something here that he ransacked the place. He only assumed you’d inadvertently taken the papers with you, when that failed.”
“Which allowed him to believe, for a moment at least, that we’d found them.”
“Alas, I must be a damned poor actor. He obviously suspected that I might be bluffing. Then he remembered Izzy.”
“Thus he came straight back to London, while you were at Wyldshay and I was still traveling with Lady Ayre, and the papers slipped out of this house under our very noses.”
Ryder tossed a few personal items into a bag. “But how the devil did Willcott get access to your maid’s family Bible for long enough to hide something in it?”
“Does it matter?” Miracle asked. “Unless this is a double bluff, Hanley now has the papers and he’s no longer afraid of you.”
“Then he should be.”
“Not enough! He intends to drag me from my bed—in spite of our Scottish wedding—and have me thrown into jail.”
He smiled as he pulled her to her feet. “Hanley can only risk that here in London, in the hopes that an accusation this soon would force me to repudiate our marriage and wash my hands of you.”
“That’s an option,” she said.
He lifted her hand to kiss her wedding ring, his eyes ocean-green as he glanced up at her beneath his lashes. “Never!”
She closed her fingers around his. “Or perhaps his excess of elation will bring on an attack of apoplexy and solve the problem?”
“There is no problem. Everything will change once we reach Wyldshay. Hanley might think he can create a scandal right now for me personally. He’ll never risk alienating the Duke and Duchess of Blackdown, once they’ve thrown their public support behind you. After all, he has no more proof of his accusations than we have of his secret.”
“And he’s no fool, of course. But now my future depends on your mother?”
“Don’t worry! She’ll like you.”
She pulled his head down to hers with both hands, then pressed a brief smile against his lips. “Ah, you foolish man! Her Grace may like me. I may like her. But she’ll no more accept this marriage than dye her hair pink. Fortunately, Wyldshay lies near the coast, doesn’t it?”
“It won’t come to that, Miracle. But if it did, I’d go with you.”
It was not true, of course. He might think it was true, but future dukes did not abandon their titles and lands for their mistresses. Not even when they had married them. If Ryder were forced to choose between his wife and his inheritance, Wyldshay would win.
“We should go,” she said. “It’s already closer to dawn than is comfortable. I’d prefer to be gone by the time Lord Hanley gets here.”
“Thanks to Dartford, you will be.” Ryder picked up the bag and strode to the door. “He was one of them, wasn’t he?”
“One of whom?”
“One of your lovers.”
A sharp pulse of fear plummeted into her belly, one even more profound than when Lord Dartford had first delivered his news. “Yes. How did you guess?”
“That smile that you exchanged at the front door.” His expression was guarded. “The one full of regret and dashed dreams. I trust it’s not a smile that you’ll ever bestow on me.”
“I’ve married you,” she said. “We’ve exchanged vows. I’ll never give you that smile, unless you ask for it.”
“Did Dartford ask for it?”
“Don’t do this, Ryder!”
“I’m only grateful that your past lover still holds enough affection for you that he came here to warn us.”
“It’s also fortunate that you decided not to run him through as soon as you guessed.”
“I’m not a particularly brilliant swordsman.” His laugh barely concealed his distress. “Though I’m pretty damn good with pistols.”
“I will tell you only this: I don’t love him. He doesn’t love me. We parted amicably.”
Ryder stared at the door. “And my right arm would get pretty damned tired, if I were to call out every man you’ve ever known?”
“More than tired. You’d be wrong. Lord Dartford’s a good man.”
The trace of bitterness dissolved as he smiled at her with genuine amusement. “When he’s gambling like a fiend, but sober, or when he’s more honorably employed, but foxed? Don’t worry! I like him.”
“Though right now you’d like that coffee and toast a great deal better.”
“And I’d like it best,” he said, “if we were already at Wyldshay.”
“AH, yes,” the duchess said as Miracle curtsied. “Exquisite, indeed!” Her velvet voice cloaked a core of pure steel. “Of course, I am not surprised. Pray, come in and sit down.”
“Your Grace is most kind.”
Miracle walked across the thick carpet and took the indicated chair. She was alone with the Duchess of Blackdown in an elegant withdrawing room, high in an ancient round tower at Wyldshay. An arrow-slit opening had been enlarged long ago to create a more modern window, but the stone heart of the medieval keep still beat steadily in the ancient beams and in the worn carvings over the fireplace.
“We are presently in the oldest part of the castle,” the duchess said. “The Fortune Tower was built by Ambrose de Verrant in 1104 to replace the wooden keep that his grandfather erected after the Conquest. This island has been a fortress for over seven hundred and fifty years.”
“I understand that it still is,” Miracle said dryly.
The duchess smiled, with a certain appreciation, but without real humor. Precise and dangerous, she glanced up at a portrait over the mantel: a young man wearing the fur-trimmed robe and jeweled cap of the Tudors. He held a rose in one hand and a sword hilt in the other.
“Do you, indeed? Should I also point out that Ambrose and his grandfather were little more than bandits? Or that the handsome young earl in this portrait made his fortune by supporting Henry the Eighth in the dissolution of the monasteries? The St. Georges have been ruthless for many centuries.”
Miracle took a deep breath. She had expected a duel of sorts, but this was an already unsheathed blade.
“Your Grace doesn’t need to remind me,” she replied. “The power of the Blackdowns stands in stunning contrast to my own birth and background, and I couldn’t be more aware of it.”
“I do not assume that you are stupid.” Ryder’s mother glanced at her with the considered green gaze of a pagan goddess. “Far from it! It took a very clever woman to ensnare my son. Yet this imprudent marriage cannot be allowed to stand. You must realize that it is within my power to have it dissolved?”
A knot tightened in Miracle’s stomach. “I’ve assumed all along that would be Your Grace’s intention. I shan’t stand in your way.”
“Then you do not intend to fight me in this?” The duchess raised one elegant brow. “How much money do you want?”
Miracle swallowed a sudden passionate rage, before she lifted her chin and replied with deliberate coolness. “I have very little in this life, Your Grace, but I assure you that I will not take your money, nor your son’s. I shall free Ryder for his sake, not yours. And since I am neither your servant nor your dependant—”
“Your temerity astounds me, madam!”
It was a tone designed to strike to the heart. Miracle felt its impact, but she stood up and faced the duchess with rigid dignity.
“I may have been born in a cottage, but I learned long ago that it’s up to me to maintain my own integrity, since no one else will do it for me. I’ve done my very best to convince your son of the foolishness of our marriage, and—if it can be done without further damage to him—I would welcome Your Grace’s help to free him.”
The duchess stalked to the window. Trembling ribbons from her tiny lace cap trailed over her back. “Why should I believe that?”
“I know the world that we live in.”
“No doubt! So why did you agree to the marriage?”
“Your son can be very stubborn.”
“A family trait,” the duchess said with a hint of wry humor. “Unfortunately, Ryder thinks that he loves you. He doesn’t want to believe that his love cannot possibly survive the reality of your past.”
Miracle closed her eyes for a moment to blot out the pain. “Did he also tell you that I’m barren? I cannot give him sons. He claims not to mind, but he would only care more passionately with each passing year—”
“Yes, I am afraid of that, too.” The duchess turned. Her wheat-and-gold hair glimmered as if the sun flamed behind a cloud. “Yet even if his love were able to withstand all of this, would yours?”
Grief burned like a hot iron, but Miracle masked it and stood her ground.
“The state of my heart is irrelevant, Your Grace. Isn’t that what this discussion is all about? It’s obviously to everyone’s benefit to maintain the social order. My father was a laborer who sold me into servitude. I’ve worked on the stage. I’ve traded my favors for protection. This marriage is best set aside, before it does Ryder
real harm.”
“I am so glad that you understand.”
“I’ve always understood,” Miracle said. “Only one class of men is born, raised, and educated to govern. The stability of England depends on the wise choices of men like your son.”
“Wise choices that include marrying a lady of his own rank.” The duchess walked forward. Light from the window glimmered behind her. “So you are not a revolutionary, Lady Ryderbourne?”
The Tudor earl gazed down with disdain, his lips curved in a slight sneer. Miracle’s pain began to dissolve. The duchess was only stating the truth, after all. Perhaps if they joined forces, Ryder could also be brought to agree?
“I’m more of a pragmatist, I think. Society weddings help preserve the great estates, which support half the population. Who else but a hereditary aristocracy would cherish their fields with such care, or plant trees that won’t mature until generations later? It’s a patronizing system, but that’s the reality we face. Whether it’s right or not, it’s not within my power to change.”
The duchess’s green gaze seemed to encompass the world. “Even though a certain number of puffed-up fools sit in the House of Lords and the Commons?”
“Yes, I know,” Miracle said with a wry smile. “I’ve slept with one or two of them.”
Ryder’s mother laughed. “So what would you change, if you could?”
Miracle had begun to feel a little surreal. Whatever she had expected from the duchess, it was not a discussion of politics. Though class differences lay at the heart of their impasse, didn’t they? Duke’s sons did not marry the daughters of laborers, and they never married courtesans. Yet there was nothing to lose by answering honestly.
“I’d like to see a world with more justice and less indifference to human suffering. On the other hand, I’ve no desire to see England at the mercy of the mob, which I also know, since I was born amongst them.”
Ryder’s mother gazed thoughtfully up at the portrait. “Even though at present many intelligent, resourceful men born to the wrong class see their leadership talents go to waste?”
“Half of the population of every class goes to waste, Your Grace,” Miracle said. “I’ve read Mary Wollstonecraft, but I don’t expect to see women gain their rights in my lifetime. Only men have real power in England. All of the rest is just talk.”