Chapter Twenty-Five

M irella and Aunt Matty breakfasted together. James and Sophie had already left for their shipping offices, trying to get as much work in as possible before the family departed for Kent tomorrow afternoon. James would be signing the marriage settlements on her behalf, and he had already shared with Mirella the terms currently being drafted by the two solicitors. He called them very favorable and told her how much he approved of her marriage to Lord Bridgewater.

Mama was breakfasting in her room, something she had begun to do during the past week. Mirella suspected that once Mama and the captain returned to town following the wedding, they would only attend social events of the Season sporadically, if at all. Her mother was now five months along, and without the need to escort her unmarried daughter to social events, she would most likely forgo them and rest. Mama had taken up sewing again, making things for the coming babe.

As for Byron and her, they had decided they were done with the Season. His aunt and uncle would be returning to the Lake District after the wedding, and she and her new husband were traveling to Bridgefield, where they would remain until next spring. Mirella was eager to see her new home and settle into it before the house party they would attend at the end of summer. She could not wait for Pippa and Seth to meet Byron. If she were lucky, Mirella might even be carrying a child of her own by the time her sister returned to England.

She excused herself and instead of going to the music room, she made her way to the kitchens.

Cook greeted her. “Ah, Lady Mirella, I have those blueberry scones you requested.” The old woman asked a scullery maid to fetch them.

“Thank you for baking them, Cook. They are for Lord Bridgewater. He is mad for blueberries and enjoyed your tarts so much the other day. I thought to surprise him with these scones.”

The scullery maid brought a basket to Mirella, and she accepted it. Drawing back the checked cloth, she saw a good dozen scones nestled inside the cloth.

“I plan to take these to Lord Bridgewater now,” she told Cook. “Thank you again.”

“That man has put a smile on your face, my lady. I hope your kind gesture puts one on his, as well,” Cook said.

Mirella collected her bonnet and reticule and asked Mrs. Powell if one of the housemaids might be allowed to accompany her on a few errands, and the housekeeper agreed to allow Elsie to act as a chaperone. Since James and Sophie had taken the grand ducal carriage and Aunt Matty had told Mirella at breakfast that she was using the second one to go visit a friend, Mirella asked a groom to saddle a horse for the cart.

Elsie grew round-eyed as the groom left. “But... I don’t know how to drive a cart, my lady.”

She laughed. “Well, it is a good thing that I do. I have grown up doing so in the country.”

“Where are we going this morning?” the maid asked.

Indicating the basket she held, she said, “I had Cook bake something special for Lord Bridgewater, so we will drop these at his townhouse first. Then we are going to the shop where I purchase my art supplies.”

Mirella had not brought her paints to town because she knew she would have little time to herself and had preferred to practice the pianoforte during it. She had always planned, however, to replenish her paints before she returned to the country because the store she patronized in London always had a large array of colors in stock. She would take up her painting again in earnest once she arrived at Bridgefield. She had branched out from her usual landscapes and had been testing out a few portraits over the last year. Perhaps she might even try to paint Byron’s portrait once they settled in at Bridgefield.

The last paintings she had created before the Season began, though, had been of Grasmere. She had an artist’s eye for detail and had painted several landscapes of the places Byron had taken her to on their outing, even replicating Mr. Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage as best she could. Her favorite work from all those she had done of Grasmere had been one of the view atop Helm Crag. Mirella decided because that place held special meaning, she would give Byron the canvas as her wedding present to him. She hoped they would return to Grasmere someday and climb to that same spot with their own children in tow.

The groom appeared, driving the cart. He got out and helped her into it, and Elsie scrambled up to sit beside her. Mirella placed the basket of scones at her feet and took up the reins. It felt good to be behind them. She had not driven since she had left Shadowcrest, nor had she gone riding in Hyde Park while in town. She hoped Byron enjoyed riding as much as she did since it was the best way to get about the country.

Traffic was fairly light in Mayfair, and they turned on the street where his townhouse was located. As the horse approached, she saw him dash from the house and into his carriage. Curious as to where he was off to in such a hurry, especially since she knew he had already purchased their special license, Mirella decided to follow and surprise him, thinking he might be going to White’s to peruse the morning papers and visit with friends over tea.

“Aren’t we going to stop and deliver the scones?” Elsie asked when Mirella did not slow the cart and turned onto the next street instead.

“No. That is Lord Bridgewater in the carriage in front of us.”

“You are following him?” the maid asked, sounding unsure.

“Yes.”

“But is that a good idea, my lady?” Elsie pressed.

“I think it is a grand one,” she said airily. “The day is a pretty one. It will be nice to be out for a longer drive than we anticipated.”

The maid looked uncertain but fell silent.

They went through Marylebone and skirted Regent’s Park. Mirella wondered where on earth Byron was headed. Then she thought perhaps he might be going to a jeweler’s for her wedding ring. Oh, it wouldn’t do at all if she followed him there!

His carriage turned down a residential street, and curiosity got the better of her. The vehicle was far ahead of her cart, but it now came to a stop. She would be able to catch up with it within the next minute or so and see whom he might be calling upon.

Her betrothed exited the carriage and even from this distance, she heard the squeal of a small child. Mirella saw a woman on the pavement near the carriage. A young girl broke away from her, and she raced toward Byron.

Mirella pulled up on the reins, befuddled as the girl threw herself at him, kissing his face several times. Blood rushed to her ears in a loud whoosh as she froze, watching the scene unfold. Byron casually swung the child onto his shoulders and brushed a kiss on the woman’s cheek.

“No,” she whimpered, tears springing to her eyes.

He had a child. And another woman.

“Go, my lady,” Elsie urged. “Quickly!”

Blindly, she lifted the reins again, flicking her wrists slightly to encourage the horse to move forward. The couple had begun walking along the pavement, facing away from her, but Mirella would have to turn left just before she reached them as they walked on the right side of the street. Otherwise, she would have to pass them and move up the street, and she couldn’t risk being seen.

As she guided the horse down the street, she passed his carriage. The footman on the rear met her gaze, and Mirella bit her lip, tears beginning to fall. She kept driving, averting her head and looking to the left as she turned left onto the street, praying Byron would not look in her direction.

She drove a few blocks and found her way out of the neighborhood. All the while, Elsie sat beside her, not uttering a word.

When Mirella reached the large thoroughfare they had traveled upon earlier, she relaxed, knowing she was not lost and could find her way home.

But her heart had been shattered by the betrayal she had witnessed.

They reached Mayfair, and she returned the cart, the same groom coming out to take charge of it. She thanked him, polite as always, and took up the basket.

Handing it to Elsie, she said, “Take these. Eat them. Dump them. I do not care what you do with them. I will never eat a blueberry again, not as long as I live.”

The maid accepted the basket, and Mirella took off, tears blinding her. She retreated to the gardens for five minutes, trying to calm herself.

Byron had betrayed her in the worst possible way. Although she knew many gentlemen of the ton kept mistresses—and even had children by them—she was not the kind of woman who would happily share her husband with anyone.

It was over. Her dreams of love and a life with him died within her. Thank goodness they had yet to announce their betrothal. Georgie had explained to Mirella that any time a broken engagement occurred in Polite Society, the lady was always blamed. And shunned. Whether she had broken the commitment or the man had, the ton looked down their noses at the lady, while taking the gentleman’s side.

At least this way, no one would be the wiser. Oh, some would certainly suspect, but since no formal announcement had been made nor the item placed in the newspapers, others would merely gossip at the apparent falling out between Lady Mirella Strong and the Marquess of Bridgewater. She would have to attend tonight’s affair with her head held high, and under no circumstances would she speak to Lord Bridgewater.

She decided she would pen a letter to him, letting him know she no longer wished to wed him. She would give no reason for crying off. It would be up to him to figure out how his sins had driven her away. The only person who might clue him in would be his footman. He had been the same one who had ridden with the carriage when they had taken it to the christening ceremony. Mirella was certain he had recognized her. Yet she doubted the servant would speak up.

Going inside, she found Powell, taking the first necessary action.

“Powell, I know you take your orders from His Grace, and I assure you that I will speak with him the moment he returns to the house.” She swallowed painfully. “However, something has arisen, and I believe it in my best interest to take preventative action.”

The butler’s brow furrowed. “Yes, my lady?”

Mirella realized she was talking in circles, not explaining herself clearly at all.

“I am asking that you do not grant Lord Bridgewater entry into His Grace’s residence,” she said. “I do not know if he will make an appearance, but if that occurs, under no circumstances are you to admit him.”

“I see,” Powell said, sympathy flashing in his eyes.

“There will be no wedding,” she declared. “We will not be going to Shadowcrest until the Season ends. Cancel all arrangements and packing if you would.”

Mirella would not turn tail and run to hide in the country. That would only make the gossip ten times worse. Instead, she would remain in town and dance with every eligible bachelor she could. She would talk and laugh and flirt as if nothing was wrong in her world. She only hoped Lord Bridgewater would take the high road and not spread any gossip about her.

“Yes, my lady.” The butler eyed her for a long moment. “I am sorry things did not work out.”

Her throat tightened. “Thank you, Powell.”

Retreating to her mother’s sitting room, which was just off the foyer, Mirella found paper and ink. She had no idea what she would write but knew she must do so. Lord Bridgewater must receive her note before this afternoon. She did not want him to call upon her or try and take tea with the family. She wanted to communicate to him that she did not wish for him to approach her this evening, as well.

She spread the paper in front of her, waiting to dip her quill into the inkwell until she knew what to write—and worried she would hover over the page for a very long time.

“Just begin, you ninny,” she told herself.

She scrawled My dear Lord Bridgewater and stopped.

“No,” she said aloud. “You are not mine, and you are certainly not dear to me. In fact, you are quite the opposite.”

Mirella set aside the paper and took out a fresh piece, writing Lord Bridgewater .

Nothing came to her.

How was she to write to the man who had trampled upon her heart? Part of her wished to rush to James—the captain, too—and tell them of her fiancé’s betrayal. The pair would pummel and pound the marquess until nothing was left of him, meaning no polite note need be written to him. Of course, she would never do such a thing, nor would she allow the two men to do so. Mirella knew she would never be able to tell her family the entire story. She would have to say something, however trivial it might sound. Though she knew Mama and Sophie would press her for details, she could not provide any because her brother and stepfather would likely beat Lord Bridgewater black and blue if she told them about the scene she had stumbled upon.

No, she would only go so far as to share that she had discovered something distasteful about the marquess and had reconsidered the marriage, finding it in her best interest to break all ties with him. They would respect her wishes.

It also meant she would have no one to share her story with. Mirella would have to keep things bottled inside her from now until forever. Her sisters and cousins, loving her as much as they did, would betray her confidence and tell what she had shared.

Then Mirella realized she did have someone she could speak with.

Aunt Matty . . .

Though her aunt’s beloved had not betrayed her, he had left her for his army career. She knew Aunt Matty would keep her secrets.

Relieved that she would be able to unburden herself, Mirella took up her quill again, only to be distracted by a carriage stopping in front of the window which looked out upon the square. Her heart slammed violently against her ribs as she saw Byron get out of it and move toward the front door.

Quickly, she leaped to her feet and raced across the room, cracking the door open so she could hear the exchange. By now, Powell would have had time to assemble the footmen and direct them not to admit the marquess to the ducal townhouse.

She heard the knock and the door opening, listening to the exchange first between Dursley and Lord Bridgewater and then Powell and the marquess. Grateful that the servants had stood their ground against the intruder, Mirella closed the door again and returned to the writing table. This time, she wrote quickly and with conviction.

Lord Bridgewater –

I have had a change of heart regarding our betrothal and am informing you that I no longer wish to wed you. I intended to marry a man who was filled with honor and decency—and have discovered you possess neither.

Save your protests because I am a stubborn creature. Nothing you might say will convince me to change my mind.

Please do not call upon me or even speak to me at future social affairs. My family is quite loyal, as you have seen, and so approaching them will also do you no good.

I hope that you are gentleman enough not to speak ill of me or any of the Strongs. In return, I will keep silent about you and your disappointing behavior.

Lady Mirella Strong

She read through it once, happy with the strong wording. Once the ink dried, she folded and addressed it, glancing up to make certain his carriage had vacated the square.

Mirella left the sitting room and went straight to Powell.

“I have a note for Lord Bridgewater,” she explained, passing it to the butler. “I would like it delivered at once. Hopefully, it will persuade him not to appear on His Grace’s doorstep again.”

“The marquess did come by to see you, my lady.”

“Yes, I saw his carriage outside the window. Thank you for standing up to him, Powell. I know it was difficult to do, but you acted admirably. I will certainly let His Grace know.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

She went to the music room, doubting she could play, but knowing no one else would be inside it. Mirella sat in a chair, too numb to even think. All she knew was she had loved—and her foolishness at falling in love with the wrong man had destroyed her.