Chapter 7

T HE HIGHLIGHT OF THE SEASON’S END IN 1812 WAS THE CELEbrATION of the marriage between Adrian, Baron Swynford, and the American heiress, Miss Amanda Dunham. Not only did the bride rank among the year’s “incomparables,” but she was rumored to have an income of three thousand pounds a year. Small wonder, said the wags and wits, that her unfortunate nationality had been overlooked by the Swynfords.

The young couple had been fêted for several weeks prior to their wedding day, the largest party a ball given by Jared and Miranda two nights before the nuptials. Invitations had been at a premium, but the greatest honor done the young people was the attendance of George, the Prince Regent, himself.

The virtual ruler of England now that his father, George III, had been declared mad, the Prince Regent or Prinny, as he was known by all was not as popular as he had once been. Confirmed by Parliament to rule in his father’s place, he had asked the Tories to form the government, thus alienating the Whigs, who had supported him for years and had expected to ride to power on his coattails. The Tories had no love for Prinny either, and the common people saw only his excesses. To their minds he ate too much when many starved. He squandered money on women, paintings, furnishings, houses, and horses. His marriage was an open scandal although he partly redeemed himself by his adoration of his only child, the Princess Charlotte. Only among his peers was the Prince Regent at ease for, whether they liked him or not, being in favor with the prince was the pinnacle of social success.

He arrived at Dunham House at precisely eleven o’clock the evening of the ball, accompanied by Lady Jersey. He was a tall, full-figured man with carefully coiffed dark brown hair and watery blue eyes. The eyes swept approvingly over Amanda, for the Prince Regent liked his women dimpled and buxom. Still, he was strangely taken by his willow-slim hostess, whose sea-green eyes matched her gown. The Prince Regent, who had expected to stay only half an hour, had such a good time that he stayed for almost the entire ball, thereby guaranteeing its success.

The family had expected to spend the next day recovering from their evening and resting for the wedding, which would take place the following day; but a visitor at ten o’clock in the morning brought the four Dunhams to the main drawing room in various states of dishabille.

“Pieter!” shrieked Dorothea, joyously flinging herself into the arms of a big, tall, red-cheeked gentleman.

“Then you still love me?” whispered the gentleman anxiously.

“Of course I do, you foolish man,” replied Dorothea, blushing prettily.

“Good! I have obtained a special license for us to marry, and I intend we use it today!” he cried.

“Oh, Pieter!”

Jared stepped forward. “Mr. Van Notelman, I presume? I am Jared Dunham, lord of Wyndsong. This is my wife, Miranda, and my ward, Amanda.”

Pieter Van Notelman took the outstretched hand and shook it. “Mr. Dunham, you’ll forgive my unorthodox behavior but I received a note from Dorothea saying that she must, despite the hostilities between England and America, go to London and see to her daughter’s wedding. Frankly, I became worried, so I arranged to have a cousin look after my children, and I found a ship sailing from New York to Holland. From Holland I managed to get a fishing boat to bring me to England.”

“And once here, you immediately managed to obtain a special wedding license,” said Jared drily, his eyes twinkling as he rang for the butler.

“I have friends here too, m’lord.”

“But, Pieter, tomorrow is Amanda’s wedding! We can’t be married today.”

“Why not?” chorused the twins.

“We must marry today, Dorothea. I have booked us passage on a West Indiaman sailing tomorrow night for Barbados. From there we will connect with an American ship, and be home before summer’s end. I cannot leave the children long, and I should not have left Highlands to be managed by others.”

The drawing-room door opened, and the butler entered. “Sir?” he inquired of Jared.

“Send a footman around to Reverand Mr. Blake at St. Mark’s. Tell him we’ll need him to perform a wedding ceremony at half after eleven. Then beg Mrs. Poultney’s indulgence, and say we should like a festive luncheon at one to celebrate the wedding of my mother-in-law and her new husband.”

“Very good, m’lord,” murmured Simpson impassively, his face betraying neither surprise nor disapproval. He turned and left the room.

“Jared!” squeaked Dorothea.

“Now, Doro, my dear, you have told us of your intention to marry Mr. Van Notelman. Have you changed your mind? I certainly won’t force you into a distasteful marriage.”

“No! I love Pieter!”

“Then go upstairs and get ready for your wedding. You have heard Mr. Van Notelman’s explanation for the haste. It is quite reasonable. And just think, Doro! You will have both your girls with you on this happy day. If you had waited, neither of them would have been with you.”

Lord Swynford was hastily summoned, and at eleven-thirty that morning Dorothea Dumham became the wife of Pieter Van Notelman in the presence of her two daughters, her son-in-law, her about-to-be-son-in-law, and the personal secretary of the Dutch ambassador, who happened to be a Van Notelman cousin, and had been the one responsible for obtaining the special license.

They returned to the house to find that Mrs. Poultney, though she was deep in preparations for Amanda’s wedding feast, had prepared an admirable luncheon. Laid out upon the sideboard in the dining room were a turkey stuffed with chestnut and oyster dressing, a juicy loin of beef, a pink ham and a large whole Scots salmon en gelée . There were bowls of vegetables, whole green beans with almonds, carrots and celery in a dilled cream sauce, a cauliflower with a cheese sauce, Brussels sprouts; little whole new potatoes, potato soufflés, and a marrow pudding. There were tiny roast larks, pigeon paté, and rabbit pie, as well as a large salad of young lettuce, small radishes, and little green scallions. At the end of the sideboard were an apricot tart, a small wheel of Stilton, and a bowl containing peaches, cherries, oranges, and green grapes. To everyone’s amazement and delight, there was even a small two-layer wedding cake.

Brought forth to be complimented on her marvelous achievement, a flushed and beaming Mrs. Poultney explained that she had accomplished the miracle of the wedding cake by the simple process of removing the top two layers from Amanda’s cake.

“There’s time to redo them for ye, miss. In fact the new layers is already baked and cooling.”

She was roundly applauded for her cleverness, and returned to the kitchen richer by a gold sovereign discreetly pressed into her hand by her pleased employer.

The Dutch ambassador’s secretary departed in the late afternoon, and so did Lord Swynford, who hoped to catch a catnap before his bachelor fête that evening. Jared also napped.

Amanda attempted to, but she shortly returned downstairs to join her sister in the library overlooking the garden. Secluded up in the little loft balcony, Miranda was reading when she heard her sister calling.

“I’m here,” she called back.

Amanda clambered up the teetery library steps to join her twin. “Here again? Lord, Miranda, you will get lines before your time reading so much!”

“I like to read, Mandy, and this is the most marvelous library! I am really going to insist we move it to Wyndsong.”

Amanda sat down on a tufted stool facing her sister. She had a strange expression on her face, and Miranda asked, “Why can’t you sleep? Bridal nerves?”

“Mamma and her new husband.”

“Mama and Mr. Van Notelman!?”

“They did not even wait for tonight, Miranda!”

“What?”

“They are … they are …” Her pretty little face grew pink with embarrassment. “The bedsprings squeak, and I heard Mama cry out! It is still daylight, Miranda!”

Miranda choked back her laughter. She remembered her shock the first time Jared made love to her in daylight. Still, her sister needed reassurance. “Don’t be shocked, darling.” she said. “Husbands have the disconcerting habit of making love to their wives when the spirit moves them. Lovemaking is not necessarily confined to the evening hours.”

“Oh.” Amanda’s rosebud mouth turned down, and once again the perplexed look filled her eyes. “But Mama? I thought she was too old! Surely Mr. Van Notelman is! He must be close to fifty!”

“Age, so Jared assures me, has little to do with it, Amanda.”

Amanda was silent for a few moments, and then she said, “What is it like?”

“After the first time, delicious! There is no other word to describe lovemaking. The violation of your maidenhead will hurt, but afterwards …” She smiled dreamily.

“Delicious? Is that all you can tell me, sister?” Amanda was beginning to sound piqued.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you, Mandy, but there are no suitable words to describe it. It is something you must experience for yourself. All I can do is tell you not to be frightened, and to trust Adrian. I suspect he has had considerable experience in these matters. Simply allow yourself to enjoy the myriad delicious sensations that will overtake you.”

“It is nice?” came the hesitant query.

Miranda leaned down and hugged her younger twin hard. “Yes, sister, it is very nice.”

Very nice indeed, she thought to herself later that night when Jared returned from Lord Swynford’s bachelor party and stumbled, shirtless, shoeless, and smelling a great deal of wine, into her bed to nuzzle at her breasts. “You’re drunk!” she accused him, amused.

“Not so d-runk that I can’t make love to my wife,” he muttered, squirming out of his tight breeches.

Very, very nice, she thought afterward, drowsy and satisfied, as he snored lightly next to her.

The following morning dawned bright and clear, a perfect June day. The wedding went perfectly. Amanda’s gown, yards of pure white silk draped over a hoop in the style of her grand-mama, had a tiny waist and a round low neckline that extended off her shoulders. Little white silk bows embroidered with individual pink silk rosebuds festooned the full skirt with its panniers. The sleeves of the dress were long and loose, with layers of lace at the ends. The hem was edged in lace ruffles and a long train in the back was held up by two of Lord Francis and Lady Millicent Dunham’s grandchildren, a boy and girl, ages three and four. The bride wore a lovely strand of perfectly matched pearls about her slender neck, a gift from her mother; and her short, golden blond curls were topped with a dainty diamond tiara, a gift from her mother-in-law, to which was attached a long, sheer lace veil. She carried white roses tied with pink silk ribbons.

Amanda was attended by three bridesmaids, her cousins, the Honorable Misses Caroline, Charlotte, and Georgina Dunham, suitably gowned in sky-blue silk dresses with wreaths of pink rosebuds on their heads, and carrying baskets of multicolored early-summer flowers. The matron of honor, the bride’s unusual-looking sister, was very striking in a deep-blue silk gown.

Afterward everyone invited to the church returned to the Devon Square house to toast the couple and eat wedding cake. The guests filled the ballroom, the drawing room, and the garden. The cream of London society, they resembled a flock of brightly plumed birds chattering madly, making and destroying reputations in one sentence. They lingered into the late afternoon, the last of them finally leaving with the lavender dusk even though the bride and groom had departed long before in a high perch phaeton, bound for a secret destination.

There was a second good-bye, for Dorothea and her new husband were going away, too. Their ship would be sailing from the London dock a bit after nine that evening. As mother and daughter took leave of one another, Miranda realized that Dorothea was truly starting a new life. She was no longer a Dunham, and for the first time in many years she really had no responsibilities to the Dunhams. Tom was dead, and her girls both well married. Miranda thought her mother looked prettier than she’d ever seen her look. There was a radiance about Doro that her daughter recognized as coming from being well loved. It was strange to think of her mother that way, but Miranda understood that her mother was still a fairly young woman.

“Again, Mama,” she said, “I wish you and Mr. Van Notelman happy. Take care of yourself, and when we get back to Wyndsong we will have you all over for a visit.”

“Thank you, my dear. You will try to be a good wife to Jared now, won’t you? And remember, good manners at all times.”

“Yes, Mama,” Miranda said demurely.

“Doro.” Jared kissed his mother-in-law’s cheek.

“Jared, dear.” She returned the embrace.

Miranda looked to her new stepfather, somewhat unsure of how to treat him. Pieter Van Notelman saw, and held out his arms to her. “I will be pleased if you’ll call me Uncle Pieter. I’m not Tom Dunham, my dear,” he said, “but Dorothea’s daughters will be as dear to me as my own and you and Mandy are a whole sight prettier, too! Come on now, and give me a kiss!” And she did, enjoying the tickle of his whiskers and the scent of his bay rum after shave.

“Your girls are most certainly pretty, Pieter,” Dorothea protested loyally.

Pieter Van Notelman eyed his new wife with amused affection. “My dear bride,” he said, “I love my daughters well, but they’re all as plain as bread pudding, and that’s the truth. I don’t worry about it, though, and neither should you. They’ve all got sweet natures and fat dowries, and will be proof of the adage that all cats look the same in the dark.”

Miranda swallowed her mirth, and tried to look properly shocked, but one look at Dorothea’s outraged face and Jared howled with laughter.

“The carriage is ready, m’lady.”

“Thank you, Simpson.”

Mother and daughter hugged each other a final time. “Goodbye, Mama! Good-bye, Uncle Pieter!”

“I’ll go with them to the docks,” said Jared softly, “and I may stop at White’s on my way back.”

“Tonight? Oh, Jared! It is our first night alone.”

“I will not be late, and I most assuredly will not be foxed as I was last night.” He kissed her mouth lightly. “Foxed, and unable to do my duty by my beautiful wife,” he murmured so only she might hear.

“I thought you did your duty admirably, if briefly,” she teased in a low whisper.

“I’ll be revenged for that slight, m’lady.” He grinned rakishly at her, and was gone out the door behind the Van Notelmans.

Alone! For the first time in months she was alone. The well-trained servants moved silently and quickly through the house, restoring order. She moved slowly upstairs to her own empty room, and yanked on the embroidered velvet bellpull. It seemed a very long time before her maid appeared.

“Yes, m’lady?” Perky’s cap was askew, and she was flushed from wine or lovemaking, or both.

“Have a hot bath prepared for me,” Miranda said, “and I’ll want a light supper perhaps some capon breast, salad, and a fruit tart. Then you may have the evening off, Perky.”

Perkins bobbed a lopsided curtsey.

Later, after Miranda had bathed and Perky had brushed her hair, Miranda said kindly, “Go on now, Perky. I shall not need you again tonight. Have a good time with your Martin.”

“Oh, m’lady! ’Ow did you know?”

Miranda laughed. “It would be hard not to know, Perky. He’s quite calf-eyed about you.”

Perkins giggled happily, bobbed a final, wavy curtesy, and was gone. Miranda laughed again and, picking up a small leather-bound volume of Lord Byron’s newest poems, sat in the tapestry wing chair by the flickering fire to read while she nibbled on her supper. Mrs. Poultney had prepared her a crispy golden capon wing, and several slices of juicy breast, a light-as-air potato soufflé, tiny, whole baby carrots glazed with honey, and a small salad of tender new lettuce with a delicate tarragon dressing. The woman was a wonder, thought Miranda, finishing everything with a good appetite before turning to the strawberry tart in its flaky crust with the side bowl of clotted Devon cream, and the small porcelain pot of fragrant green China tea. Sated, she sat back in her chair, warm and relaxed, and dozed.

Her book hitting the floor and the clock striking ten woke her. She wasn’t sure if it was the good food, the warm fire, Lord Byron’s poetry, or a combination of the three that had put her to sleep. She picked the book up and put it on the table. London’s current literary lion bored her silly. She was quite sure Byron had never felt any love for anyone except himself. Standing, Miranda stretched and padded barefooted downstairs to the library in search of another book.

The house was quiet, for the servants, with the exception of the lone footman dozing in the front hall, had long ago sought their beds. A fire lit the dark corners of the library with a warm gold light as Miranda climbed into the small loft to seek one of her favorite histories. Curling up in her chair, she began to read. She had not read long when the library door opened, and she heard many footsteps. Several people were entering the library.

“I think we’ll be quite private here,” said Jared. “My wife and the servants are long abed.”

“By God, Jared,” came an elegant London drawl, “if I were married to something as lovely as your lady I’d have been long abed too, not running around London.”

There came the laughter of three men, and then Jared said, “I agree with you. Henry, but how can we get together without causing speculation unless our meetings seem to be social ones? Bramwell, pour us some whiskey, will you? Well, Henry, what do you think?”

“I think your people are right. The fly in all our pots of ointment is Boney himself. Parliament has now rescinded the Orders in Council that it was foolish enough to pass. They won’t admit to it openly, but we need the American market the same as they need us. Dammit! You people may be running your own show now, but we’re branches on the same root stock!”

“Yes, we are,” replied Jared quietly, “and still attached enough to England that I can be plain Mr. Dunham in America while still, because of my family’s original royal grant, being Lord Dunham here in England.”

“Damn, Jared, that’s good whiskey!” remarked Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston.

“I know a Scotsman who keeps a still here in London.”

“You would!”

Deep male laughter resounded. Up in the library loft Miranda curled herself into a tight little ball and snuggled deep into her chair. She could not reveal herself, especially dressed in a nightgown. They had assumed the library was empty. She had blushed to the roots of her silver-gilt hair when Lord Palmerston made his remark about her.

“Yes, we know that Gillian Abbott is involved,” said Lord Palmerston, “but she is not the ringleader, and he is the one we want. Gillian has had some powerful lovers in the last few years, and she is skillful at getting information from them to pass on to her contact. Why men who are ordinarily prudent, lose all caution in her arms is beyond me.”

“You’ve never enjoyed her favors, then?”

“Good Lord, no! Emily would kill me!” He grinned sheepishly. “But Gillian was your mistress last year, wasn’t she?”

“For a brief time,” admitted Jared. “She’s beautiful and she’s sexually insatiable, but Lord, she’s boring! I enjoy bedsport, but I like to be able to talk to a woman, too.”

“You are a radical fellow,” chuckled Henry Temple. “Most men would be delighted quite delighted with Gillian as she is.” His eyes grew serious as he said, “Mr. Bramwell, have you any idea who Lady Abbott’s contact is?”

“I’ve had her closely watched, m’lord,” answered Roger Bramwell, “but she knows so many people and goes so many places. I believe that her contact is someone in society, and that she is passing on information at social gatherings probably verbally. I can see no other way. I will begin to concentrate on people she sees at social gatherings.”

“I cannot understand why she does it,” remarked Lord Palmerston, shaking his head.

“Money,” said Jared drily. “Gillian is greedy.”

“What is your plan, Mr. Bramwell, once we are certain of our man?”

“We will plant information with Lady Abbott. The first piece will be accurate, though of little importance. That will help us identify our quarry. The second piece will be all wrong. Once passed on, it will pinpoint our ringleader, for certain, and you can then make your arrest.”

Lord Palmerston nodded and then said slowly, “You realize, Jared, that you must be the one to trap the lady.”

“Absolutely not!” exclaimed Jared. “I will not involve myself with Gillian Abbott again.”

“Jared, you must! You are under secret presidential orders to help us stop Bonaparte. Madison realized that the French tricked him into that blockade, but he realized it too late. He wants you for this assignment.”

“With all due respect, Henry, my orders were to go to St. Petersburg and convince the Tzar that his best interests lie with England and America instead of with France. Nobody said I had to bed Gillian Abbott. And if I do, she will trumpet it all over London, making sure my wife hears it first. Miranda is young and proud, and deucedly independent. She is already aware that I partook of Gillian’s favors when I was a bachelor. She will have my hide if I become involved with that bitch again.” Miranda nodded vigorously in her hidey-hole. “Besides all that … I love Miranda.”

“I did not think you were a man to be henpecked,” remarked Lord Palmerston smoothly.

“Ouch!” Jared grinned ruefully. “Nice try, Henry, but my wife means more to me than my pride. Why me, anyway?”

“Because we cannot involve anyone else in this, Jared. If we do, we risk the chance of someone finding out. Look, Jared, though Lord Liverpool may be the new Prime Minister, it’s Lord Castlereagh, our foreign secretary, who’s the real power behind the throne. And God help us, for he’s a madman. Poor Prinny may be a connoisseur of fine art, but he don’t know how to pick a decent government.

“Lord Castlereagh is a narrow, obstinate man who’s never been on the right side of any issue. It’s true he hates Boney, and works hard for his downfall, but he does so for all the wrong reasons. I may be a Tory politician, and Secretary of War in a Tory government, but before all else, I’m a loyal Englishman.”

“In other words, Henry, what we’re doing has no official sanction.”

“None.”

“And if either side stumbles onto our scheme, the government will fail to acknowledge us.”

“Yes.”

There was a long deep silence. Miranda heard only the crackling of logs in the hearth. At last Jared said, “I am either a great fool or a great patriot, Henry.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Reluctantly,” Jared sighed.

“I suppose I can’t go to Russia until our spy is caught. Bram, pour us another tot.”

“Not for me,” said Palmerston. “I must appear in several other places tonight in order to perfect my alibi. Anyone who saw us leave White’s together will hear I was in Watier’s afterward, and no suspicion will fall on either of us.”

“I’ll see you out, then,” said Jared, rising and moving to the door.

“No,” Lord Palmerston waved him away. “Mr. Bramwell will see me out a side door, Jared. It’s best I not be recognized leaving your house.” Lord Palmerston held out his hand, and Jared shook it.

“Good night, Henry.”

The door closed behind Roger Bramwell and Henry Temple. Left alone, Jared Dunham gazed mournfully into the fire. “Damn!” he said softly. Then he called up into the loft, “Come down, wildcat.”

“How did you know I was here?” she cried, making her way down the steps.

“I have very keen hearing, my dear. Why didn’t you come down instead of remaining hidden? You heard some rather sensitive matters.”

“Come down and greet your guests like this, m’lord?” She twirled, her arms flung wide.

He looked through the sheer silk Circassian wrapper to the pearly sheen of firm thighs, rounded buttocks, and young breasts, their nipples a dark beacon. Then he laughed. “Your point is well taken, wildcat, but now we have a problem. Can you keep all this a secret? For so it must remain.” He sounded as serious as Miranda had ever heard him sound.

“Am I some idle London society gossip?” she demanded.

“No, my darling, of course you’re not. Don’t be insulted. But you have heard things you really shouldn’t have.”

“Are you a spy?” she asked bluntly.

“No, I’m not, and I never have been, Miranda. I work quietly and behind the scenes for peace with honor. I am first, and always, an American. Napoleon has worked assiduously to destroy relations between America and England, for while we squabble he is free to plunder Europe. He is the real enemy, but politicians often cannot see beyond apparent causes.”

“Lord Palmerston said you have a presidential commission.”

“Well … not directly. I’ve never met President Madison. John Quincy Adams is the intermediary in this matter. Soon I will go to Russia to try and convince the Tzar that his best interests lie with the Americans and the English. Tzar Alexander had already been badly misinformed by Boney.”

“And where does your friend Lady Abbott figure in all this?”

Jared chose to ignore the bait. “She’s part of a French spy ring operating here in London. We need to know who the ringleader is, and put him out of commission. Unless we do, my mission isn’t safe. It wouldn’t do for Napoleon to know what I was up to in Russia, would it?”

“Do you have to make love to her?”

“Probably, yes,” he said. He saw no way to deal with this problem except directly.

“I hate her!” Miranda cried.

Jared rose and took his wife in his arms. “Oh, my darling darling,” he said softly, “I will not enjoy it. Having known you, how could I enjoy her? She is vulgar and coarse, while you are perfection itself.”

Miranda sighed. He was a man of character, and he would do his duty. After some moments she disengaged herself and moved to the other side of the room. She stood facing him and said quietly, “How can I help you?”

“Oh, wildcat,” he said hoarsely. “I am beginning to think I am not half as worthy of you as I should be.”

“I love you!” she said simply.

“I love you!”

“Then tell me how I may help you, Jared,” she repeated.

“By not divulging to anyone the conversation you heard here tonight and by keeping your ears open for any tittle-tattle you think might be of interest to me,” he answered her.

“Very well, you have my word on it,” she said. “Now can we go to bed?”

Some time later, as they lay together in the heat of passion, she pushed him over onto his back. “Why?” she demanded, straddling him. “Why should the man always ride and the woman be ridden?” Then Miranda impaled herself on his rock-hard shaft. He groaned, and his hands reached up to fondle her breasts. She sought to find the right rhythm, and then rode him like a young Diana. She drove him hard, seeming to take great pleasure from his helplessness. Suddenly his male vanity rebelled and, reaching out, he grasped her round little buttocks in a hard grip. She wiggled wildly to break his hold, but he held her adamantly and then the cresting waves overtook them both at once.

When she had caught her breath she finally rolled away from him and said, “Remember me, when you find yourself forced to make love to that female.”

“Oh, wildcat, I am hardly likely to forget you,” he whispered, and her happy laughter rang in his ears for a long, long time.

Her words came back to haunt him. They went to a ball at Lady Jersey’s several nights later, and after greeting their hostess they passed into her crowded, noisy ballroom. Just a shade smaller than Almack’s ballroom, it easily contained a thousand guests. Decorated in white and gold, the ballroom had exquisite plaster designs, and was lit by eight Waterford chandeliers. The long French windows were framed by yellow-sprigged, white satin draperies. Large brass cachepots containing yellow and white rose trees were placed at intervals throughout the ballroom. The musicians had been placed upon a raised dais, which was backed and hemmed slightly on the sides by tall green palms and rose trees. Around the sides of the room were plenty of gilt chairs upholstered in rose silk so that the weary might take their ease while destroying the reputations of their dearest friends.

As Miranda and Jared entered the ballroom the first person to see them was Beau Brummel, and he immediately took it upon himself to further Miranda’s career in London society. The Beau was a tall, elegant man with sandy hair, exquisitely styled, and sharp blue eyes with a perpetually amused expression in them, if one were only wise enough to look closely. He had a high forehead and a long nose, and if his lips appeared to sneer, it was only because they were narrow. He had started the fashion of black evening dress, and he wore it well.

Brummel moved to greet Miranda, his cultivated voice deliberately pitched to reach those around them. Catching Miranda’s hand, he slowly raised it and brushed it with cool lips.

“Now, madam, I know the Americas are the real home of the gods, for thou art a veritable goddess. I am at your feet, divine one.”

“Oh never, Mr. Brummel! Such a posture would ruin the cut of your magnificent coat, and I would never forgive myself,” retorted Miranda.

“By God, a wit to match the face! I believe I am in love. Come, goddess, I shall introduce you to all the right and wrong people. You do not mind, m’lord? No, of course you don’t.” He swept Miranda away, leaving Jared standing alone. But not for long.

“My, my, my,” Jared heard the familiar purring voice, “it would seem the Beau is determined to make your little bride a succès fou. ”

Jared forced his face into a smile and turned to face Gillian Abbott. She was dressed in a transparent black silk gown, and was entirely naked beneath it. Around her neck was a diamond necklace that flashed blue fire with her every movement. His eyes raked her cooly and slowly, and he feigned admiration.

“You don’t leave anything to the imagination, do you, Gillian?”

“But I have managed to get your attention, haven’t I, Jared?” she shot back.

“Dear girl, I don’t believe for one minute that you wore that gown with only me in mind.”

“I did!” she protested. “I had no intention of coming tonight until Lady Jersey told me you would be here. Perhaps now the novelty of that virtuous infant you married has worn off. I am ready to forgive you your conduct toward me, Jared, for I have learned that you were forced into marriage with that child.” She leaned forward, pressing against his hard arm. He looked down her gown, as of course he was meant to do. How obvious and how boring she is, thought Jared. “Has the novelty worn off, my darling?” she persisted.

“Perhaps it has, Gillian,” he murmured, sliding an arm around her waist.

“I knew it!” Gillian Abbott’s voice was triumphant, and she shot him a sultry look from beneath her heavily mascara’d black lashes. “Take me out into the garden, Jared darling.”

“In time, Gillian. Firstly you must waltz with me.” Taking her in his strong arms, he whirled her off while across the room Miranda watched, heartsick.

“Come now, goddess,” chided Beau Brummel softly, “it’s not fashionable to love one’s husband. The best marriages are generally made in lawyer’s rooms, not in Heaven.”

“To hell with fashion,” muttered Miranda ominously. Then, remembering that she meant to help Jared, she laughed lightly. “I do not begrudge m’lord his toys, Mr. Brummel I merely question his taste.”

“Oh, goddess, what a very sharp tongue you have,” laughed the Beau. “Look! There’s Byron. Would you like to meet him?”

“Not particularly. His poetry bores me silly,” she replied.

“Dear girl, you really do have taste! Ah, well, we cannot begrudge the ton their season’s seven-day wonder, can we?”

“Where is Lady Caroline Lamb?” asked Miranda. “I understand she is his special friend?”

“Ah yes, Caro. She was not invited tonight. That was a special favor to Lady Melbourne, her mother-in-law. I understand, however, that she is outside dressed as one of Byron’s linkboys. Such a madcap, dear Caro. Come, goddess, and I shall introduce you to Lady Melbourne. She really is quite a marvelous creature.”

Jared and Gillian left the lighted ballroom for Lady Jersey’s dark garden. The night air was soft and warm, and a million stars glittered. As they strolled through the garden they saw dark, anonymous shapes embracing. Lady Abbott, her sense of direction perfected by familiarity, led Jared to a small, secluded summer house. They no sooner entered it than she was in his arms, her avid red mouth demanding his.

His instinct was to push her away, but his mission drove Miranda from his mind, and he kissed Gillian Abbott as he knew she expected to be kissed. He was savage, almost cruel, which drove her wild. Panting, she pulled away and tore off her gown, laying it over the rail of the summer house. He could see her translucent body gleaming in the darkness, and in his memory he saw the heavy, cone-shaped breasts, a tiny waist, wide hips, and the full, dark red mound. Reaching out, he pulled her back in his arms, fondling her breasts, pinching the big, brown nipples, making her squeal. “Jesus, you’re a hot bitch, Gillian,” he whispered.

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way, Jared,” she murmured huskily.

“How many men have you fucked since we were last together?” he demanded.

“No gentleman would ask a lady such a question,” she pouted.

“I’m no gentleman, I’m a Yankee. And you’re certainly no lady.” His lips came down again on hers, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. She sucked on it hungrily. He pushed her down onto the settee, his hand finding her wet and throbbing sex. He put two fingers into her, moving them quickly until her love juices bedewed his hand.

“Oh, God,” she panted, “I do adore you, Jared!”

He laughed. “You adore any stud who scratches that uncontrollable itch of yours, Gillian.” He lay back and she knelt alongside the settee. She undid his breeches and released his organ, which she took into her mouth. He was hard within moments and moved over her, forcing her onto her back. He grasped her plump buttocks tightly and jogged her hard and fast. She climaxed half a dozen times before he took his release.

It was over quickly and he said coolly, “Put on your dress, Gillian. Someone may happen along.”

“You weren’t thinking about that a moment ago,” she chortled.

“No, I wasn’t,” he returned. “I was actually thinking about some news I learned today.”

“I expect you to think only of me when we’re together,” she pouted, smoothing her gown.

He straightened his own clothes. “This was very important. It was something Henry Temple told me.”

“What is more important than us?” she demanded.

“I trust you can keep a secret,” he said, “though it will soon enough be public knowledge. My country has formally declared war on yours.”

“Oh, pooh! England and America are always declaring war on each other,” she said.

“Bonaparte should be delighted,” remarked Jared casually.

“He should? Why?” Her voice was suddenly sharp.

“He wanted it to happen. I imagine that whoever brings him the news will be well rewarded. Come now, Gillian, we must get back to the ballroom before a prolonged absence makes us a scandal.”

“Afraid your milk-and-water wife will find out about us?” she taunted him. “I intend for her to learn that I am your mistress once more, now that you’ve tired of her. She’ll pay for that set-down she gave me at Almack’s!”

“Gillian! Gillian!” he lamented. “How many times have I told you not to be obvious? You could have a far sweeter revenge if you kept our relationship to yourself. Then, each time you saw Miranda, you could laugh to yourself, knowing something she did not know. That would be the clever way, but I imagine you will not be content unless you can babble our secret to the ton.”

“I can be clever!” she protested, but he laughed mockingly. As they entered the ballroom once again and he bowed over her hand, she demanded, “When will I see you again?”

“Soon,” he answered noncommittally, and walked away without another word.

He entered the supper room and sought a glass of champagne. He quaffed it in two gulps, then took another. He stood in a dim corner, staring vacantly, letting his mind wander. He had behaved disgustingly, but, by God, he’d done his job! He shuddered lightly. He was either getting a conscience or getting too old for this sort of game. Then he smiled to himself. The wildcat had certainly spoiled him for other women!

“A penny for them, Jared.”

“It’s done, Henry.”

“During your sojourn in the garden?”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Actually I didn’t see you go. It was Emily. She was distressed, for she likes your wife.”

“I was far more distressed,” replied Jared, “for I like my wife, too. Gillian Abbott is a feral animal and she disgusts me. I did my duty by my beliefs and yours, and I hope we can end this thing soon.”

“We will, old friend, I promise you,” said Lord Palmerston sympathetically, and then walked away.

Jared looked around to see if his wife was in the supper room. His thick, black eyebrows drew together in annoyance as he spotted a cluster of fawning gallants surrounding her. That impudent puppy the Marquis of Wye was leaning over and grinning. Jared made his way toward her. “Madam,” he said firmly, “it is time for us to leave.”

A chorus of groans greeted him, but Miranda put her slender hand on her husband’s arm saying, “Fie, gentlemen! It is a wife’s duty to accede to her husband’s wishes, provided, of course, that his wishes are not unreasonable.”

Laughter greeted this witticism, and the young Marquis of Wye said, “But Lord Dunham’s request is not at all reasonable, Miranda.”

Jared felt a fierce rage rising within him, but Miranda’s soft hand closed over one of his, and she laughed lightly. “I bid you all goodnight, gentlemen.”

They bid their hostess goodnight as they left. The Prince Regent had already departed, which made their going permissible. Their carriage was brought around, and they were soon home. Not a word had been said between them during the drive, and as they climbed the stairs he said, “Don’t wait up for me, Miranda.” She nodded. He kissed her perfunctorily, and she smelled the faint fragrance of gardenia on his clothing.

She made herself ready for bed and soon dozed off. She woke suddenly, not quite sure what had roused her. The house was quiet. Damn, she thought! Jared has gone to bed, thinking that I am asleep! She threw back the bedclothes and, without bothering with a robe, hurried through the door connecting their rooms.

He was not asleep, she realized, for though he lay motionless beneath the blankets, his breathing was ragged. She moved to the big bed and sat beside him, reaching out to touch his cheek. He turned away. “You did not come to me,” she said softly.

“Go to bed, Miranda,” he answered sharply.

“If you do not tell me, Jared, it will lie like an ever-widening chasm between us.”

“I have done my duty,” he said bleakly, “and the whole thing sickens me. I cannot get the stink of that creature out of my nostrils. For the sake of two countries I have betrayed you, Miranda,” he finished brokenly.

“You have betrayed me only if you enjoyed coupling with her. Did you?” she asked evenly.

“No!” he spat violently.

“Then you have done your duty and no more, and I love you.” She nudged him gently. “Move over, m’lord, I dislike sleeping alone.” He had no time for protest before she had snuggled next to him, her loving warmth penetrating his chill.

Miranda felt triumphant. This sophisticated and worldly man was suffering over what he considered a wrong done to her. She knew he wouldn’t feel this way if he did not love her, and this especially touched her. “Hold me,” she whispered in his ear, licking the inside of it with her pink tongue. Rolling over to face her, he grasped a handful of her soft, gilt hair, breathing in the perfumed sweetness of it. Then his arms went around her, and his mouth was hungrily on hers. He kissed her until she was breathless.

His hands were on her, drawing her silk nightgown away, caressing her slender body with gentle fingers until she ached. His lips explored every inch of her until she thought she’d burst with the desire he was kindling. He covered her body with his, entering her gently, and she sighed deeply, climaxing quickly with him.

“Say it!” he growled, his voice sure once more.

“I love you!” She smiled. “Say it!”

“I love you!” he answered. “Oh my darling, I love you!” She had cleansed him. He was healed, and whole again.

They lay side by side holding hands, and much later she asked softly, “We will not be able to go home until your secret duties are all over, will we?”

“No,” he answered. “We cannot go home, my darling.”

Suddenly he realized she was weeping. Raising himself up on one elbow, he looked down into her face and asked, “Do you want to go home on Dream Witch? She is still here, and could easily run the English naval blockade.”

“No,” she sniffed. “My place is with you, Jared, and with you I shall stay. We will go to Russia together. And when there is peace between England and America once more, we will return to Wyndsong. I am homesick, but then my real home is where you are, my love, isn’t it?”

“You are becoming an amazing woman, wildcat,” he said. But he did not tell her that he intended traveling to Russia alone.

To draw attention to his departure could be fatal to his mission, for Gillian Abbott and her friends were not the only French spies in London. The season was just about at its end, and he and Miranda would travel up to Swynford Hall near Worcester, ostensibly for a summer visit. Adrian would be given a letter of explanation from the Secretary of War, Lord Palmerston, and Jared would depart secretly, leaving his wife in Lord Swynford’s care. There would be no fashionable visitors to note his absence, for the newly weds would not be entertaining this summer. Jared would be back in England by early autumn. It was all perfectly arranged.