2

“Why don’t you marry her? With our connections it is a simple matter to get a special license. You could be wed in a small parish some miles from here where we are not known.” She paused, then had a wicked thought. “Ask Lord Palmerston to help you. I believe he owes us some small courtesy! Mistress Bowen should feel more secure once she is your wife.”

“You are marvelous!” he cried.

They drove west to a small whitewashed and half-timbered inn set in the Malvern Hills. The Good Queen had window boxes full of flowers, and was surrounded by a lovely garden. Miranda was puzzled as to how Mistress Bowen would get to such an inaccessible spot.

“I arranged for a closed carriage to meet Anne two miles from the village,” Jonathan enlightened her.

“You are most discreet,” she replied.

As the phaeton pulled up before the inn, a boy ran out to take the horses and Jonathan leaped down, lifting Miranda to the ground. “Walk those bays till they’ve cooled down, lad. Then you may water them.”

As they entered the building the innkeeper hurried forward. “Good day, sir, madam. Would you be Mr. Jonathan?”

“I am.”

“Come this way then, sir. Your guest has already arrived.” The innkeeper showed them to a private room and inquired, “When shall I have them serve tea, sir?”

Jonathan turned to Miranda. “My dear?”

“I believe a half-hour should be sufficient, Master Innkeeper.”

“Very good, madam,” replied the man, closing the door behind him as he withdrew.

A heavy silence hung in the room. Miranda stared openly at Mistress Bowen. She knew the woman was thirty, yet she didn’t look past twenty-five. Her gown was white muslin of poor quality, but beautifully made. It was decorated with pale-blue ribbons, and a straw bonnet with matching blue ribbons lay on a nearby table. She was very pretty, Miranda decided, and probably quite the perfect wife for Jon. As he could do nothing but stare like a lovesick calf, Miranda took the initiative.

“How nice to finally meet you, Mistress Bowen. Come, let us sit down, and we shall explain everything to you.”

Dazed by Miranda’s smile and her kindly attitude, Anne Bowen allowed Jonathan to seat her. The beautiful Lady Dunham enlightened her quickly and without fuss.

“I suspect, Mistress Bowen, that the simplest way to explain this is to be straightforward. This gentleman, whom you and everyone else believes to be Jared Dunham, is actually his brother Jonathan. My husband, Jared, has, since late last summer, been in St. Petersburg on a secret mission for the American and English governments. Since he could not get back to England before the Russian winter set in and it had to appear that he was in England, Jon was smuggled through the English blockade of our American coast in order to impersonate Jared.

“No one but a wife or mother can tell the differences between my husband and his brother. They look more like twins than my twin sister and I.”

“Wh what are the differences?” ventured Anne Bowen.

“Jared is taller by about a half-inch, and his eyes are a bottle-green, not the gray-green of Jon’s. He has a more elegant hand, and there are other little differences. People here in England do not know Jared well enough to discern those differences. Even my own sister and her husband believe Jon is Jared.”

“Jon is a widower. His first wife died a year ago. You shall have three stepchildren, I should warn you. John is twelve, Eliza Anne is nine, and little Henry is three. If you wed Jon you shall have to live in Massachusetts, for my father-in-law owns shipyards, and Jon is his heir.

“Now I suggested to Jon that he go up to London and obtain a special license so you may be wed immediately. It must be secretly, you understand. I should feel guilty if you bore Jon a child without benefit of clergy.”

“Miranda!” Jonathan Dunham finally found his voice. “For God’s sake, don’t be so indelicate!”

“Indelicate? Good heavens, Jon, are you going to deny the fact that Mistress Bowen is your mistress? Poor Mistress Bowen, not you, would be censured if she finds herself with child. I must insist you marry as quickly as possible!”

Anne Bowen had sat almost silent throughout Miranda’s whole recitation, her gray eyes occasionally widening in surprise. Now she looked from Miranda to Jonathan, convinced that Lady Dunham was telling the truth.

She placed a gentle hand on Jonathan’s arm. “I believe Lady Dunham’s point is well taken, m’lord I mean, Mr. Dunham. Perhaps, however, you do not wish to offer me marriage. A gentleman such as yourself could seek a finer match, I know.”

“Oh, Anne, of course I want to offer you marriage! Will you marry me? We have fine schools in America, not as old as Harrow, Oxford, and Cambridge, but very good. I swear I’ll educate your son, and I’ll dower Mary Anne as well as my own Eliza! Massachusetts is a fine place for children.”

“What of the wild Indians there?” she ventured nervously.

“Indians? Well, there are Indians in the Western territories, and some sections of the South, but there are no more wild Indians in Massachusetts.”

“What will your family say if you bring home a new wife?”

“They will say that I am the most fortunate of men to have found such a treasure.”

“I shall be a good mother to your children, Mr. Dunham.”

“Jon. Oh God, Anne! How I long to hear you say my real name!”

“Jon,” she breathed the word. “I shall be a very good mother to your children. We will, however, have to begin calling my John Robert, plain Robert, so we will not confuse him with your oldest son. How fortunate we are that the children are of like ages.”

“You mean you will marry me?”

“Did I not say so?” she said. “No, I didn’t, but yes, Jon, I will most certainly marry you. Oh, my darling, I love you so very much!”

“Excellent!” said Miranda as Jonathan took Anne in his arms and kissed her. “Now that that is settled we can have tea. I am famished.”

Rosy with kisses, Anne said happily, “How can I thank you, Lady Dunham?”

“You may begin by calling me Miranda,” was the sensible reply. “In America there are no titles, and I am plain Mistress Dunham, as you shall soon be!”

It was a lovely afternoon, one that Miranda would remember for a long time. She genuinely liked Anne Bowen, instinctively knowing that despite the difference in their ages they would become good friends. She knew that Anne could be trusted to keep their secret. Mistress Bowen left them immediately after tea to return to Swynford Village. She had left her children in the care of a neighbor, but did not wish to impose.

“I like her,” said Miranda, helping herself to another cucumber sandwich and a cream cake. “You are very wise to wed her. I suspect your father has Chastity Brewster in mind for you. Your choice is far more suitable.”

“Chastity Brewster! Good Lord, I should never wed that giggling, overstuffed creature. She turned down every eligible bachelor who ever asked her because she fancied she could catch brother Jared!” He chuckled. “She’s not Jared’s type at all. He fancies far more fiery wildcats with sea-green eyes and silver-gilt hair. Thank you, Miranda, for all your help.”

“You deserve some consolation for putting up with me, Jon.”

He laughed. “You’re too much for me to handle, Miranda, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

She smiled mischievously at him. “Go up to London tomorrow on the pretext that Palmerston has sent for you. You will, of course, see him, and when you do, insist that he arrange for you to have a special license. If he demurs simply threaten to return to Swynford as Jonathan Dunham, not Jared. If he still demurs, tell him I shall scream to high heaven about my missing husband and the nefarious dealings of England’s War Department. Whether people believe me or not I shall cause a stir and the gossip will last for several months. Lord Palmerston is not the most popular gentleman in England. I do not think he can afford the fuss I shall cause.”

“You are a very tough opponent, my dear,” he said. “May I ask when you have decided my wedding should be?”

“Oh, yes! Let Adrian go off to Lord Stewart’s alone. Promise him you will follow him in a week. Use our friend Palmerston as an excuse again a quick mission perhaps. Then you and Anne can be wed and have a few days together. She can claim a dying, elderly relative, and arrange for her neighbor to care for the children during those few days. It is quite simple if you plan ahead.”

“So I see,” he remarked. “I begin to think, my dear, that you have missed your calling. You would make Bonaparte an ideal strategist.”

They rode back to Swynford Hall, the bays, fresh and well rested, stepping smartly along. Upon their arrival they found the Swynford barony in an uproar. Miranda hurried up the stairs to her sister’s apartment and was greeted by the dowager Lady Swynford, looking somewhat distraught.

“Oh, Miranda, my dear! Thank heavens you are here! Amanda will not cooperate with Dr. Blake, and I fear for both her and the child!”

Miranda went immediately into Amanda’s bedroom. “So,” she said cheerfully, “the Swynford heir has finally decided to make an appearance. Good afternoon, Doctor. Would you like to get a cup of tea while I sit with my twin?”

Dr. Blake looked at Lady Dunham with new respect. “Thank you, m’lady. I shall just be in the anteroom.”

As the door closed after the doctor, Miranda looked at her sister. Amanda’s golden curls were lank and lackluster. Her pretty face was drawn and frightened, and there were damp spots of perspiration showing through her long white nightgown. “What is the matter, Mandy? You have frightened Adrian’s mama to death. This is not at all like you.”

“I am going to die,” whispered Amanda, turning terror-filled blue eyes on her sister.

“Fiddlesticks, twin! Did I have any great difficulty birthing Thomas? Of course not! Just the usual labor pangs. You were with me the entire time.”

“I am like Mama. I know it! You know all the miscarriages she had.”

“She had them early, between the second and third months, Mandy, not at full term. You may look like Mama, but you have been disgracefully healthy these whole nine months.” Then Miranda gave a deep chuckle. “I received a letter from Mama just last week. She did not want me to tell you this until after you delivered the baby, but I think I had better tell you now if your own child is to born safely. We have a new half-brother, Mandy.”

“What?” The fear drained instantly from Amanda’s face and she struggled to sit up. Miranda propped two large down pillows behind her sister’s back. “ We have a half-brother? ” repeated Amanda. “How? When?”

“Yes! We have a half-brother. Peter Cornelius Van Notelman, born on March the twenty-second. As to how,” giggled Miranda, “I imagine in much the same way as we became enceinte. Did you not tell me the day Mama married that you heard her and Uncle Pieter in their bedchamber? He is obviously quite the vigorous lover. Mama is ecstatic, and sounds as giddy as a young girl.”

“She could have died, Miranda! My God, at her age!”

“Yes, perhaps she might have died, but she didn’t, and neither will you! Our baby brother is a healthy, plump dumpling of a fellow with a prodigious appetite.” Miranda saw the spasm cross her sister’s face. “Bear down, Mandy.”

For the next few hours Miranda sat chatting by her twin’s bedside, and Amanda, her fear vanished, worked hard under her sister’s gentle instruction. Finally Miranda summoned Dr. Blake, and within the next hour Amanda successfully bore her child. Joyously the older twin wiped the blood from the squalling infant, cleaned it in warmed oil, and swaddled it carefully. All the while the baby howled its outrage at having been thrust from its warm home into a drafty and uncertain world. The bedroom door flew open, and both Adrian and his mother pushed in. Smiling, Miranda handed the squalling bundle to Adrian. “M’lord, your son!” she said.

Adrian Swynford stared wide-eyed at the red-faced baby. “My son,” he repeated softly. “ My son! ”

“Give me my grandson before you mash him,” snapped the dowager as she snatched the infant from his father. “Now go thank Amanda for her travail, Adrian!”

Young Lord Swynford stumbled happily across the room to congratulate his wife on their miracle while his mother cradled and cooed at the baby. The head nursery maid arrived flushed with importance, and relieved the reluctant dowager of the child. Agatha Swynford put her arm through Miranda’s, and the two women walked from the room.

“Bless you, my dear Miranda! I believe you saved my grandson’s life as well as Amanda’s. What happened to frighten her so, and how did you calm her fears?”

“For some reason,” replied Miranda, “my sister began to see herself as our mama who suffered many miscarriages. I tried explaining to Mandy that just because she looks like Mama doesn’t mean she is like Mama. That didn’t help, so I told her the news that Mama sent me in the letter I received last week. Our mother, who was told she must never have another child, gave birth to a son on March twenty-second.”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the dowager, and then she chuckled. “Good for your mama, my dear, and good for you, too! You’ve a good head on your shoulders, my gel, and you’re a quick thinker.”

Miranda smiled sweetly. Soon they were going to have an excellent sample of her good head. “My sister will not be frightened by childbirth again, ma’am, and I’ll wager she will soon feel foolish over her behavior.”

Indeed, in the morning Amanda had returned to her even-tempered, sweet-natured self, and thanked her twin for helping to calm her fears the previous night. She was ecstatic over the birth of little Neddie, as Edward Alistair George was to be called. “He is not the least bit wrinkled and red,” she enthused. “I’ll vow he’s the prettiest baby ever born!”

“Except my Thomas, of course,” teased Miranda.

“Nonsense!” retorted Amanda. “Neddie is a perfect cherub with his golden curls, and those huge blue eyes. Oh, Miranda! Did you ever see such marvelous curls? I do believe we’ll be able to christen him at two months rather than three. Your Tom has lovely coloring, but that straight black hair of his cannot possibly compare with Neddie’s curls. My nephew looks like his Papa,” she said somewhat smugly, “and Jared is so American. ”

“So are you, my dear sister, just in case you’ve forgotten!” snapped Miranda, suddenly angry. “I do believe motherhood has addled your wits, Mandy. I shall leave you to dwell on your son’s perfection.” She stormed out of Amanda’s bedroom, and headed for the nursery. There, to her mounting fury, she found the entire nursery staff clustered about the Swynford heir’s lace-draped bassinet.

“Jester!” she snapped sharply, and her young son’s nurse turned. “You are paid to care for my child, not ogle my sister’s baby.” She picked Tom up, and her rage grew. “He is wet!” she accused, and thrust her now howling son at his nurse. “If this ever happens again I shall turn you out without a reference!”

“Oh, please, m’lady! I didn’t neglect Master Thomas! I only just took a moment to look at the new baby.” She began changing the baby.

“You have had your warning, Jester,” said Miranda ominously. “If this happens again, you will be gone before the sun sets that same day. Remember, though my son must share a nursery with his cousin, it is Dunham money that pays you, not Swynford. My son is heir to a greater fortune and a far greater estate than is my nephew. Were it not for this silly war we should be home on Wyndsong now!”

“Yes, m’lady, it won’t happen again,” promised Jester, and she lifted little Tom up. “Do you want to hold him now, m’lady?”

Miranda took the baby from his nursemaid, and cradled him a moment. Tom’s eyes were beginning to turn green. Looking carefully at his poker-straight black hair and the change in his eyes, she muttered, “You do look like your father, damn him!” The baby gave his mother a lopsided grin, and Miranda’s heart contracted painfully. He reminded her so much of Jared. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered softly so only he could hear. She kissed his silky little head. “I will bring your daddy home, I promise you!” Giving the child back to Jester, she shook a finger and warned, “Remember, my girl.”

“Yes, m’lady.” And clutching her charge, the nursemaid curtseyed.

“Wot’s gotten into her?” demanded one of the two wet nurses once Miranda was gone.

“Don’t know,” murmured Jester. “I ain’t never knowed her to be mean before. She ain’t like the other swells. She’s always been more considerate.”

“Well, she had some bee in her bonnet today, that’s for sure,” came the reply.

Miranda stomped downstairs and out of the house. The day was warm and pleasant, and she soon found herself walking beyond the boundaries of the formal garden, past the Grecian temple summer house by the estate lake, and up the green hills. Her anger grew with every step she took. In a nearby tree a lark burst forth in joyous song, and Miranda had the urge to throw a stone at it. Everybody was so blasted happy! Everyone except her!

Jonathan had gone whistling off to London this morning to see Lord Palmerston. Jon was definitely happy. And then there was Adrian, her sweet-natured idiot brother-in-law. He seemed to believe he was the first man in the history of the world to have fathered a son. How many times had he come up to her this morning, wrung her poor hands until they were pulp, and said, “A son, Miranda! Amanda has given me a son!” The last time he did it she had wrenched her bruised fingers from his grasp, and snapped, “A son, Adrian? I thought it was a basket of puppies!” The hurt look on his face had made her instantly contrite, of course, and she had excused herself. “I am tired, Adrian.”

It was an easy lie, and one readily accepted by the susceptible Lord Swynford, who believed all women were delicate. The truth of the matter was that she was disgracefully healthy, having recovered from her childbirth in a fortnight. Her irritability stemmed from all the happiness about her. She ached for her husband, gone almost ten months now. There had been no word, for how could she explain letters from a husband who was supposedly with her? He didn’t even know he’d had a son! She longed for him, for his voice, his touch, the passion he could rouse in her. She sighed. It had been so long!

“Lady!”

Miranda started and looked down at a small boy with a head full of dark curls, and curiously adult sharp black eyes. “Hey, lady, you want your fortune told?”

Within the nearby woods there was a gypsy encampment. There were many bright-colored wagons, and a number of fine-looking horses were tethered in the meadow. “Are you a seer?” she asked the boy, amused.

“Wot’s a seer?”

“Someone who tells the future,” she answered him.

“Ain’t never heard it called that before, lady, but it ain’t me who tells the future, it’s me grandmother. She’s the queen of our tribe, and famous for her predictions. It’s only a penny, lady!” He tugged at her hand.

“A penny!?” She pretended to consider the offer carefully.

“Aw, come on, lady, you can spare it,” he wheedled.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Yer dress! The fabric’s the best quality muslin, the ribbons is real silk, and yer shoes the finest kid!”

Miranda burst out laughing. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Charlie,” he grinned at her.

“Well, Charlie, my gypsy lad, you’re right! I can afford to have my fortune told, and I’d like it if your grandmother would tell mine.”

If Miranda expected a sinister, toothless crone she was doomed to disappointment. Charlie’s grandmother was a tiny, apple-cheeked woman wearing a full, bright-green skirt with several petticoats beneath, and a yellow blouse embroidered in multicolored threads. On her feet were red leather boots. There was a circle of daisies on her dark, graying curls, and a clay pipe was clenched in her teeth.

“Where you been, you scamp?” she scolded, “and who’s this you’ve brought into camp?”

“Lady to ’ave her fortune told, Grandma.”

“You can pay?”

Miranda drew a silver penny from her pocket and handed it to the old woman. The gypsy took the coin, bit it, and said, “Come into my wagon, m’lady.” She clambered up the steps of her wagon and Miranda followed her into the cheerfully vulgar interior where plum silks rioted with scarlet, and violet, and mustard, and peacock blue ones. “Sit down, sit down, m’lady.” The gypsy reached for Miranda’s hand. “Let’s ’ave a look now, dearie!”

She looked deeply at her customer for a moment. Miranda expected the usual nonsense about a mysterious stranger and good fortune. Instead, the old woman studied the slim white hand in her own gnarled brown one, and said, “Your home is not here in England, m’lady.” It was a statement. Miranda said nothing. “I see water, much water, and in its midst a shining green land. That is where you belong, m’lady. Why have you left it? It will be a long while before you see that land again.”

“You mean that the war will go on?” asked Miranda.

“It is you who determine your fate, m’lady. And for some reason you are bent upon your own destruction.”

Miranda felt a chill creeping over her, yet she was fascinated. “My husband?” she said.

“You will be reunited, m’lady, never fear. You must be careful, however, for I see danger, great danger! I see in your hand a young golden god, a dark angel, and a dark devil. All three will bring you pain, of a sort, and you might escape them if you only will. It is up to you. I fear you have a stubborn nature that will not be bridled. Your survival will, in the end, be in your own hands. That is all I can see, m’lady.” She dropped Miranda’s hand.

“One more thing,” begged Miranda. “My child?”

“He will be fine, m’lady. You need have no fears for your son.”

“I did not say I had a son.”

The old gypsy smiled. “Nevertheless,” she repeated, “ he will be fine.”

Miranda left the gypsy encampment and walked slowly back toward the hall. If anything, she was even more restless now. In her mind there was but one thought: she had to get to Jared. If she could be with her husband then everything would be all right. She must have her beloved Jared, and nothing was going to stand in her way!

Jonathan arrived back at Swynford Hall several days later, looking as pleased as punch, and Miranda knew immediately that he had been successful in obtaining the special license. She asked him, “When will you wed?”

“We already have,” he answered, surprising her greatly. “I had Anne meet me at a small village outside of Oxford two days ago. We were married at the church there, St. Edward’s.”

“Oh, dearest Jon. I wish you happy, you and Anne both! I truly do! Why, however, did you not wait so I might bridesmaid my new sister?”

“I was afraid of you being recognized, Miranda. When I was in London I bought a pigtail wig to wear so I might look like myself again. Believe me, I enjoyed being Jonathan Dunham again! No one seeing me with Anne would connect the pleasant American gentleman who wed the little English widow with that arrogant Anglo-American milord who is my brother. We were wed quickly and quietly, and Anne returned to Swynford Village the next day.”

“You were right, Jon, it was best done that way.” Then she chuckled mischievously. “How is our dear friend Lord Palmerston? I must send him a note commending his cooperation.”

Jon laughed outright. “Henry’s admiration of you is balanced by fury at your cheekiness. He is not used to being blackmailed by, as he so delicately put it, ‘an upstart Yankee wench.’ Nevertheless he was most cooperative, and sympathetic of my position.”

“Did he speak of Jared?” she asked anxiously.

Jonathan shook his head. “He would say nothing.”

“Oh, Jon! What have they done with my husband? Why will Palmerston not even offer me a word of comfort? Since the day Jared rode off from Swynford Hall I have heard nothing! Not a word from his mightiness, the Secretary of War! Not a scrap of a note! Nothing! How much longer am I expected to carry on this way? Palmerston is inhuman!”

Jonathan put an arm around her. “Palmerston does not think in terms of you and Jared, of Anne and me. He thinks of England and all of Europe, of the destruction of Napoleon, who is his mortal enemy. What are the lives of four people in light of all that? Lord Palmerston frightens the Regent. He frightens all of his contemporaries. He is a maverick a brilliant one, but a maverick nonetheless.”

Adrain went off to Scotland at week’s end. Jonathan bid Miranda a proper farewell, and slipped off to join his new bride. In a few days he would join Adrian in Scotland.

Miranda waited several days after the gentlemen had left before speaking to her twin about her own departure. Everything was arranged. The coach, driven by Martin, the undercoachman, had been brought up from London, and the day after its arrival Perky and Martin were married in the Swynford Village church.

“You are much too indulgent of your servants,” scolded Amanda. “It is so American!”

“But I am American,” retorted Miranda.

“American-born, living in England, and using your legitimate and rightful English title. When in Rome do as the Romans, my dearest. You would not wish to be censured for conduct unbecoming to a lady of the ton, Miranda.”

“How quickly you have changed, little twin. You forget that you too are American.”

“Yes, Miranda, I was American-born, and Wyndsong was a lovely place to grow up, but the truth is that I only spent eighteen years of my life there. I am married to an Englishman, and if I live to be as old as Mama I shall have spent most of my life here in England. I know nothing of the politics of governments; nor do I wish to know these things, for I should not understand them if I did. What I do know is that I am an Englishman’s wife, and that I prefer living here in England for it’s a gentle and civilized land. I am not brave and bold like you, dearest.”

They were sitting in Amanda’s sunny morning room, which was decorated in yellow and white, and furnished with lovely Queen Anne pieces done in Santo Domingo mahogany. Upon the fireplace mantel and on several tables were arrangements of apricot-colored roses and cream-colored stock in blue and white porcelain bowls. Miranda had been pacing the room. Now she sat down next to her sister on the yellow and white silk sofa.

“I do not know if I am brave, Mandy, but I will admit to a certain boldness. I am going to be bold once more. However, I will need your help, little twin.”

“What do you mean, Miranda?” A wariness born of past experience crept into Amanda’s cornflower-blue eyes. “Oh, dear, I thought you were over playing tricks.”

“I am not going to play any tricks, sister, but I am going away, and I want you to understand why.”

“Miranda!”

“Hush, Mandy, and hear me out. Do you remember the reason Jared and I came to Swynford last summer?”

“Yes, Jared had a mission and it could not be known he was out of England so you came here where no one would bother to visit.”

“Jared never returned from Russia, Amanda. The man who has been here all these months masquerading as my husband is his older brother, Jonathan.”

“No! No!” cried Amanda. “That cannot be!”

“Have I ever lied to you, little sister? Why would I lie about such a thing?”

“Wh-where is Jared?” quavered Amanda, stunned.

“To the best of my knowledge he is still in St. Petersburg.”

“Don’t you know ?”

“Not really,” came the reply. “You see, Mandy, Jared has not been allowed for security reasons, of course to write to me. I have not been allowed to communicate with him because, in the eyes of the world, he is here by my side, waiting out this silly war between England and America. Lord Palmerston refuses to give me any information. Do you know what he said to me the last time I saw him? ‘When I know, madam, you will know’! He is an unfeeling beast!”

“Miranda!” Amanda’s soft blue eyes were round with distress. “Oh, Miranda! You have been sleeping with a man not your husband!”

Miranda’s hands clenched into little fists, and her nails dug into her palms. Taking a deep breath to still her irritation, she said, “Mandy, dearest, there have been no improprieties between Jon and me. It is true we share the same bed, but there was always a rolled quilt between us, a makeshift bundling board if you will.”

“How did Mr. Dunham get here?” questioned Amanda. “The American coast has been blockaded since last June.”

“It was arranged by Mr. Adams’ people and Lord Palmerston. When it became apparent that Jared would be forced to remain in Russia over the winter, Jon was sent for.”

“But how did he explain it to his wife? He could hardly disappear for so long without offering her a reasonable explanation.”

“Charity was drowned in a boating accident last summer. Jon left his children with his parents. They know the truth, but as far as the rest of Plymouth is concerned, Jon has gone off whaling to ease his grief.”

“The poor man! How brave he is to have put his own grief aside to help his brother,” cried Amanda feelingly. “When Jared returns and Jon may be himself again I shall introduce him to a number of fine young women, any of whom will make him a fine second wife.”

Miranda giggled. “You are too late, Mandy. Jon wed again by special license several days ago, and who do you think his bride is? Mistress Anne Bowen! The real reason he delayed his fishing trip with Adrian was so that he might have a few days with her.”

“Oh! Oh!” Amanda fell back against the soft cushions. “My vinaigrette, Miranda! Oh, I feel faint. This is too shocking! The gossips will have a field day!”

Miranda’s patience snapped. “Amanda!” she said, and her voice had a sharp edge to it. “Amanda, stop this missish nonsense at once! I have only told you these things because I am going to St. Petersburg to find Jared, and I will need your help.”

“Ohhh!” Amanda’s eyes fluttered shut, but Miranda knew she hadn’t really fainted, so she continued without a pause.

“I have been without my husband for ten months now, Mandy. He does not even know he has a child! I do not know if Jared is alive or dead, but I will not sit here in England playing Palmerston’s game any longer. We are not English, and we owe no loyalties to England. I want my husband back and I intend to go get him!

“You must be responsible for my Tom, dearest, for I cannot possibly take him with me. You do understand that?”

Amanda’s eyes flew open. “You can’t do this, Miranda! You can’t!”

“I can, Mandy, and I will.”

“I shall most certainly not aid you in this folly!” Amanda sat up, her curls bouncing indignantly.

“I aided you, Mandy. If I had not gone against my husband’s wishes last year you should not be Lady Swynford now, nor have your perfect little Neddie. If I had not aided you last spring, Amanda, I should be safe in my own home on Wyndsong Island with my husband and son, not caught in England, forced to accept your hospitablity, alone , without Jared.

“I am taking Dream Witch , and going to St. Petersburg to find my husband, and you, little sister, are going to cooperate with me! How can you deny me my own happiness when I sacrificed so much to give you yours, Amanda?”

Amanda’s firm resolution melted away in the face of her sister’s potent argument. She bit her lip anxiously, then looked directly at Miranda. “What must I do?” she whispered.

“Not a great deal really, darling,” soothed Miranda. “Your mother-in-law has gone back to her friend in Brighton for the summer, Adrian and Jon will not return from Scotland for at least a month. You will be perfectly safe here, and no one will ask you embarrassing questions. By the time the gentlemen return I shall be in St. Petersburg. You may tell them the truth. I am sure Jared will be ready to return by the time I get there. We will be back quickly and no one else will know. All I ask is that you look after my Tom while I fetch his father.”

“You make it sound so simple,” said Amanda.

“It is simple, Mandy!”

“You make it sound like you are running up to London to pick him up after a minor business trip,” remarked Amanda irritably. “How long will it take you to get to St. Petersburg?”

“Probably two weeks, depending on the winds.”

“Then you will be gone well over a month! Two weeks there, two weeks back, and however long it will take you to find Jared.”

“Oh, I expect the English Ambassador will know where Jared is,” said Miranda lightly.

“I have a premonition,” said Amanda.

“ You? ” Miranda laughed. “You never have premonitions, dearest, I do.”

“I don’t want you to go, Miranda! Please! Please! Something is dangerous about this trip,” pleaded Amanda.

“Fiddlesticks, twin! You are making a cake of yourself! It is a simple journey, and I shall succeed! I know I shall!”