Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (30 page)

“He said their father is Lord Trent.”

“He mentioned that, too.”

“I suppose that explains many things.”

“What do you mean?”

She blushed a fetching shade of pink. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

“It’s just that...ah...I’ve heard stories about your
friendship
with her. I guess you were very...close.”

“Hmm...”

How was he to reply to such a statement? How was he to discuss such a topic with his fiancée?

“I’m not judging you,” she hastily added. “Nor am I blaming you. I’m certain it was all her fault.”

Suddenly, his cravat was much too tight.

“Oh...good.”

“I’m very aware of what her sister Helen is like.”

“Really?”

“She was carrying on with every man in the house, but with Trent’s blood flowing in her veins, who could expect better conduct?”

“You don’t say?”

“They must take after their mother. Obviously, she was loose with her favors. They’re simply following in her footsteps.”

Tristan took a deep breath and let it out. Took another and let that one out, too.

He wanted to shake her, wanted to shout at her, and he was alarmed by the wave of virulent dislike that swept through him. He tamped it down before he uttered every biting, cruel word perched on the tip of his tongue.

His prior affection for Harriet was irrelevant, and she had to fade into the past where she belonged. Miranda was his future. They would be fine together!

She was clutching his arm, and she pulled him to a halt. She peered up at him, her eyes wide, her expression wounded.

“Please promise me that you won’t see her again,” she begged. “If I learned that you were involved with her, I would be so hurt.”

“No, I won’t ever see her. I have no desire to.”

“Thank you! I’ve been so worried.”

She flung herself against him, and almost with distaste, he hugged her. He envisioned their wedding night, what it would be like to have sex with her, and he felt ill all over again.

In contrast, his affair with Harriet had been so...

No! He wouldn’t think about that, wouldn’t recollect Harriet while he was holding Miranda. It was insane behavior.

Anxious to clear his head, he forced himself to focus on what James had confessed about Miranda’s nuptial scheming.

“What about you, Miranda?” he inquired.

“What about me?”

“Since I’ve been back, I’ve talked with James. Quite extensively.”

Her smile wavered. “About what?”

“I realize that I was gone for ages and that it must have begun to seem that I would never return. So I don’t
blame
you either.”

“Oh.” She stared at the grass.

“But I must ask: Do you still want to marry me?”

She whipped her gaze to his. “Of course. What a silly question.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

He scrutinized her, curious as to whether she was being truthful.

“All right then. I’ll get a Special License so we can proceed without delay.”

Miranda chatted with a group of guests, pretending to be ecstatic over Tristan’s rescue. She was glad he was alive, but she couldn’t help wishing that Captain Bramwell had been a tad less successful. If only she’d had a few extra days to wrangle a proposal out of James!

She was determined to find a way out of her predicament, particularly now that Tristan’s name was linked to that doxy Harriet Stewart. Miranda was the laughingstock of the entire city. She couldn’t step out the door without some busybody sharing every salacious rumor.

Would those Stewart sisters never cease to plague her?

To her consternation, a furor erupted in the front foyer. There was shouting and an object was thrown. Why the uproar? Was someone too drunk to be civil?

She sighed and hurried down the hall, surprised to encounter James who was mad as a hornet and berating the butler. He yanked off his coat and hat and pitched them at the man.

Miranda was just about to remark when he spun and saw her, and his hatred was so visible that she blanched.

“Tell me what you did to Helen Stewart!” he demanded, advancing on her.

She cringed, afraid he might actually strike her, but the moment she noticed she was cowering, she straightened and firmed her resolve.

“Helen...Stewart?” She acted as if she scarcely recalled the woman.

“Tell me what you did to her!” he roared with such volume that the candles flickered in the chandelier over their heads.

“I refuse to converse with you when you’re in such a state.” She struggled to look aggrieved. “When you’ve composed yourself, you may—”

He grabbed her arm and shook her. Hard.

“You conniving, deceitful shrew! You told her I was marrying
you
. You lied to her; you tricked her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As if on cue, tears surged into her eyes and splashed down her cheeks. “I don’t know why you’re behaving like this. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I loved her,” he ludicrously proclaimed, “and she left because of you!”

Behind her, Tristan rushed up.

“James!” he scolded. “Calm down. You’re making a spectacle.”

James still hadn’t released her, and she glanced over her shoulder to observe that many guests had followed Tristan. Everyone was eavesdropping, so the details would be spread all over town and more people would be laughing at her.

She seethed with fury, yearning to be bigger and stronger so she could pummel James into the ground.

She
was the one he should have loved.
She
was the one he should be desperate to wed. Who cared about Helen Stewart?

James shook her again.

“You waited until I was away from home, then you sent her out into the streets with no money and nowhere to go. I ought to take a whip to you.”

“James!” Tristan reached out and eased James’s hand away.

“She married someone else,” James bit out, his hot gaze never leaving Miranda’s. “Are you happy now? Are you proud of yourself?”

“I don’t have to—”

“I’ve always been kind to you,” he raged, “and after this stunt, I’m asking myself why I ever bothered.”

“You’re upset, James,” Tristan cut in, “and everyone is staring. Let’s retire to a parlor where we can have some privacy.”

James wrenched away to glare at his brother.

“Get her out of my house.”

“What?” Miranda gasped. “You can’t be serious. Tristan and I are about to wed.”

“Shackle yourself to her if you like,” James said to Tristan, “but I revoke my blessing, and I warn you against it. Escort her to the country. Proceed with this travesty where I won’t have to watch it happen.”

“You’re distraught, James,” Tristan soothed. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“No. I want her out of here at dawn.”

He stormed up the stairs, and as his strides faded, there was a shocked silence, then the crowd drifted to the various salons, their titters wafting out.

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” Tristan said. “I don’t know what came over him.”

“Neither do I.”

“I think he had strong feelings for Miss Stewart,” Tristan explained.

“I didn’t realize it,” she lied. “When she worked for us, were they...involved?”

He shrugged, but didn’t reply.

“Must I leave?” she queried.

“No. We’ll give him a few days to calm down, then I’ll speak to him.”

“But he wants me gone tomorrow,” she wailed, “and we have wedding plans to make.”

“He’ll change his mind. You’ll be able to stay. Don’t worry about it.”

She snuggled herself to his chest, hiding her grin of excitement.

Helen Stewart was married, so James was broken-hearted, and if Miranda played her cards right, there was still time to win him.

“I’m here for my money.”

“What money?”

Nigel frowned at Bentley Struthers. They were in Struthers’s parlor, and Struthers was seated in his throne-like chair, munching on candy.

After a week of attempting to gain an audience, Nigel’s temper was exhausted.

“You know what money,” Nigel seethed. “I want the reward you promised me for finding Harriet Stewart.”

“Did I promise you a reward? I don’t recall.”

“When news came of Captain Harcourt’s rescue”—Nigel was so angry that he was trembling—“when I heard his companion was named
Harriet
, I was the only one who figured out that she might be my cousin.”

“Are you taking credit for the capture of Harriet Stewart?”

“Yes, you bastard, and don’t even try to pretend I wasn’t responsible.”

Struthers glanced at Radley who was loitering over by the window.

“Radley,” Struthers said, “I could have sworn that
you
found Harriet Stewart. Aren’t I correct?”

“Of course you are,” Radley declared. “I located her wandering alone down by the harbor.”

“You liar!” Nigel fumed.

“So you see, Mr. Stewart”—Struthers preened—“I have no idea why you’ve traveled all this way. I owe you nothing.”

“I want my reward!” Nigel shouted.

There was a small decorative table next to him, and he pounded his fist on it. It shattered and crashed to the floor.

Struthers gestured to Radley, and Radley picked Nigel up, tossed him over his shoulder, and hauled him out. He was unceremoniously pitched into the street.

Harriet huddled against the prison wall, trying to be invisible. There were hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people incarcerated with her: single men and women, families, widows with their children.

It was a stinking, hungry swarm of humanity, and most everyone looked bewildered over what they’d done to land themselves in the horrid spot.

Another female, a prostitute who’d introduced herself as Josephine—Jo for short—plopped down next to her.

“I just talked to the guard,” Jo said. “My bribe’s been paid. I’ll be out before sunset.”

Jo had friends watching out for her. The madam who ran the brothel where Jo was employed had an arrangement with the jailors. Whenever her girls were mistakenly swept up, they were swiftly freed.

Harriet had no one at all.

No one knew where she was. No one knew what had happened. No one in the entire world would be aware if she died.

“It’s too bad they stole my purse when they caught me,” Jo stated. “If I had any money, I’d leave it with you.”

“You’ve been so kind to me.”

“How will you eat? You have to purchase your food.”

The terms of her internment were brutal. She had to pay for everything, a bed, a blanket, her meals. Those who couldn’t buy food would starve. Those who couldn’t afford a room and blanket slept outside and frequently froze to death.

Harriet hadn’t learned her legal fate, but she’d either be hanged or shipped off to the penal colonies in Australia. It was reported to be warm there, but most inmates didn’t survive the rigorous journey, so—whatever sentence was imposed—the end was nigh.

With her sentiments at their lowest ebb, her demise was beginning to seem like a blessing. She wished Helen could be apprised of her plight. She yearned to have at least one person know that she was deceased.

“It ain’t right,” Jo complained. “With you being Captain Harcourt’s doxy and all. It just ain’t right.”