Unconquered (25 page)

“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.

    Chapter 8    

J
ARED HAD AN INCREDIBLE PIECE OF LUCK—OR, RATHER
, Miranda did—and it happened at the last ball of the season, at Almack’s. Jared and Miranda circulated together and separately, chattering among their friends. After several hours of gossiping and dancing and innumerable glasses of lukewarm lemonade, Miranda made a trip to the necessary room. Settling herself on the canned commode behind a silk screen, she suddenly heard the door open and then close again.

“I thought we’d never get away.” The voice was speaking in French.

“Neither did I,” came the voice of Gillian Abbott, also speaking French. “I have some very expensive information for you.”

“How expensive?”

“Double what you have paid me to date.”

“How do I know it’s worth it?”

“Surely I have proved reliable by now,” was Gillian’s exasperated reply.

“Why this sudden and urgent need?”

“Look,” snapped Gillian, “Abbott is on his last legs. When that nephew of his and his horse-faced wife come into the title, I’ll have nothing but a dower house in Northumberland to call my own. The whole damned estate is entailed, and I’m not to get a penny! Not a bloody penny! I can’t catch myself another rich title in Northumberland, and I don’t see the next Lord Abbott giving me living space in the town house. Well,” she amended, “he might, but his ugly wife wouldn’t, so I must provide my own living quarters. That costs a lot of money.”

“I don’t know,” her companion hesitated.

“I’ve got an impeccable source,” wheedled Gillian. “The
American, Lord Dunham, is my lover. He and Henry Temple are very close.”

“Lord Dunham is your lover? Very well, madam. I’ll pay you double for your information. But if it proves incorrect or of little importance, then you will owe me.” There was a rustling noise, and then, the voice said, “
Mon Dieu
, it’s not necessary to count it! When did I ever cheat you?”

“Oh, very well.”

Miranda leaned forward carefully, and peeped through the crack where the screen was hinged. She saw Gillian Abbott stuff a velvet bag into her cleavage. The other woman was young and pretty, a petite brunette in a fashionable red silk gown.

“Your information, madam?”

“America has declared war on England,” said Gillian calmly.

“The Emperor has been waiting for this!” gasped the Frenchwoman.

“I told you the information was valuable,” Gillian replied smugly. “You know, it has always amazed me that Napoleon uses a woman to spy.”

The Frenchwoman laughed. “There is nothing unusual in women spying. Catherine de’Medici, the wife of Henri II, had a group of women known as the ‘Flying Squadron’ who gathered information.”

“The English would never do such a thing,” remarked Gillian.

“No,” came the amused reply. “You spy only for others, and for personal gain! We had best go, madam, lest someone come upon us. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” said Gillian, and Miranda heard the door to the necessary room close. Peeping again through the crack in the screen, she saw that the room was empty.

As quickly as she could, Miranda hurried back to the ballroom to find Jared. He stood talking with Lord Palmerston, who smiled warmly at her.

“As usual, ma’am, your beauty eclipses everyone else’s,” Henry Temple declared gallantly.

“Even Lady Cowper?” teased Miranda mischievously, knowing that the beauteous Emily was Lord Palmerston’s mistress.

“Lord help me, I am Paris with his damned apple,” said Palmerston in mock dismay.

“I am the prettiest American in the room, sir, and Lady Cowper is the loveliest Englishwoman,” said Miranda.

“Ma’am, you are a born diplomat,” chuckled the Secretary of War.

“I am a better spy, sir. Who is the lady in red? The petite brunette dancing with Lord Alvanley?”

Lord Palmerston looked where she pointed. “That is the Comtesse Marianne de Bouche. She is married to the first secretary at the Swiss Embassy.”

“She is also the spy to whom Lady Abbott passed on her information. I was in the necessary room just now, and when they came in they believed themselves alone and spoke freely. I am quite fluent in French, my lord, and I understood it all.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Lord Palmerston. “A woman! No wonder we could never catch our French spy. A woman! All along it was a woman!
Cherchez la femme
, indeed! By God, Lady Dunham, you have rendered us a great service! I shall not forget this, I promise you.”

“What will happen to them?”

“The comtesse will be sent home. She is a diplomat’s wife and we can do nothing about her except to inform the Swiss Ambassador of the lady’s activities.”