Keepsake (The Distinguished Rogues Book 5) (9 page)

Kit shook his head.

The little girl looked at him hopefully and then reached out to tug on his coat. “A biscuit? He does love ginger ones.”

Carrington stepped forward and laid a hand on the girls’ head to halt her impertinence. “Forgive her, Taverham. She is young and we are due to return home and shall have tea soon. I know you must have much on your mind. We won’t stay long enough to require entertaining.”

The little girl looked so disappointed by the news that Kit leaned down to the girl’s level. “Forgive me, Miss Mabel. Unfortunately I have no time today to entertain you properly as I must go out. When I return, I will certainly invite you for tea and we can have all the lemonade and ginger biscuits that Simon likes.”

The little girl leaned forward and stared into his eyes. They widened with excitement, and then to his surprise, she kissed his cheek. A little startled by the kiss, Kit touched his face and straightened. Children did not normally warm to him, but these two were an exception. Mabel liked to shock him every chance she got. Simon always had questions about his estate.

He glanced at Carrington quickly. “If she does that to everyone that offers to feed Simon, you may have a problem there, my friend.”

Carrington shrugged. “She is extraordinarily attached to Simon. I swear it’s almost impossible to find him alone except when she sleeps.”

The boy in question stood silently near the door, urging Mabel to return to him even as his gaze flittered about the room, inspecting Kit’s personal possessions. Carrington’s children had visited often but rarely ventured beyond the drawing room or his study. In all the times they’d met, Kit had been most impressed by the boy. He was rather calm and sensible and did as he was told. To his surprise, Kit found he didn’t mind him coming upstairs and into his bedchamber. “You must be happy that your sister thinks so well of you.”

Simon folded his arms across his chest and glared daggers at him. “She’s not my sister. She’s my friend.”

Kit looked at Carrington curiously, startled by the heat in Simon’s words. “I take it he still refuses the idea of adoption. It could only be to his benefit.”

“That he does.” Carrington strolled over to the boy and put his arm about Simon’s shoulders, drawing him forward. The obvious bond of affection was reciprocated as the boy leaned into his would-be father. “We’ve come to an understanding.”

“Oh?”

“Simon insists he belongs to someone and is awaiting their return. When that day comes, he wishes to be free to go with them. He made me promise not to interfere.”

How often did orphaned children cling to the hope their parents would come for them? It made him sad that the child, though intelligent, could not see he was better off as Carrington’s adopted son than entirely fatherless. He was about to offer an opinion when Simon’s expression changed to one of stubborn fury. Rather than face an outburst, Kit quickly thought better of offering advice and merely smiled instead. “Well, a promise must be kept then.”

“Every promise is a sacred vow,” Simon said sternly, staring hard at Kit.

Kit blinked. “Has he been spending time with your mother’s husband in the rectory? He’d make a fine sermonizer one day at this rate.”

“Simon has a fine mind for many things. He’s an avid reader, so he claims the newssheet before I’ve even seen it and has unfortunately read the gossip and speculation about you and your wife’s marriage. He found it distressing to read about someone he knew.” Carrington ruffled Simon’s hair playfully. “As to a profession, Simon merely tolerates my new papa’s sermons but has no interest in the church. He claims to know what his career will be but can never be persuaded to tell me or anyone else who asks what it might be.”

Kit grinned, hoping that the discussion could be salvaged. He’d hate to have the boy out of sorts with him when he was the least unruly child in Carrington’s brood. “Not everything you read in the scandal rags is true. My wife and I are at odds for the moment, but the matter will be resolved soon enough, I promise you that. Would you tell me what you hope for your life?”

He opened a drawer and idly ran his hand over his handkerchiefs without choosing one while keeping one eye on the boy.

“Not yet.” The boy cocked his head to the side and came closer. He peered into the drawer too, reached right to the back, and selected one after careful study. He ran the tip of his finger over the lettering. “You’ve much to do, you said. You have to recover your wife first and make her love you again.”

Kit took the offered handkerchief, noting the boy had picked the only one Miranda had ever stitched for him, one with wildflowers embroidered around the initials of his name. CR—Christopher Reed. He preferred to be called Kit and she had never done that.

Irritation seized him anew and he returned the handkerchief back to the drawer. Love was for fools who could not see the truth beyond pretty trimmings like impulsive gifts, but he would not disillusion the boy just yet. Let him cling to his ideals a little longer before he faced disappointments in his own life.

Kit stuffed a different handkerchief in his inner pocket, affixed his pocket watch, grabbed a handful of coins and notes, and gestured to the door. “I must go. I called on Louth earlier, but I’d missed him. His cousin didn’t know when he’d return exactly, so I need to track him down. He seems entirely too much involved in my wife’s life and may have information I need as to her location. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to find out if that is true or not.”

“Of course.” Carrington followed him to the door. “I’m going home now to tell Agatha of her cousin’s return. Send word at once when we might visit with Miranda. Agatha will not rest easy until she’s seen her.”

“Given my wife’s capricious nature, I believe we will come to you.”

Carrington grinned. “I say, that’s very generous and just the thing to make Agatha happy. Miranda can meet all the children at once then. We’ll be waiting for you.”

He called Simon to hurry up and whispered something in his ear. The boy appeared as if he might argue, but then he looked at Kit, his gaze intent. “Remember your promise to bring her.”

Taken aback a little by the boy’s interest, he simply nodded.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kit held out a pound note. “Where is she?”

Mr. Mivart, the proprietor of Mivart’s Hotel on Lower Brook Street, took the bribe and leaned forward. “Mrs. Reed went out early with her man and a gentleman who called for her in an unmarked black carriage, but she’ll no doubt be back. Her belongings are still upstairs, and her rent’s paid in full for the month, so she’s not slipped away for long.”

Miranda was staying here, not as the Marchioness of Taverham but simply under her married name. At least she remembered she was a married woman. That pleased him somewhat.

“I want to see her room,” Kit growled. He’d finally found where his wife had rested her head last night and would discover if she was truly alone or not. He wasn’t going to let her get away again. He would not have his husbandly rights denied for another ten years because being married no longer pleased her.

The proprietor’s eyes widened in shock and he shook his head. “Please, sir. We have a reputation to maintain. Our guests expect discretion and privacy. I want no trouble.”

Kit held out another pound note to the protesting proprietor, knowing further inducement was expected before he’d grudgingly give in.

“Really, Taverham.” Miranda’s voice shattered his anger like rock striking glass. “Was a pound note all you were willing to shed to find me? You should have offered more and he would have told you what I had for supper last night.”

The proprietor snatched the note as Kit spun about to find Miranda, wearing a blue carriage dress and holding nothing but a reticule standing at the hotel doorway. She was alone, but a black carriage was pulling away from the front of the establishment.

Miranda sighed heavily and then turned her attention to the proprietor. “I’ll take tea in my rooms if you please, Mr. Mivart. And some of those biscuits you sent up with supper last night would be appreciated.”

“Yes, my lady.” The proprietor snapped his fingers at a footman, hurrying to accommodate her request, tucking Kit’s bribe into his waistcoat pocket as he went with a contented sigh.

More or less alone with Miranda in the booking room, Kit found himself at a loss for what to say. He had so many questions, but none of them seemed pressing right now. For the moment he was lost in wonder that she lived. “Lady Taverham. So pleased to see you again.”

“I am not sure you are. What do you want?”

“You.” And that startled Kit, because from the moment he’d laid eyes on her last night he’d been consumed with finding her and never letting her out of his sight again. He held out his arm. “I’ll help you pack.”

She rolled her eyes and walked toward the staircase without him. “Taverham, you’ve not lifted a finger in such menial matters in your entire life. Why pretend you would start now?”

Kit followed, determined not to let his eyes leave her once. “I know how to throw clothes into a trunk and take you home, over my shoulder, too, if necessary.”

“But I’m not going to your home.”

She started up the stairs and Kit ran to catch her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Lady Taverham does not sleep in hotels.”

“She most certainly does and has done so on many occasions.” She frowned. “Really, Taverham, do you never get tired of having everything your way? What does it matter where I live? You’ve your own life. As I have lived mine. You should be glad to be spared the burden and inconvenience of a wife underfoot.”

He gritted his teeth. If Miranda didn’t come home, then how could their marriage resume the way it should have been in the first place? “It matters.”

He would not pressure her to resume intimate relations, but he still needed an heir. A son to take over the estate after he was gone, to inherit his lands and her money. Miranda lived and they were married. He couldn’t get a legal heir any other way.

He peeked at his wife’s unyielding face, an ache filling his chest. Once she’d been eager for him. Willing to share every forbidden touch and caress until all hours of the night. He’d expected more of that when they married, not a cold, lonely bed for company and a decade of silence.

Carrington’s would-be-son Simon had been right. They’d spoken their vows, made promises, and those would be kept. He would make her understand where she belonged.

Two flights of stairs up, Miranda turned down a shadowed hall and stopped before an unremarkable door. She took a key from her reticule and let herself into a bedchamber. Kit followed quickly lest she attempt to lock him out.

As she laid off her bonnet and gloves and set them on a far table, Kit studied what his wife owned inside the plain apartment. Two large trunks hugged one wall and a few personal items littered the space as if she’d not been here very long or traveled very lightly. That gave him his first question. “How have you supported yourself?”

Her lips twisted into a grimace and she rubbed her neck as if she was exhausted. “You haven’t changed, have you? So demanding still.”

He set his hands on his hips. “Well, what did you expect? You run off without a word ten years ago. Appear and disappear within the space of an hour last night. Why shouldn’t I demand answers? You are my wife. Where did you go today?”

Her eyes widened at his irritated tone. “I called on my cousin Agatha, then went into the country.”

He narrowed his eyes. Miranda had developed a smart mouth in her absence. She’d been a much more agreeable creature as a prospective bride. “Why the country?”

“I needed some perspective.” She flicked the paper at him and he caught it, glancing at the first page but knowing what was written there. “The disappointment over my false demise makes for interesting reading, but if I need to explain why seeing you squiring a widow about on your arm would put me out of sorts then there truly is no help for you.”

Was she actually jealous of Emily?

“Emily is a friend.” He stabbed a finger in her direction. “Your friend too.”

“So you’ve claimed before but that was a lie, wasn’t it?” She drew in a deep breath. “However, the gossip spreading through society speaks of her friendship to you. In particular, a hope for a match to be made and the disappointment that I’ve returned to thwart your honorable intentions.”

“I’m already married.”

Miranda shrugged and she looked away. “Having me declared dead would have solved that problem for you. So sorry to spoil your plans.” Her hand rose to her chest and it seemed to him she was distressed by what he’d intended.

He moved closer. “Nothing has changed between myself and Emily. If you’d not run off, I wouldn’t have had any reason to wonder if you lived or had died.”

She moved further away. “Society was already wagging their tongues on the day we married that you’d made a poor match in me. I discovered that after it was far too late.”

“What do you mean?”

Miranda paced the room restlessly. “I mean that if I had been in possession of all the facts of your character, of your true intentions, I never would have married you.”

The idea that Miranda regretted marrying him was impossible. “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you everything that mattered. Of course you would have still married me. You became a marchioness.”