Unconquered (23 page)

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.”