Unconquered (51 page)

“Neither do I, old friend.”

“You like this woman,” stated the eunuch.

“Yes,” smiled Mirza Khan, “I like her.” He turned back to Miranda and spoke to her in English. “I have explained everything to Ali-Ali. I think your daughter’s existence should be kept from Captain Edmund, Miranda. The gossips in London will have a field day when you turn up alive. We will think what to do. But for now, only the harem women and Ali-Ali must know of the baby. Captain Edmund did not notice her, I believe, and we will not tell him.”

“What shall I say to Kit then?”

“Merely that you were kidnaped by Prince Cherkessky, and sent to his villa in the Crimea to await his pleasure. Fortunately he never came, and the Tatars who raided his villa brought you to Istanbul to sell you, but you escaped them. It is simple, and it is reasonable. Go now with Ali-Ali, and I will see you later when Kit arrives.”

Miranda followed the eunuch across the peaceful garden to the women’s quarters, and into a light and lovely salon. The walls of the room were covered in silk fabric with a multicolored floral silk on a pearl gray background. The walnut parquet floors were covered with thick blue, rose, and gold carpets, and in the very center of the room a three-tiered shell fountain tinkled merrily in a refreshing glazed light blue tile pool.

There were several women in the room, all stunningly beautiful. Two were working at embroidery frames, one was strumming on a musical instrument, one was reading, and another
was painting her toenails. As Miranda entered the room with Ali-Ali they gave her friendly though curious looks.

“Ladies, ladies,” called the eunuch in his high-pitched voice.

The woman reading looked up, rose, and came forward smiling.

“What have we here, Ali-Ali?” she asked in a cultured voice.

Miranda almost gaped foolishly, she was so surprised by the woman’s incredible beauty. Her long blue-black hair floated about her like a storm cloud, her skin was the color of a creamy gardenia, her eyes were emerald green. She had to be at least thirty, thought Miranda, and yet she was absolutely stunning. Not only was her face flawless, but her figure was perfect, too.

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “I am Turkhan,” she said.

“She is Mirza Khan’s favorite,” explained Ali-Ali. “She has been with him for many years. The others come and go, but Turkhan remains.”

“I am like an old slipper to my lord,” laughed Turkhan. “Comfortable and predictable.”

The old eunuch smiled fondly at the woman. “He loves you. You make him happy.” Then catching himself, Ali-Ali said, “This lady is to be Lord Mirza’s guest. She has suffered greatly. She is to remain with us until she can be safely transported back to her own people.”

“How are you called?” asked Turkhan.

“Miranda, and if it is possible, my lady, I should dearly love a bath. A hot, hot bath! I have not had one since the Tatars captured me six weeks ago.”

Turkhan’s emerald eyes widened, and filled with sympathy. “Heavens, you poor child!” she said. “Safiye, Guzel. Help our guest, and take her to the baths.” She reached out for the cloak that Mirza Khan had placed about Miranda’s shoulders earlier. Whisking it off, she stared at the infant in its sling next to Miranda’s breasts. “
A baby!
” Her voice softened. “A baby,” she repeated.

Suddenly the other women were all clustering around Miranda, chattering and smiling, reaching out to touch the baby, making soft cooing noises at her. “Oh, how beautiful she is!” cried one. “What is her name?”

“She has none,” said Miranda quietly, and then her sea-green
eyes met Turkhan’s, and the compassion she saw there almost made her cry. She hadn’t really cried through any of this.

Turkhan lifted the baby from the sling and looked down at her.

“Go and have your bath, Miranda. I will care for the little one.”

“I had best nurse her first. She never complains, but she has not eaten since dawn.”

Turkhan nodded in agreement, and waited until the baby had been fed. Then, taking the child from her mother, she hurried off with her while Miranda followed Safiye and Guzel to the baths.

“Burn those clothes,” Miranda said as she stripped them off. “I should sooner be stark naked than ever wear them again. The boots, too. I have worn them thin.”

She was bathed and then dressed in pale-green harem trousers with a matching slash-skirted, long-sleeved dress trimmed with narrow gold braid, its low neck made more modest by a delicately sheer cream-colored chemise beneath. A slave tied a finely embroidered shawl around her hips, and over all of this was a sleeveless forest-green robe edged in wide velvet ribbon and embroidered with seed pearls. Her beautiful pale gilt hair was brushed out until it gleamed with silvery-gold lights. It was banded by a dark green velvet ribbon with pearls, but otherwise left free.

“How beautiful you are!” exclaimed Turkhan, coming into the room. “Captain Edmund is here, and I am to take you to the main salon.”

The young Marquis of Wye was standing, elegant in his blue and gold naval uniform, talking with the white-robed Mirza Khan. He turned as the women entered the room, his baby-blue eyes sweeping over the women. “Miranda! My God, Miranda, it really is you!”

“Yes, Kit, it really is me.” She settled herself comfortably on a silk divan and they talked. Turkhan stayed in the background, not wishing to intrude.

“Your sister kept insisting that you were alive. But your family believed the shock of your death was too much for her. They said she could not face it,” he explained.

Miranda smiled. “Mandy and I have always known if the other was in trouble,” she said. “It is a difficult thing to explain to
other people.” Then she grew more serious. “Jared? Our son? Are they all right?”

“I don’t know a great deal about your little boy, Miranda, except that he is with your sister’s son at Swynford. Lord Dunham … is well.” Kit used every shred of his self-control to keep his voice neutral. How could he tell her that Jared Dunham had, in his grief, become a rake among the ton’s fastest set?

How could he explain about Lady Belinda de Winter? Kit’s older sister, Augusta, the Countess of Dee, had a daughter who had made her debut this year and was in on all the latest gossip. Livia had told her mother that Belinda de Winter was already enjoying wifely favors from Jared Dunham. Good heavens, thought Kit, what a coil! Miranda’s voice brought him back.

“Will you take me back to England on your ship, Kit?”

“I cannot, Miranda. You see I am no longer a private citizen, but the captain of
H.M.S. Notorious
, and I am unable to take civilians aboard my vessel without official permission. We leave for England tonight. I will, of course, carry word of your rescue to Lord Dunham immediately.”

“I must remain here?”

“I think,” said Mirza Khan gently, “that it would be best after your great ordeal if you spent some time resting.”

“Perhaps,” she said softly, looking from one to the other.

“What happened, Miranda?” asked Kit. He blushed and looked embarrassed.

She touched his hand in a gentle gesture. “It is really quite simple, Kit,” she said, deciding to try Mirza Khan’s story for the first time. “I went to St. Petersburg to meet Jared. We had planned to sail home together, a second honeymoon, you know. I was barely there when I was seen by Prince Cherkessky. He must surely be mad. He had me kidnaped and taken to his estates in the Crimean area. I was drugged. I went in the custody of the prince’s own body serf, a man named Sasha. When I asked this man why the prince had kidnaped me I was told that I had been taken to await the prince’s pleasure.

“I must tell you I was never mistreated; rather, I was quite cosseted. I never saw Prince Cherkessky again, for he never came to his estates in the Crimea while I was there. Then, several weeks ago, the Tatars attacked the prince’s estate and
took all the women and children to sell as slaves here in Istanbul. Now all I want to do is get home to my husband and our son. Oh Kit, are you certain you cannot take me with you? Couldn’t you get permission?”

“I only wish I could.”

“Then I really have no choice but to remain here,” she said. Then, realizing how that had sounded, she quickly added, “I shall be delighted to accept your hospitality, Mirza Khan.”

“May I carry a personal message to your husband, Miranda?”

She thought a moment. What could she say? How could she explain? By the time Kit arrived she would have been gone a year, and by the time she finally got home they would have been separated for over two years. Suddenly she felt shy. Surely it would be easier when she saw Jared. “Just tell him I love him,” Miranda said softly.

Then she stood up. “I am really suddenly very exhausted, Kit. Mirza Khan was quite surprised that I walked all the way from the Crimea.”

“
Walked?!
” He was astounded. “Your poor feet!”

“At least a full size larger,” she teased, and then she bent and kissed him in a sisterly fashion. “Hurry, Kit! Please hurry! I want to go home to Jared and to my baby. I want to go home to Wyndsong.”

That night, Kit Edmund stood on his quarterdeck watching the twinkling lights of Istanbul recede in the distance, wondering how he was going to tell Jared Dunham that his beautiful wife was still alive. Perhaps he ought to approach Lord Swynford. No! Lady Swynford! Amanda had, in the face of devastating evidence, refused to believe that her twin was dead. She had steadfastly refused to wear mourning for Miranda. Kit himself had been witness to a scene at Almack’s when a crusty dowager had taken it upon herself to criticize not only Amanda’s colorful gown, but the fact that Amanda was appearing in public at all.

Young Lady Swynford had listened politely, and then replied in her clear, sweet voice, “I do not believe that my sister is dead, madam. And she would be the first to insist I wear no mourning. Miranda knows how sallow my skin looks when I wear black or violet.”

The old dowager had gasped. “Mad as a hatter!” she pronounced.
“Well, at least Swynford’s got an heir on her, and that’s a mercy!”

Adrian Swynford had been furious with his wife, one of the few times Christopher Edmund had ever seen the mild young nobleman angry. “Why can you not accept the truth?” he demanded.

“Because,” said Amanda stubbornly, “I know Miranda is alive. I feel it. Miranda is out there somewhere.
And
,” her voice became crystal clear as she looked directly toward Jared, who was with Lady Belinda de Winter again, “any respectable young woman seen in the company of a married man surely risks her reputation.”

Adrian Swynford grasped his wife by the arm and practically dragged her from Almack’s ballroom. As they went, Amanda’s voice was again heard quite clearly as she said, “Go gently, my lord. I am breeding again, you know!”

Princess Dariya de Lieven and Lady Emily Cowper collapsed in each other’s arms, laughing so hard that tears rolled down their cheeks. No one had ever seen the two proper matrons—the backbone of Almack’s group of patronesses and the social arbiters of all the ton—so overcome with hilarity.

“Oh! Oh!” gasped Emily Cowper, wiping her eyes with a delicate scrap of fine, lace-edged white lawn, “it is almost as good as having dear Miranda herself back.” Then she lowered her voice. “Do you really think there is anything to what Amanda Swynford says, Dariya?”

The princess shrugged elegantly. “You English are so reluctant to credit feelings, yet many people do. I have known stranger things, Emily, than a twin who insists her other half is still alive. It is possible that Miranda Dunham survived.”

“Then where is she?” came the exasperated reply.

Again the princess shrugged. “I don’t know, but if I were she I should hurry home. Belinda de Winter is zeroing in on Lord Dunham like a robin on a fat worm.”

Belinda was so certain that Jared would declare himself by the end of the current season that she was emboldened to do something she would not otherwise have done because it put her reputation at risk. She seduced him, letting him believe, of course, that it was he who had done the seducing.

She had planned it carefully, for it had to appear to be happening spontaneously. He had refused to accompany her on a picnic being planned by a group of young people, claiming that he was too old for such childish nonsense. She pouted prettily, and he laughed.

“Come now, Belinda, does it really mean that much to you? Do you really want to go out to the country and sit in the damp May grass?”

She sighed. “I expect you think me childish, but I am not really a city girl, m’lord. London is wonderful, and quite exciting, but I do miss my home. This is the first year in my entire life I have not gathered primroses and bluebells still wet with the dew on May Day morning. I love the countryside!”

“Then I am sorry, my dear, to have disappointed you.”

“Could we not have our own picnic?” she suggested daringly.

“My dear girl!” Jared protested.

“Oh, Jared! Who would know?” Catching his hands, she looked up at him eagerly. “Please! You are permitted to take me driving. Your cook could prepare the basket, and I could tell my aunt that you had offered to accompany me shopping, and then were taking me for a drive.”

A sane voice warned him against such folly, but she pleaded so adorably, and he was feeling reckless and bored. He had never even kissed her, but now he leaned forward and touched her lips with his. “You are a persuasive minx, Belinda,” he said. “Very well, we will have your picnic.”

They departed one bright May morning for what he promised was a perfect spot six miles from the city. A wicker basket was tucked carefully beneath the seat of the high-perch phaeton, which was being pulled by the smartest stepping ebony team she had ever seen. She knew that he had paid a fortune for them only last week at Tattersall’s, boldly outbidding a representative of the Prince Regent himself.

She chattered lightly about nothing of importance, maintaining the illusion of girlish exuberance. Who would ever doubt her innocence? Belinda had been sexually active since eleven, losing her virginity at twelve, but her indiscretions had always been discreet. She had never involved herself with people of her own class, preferring the lower classes, who dared not brag of their conquest with the young miss lest they be charged with a crime.
Men had been transported for less. The Duke of Northhampton was the only man of her own social class with whom she had involved herself even briefly, and he would certainly say nothing. No, Belinda smiled smugly to herself, her reputation was spotless.