As a peeress in her own right, Miranda had always been a bit more independent and daring than was considered proper for an unmarried lady. She had garnered her share of gossip since she’d made her curtsey, and had earned a reputation as the ton’s perpetual bridesmaid. She was unconventional in many ways, but Miranda was a lady to her core, and dispensing with her ball gown wasn’t an option she could seriously consider. Unfortunately, a bloodstain the size of the one on her dress was nearly impossible to disguise.
Nor could she dismiss Daniel’s concerns. He knew the situation better than she, and Miranda would never forgive herself if what Daniel said was true and some eagle-eyed member of the ton raised a hue and cry and demanded to know what had happened. Or if someone recalled the fact that the Marchioness St. Germaine’s exquisite ball gown hadn’t been stained until after she’d accepted the Duke of Sussex’s invitation to dance the waltz—an unprecedented occurrence at his mother’s annual gala.
Miranda gritted her teeth in frustration. If only she’d realized how foxed he was before he’d asked her to dance, before he’d ordered the orchestra to play the waltz, she might have persuaded him to make his exit in a less noticeable manner, but she’d foolishly succumbed to the temptation of being held in Daniel’s arms once again, and now they were both going to suffer for it. But once they were safely away and Daniel was settled into bed with someone to look after him, Miranda was going to demand an explanation.
She looked at Daniel. “You’re right,” she stated matter-of-factly, extending her hand to him in order to pull him to his feet. “Unfortunately, we’ve no choice but to make a run for it. So, let’s be about it, Your Grace, before you’re too weak to support your weight or before you expire on the spot.”
Chapter Three
“Now or never was the time.”
—Laurence Sterne, 1713–1768
Tristram Shandy
Daniel took a deep breath, steeling himself for the ordeal ahead. He pressed his hand against the front of his waistcoat in a vain attempt to suppress the ache and offered Miranda his arm as they left the gravel path. “I can’t promise I’ll succeed,” he said, stepping onto the lawn before removing his hand from the front of his waistcoat and reaching into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. “But I’ll do my utmost to prevent you from having to bear the bulk of my weight.”
“You’ll succeed,” she returned in a no-nonsense tone she hoped masked the terror she felt. “You’ve no choice. If you falter, I will leave you where you lie and go for help.” She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, watching covertly as Daniel dabbed his handkerchief along his brow, mopping up the beads of perspiration that dotted it.
“What happened to your resolve not to endanger my life?” he asked, frowning at the crumpled square of handkerchief linen that bore smears of blood where he’d gripped it.
“The way I see it, your life is in danger either way. You started this by insisting that we waltz out of the ballroom in order to get you safely out of the reach of prying eyes,” Miranda reminded him. “And until we succeed in getting you away, you’re going to act a part worthy of the Bard and carry yourself like the duke you were born to be. You’re going to cross the lawn as if you hadn’t a care in the world. And if we encounter any late arrivals or early departures, you’re going to protect yourself by living up to your reputation as a quick wit or by being fast on your feet. Whatever seems most appropriate.”
“I’m muzzy-headed, but believe it or not, I comprehend the situation, Miranda,” he murmured dryly, still clenching the handkerchief in his fist. And the danger. “I am, after all, the one bl—”
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
Daniel froze at the greeting, and Miranda took a step back, hoping to hide her dress from the other man’s view.
But it was next to impossible to hide anything at Sussex House tonight. The place glowed with light like a birthday cake covered with candles—and all for the benefit of the guests attending the Duchess of Sussex’s annual gala.
The entire house was blazing with hundreds of candles, and the gardens and grounds were equally well-lighted with an almost equal number of lanterns. The duchess had insisted on installing a series of gas lamps along the front and side entrances to Sussex House after thieves had accosted Lady Gentry and her daughter at knifepoint earlier in the season as they’d returned home from the opera. The fact that the Gentrys lived on the opposite end of Park Lane from Sussex House hadn’t seemed to matter to the dowager duchess.
She had had workmen from the Gas-Light and Coke Company working day and night to lay the gas pipe and install the lamps in time for the gala. The duchess had also hired a veritable army of footmen, and lamp- and lantern-lighters and tenders, whose job it was to light and tend the candles and oil lamps inside Sussex House and the gas lamps and oil lanterns outside, and to keep everything glowing until half past two in the morning, when every light in the place would be extinguished so the duchess could delight in waking the rest of London with a show of three a.m. fireworks. And after the fireworks, the army of lighters and tenders would be put back to work illuminating the way for the departing guests.
It was costing Daniel a bloody fortune. But no expense was spared, no whim was too extravagant when it came to the Duchess of Sussex’s Annual Gala.
Daniel almost pitied the pickpockets, cutpurses, housebreakers, and footpads seeking the shadows of Park Lane tonight. There were no shadows around Sussex House—for thieves or for the amorously inclined. Heaven forbid that the duchess’s party be marred by robbery, by scandalous behavior, or by her blue-blooded son’s clandestine activities.
He gritted his teeth, allowing the breath he’d been holding to escape. He’d known all along that the optimal time for escaping the party was the golden hour and a half between the extinguishing of the lamps for fireworks and the relighting of them to aid the departing guests, but that meant enduring the entire evening, and Daniel was quite sure that suffering through his mother’s party was not something he was prepared to do—not if he wished to keep his injury a secret.
Daniel had intended to ask his cousin and Free Fellow colleague, the Earl of Barclay, for assistance, but he’d deliberately delayed his entrance to avoid being pressed into duty standing beside his mother in the receiving line. Because he’d been engaged in the business of avoiding his mother, Daniel had missed Jonathan. And although he’d spotted his cousin several times, Daniel hadn’t the energy to leave his cozy hiding place and make his way through the growing crush of people to reach him. He’d decided to lie in wait until Jonathan or someone else he knew he could trust made their way close to him.
Miranda’s timely arrival had been a godsend.
Daniel had invited her knowing there was a very good chance she wouldn’t appear. But Miranda hadn’t disappointed him. She’d accepted his invitation.
Daniel had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d seen her—even though she’d been dancing the first dance of the evening—his dance—with Patrick Hollister. And he’d breathed an even bigger sigh of relief when she’d agreed to waltz him out of the ballroom. Making their way across the lawn without being seen had been trickier, but their luck had held, and he and Miranda were nearly home free.
But luck was fleeting and theirs seemed to have run out as they approached the long line of vehicles parked along both sides of the street and came face to face with Lord Espy exiting his coach.
After coming face to face with the man, Daniel couldn’t ignore him. He was acquainted with Espy. The viscount was one of Lord Bathhurst’s secretaries and was often called upon to act as liaison between Bathhurst and the Prime Minister’s government. Daniel couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen or heard him, couldn’t pretend that Lord Espy was addressing someone else. Not when it was quite clear that Daniel was the only gentleman within hearing and that Lord Espy had directed his greeting to him.
“Evening, Espy.” Daniel returned the greeting, hoping that by doing so, Lord Espy would refrain from attempting f
urther conversation.
“Lovely night for a party.”
“Quite.” Daniel nearly groaned aloud. He focused his attention at a point above the other man’s shoulder, on the rather ornate lanterns decorating the coach. His short, clipped answer was designed to send a message to Espy to take the hint.
But Espy seemed bent on conversation and took no notice of Daniel’s one-word reply. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.”
“Why not?” Daniel asked. “I attend the duchess’s gala every year.”
“And the duchess’s annual gala far outstrips all the other events of the season. Mayfair is packed with partygoers, and the whole of London is buzzing with excitement. I believe the party is just getting under way.” He stared at Daniel. “I would have arrived at the appointed hour myself, but I lost precious time waiting for my brother to dock his ship. Still, I made it in good time all the same. Couldn’t outstrip you, of course, but the night is still quite young, and I vow it was impossible to think of missing the duchess’s gala. Surely you aren’t leaving already? It’s such an honor to receive an invitation that I eagerly await its arrival every year …”
Miranda gave a low, almost inaudible snort.
Daniel clenched his teeth so hard a muscle in his jaw began to tic. He should have known Miranda wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. She stood a head or more taller than most of the other women present, and that and her auburn hair made her instantly recognizable. And asking her to remain completely quiet was like asking the stars not to twinkle at night.
“Great Jupiter!” Espy exclaimed, staring at the front of Miranda’s gown. “Pardon my language, my lady, but your gown! Is anything amiss? Are you injured?”
“Nosebleed,” Miranda announced to Lord Espy, snatching the handkerchief Daniel held clutched in his fist and hastily covering her nose and mouth with it. “My family has long been prone to nosebleeds, and I’m afraid I suffered a rather severe one while dancing with His Grace.”
Lord Espy gave Miranda a sympathetic smile.
“And he kindly offered to see me home,” she continued, the handkerchief muffling her words as she stepped closer to Daniel.
Lord Espy stared at Daniel, aware that the Duke of Sussex had gallantly refrained from embarrassing his companion by introducing her while she was indisposed, but Espy recognized her nonetheless and admired the duke for his forbearance. Everyone who was anyone in the ton understood that there was no love lost between Daniel, Duke of Sussex, and Miranda, Marchioness of St. Germaine. Although no one knew what had caused their enmity, the duke and the marchioness had been thorns in each other’s sides for years. Their public disagreements and verbal sparring matches were the stuff of legends and no doubt quite capable of provoking a massive nosebleed. And probably no less than the marchioness deserved. Rumor had it that she was never invited to the Duchess of Sussex’s annual gala, but resorted to sneaking in like a common gate-crasher. And it was said that the duke had had the unenviable task of escorting her off the premises on more than one occasion.
“A shame,” Espy clucked his tongue, “for you to miss the grandest party of the season, my lady.”
“Indeed,” she murmured.
“And a disappointment for you as well, Your Grace,” Lord Espy continued.
Daniel focused his gaze on the older gentleman, amazed to find that the other man honestly imagined he regretted missing his mother’s party for any reason—especially for an indisposed companion.
What Daniel regretted was the fact that Espy obviously didn’t understand his true measure as a gentleman.
Miranda wasn’t indisposed. He was. But Miranda was proving to be an exceptional actress, and Lord Espy had believed her story. If the reverse had been true and Miranda had been indisposed, Daniel would have gladly volunteered to see her safely home from his mother’s party or from any other social function without a single hesitation or regret. “Quite.” Daniel understood, even if over half the members of the ton did not, that the people attending them were always more important than the functions. “If you’ll excuse us, Espy,” Daniel replied firmly, taking hold of Miranda’s arm and gripping it harder than he intended in an effort to steady himself. “I’m sure the lady would like to be on her way.”
Miranda nodded.
“Yes, of course, Your Grace.” Espy stepped aside to allow them to pass. “Please remember me to your lovely mother, Lady St. Germaine.”
Miranda stared at Lord Espy over the top of Daniel’s handkerchief, bristling at the older man’s audacity in using her name when Daniel had quite purposefully not introduced her. Miranda braced herself against Daniel’s weight in an effort to maintain the fiction that she was indisposed instead of him.
“Since I am sure you understand how the young lady might find her condition to be somewhat distressing and …” Daniel continued.
“Mortifying,” Miranda corrected, her words muffled by the handkerchief.
“Embarrassing,” Daniel replied. “I trust that we may count upon your gentlemanly discretion should you hear any remarks about it or should anyone question our early departure.” He leaned a fraction closer to the man. “I shouldn’t like to upset Her Grace, the dowager duchess, by letting it be known that I missed a single moment of the extraordinary festivities for any reason.”
Miranda gasped into the crumpled folds of the handkerchief.
Daniel was taking a huge gamble in leaning close enough for Lord Espy to discover how well and truly foxed he was. Or how physically weak he was.
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Espy assured him. “You may stake your life upon it.”
Daniel managed a grin. “I trust that won’t be necessary.”
Chapter Four
“Something between a hindrance and a help.”
—William Wordsworth, 1770–1850
“A nosebleed!” Daniel marveled as soon as Lord Espy was out of earshot and he and Miranda finally made their way through the jumble of carriages to her coach. “Quick thinking, my lady.”
Miranda smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I confess to being nonplussed,” he said. “Pleading a nosebleed was brilliant.”
“I’m not so sure,” she admitted. “It isn’t enough that I’m cursed with red hair and stand head and shoulders above nearly every eligible man we know. I’ve just announced that generations of my family members suffer spontaneous nosebleeds. How attractive! Now I’ll have every eligible bachelor in London believing that in addition to outranking, outweighing, and looking down upon most of them, I also bleed upon them whenever I’m asked to waltz. I thank you for the praise, Your Grace, but I believe I’ve just ruined whatever chances I may have had to walk down the aisle at season’s end, as someone’s bride instead of someone else’s bridesmaid.”
“It was damned quick thinking on your part,” Daniel replied, retrieving his handkerchief and pressing it against his brow once again. “Especially in light of my muzzy-headedness.”
“You’re very foxed,” Miranda reminded him, “and very muzzy-headed, or you wouldn’t have leaned close enough for Lord Espy to smell your breath. Has the pain driven you stark-staring mad? Or are you deliberately trying to drive me so?” She didn’t wait for his answer, but instead propped him up against the side of the coach parked beside hers. It had taken longer to reach her coach, but Miranda was glad her carriage was parked at the end of the long line. It meant that she and Daniel could leave quietly without waiting for a hundred other vehicles to make way, and it was one of the few advantages to knowing she had come without the duchess’s invitation. “Here. Rest a moment while I get Ned to help you.”
“Who’s Ned?” Daniel demanded.
Miranda thrilled at the barest hint of jealousy she thought she heard in Daniel’s voice and was tempted to announce that he was her lover. But she reluctantly settled for the truth. “My footman.”
“I don’t need your footman’s assistance,” Daniel protested, disliking the mere idea of anyone else seeing him in his cur
rent state.
“Ten minutes ago you were certain you couldn’t make it without assistance.”
“Your assistance,” he replied, wearily aware that he and Miranda were doing what they did best—arguing. “No one else’s.”
“I’m afraid I cannot accommodate that request, Your Grace,” Miranda said softly. “You may think you can do without Ned’s assistance, but I happen to know differently. And in any case, I require his help even if you do not.” She knocked on the side of her coach and gestured for her footman.
Embarrassed by his selfish disregard for the discomfort he’d put her through, Daniel reached out a hand and caressed Miranda’s face with surprising tenderness. “Forgive me,” he said, before bending close enough to press his lips against her forehead.
Enjoying the feel of Daniel’s cool lips on her face and the brush of his breath against her hair, Miranda gave in to desire and leaned against him just as Ned alighted from the coach. Tripping over her feet in her haste to put some distance between them before her footman caught them in an intimate embrace, she stepped away from Daniel and the temptation he offered. “My lady, what happened? Are you all right?” Her footman’s eyes were round as saucers when he caught sight of her dress.
“I’m fine, Ned,” Miranda assured him.
“But your gown …”
“An unexpected nosebleed,” Miranda prevaricated. “I’m quite recovered, but His Grace is not quite the pink.” She wrapped her arm around Daniel’s waist. “Please help me assist him into the coach.”
Miranda’s assessment of his condition was an understatement. His Grace wasn’t quite the pink. He wasn’t anywhere near the pink. Whatever and wherever that was. Daniel sucked in a breath, releasing it in a slow, painful hiss as Miranda and her footman boosted him into the coach. If he had to compare himself to a color, he could only surmise that he was closer to ash gray than to pink. And becoming more ashen with every passing moment.