Chapter 18

“The Duke of Marshington will be coming by today.”

Miranda’s needle slipped, jabbing her in the finger. She restrained the flinch and the urge to suck on her injured finger. Hearing her sister say the words that had been circling through her own mind all morning was more shocking than the missed stitch. How did Georgina know that he intended to call?

“Darling, it was a masquerade.” Mother inspected Georgina’s hair and dress, giving a slight nod of approval. Not a blemish could be allowed on their first “at home” day since returning to London. “There are always one or two gentlemen claiming to be the esoteric duke at these things.”

Miranda could have informed them that he was indeed the real Duke of Marshington, but then she would have to admit to corresponding with him, and that was certainly not going to happen.

“He had the ring, Mother.” Georgina adjusted her skirts as she made herself comfortable on the white-and-gold settee.

This was the most formal of all the drawing rooms in Hawthorne House. Decorated during Miranda’s second Season, it was done entirely in gold and white. Fortunately, by then she had convinced her mother to let her build her wardrobe with cream and the occasional light pink or green. The idea of wearing white while sitting on a white couch in front of white-on-white silk wall coverings had been enough to make her shudder. Georgina didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

“The ring? I suppose that does make a difference.” Mother chose a gold brocade armchair. She settled into it with her own needlework. “Did you bring anything to occupy yourself between callers this morning?”

Georgina arched her eyebrows at her mother. “I don’t think there will be any need. Several people mentioned calling on me today. We shall find ourselves quite busy. Especially when word goes around that the Duke of Marshington has come out of his self-imposed exile for me.”

Miranda snorted.

Her mother glared at her.

She considered shrugging. It was what she truly wanted to do. In the end, lady lessons won out and she murmured a quiet, “Pardon me.”

“You think otherwise, dear sister?”

It was time to remind Georgina that while her older sister wasn’t as popular, she was not quite on the shelf yet. “Has it not occurred to you, dear sister, that maybe he wants to call on me today? You are not the only eligible lady in this house.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hurt your feelings. That was never my intention. But don’t you think if you were the enticement he would have come back sometime in the last three years?”

A sudden urge to jam her embroidery needle through her sister’s perfect nose gripped her. The mental image was satisfying enough, so she stayed in her seat.

“Georgina, that is uncalled for. A lady never mentions another’s unwed status, particularly if they have been socializing for a while. And Miranda, a lady never emits noises more suited to a pig.” Mother peeked up from her needlework to spear both of her daughters with her sharp green gaze. Her message was clear. The visits today would set the tone for the entire Season, and she was not going to allow anything untoward to happen.

“Yes, Mother,” Miranda said.

Georgina murmured her own agreement.

Ten minutes later Gibson, the butler, announced the first caller.

He was a young gentleman Miranda remembered meeting the year before. She thought he might be a second son, which she knew would hold no appeal to her younger sister. Georgina’s rejection could take many forms and Miranda felt sorry for the poor man.

“The flowers are beautiful Mr. Sherbourne. Were you aware that my sister, Lady Miranda, adores carnations?” Georgina’s face was the picture of angelic innocence. Her eyes were wide enough to disguise their slight exotic tilt, and her smile was soft and natural.

Miranda wasn’t fooled for a moment—bitterness rose up her throat to coat her tongue as her sister’s game became clear. Anyone she didn’t want was going to be aimed in Miranda’s direction. She had to remind herself repeatedly that Mr. Sherbourne wasn’t at fault in this little play.

After a moment of awkward silence, Mr. Sherbourne extended the bouquet to Miranda. “A lady should always have a bouquet of her favorite flowers. Please accept these, Lady Miranda.”

“Of course. I am honored that you thought of me.” Miranda almost choked on the words. The truth was she had never been particularly fond of carnations. She much preferred tulips or lilies.

They talked for a few minutes, Georgina constantly drawing the conversation back to Miranda. The skill would truly have been impressive if she had been helping Miranda land a man she actually wanted. By the time Mr. Sherbourne left he probably believed he’d arrived to see Miranda instead of Georgina.

And so the morning progressed. Wealthy, attractive men with lofty titles or at least the prospect of a lofty title were met with coy smiles and soft laughter while Miranda was all but ignored. Everyone else was shuffled off as Georgina played the adoring younger sister.

A few women stopped by to see Miranda, though more came to visit with her mother. Georgina’s friends were all having their own at homes or resting up for the night’s festivities. Few of them had been allowed to attend last night’s masquerade.

The visitors were a steady stream through the drawing room. No one stayed overly long and everyone mentioned how lovely Georgina looked in her white embroidered muslin. Miranda wasn’t having a grand time, but it was not quite as bad as she’d feared.

Then Gibson announced the Earl of Ashcombe.

One glance at Georgina’s face revealed her delight. The earl was considered a decent catch. He was quite handsome, and his family had ample funds. The burn of bile rose in Miranda’s throat. She could not sit and visit with that man and maintain the ladylike civility her mother insisted upon.

She rose to slip from the room through the side door that led into the dining room, but she wasn’t fast enough. The earl entered, his bright green coat catching the corner of her vision, and she couldn’t stop herself from stealing a better glance. By design, she had avoided him for the past two years—an impressive achievement considering the closeness of London’s high society.

He was still breathtakingly handsome. He was a bit taller than Miranda, which would put him a good head over Georgina. His carriage was perfect, his smile held just the right level of enthusiasm. His eyes met Miranda’s across the room and he winked.

The man winked.

She darted through the door, hoping her mother would remember what he had done to Miranda during her first Season. Then she would understand why Miranda had fled and she would do everything in her power to move him along before he could shatter the innocent illusions of another Hawthorne sister.

Ryland sat in the middle of Grosvenor Square, watching the callers coming and going from Hawthorne House. Colin sat next to him, rolling a plucked blade of grass through his fingers.

“Think any of them are here to visit her?” Colin twisted the blade of grass into a circle and tried to toss it around a nearby branch.

“Only the smart ones.”

“So none, then.”

Ryland laughed at his friend’s assessment of the parade of Quality. While he agreed with the sentiment for many people, there were a few men that had better heads on their shoulders. Of course, even a level head could be turned by a woman of Georgina’s beauty. Had Ryland not witnessed her shallowness while working at Riverton, he would have been a bit awed as well.

Colin stood. “This isn’t a campaign, chap. We either go in or we don’t.”

Ryland hated to admit that his friend was right. He couldn’t treat this courtship like a mission. He was officially retired. As hard as it had been, he’d turned over all of his findings on Lambert and the still-open investigation. It was time for him to move on and let someone else protect the country.

The butler opened the door before they even had a chance to knock. Colin immediately extended his calling card. Ryland had actually forgotten about the practice of presenting cards with one’s name on it. Leaving a paper announcing your presence wasn’t high on a spy’s priority list.

He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and removed a stack of parchment rectangles. Jeffreys had not forgotten. Ryland figured that made up, at least partially, for the atrocious outfit the night before. He held his card out to the butler.

Where Colin’s had gotten him nothing more than a quizzical stare, Ryland’s card got them immediately issued into the front hall. It occurred to Ryland how easily someone could fake being him. He ran his thumb over the heavy signet ring on his right hand. It had been in the family for generations and was actually the only personal effect he had carried with him on his travels. Dangerous, yes, but he couldn’t risk his cousin finding it. It was the only proof he’d had when communicating with his managers.

“If you will wait here, I will announce your presence.”

“Hold, man,” Ryland said softly. “Who all is in the drawing room?”

“Lady Blackstone and Lady Georgina, sir.”

Ryland clapped a hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Enjoy their company, my good man. I’ve business with Griffith to take care of first.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed.

Ryland headed down the corridor before his friend could protest the arrangement. He knew where the study was, having spent time in the house as a boy. He had come with Griffith to town on a school holiday. Griffith’s uncle had traveled with them. None of the ladies in the family had been present.

Trusting that Griffith would be hiding from the horde of callers, he knocked softly at the door. Instead of hearing a call to enter, he saw the door swing open to reveal Trent, Griffith’s younger brother.

“Marsh! Good to see you without the mask on. I couldn’t believe it when you told me who you were last night.” Trent had been a few years behind Griffith and Ryland in school, but they had gotten to know each other some before Ryland’s sudden retreat from the country.

“It is good to see you as well, Trent. Is Griffith within?”

“Of course. My sister Miranda is as well. Said she couldn’t stomach the simpering anymore and needed a respite.” Trent pushed the door the rest of the way open to allow Ryland to enter.

His hopes for arranging a private interlude with Miranda crumpled. The scene when he entered that study was not going to be pretty. It was going to take Miranda a moment or two, but she would be able to put all of his identities together.

And then she was going to get angry. Well, he assumed she was going to be angry. Women tended to go a bit queer in the attic about things like this.

Staying in the corridor would solve nothing, though. The last thing he needed was for her to encounter him there. At least the study provided a modicum of privacy.

Time slowed to a crawl. Everyone seemed to move through water.

The first thing he noticed was Miranda’s shy but excited expression. That she had been looking forward to seeing him again gave him courage. He heard Griffith moving around, making introductions, saying some nonsense about the party the night before. Miranda’s face filled his vision. As her eyes met his, he saw the brows lower in confusion. He could almost hear her thinking.

She would be trying to explain away what her eyes were telling her.

Every conceivable alternative would be flittering through her mind.

Finally she would settle on the fact that the only option, no matter how ridiculous, had to be true. And that option did not put Ryland in a very favorable light.

As understanding worked its way into her expression, he considered her possible reactions. He thought she might yell. It wasn’t the ladylike thing to do, but at her core Miranda was a bit too vibrant for a traditional lady. In moments of heightened emotion he was sure those emotional tendencies would escape. Leaving the room was another option for her. It was the exquisitely rude option for a lady to cut a man in that fashion though. Of course, the ultimate in ladylike behavior would have her properly greeting him and then making excuses about seeing to refreshments.

He didn’t think that third option a very likely one.

The journey across the study carpet took forever. Did time seem slower to anyone else? “Lady Miranda,” he said, executing a slight bow.

Miranda’s fist connected with his nose.