“I don’t know.” Miranda looked down at Daniel’s ring on her finger, then slowly slipped it off and turned to hand it to her new husband. “Daniel, where do you want to go now? Daniel?” Miranda leaned closer, and her voice took on an edge of panic when Daniel failed to respond. “Daniel?” Miranda opened the reticule looped around her wrist and dropped Daniel’s ducal signet inside for safekeeping, then placed her hands on his shoulders, and gave him a gentle shake.
“Promise …” Daniel whispered.
Miranda leaned close to hear him. “Promise what?”
“Me.” Daniel closed his eyes once again and gave a heavy sigh.
“Daniel Sussex! Don’t you dare die on me!”
“He’s not dead, miss,” Ned said softly. “He’s just passed out.”
“Well, fine,” Miranda replied a bit more sharply than she intended, now that she knew Daniel hadn’t expired on her.
Now that she knew he hadn’t made her a widow before she became a wife. Now that she knew he’d passed out from pain, or loss of blood, or too much Scots whisky. Now that she knew Daniel had placed her on the horns of a dilemma and left her to sort out the problem and find a solution. “What am I supposed to do now? We may have exchanged wedding vows, but as long as it’s a secret, I’ve nowhere to take him that doesn’t require an explanation except back to his home at Sussex House, and I gave him my word that I wouldn’t do that.” Leaning close enough to feel his shallow breath, Miranda caressed his cheek with her hand and muttered, “Some wedding this has turned out to be. It would serve you right if I took you home to my mother and let you explain all of this. How would you like that, Your Grace?”
Miranda had no intention of doing either, but venting her spleen on him made her feel much better—especially when she knew there wasn’t a thing Daniel could do or say about it. She turned to Ned.
“Do you think you could gain entrance and locate the Duke of Avon, or Lords Grantham, Shepherdston, or Barclay, if we returned to Sussex House?”
“Shepherdston’s not there.”
“Oh?” Miranda didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “How did you know that?”
Ned took a deep breath. “Begging your pardon, milady, uh, Your Grace …”
“Milady will do fine, Ned,” Miranda told him. “You were witness to the ceremony that made me the duchess, but I shall be known as the Marchioness of St. Germaine until His Grace decides otherwise.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ned gave a little bow. “After you presented your invitation and entered the house, I overheard one of the duchess’s footmen say something about the Marquess of Shepherdston not attending even though Her Grace had invited him, and the Marchioness of St. Germaine attending even though Her Grace had not invited her.”
Miranda blinked at the stinging indictment. “Do you think you could slip inside Sussex House and find the Duke of Avon or Lords Grantham or Barclay?”
“On any other night, perhaps, but not tonight. Not in this livery.” He glanced down at the distinctive St. Germaine livery. “I won’t make it past the front door unless I can find another footman willing to exchange livery with me or go in my stead.”
“No one can go in your stead,” Miranda said firmly. “It has to be you. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“I’m willing to try if that’s what you want, milady.”
Miranda chewed her bottom lip. Daniel had asked for her help, and he trusted her to do the right thing by him. Finding a footman willing to exchange livery with Ned could take precious time. Perhaps it was just as well because she wasn’t sure Daniel could spare it. She pressed her hand against the front of Daniel’s waistcoat. It was saturated with blood, but the fresh flow appeared to have slowed. “I want to get His Grace out of the night air and into a warm, soft bed,” she said. “Unfortunately, I have no idea wher
e to take him.” She sat back against the cushions and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Where could she take her new husband so that no one would know he was foxed and injured or newly married? Where in London was there such a place? Of course. “The house on Curzon Street.” She looked at Ned. “Can we get to Curzon Street from here?”
Ned thought for a moment. “We’ll have to turn around and make our way through Reeves mews, but we can do it.”
Miranda had owned the house on Curzon Street for years, but she hadn’t realized she owned it until six months ago, when her solicitor had turned over a box of papers that her father, the late Marquess of St. Germaine, had instructed him to release on the fifth anniversary of his death.
The deed to the house had been among a bundle of deeds to various London rental properties the late marquess had owned.
Reading the papers, Miranda had learned that her father had begun purchasing desirable properties in and around London soon after inheriting the title of Marquess of St. Germaine. Most of the properties had been parts of estates purchased from gentlemen down on their luck. Some he leased back to the original owners for a nominal fee. Others he kept for their income-producing abilities.
Her father’s letter explained the significance of the properties and the fact that he’d kept them separate from the other St. Germaine holdings as a form of insurance for Miranda for five years. If she proved to be a good steward of her inheritance and an asset to the title, these properties would insure the growth of her personal wealth. If she proved to be a poor manager of her wealth and title, these properties could be liquidated and used to sustain her position in society in order to protect the entailed St. Germaine lands that could not be sold and could only pass through her to her heir.
The Marquess of St. Germaine had left it to his faithful solicitor to determine whether Miranda should be trusted with the management of the additional properties. And he’d given his solicitor five years in which to observe her.
Fortunately, Miranda had proven to be her father’s daughter. She was an excellent businesswoman who saw herself as guardian of the wealth and position she had inherited. When Mr. Thompson, her solicitor, turned the box over to her, Miranda was pleasantly surprised to learn she owned quite a few London properties, including several buildings leased by foreign governments and used as embassies.
She also owned a block of lucrative dockside warehouses, along with several town homes in highly desirable addresses including the villa built by architect John Nash in Regent’s Park into which she and her mother were preparing to move, and the town house on Curzon Street.
The house on Curzon Street intrigued Miranda from the start because her father had purchased it to house his mistress—a mistress who had been pensioned off at his death and who had since moved on to another protector.