The fact that he had had a mistress hadn’t come as a great surprise to his daughter. It was a common practice among the ton. And Miranda had never doubted the sincerity of her father’s affection for her mother, or for herself. The woman he kept on Curzon Street had been a longtime companion whose relationship with the marquess preceded his title and his marriage, and Miranda’s father had been unusually forthcoming with her mother about the arrangement before their marriage, and with Miranda in the letter that accompanied the property deeds his solicitor had turned over to her following his death.
And when, after reading her father’s letter, Miranda had broached the subject with her mother, Lady St. Germaine had been equally forthcoming in explaining her feelings about her marriage and her late husband’s mistress. “I never asked her name,” she revealed. “Nor where she lived, because I didn’t want to know it. I knew what I needed to know—all I wanted to know. She was much older than I. She was a governess until she married an army officer. He was killed in service to the crown, and she and your father struck up a friendship. They shared common interests. He was very fond of her, but he kept that part of his life separate from the life he shared with me. I wasn’t a threat to their friendship, and she wasn’t a threat to our marriage.” She looked at Miranda. “In truth, I was relieved when I conceived and gave birth to you, for it meant your father and I no longer had to share the marriage bed.”
Miranda remembered gasping at her mother’s blunt reply, but Lady St. Germaine had overlooked it. “You must remember, my dear, that I was a girl of seven and ten married to a man of two and forty. And while I’ve been assured that there are delights to be found in the marriage bed, your father and I found it rather awkward and messy and embarrassing. Fortunately, the letters patent of the St. Germaine Marquessate allow the oldest legitimate offspring—male or female—to inherit the title. Your father knew this, of course, and promised that once I conceived and delivered a child, he would seek satisfaction elsewhere and that I might do the same.”
Miranda had blurted out the obvious question. “Did you?”
Lady St. Germaine had given her daughter a mysterious smile. “I’ve enjoyed a flirtation or two over the years, but I prefer to do without the pawing and prodding that accompanies intimate relations.” She reached over and patted Miranda’s hand. “That’s not to say you’ll feel the same way about it. I suspect it’s quite different with a man your own age and one with whom you’re madly, passionately in love.”
“You didn’t love Papa?”
“I grew to love him very much,” Lady St. Germaine answered. “But I was never in love with him—at least not in the way the poets describe. Our marriage was arranged. Your father was forty when he inherited the title from his older brother. As the new marquess, he required a bride of child-bearing age. He saw me at Lady Shackleford’s musicale and approached my papa. Papa was only a viscount, so he was quite pleased that a marquess had offered for me and overjoyed by the opportunity to add to the family coffers.” She smiled. “I, of course, was in love with the idea of becoming a marchioness. It was a good match, and we rubbed along quite well together. And there was never any doubt that your father was quite fond of me or that he adored you. I was very proud to be his wife. I never regretted marrying him or gave him any reason to regret marrying me. When he returned to his lady friend’s bed after you were born, he did so with my blessing and my gratitude.”
In the house on Curzon Street. Miranda looked at her footman. The house on Curzon Street was closed, and since Miranda had never been there, she had no way of knowing whether they could gain entry without waking the neighborhood, but she was willing to try. “Tell Rupert to reverse direction and make our way to Curzon Street while I try to figure out how to get in.”
“That’s easy, milady,” Ned said with a grin, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a ring of keys. “Yesterday was cleaning day,” he replied. “Mr. Hawkins gave me the keys to the house so I could admit the cleaning crew. I neglected to return them.”
Miranda shook her head in wonder, amazed that she had been so preoccupied with looking her very best for the duchess’s party and preparing for her next encounter with the duchess’s son that she’d completely forgotten she’d instructed her man of business to send Ned to attend to the scheduled cleaning of the house. “Thank heavens you did,” she said. “Or we would have had to return home to get them, and that would involve more time and more explanations than I’m prepared to make.”
“I understand, miss.” Ned nodded before turning to relay her instructions to Rupert.
“Oh, and Ned …”
“Yes, milady?”
“I’m trusting you and Rupert to keep the events of this evening a secret from everyone—including my mother.”
“No need to worry, milady,” Ned assured her. “Your secret is safe with us.”
“Thank you, Ned.”
“You’re welcome, milady. I’ll alert you when we reach our destination.”
* * *
Ned was as good as his word. “Curzon Street, my lady,” he announced some minutes later, alighting from his perch on the coach as it rolled to a stop at the rear entrance to the house. He opened the coach door and lowered the steps for Miranda, then made his way from the vehicle up the narrow walk to unlock the back door.
“Daniel, wake up. We’ve arrived.” Miranda gave Daniel a gentle nudge.
He groaned his protest.
She nudged a little harder, then reached over and patted his face with her gloved hands. “Daniel, you must wake up. We’ve arrived at our destination and I cannot carry you into the house.”
He opened his eyes and blinked at her, struggling to comprehend. “Not to worry, my sweet, beautiful Miranda. I’ll carry you,” he said, before falling face-first against her bosom.
“I’ll carry him, milady,” Ned told her. “If you will slide His Grace onto the floor of the coach so that I might take hold of him, I’ll do my best to keep from adding to his discomfort.”
“All right,” Miranda agreed, shoving Daniel’s legs off the opposite seat before tugging on his arm until she’d maneuvered him to the edge of the cushions. Once she got him where she wanted him, Miranda placed her shoulder against his and pushed with all her might.
Sussex rolled off the velvet cushion and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor of the vehicle.
“Very good, milady.” Ned leaned into the coach and rearranged Daniel’s arms and legs before hefting the duke onto his shoulders in much the same manner the butchers in Market Square hefted sides of beef and pork onto theirs.
Miranda stared transfixed at the sight of the mighty Duke of Sussex hanging upside down across the shoulders of her footman.
“If you would be so kind as to light the way, milady.” Ned nodded his head toward the lantern hanging by the door of the coach.
Miranda reached up and unhooked the lantern, then stepped down from the coach and lighted the way as Ned carried Daniel into the house.