“Most likely,” Daniel grumbled, unhappy with the state of affairs.
“I could find a runner who could send a note around to your valet at Sussex House requesting a full change of clothing,” she suggested.
“No!” Daniel protested. “My valet would insist on bringing it himself, and if Malden learned of my injury, there would be no keeping it quiet. The news would be in every ton household within minutes.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” Daniel affirmed. “I’ve learned over the years that Malden cannot keep a secret. It’s simply not in his nature.”
Miranda was alarmed at that admission. A man in Daniel’s position needed a valet he could trust implicitly. Especially since Daniel talked in his sleep. “Why do you keep him?”
“He’s an excellent valet, and he’s been with me since I left the university,” Daniel replied. “What grounds should I give to dismiss him? The fact that he cannot be trusted to keep a secret? He told me that when I hired him. I can’t dismiss him for it now simply because it’s sometimes inconvenient.”
“Make a list of what you need and I’ll send Ned to your tailor’s on Bond Street.”
“Ned isn’t here,” Daniel pointed out. “And even if he were, I doubt he could secure a suit of clothing for me in time for my meeting.”
The Free Fellows League meeting was important, but not important enough to risk having Jarrod find out he’d been shot. The information Daniel had to offer on French and Spanish troop movements was almost identical to the information Jonathan had brought back on the previous mission. The French and Spanish were massing their troops for a battle, and although Salamanca appeared to be the most likely place, no one could say for sure if that was the destination. All anyone knew for certain at the moment was that Wellington was retreating from Burgos by way of Venta del Pozo and heading toward the area where the French and the Spanish troops were gathering.
The only other thing Daniel knew for certain was that even if he were able to do so, there was no way he would walk into White’s wearing bandages and a pink toga for any reason. “My clothes are wet,” he said, “and yours are …”
“Ruined,” she replied.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “I liked the dress you wore last night. The one that matched those shoes.” He frowned. “I thought the style and the color were most becoming.”
So much so that he’d bled all over it and then been ill upon it.
“I’ll have Madam Racine make up another one just like it,” Miranda promised. “And send you the bill. Now, let me help you back into bed.” She gripped him around the waist, half-lifting, half-pulling him to his feet, and supporting his weight as she walked him back to the bed.
He tried to help her by carrying as much of his weight as possible, but Daniel was as weak as a newborn babe, and Miranda bore the brunt of it. “You may be hungry, but you aren’t in any danger of starving to death right away,” she said with a groan. “You weigh just as much this morning as you did last night.”
“A ton and a half if I remember correctly.”
If he remembered correctly. Miranda wondered how he could remember the inconsequential parts of the previous evening and not recall the most important few minutes of it. How could he remember that she had accused him of weighing a ton and a half as she had half-carried him across the lawn and not remember exchanging wedding vows with her? Using a bit more force than necessary, Miranda boosted Daniel into the mattress.
Daniel was a man accustomed to giving orders and accustomed to having servants at his beck and call twenty-four hours a day, but he wasn’t accustomed to having anyone care for him the way Miranda seemed determined to do.
Daniel hated succumbing to weakness and relying on Miranda’s help for the most basic of necessities, but he was only a man—a man who had been shot, lost a great deal of blood, and drunk a great deal of whisky the previous evening to mute the pain. He was only a man, who hurt like the very devil, and Daniel heaved a grateful sigh as Miranda shoved him back into bed—where he no doubt belonged for a while longer. “Thanks, Miranda.” He let go of the coverlet he’d wrapped around his waist and slipped between the sheets. “You’re the only woman I know strong enough to …”
Miranda held up her hand. “Please, Your Grace, don’t thank me or pay me any more compliments. I don’t think I can stand it.” She pulled the pink sheet up over him, then plumped the pillows at his head, arranging them so he could sit up and lean against them.
He stared up at her face, saw her red, puffy eyes, and realized that Miranda had been crying. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Making you cry.”
“You didn’t,” she said.
“Someone did.”
Miranda glared at him. “I don’t want to discuss it. And if you insist on pursuing this line of conversation or in paying me any more compliments, I’ll help myself to the pies and coffee you purchased with my shilling and let you do without.”
“Miranda, you wouldn’t …”
“Yes, Daniel, I would.”
He flashed her one of his devastating smiles. “You’re a very remarkable woman.”