Truly a Wife (Free Fellows League 4)

“His Grace is still not quite the pink.” Miranda lifted her chin a notch higher and straightened to her full height. “And his memory of last night’s events is rather faulty. Especially the visit to St. Michael’s Square.”

“Heavy drink has been known to affect a man’s memory, miss,” Ned commiserated.

“I suppose it has,” Miranda agreed. “Perhaps, he’ll remember when he wakes.”

“Perhaps.”

Miranda closed her eyes for a minute, then opened them again. “I’ve no one to blame but myself. I knew better than to marry him when he was so foxed. But, I …”

“His Grace was most insistent, miss,” Ned reminded her. “He didn’t give you much choice.”

“I know,” Miranda admitted, “but that’s no excuse. I knew what I was doing, even if he did not. And I’ll not have him think I persuaded him to marry me for my own purposes. So, until His Grace remembers—we’ll pretend it never happened.”

“And if he never remembers?” Ned asked the question Miranda had been asking herself.

“We’ll pretend it never happened.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but you won’t be able to pretend it never happened forever,” her footman said. “Lady Manwaring and the curate were witnesses, and Rupert and I were there as well. We heard the bishop say the marriage should be recorded in the parish register within thirty days. Someone is bound to find out about it.”

“Not if we don’t tell them,” Miranda insisted. “Who in the ton is going to request the St. Michael’s parish register? In the meantime, we’ll go on as we always have.”

“Will that be possible, miss?”

“Of course it’s possible,” Miranda replied with a great deal more bravado than she felt. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

Ned cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the marble floor before meeting her gaze. “I beg your pardon again, milady, but you’ve nothing on but a man’s robe. I would never have left you alone with him if I had known this would happen …” he replied.

“Nothing happened,” she reminded him.

“Then why aren’t you wearing your dress?”

Miranda made a face. “His Grace was violently ill upon it.” She looked at Ned. “I couldn’t wear it after that, or the garments that go under it, so I bundled them up and left them in a laundry tub in the scullery.”

Ned’s relief was palpable. He and Lady Miranda were much the same age and had known each other all their lives. Ned’s father was the head gamekeeper at Blackstone Abbey, the St. Germaine county seat in Northamptonshire. Ned and Lady Miranda had played together and built a solid friendship as children. And when he’d arrived in London to serve the family, when he was seven and ten, he’d immediately resumed the role of Miranda’s friend and confidant. They were more than mistress and footman—they were lifelong friends, and Miranda trusted him implicitly. Ned and Crawford, the butler, were the rocks upon which she and her mother relied so heavily.

“There’s an armoire full of ladies’ clothing in the master bedchamber,” Miranda told him. “But none of them fit me.” She plucked at the fabric of her robe. “This and a gentleman’s nightshirt were the only clothes I could wear. And the nightshirt got wet.” Miranda saw no point in revealing how the nightshirt got wet. “So I was reduced to wearing this and a toga made from a bedsheet.”

“And His Grace?”

“He’ll need clothes, too.” Miranda didn’t elaborate.

“From his valet at Sussex House or from his tailor on Bond Street?”

“Bond Street.” Miranda knew Ned was entirely trustworthy, but Daniel hadn’t given her leave to tell Ned of his injury or to have Ned reveal that information to His Grace’s valet. “Buy buff breeches, a white linen shirt.” She looked at Ned. “You know the style I like best with collar and cuffs instead of ruffles.” She tapped her bottom lip with her index fingers. “Stockings, drawers, neck linens, a razor and strop, hair brushes. Whatever a gentleman needs. I’ll give you enough money to pay for the purchases. And be very discreet, Ned. Neither His Grace’s tailor nor his valet can know about this.”

“Of course, miss.” Ned nodded. “Malden, His Grace’s valet, is known belowstairs in all the fashionable households as having a loose tongue.”

“Boots,” Miranda remembered suddenly. “His Grace was wearing shoes last night. He’ll need boots for buff breeches.”

Ned gave his mistress a smile. “No need to fret, miss. I know His Grace’s bootblack. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll leave it to you, then,” Miranda assured him.

Ned nodded, then turned and began unpacking the baskets.

The aromas coming from a wicker picnic hamper were heavenly. Miranda’s mouth began to water. “What did you bring us?”

“Yorkshire pudding and fresh vegetables with cake for dessert.”