“Lord Bathhurst’s does.”
Daniel took a deep breath. “I need to talk to Colin, Griffin, and Weymouth. Colin first,” he instructed. “Then Griffin and Weymouth at the same time.”
“Why?”
“I think I may have stumbled upon the possible leak in the government.”
“Jarrod will want to know as well,” Jonathan reminded him.
Daniel smiled. “No need to interrupt the man’s wedding trip unless my suspicions are correct, and I won’t know if they’re correct until I speak with Lord Weymouth.”
“Shall I send a note around later this afternoon?”
Remembering his hasty exit from Curzon Street, Daniel shook his head. “I think tomorrow before breakfast will be soon enough.” He looked his cousin in the eye. “I delivered the latest dispatches—or rather, Micah did, on my instructions. Colin and Gillian have deciphered them, and Jarrod’s already given the men at Abchurch Lane the results. Until Courtland makes the next run, there’s nothing else for the leak to discover.”
Frowning suddenly, Daniel stood up and walked to the window in his stocking feet. Micah. A piece of a dream came flooding back. Daniel suddenly remembered grabbing Micah by the front of his nightshirt. “Damn it, man, if you’ve no vehicle then walk. And he may be a gentleman, but Shepherdston isn’t a snob. He won’t give a damn how you’re dressed.” Except Micah hadn’t been wearing a nightshirt when they’d left the coast. Or when they’d reached London. But there had been a nightshirt just like it lying in a puddle on the floor at Curzon Street … Atop a pair of wet dancing slippers. Green to match the ball gown Miranda had been wearing.
Daniel squeezed his eyes shut. He had talked in his sleep and accidentally sent Miranda to Shepherdston’s on a mission.
She’d
never breathed a word of it.
All he could do was hope that she’d made it to Shepherdston’s and back unseen. He opened his eyes and looked at Jonathan. “If there’s any damage, I’m afraid it’s already been done.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.”
—Henry Fielding, 1707–1754
“Have you seen this?” The dowager Duchess of Sussex demanded of her butler, Weldon, as she opened the Morning Chronicle the following morning, turned it to the third page, and read the latest “Ton Tidbits” column.
“Yes, Your Grace, the article caught my eye while I was ironing it.” Part of Weldon’s responsibility as butler was to iron the newspapers and set the ink before the dowager duchess or her son handled them.
“ ‘Has the long-standing feud between the Duke of Sussex and the Marchioness of St. Germaine finally come to an end? How else to explain the elusive duke’s early-morning departure from a house owned by the marchioness at Number Eight Curzon Street? The duke, who hasn’t been seen since he waltzed with the marchioness at his mother’s gala ball on Wednesday evening, appeared quite satisfied, despite his extreme state of dishabille, when he was seen exiting the house after spending two nights cozily ensconced in the home in which the marchioness was staying. The Marchioness St. Germaine left the house later in the afternoon for whereabouts unknown. Will the ton’s most frequent bridesmaid finally become a bride? Or has the marchioness, a peeress in her own right, decided to forgo the ceremony in favor of an illicit honeymoon? Will the duke present his mother, the dowager duchess, with a by-blow and a mistress, or a wife and an heir?’ ” After reading the column aloud, the dowager duchess carefully folded the newspaper so the column was visible, then set her toast and chocolate aside, threw back the covers on her bed, and swung her feet onto the floor.
“What do you make of it?”
Weldon averted his gaze as the duchess uncovered her limbs. “I don’t know what to make of it, ma’am,” Weldon told her.
“Do you think it possible that his association with Lady Miranda has progressed to that level?”
“I have no idea, madam, as I haven’t seen His Grace since the night of the party.”
She looked at the butler she’d relied upon for nearly thirty years to run her household and to speak the truth. “Send someone to His Grace’s apartments and tell His Grace I wish to speak to him immediately.”
“His Grace has been away from his apartments for nearly a week, ma’am.”
“Then order my carriage brought around posthaste.”
“May I ask where Her Grace wishes to go?”
“Wherever my son is.” She glanced at the newspaper. “Which was apparently Number Eight Curzon Street, but is now most likely Number Fifteen Upper Brook Street.”
* * *
“The Duchess of Sussex is here to see you, milady.” Crawford, the St. Germaine butler, announced the unfashionably early morning caller.