Truly a Wife (Free Fellows League 4)

“My,” the dowager Marchioness of St. Germaine drawled, “how nice of the duchess to come calling.” She glanced at her daughter, took note of her red and swollen eyes, and knew that Miranda had spent the hours since her arrival at Upper Brook Street the previous afternoon and the time they sat down to breakfast, sobbing into her pillow. “And what a happy coincidence that you’ve returned from your visit to the country in time for the duchess to call upon you.”

Miranda had planned to tell her mother the truth about her whereabouts when she returned to the house on Upper Brook Street, but the Morning Chronicle had beaten her to it, and the dowager marchioness was still smarting from it. “Perhaps she decided to call upon you to apologize in person for omitting your name from her invitation and guest list,” her mother continued.

Miranda smiled at her mother’s sarcasm. “As you well know, the dowager duchess and I have a long, varied history. She’s come because she’s seen the article in this morning’s paper.”

“It was rather eye-opening,” Lady St. Germaine acknowledged. “For a parent to read such news and to know it’s being read and shared with the rest of the city over breakfast. I don’t suppose she enjoyed being one of the last to know.”

“Mother …”

“Of course, she might have come calling because she’s interested in property you own on Number Eight Curzon Street …” Lady St. Germaine speculated.

Miranda bit back a smile. There was no love lost between the dowager duchess and the dowager marchioness. “Or both.”

“Shall I come with you to greet her, my dear?” Lady St. Germaine asked.

“Can you keep a civil tongue?” Miranda shot her mother a quelling glance.

“With the woman who gave my child the cut direct and continues to snub her at every turn?” Lady St. Germaine asked. “Are you joking?”

“Then, no, you may not accompany me in greeting her.” Miranda pushed her chair back from the breakfast table and stood up. “I have enough trouble with the duchess …”

“Dowager duchess,” Lady St. Germaine corrected.

“Dowager duchess,” Miranda continued, “without your compounding it.” She turned to Crawford. “Where is Her Grace?”

“In the Blue Salon, my lady.”

“Thank you, Crawford,” Miranda smoothed her hair and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her skirts, straightened her shoulders, and pulled herself up to her full height. “Please bring a tray of refreshments to the Blue Salon.”

“That’s a very nice touch,” Lady St. Germaine added, approving. “And Crawford.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“See if you can find a nice fast-acting poison to go in Her Grace’s beverage.”

“Mother!” Miranda protested.

“All right,” the dowager marchioness said. “A nice agonizingly slow-acting poison.” She looked at her daughter. “While the duchess cannot die fast enough to suit me, it might be a pleasure to watch her expire slowly.”

“Mother, you may not like Her Grace, but she is Daniel’s mother …”

“And isn’t it remarkable that His Grace has been able to overcome such a hardship?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I most certainly do,” Lady St. Germaine informed her daughter.

Miranda shook her head as she followed Crawford out of the breakfast room, down the hall to the Blue Salon.

Bracing herself for an attack, Miranda curtseyed to the dowager duchess as she entered the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” the dowager duchess demanded, waving the newspaper bearing the “Ton Tidbits” at Miranda as soon as she rose from her curtsey.

“I believe the meaning is quite clear, Your Grace.” Miranda pretended a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Someone has set out to ruin my good name and reputation. And they are using your son as a means to accomplish it.” She looked at the duchess. “May I offer you a cup of coffee or chocolate, Your Grace, before we continue this confrontation?”

The duchess frowned, forgetting a lifetime of admonitions not to frown in order to avoid premature wrinkling of the brow. She hadn’t expected the young marchioness to politely offer refreshments, or to have eyes that were bloodshot and swollen red from crying or a nose that was only slightly less red. “I did not come for coffee or chocolate,” she replied, refusing Miranda’s offer of refreshments. “I came for answers. Do you deny spending two days and nights with my son?”

“I don’t deny it, Your Grace, or confirm it.”