“He’s right,” Griff answered with a grin. He looked at Colin, then back at Jonathan. “Lady India Burton,” Griff puzzled. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because she was one of the passengers on the HMS Portsmouth,” Jonathan answered. “And she’s spent the past five years in a sultan’s harem.”
“Good Lord!
” Colin exclaimed. “She must be every bit as extraordinary as my father-in-law intimated when he swore me to secrecy, and asked me to collect her.”
“She is,” Jonathan affirmed. “A most extraordinary woman.” He looked at Colin and Griffin, then began to tell them about his betrothed and the extraordinary events that had changed the course of her life and his.
“Your betrothal is going to cause an uproar,” Colin warned. “But we’ll do everything in our power to ease the way, for we wish you the happiest of marriages.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Jonathan began.
“You don’t need to thank us. We’re your friends. It’s the least we can do for you and Lady India and Miss Lockwood.” Griffin smiled. “Besides, you’re not yet thirty. That means you owe us—”
“Five hundred pounds each,” Colin crowed, reminding Jonathan of his Free Fellows League pledge to pay each member five hundred pounds if he married before the age of thirty.
“So I do,” Jonathan mused. “So I do. And I’ll be delighted to pay it.”
“And we’ll be delighted to accept it,” Colin told him. “So long as you and your countess live happily ever after.”
Epilogue
Lady India Burton and Jonathan, eleventh Earl of Barclay, were married two months to the day after her arrival in London so that Lady India’s grandfather, Sir Harold Gregory, might arrive in plenty of time to get to know the bride before giving her into the hands of her earl.
Their two months of courtship continued to be the talk of the ton, but no one disputed the fact that they were clearly a couple over the moon for one another. It was just that no one in the ton had ever expected Lord Barclay to marry—especially a young lady with a past.
And what a past! The newspapers were full of the accounts of Lady India’s life, and she became an instant heroine when news that her information was helping to secure the releases of other English captives and thwart Bonaparte’s plans in the region reached the ears of those who eagerly spread gossip to the members of the ton.
The members of the Free Fellows League and the wives of those who had already blissfully submitted to leg shackles delighted in detailing the stories of Lady India’s heroism and in seeing that those marvelously entertaining stories reached the proper ears.
And their plan worked to perfection. Everyone wanted to get a look at the young Englishwoman who had refused to be conquered by the Ottoman Empire, and her wedding day proved the perfect opportunity.
His Highness, the prince regent, attended the ceremony along with four hundred other members of the ton. And he accompanied the happy couple to the wedding breakfast, which was held at Carlton House, where she was formally presented into society as India, Countess of Barclay.
The new countess spent her wedding night dancing with her husband in the moonlight at the Admiralty Ball. She was, of course, the most elegant dancer there. Everyone said so. And India had practiced for nearly a month to make certain of it.
After the Admiralty Ball, India donned her Turkish trousers and spent her honeymoon enticing her husband into solving the riddle of the sapphire in her navel and of discovering dozens of new and exciting ways to make love.
The sapphire, he discovered, was held into place by a thin gold wire that pierced her navel.
And as she lay in Jonathan’s arms each night, India said a prayer for Miss Lockwood, thanking her for giving India the dreams that had all come true. Miss Lockwood wouldn’t be there to teach them, but India swore that her children would know Miss Lockwood’s teachings, and if she ever had a daughter, India intended to name her Dorinda.
Dorinda Louisa Barclay.
Miss Lockwood would like that.
Miss Jenny Alt’s First Kiss
JACQUELINE NAVIN
Chapter One
Genvieve Alt, or Jenny as she was more frequently called, watched her cousin pace before the fireplace on a chilly March afternoon in their London town house in Cavendish Square.
“Why does he have to arrive now? This is going to positively ruin me,” the beautiful Cassandra Benedict said. “Mama, you cannot let this happen!”
Her mother, Iris Benedict, who was Jenny’s aunt, wrung her hands. “Do not fuss so. He shall be here this very evening, and I’ll not have you insult him. He is an earl, after all, and a wealthy man for all his present troubles.”