Marissa Day (10 page)

“Our traitor was probably in attendance at Lady Thayer’s party,” said Corwin, shifting the subject to an area where he could take action.

“That is indeed probable,” agreed Smith. “So, you would do well in beginning your investigations with her guest list. Most of them, unfortunately, will be following tradition and scattering themselves to the four winds over the next week.”

“The better to search their town houses,” said Darius.

Smith looked at him, his brows raised. “Excellent thought, Mr. Marlowe. Mr. Rathe will take charge of Miss Prosper’s training with your assistance, but you will lead the active investigations of Lady Thayer’s party guests. If that is satisfactory?” Smith waited for a moment, but they were all aware neither Darius nor Corwin was going to contradict his direct instructions. “Very good. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Dismissed, Corwin and Darius got to their feet and made their bows. Corwin saw that Darius was not pleased, and he was not bothering to hide it. Despite what had passed between them in the arbor and her bedchamber, Darius clearly still did not trust Miranda. He certainly did not welcome her presence. Corwin bit back a sigh.

But as Corwin turned to follow Darius out of the study, Smith spoke.

“Mr. Rathe, a word.”

Darius eyed Corwin, but continued out into the front room. Corwin faced Smith and folded his hands behind his back.

“Sir?”

Smith raised his glass and looked at Corwin through it for a long, silent moment. Beneath that piercing gaze, Corwin had to work to remind himself he was a grown man, not a schoolboy in the headmaster’s office. He was only partly successful.

“Mr. Rathe, you are a talented Sorcerer, and a courageous man,” said Smith at last.

“Thank you, sir.”

“But you have a cavalier streak about you, particularly in matters of human relationships. If you do not guard against this, it will land you in significant trouble one day.”

Corwin felt his brow begin to furrow, but quickly smoothed his expression out. “I will do my best, sir.”

“I am not offering you fatherly advice, Mr. Rathe.” Smith’s voice turned cold. “I am warning you as your superior. I am well aware of your tastes and habits, and of your ongoing liaison with Mr. Marlowe.” Smith waved his glass toward the door. “I do not judge. In fact, I do not particularly care. But if you permit those tastes and habits to jeopardize your mission, I will personally make sure you are never able to jeopardize anything again. Do I make myself clear?”

In those last words Corwin felt the full weight of Smith’s years, intellect and power leveled at him. Corwin had convinced himself that his personal life was not part of the struggle for the existence of the Isle of Britain. Smith clearly did not share this conviction, and he would not tolerate carelessness on the part of his subordinates.

“Yes, sir,” said Corwin

“Very good, Mr. Rathe,” said Smith more softly. “You may go.”

Corwin walked to the door and laid his hand on the knob. “I will not let you down, sir.”

“It is not me, Mr. Rathe. It is nothing less than the human race.”

“Yes, sir.” Corwin opened the door, but as he stepped through, he heard, very softly:

“Good luck, Mr. Rathe.”

Corwin closed the door without looking back.

Darius stood near the hearth and looked up as Corwin emerged from the corridor.

“Well? What did he say?”

Corwin took his hat off the hook where he’d hung it. The encounter had rattled him far more than he cared to admit, even to himself. He took refuge from the fact by making light of it. “He warned me not to make a fool of myself over a pretty face.”

Darius snorted. “I could have given you the same advice. Are you going to listen to him?”

Which is really too much coming from you.
He faced Darius and waited until he was sure the other man was looking him fully in the eye.

“Do you trust me, Darius?”

Darius neither blinked nor flinched. “You know that I do.”

“And yourself?”

At that, Darius looked away, and that told Corwin all he needed to know. “I trust you, Darius,” Corwin said.

But Darius had taken himself out onto the street, and gave no sign that he had heard.

After Corwin and Darius left her, Miranda lay in her bed a full two hours, just staring at the canopy, trying to quell the surging tides of emotion inside her. Fear, excitement, confusion, desire; she felt them all, separately and in infinite combination. At last, she’d sunk into a shallow, restless sleep where dreams both bright and dark chased themselves through her mind.

When she woke, warm sunlight seeped in around the edges of the heavy curtains. She had sat up certain of one thing and one thing only. She was desperately in need of a wash.

Even so, it had taken all her courage to ring for Louise. Miranda felt certain some shimmering trace of Corwin and Darius must linger in the air, or that she somehow had been visibly changed by her encounter. This was foolish and she knew it, and yet the sensation would not leave her. She was not afraid, not exactly. What she had learned, about the nature of the world, about herself—it was so huge that it would have been unnatural not to feel dizzy.

If Louise noticed anything was amiss, she gave no sign. Still, Miranda decided to confine herself to her chamber for the day. As little as she liked to admit it, she was not ready to face her mother, who—although she did not know the details—knew all was not as it should be. Elated, exhausted and bewildered by all that had happened, Miranda spent much of her time sleeping, and when she was awake, she tried again and again to come to terms with all that had happened.

It was eleven o’clock the following morning before Miranda could make herself prepare to walk downstairs. To delay any longer seemed like rank cowardice. A new life had begun for her two nights ago. She would have to live it, and live with it, from this day forward. She had Louise help her into a morning gown of pale blue muslin sprigged and sashed with lavender. More lavender ribbons went into her hair, which Louise coiled, curled and braided to a fare-thee-well, and took so long about it that Miranda had to force herself not to squirm. But when it was completed, she had to admit she did look very well indeed.

Chin high, Miranda Prosper descended the stairs to the sun-washed breakfast room.

The sideboard was crowded with covered silver dishes. Mother believed that a real lady did not eat in front of other people if it could be avoided, or, if it could not, she ate as sparingly as possible. This meant that on any given day breakfast at home might be her only full meal, so she made sure it was a generous one.

Miranda’s stomach made several unladylike noises as she helped herself to coddled eggs and fresh trout, some lovely raspberries and cream, and two fresh muffins. Tea did not seem strong enough this morning, so she drew a cup of coffee from the urn. She sat down with her heavily laden plate and began to tuck in. It all tasted delicious.

It must be true what the French say. Hunger is the best sauce.
But there was something else to it. Despite her fears and misgivings, Miranda felt alive, and ready to enjoy life. It was as if Corwin and Darius had awakened more than simple desire in her.

Not that there was really anything simple about that desire. Miranda remembered their hands on her, their mouths everywhere. She flushed hot as the thought and memory of hands and mouths led to that of hard cocks, in her pussy and pressing between the halves of her ass ...

Stop that,
Miranda ordered herself sternly as she sliced into her fillet of trout. But then she paused.
But why should I? Why should I not enjoy this too?

Revelation bloomed slowly. Now that she knew it was not a pointless emotion, that softly simmering desire
was
enjoyable. Its warmth was teasing, and just the tiniest bit distracting, but it gave her a sense of nothing so much as anticipation.

This made Miranda frown. Certainly Corwin
had
promised to return, but would he? Perhaps he had just said that so she wouldn’t make a fuss when they left. Perhaps they were planning the conquest of some other young woman right now ...

“Well, Miranda, there you are.”

Miranda froze and her heart thudded hard against her ribs. Mother had entered the dining room, looking like the cat that had drunk the cream, only to find it had gone off. “I must say, I am pleased you had the good sense to stay in bed yesterday. Otherwise, if anyone had come calling, they would have ceased to believe the story of your having a fever.”

Miranda sighed. Another morning she would have quailed and shrunk back. But everything was different now, including this. “Mother, everyone at Lady Thayer’s was too busy with their own affairs to worry about mine.”

“If you had been with anyone other than the new and fascinating Mr. Rathe, that might be true.” Now it was Mother’s turn to sigh. “I must say, it never really occurred to me that I might have to hush up a scandal about you, Miranda.”

“Does this mean you are disappointed or the contrary?”

Mother frowned, a perfect and depressingly familiar little moue. Miranda’s spirit flagged, but only for a heartbeat. She boldly met her mother’s gaze, and something inside her loosened, a fetter she had never before been able to undo.

“Did he give any sign of his intentions?” Mother asked sharply. “Or even promise to come calling?”

Miranda set down her fork and blotted her lips, trying to remain calm while her mind raced furiously in search of a suitable reply.

Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Miranda?”

At that moment the doors at the far end of the room opened and the footman, Halloway, entered. Miranda turned toward him and hoped the wash of relief flooding through her did not show in her eyes.

“A gentleman to see you, madame.” Halloway stepped up to Mother and held out a silver tray on which lay a single calling card.

It took all of Miranda’s strength not to lunge for the card. Mother picked it up, read it. Her eyebrows arched. “It seems we are honored with a visit from Mr. Corwin Rathe,” she said. “I trust, Miranda, you are ready to receive him?”

Miranda’s heart hammered against her ribs. As calmly as possible, she laid her napkin aside. “Of course.”

“Tell Mr. Rathe we shall meet him in the morning room, Halloway.”

“Very good, madame.”

The footman left to perform his duty and Miranda found herself once again under Mother’s silent scrutiny. The knowledge that Corwin was only yards away both buoyed Miranda up and brought all her fears rushing back to her. How would she face him? How would she face him in front of
Mother
? And how would he behave toward her? He’d been gentleman enough in the ballroom, and he clearly understood discretion, but still ...

Mother stood. “Shall we go find out if we are still going to be able to make something of you?”

I should have expected you to say something of the kind.
But even so, as Miranda got to her feet to follow her mother, she had to pinch the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stop the prickling behind her eyes.

The morning room was small but comfortable. The bay windows opened onto the well-groomed gardens and admitted a wealth of summer sun. Mother had decorated the place with her usual excellent taste, and the creams, pinks and yellows of the furniture and hangings were cheerful without being too dainty or overly fussy.

In the middle of all this stood Corwin. He appeared to Miranda as he had the moment he first stepped into the ballroom: composed, elegant and devastatingly handsome. This morning his spotless breeches and linen were topped by a plain buff waistcoat and blue coat that—in Miranda’s opinion—set off his strongly formed shoulders and arms to perfection. His cravat was simply tied and did nothing to distract from his wonderfully masculine features.

“Good morning, Mrs. Quicke. Miss Prosper.” Corwin bowed to Mother and to Miranda with the same expression of cheerful politeness on his face, but Miranda did not miss the mischievous gleam in his dark eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Rathe.” Mother briefly gave Corwin her hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Rathe.” Miranda made herself speak politely as she dropped her curtsy.

Mother looked from her to Mr. Rathe. Miranda could tell she was performing one of her rapid internal calculations. Despite her misgivings about Miranda’s own conduct, that calculation evidently came down on the side of accepting the man she believed—not incorrectly—to have already compromised her daughter. He was, after all, handsome and, to judge by his clothes and comportment, clearly well-off.

“Won’t you sit down?” Mother flashed one of her dazzling smiles and gestured to the overstuffed chair by the window. “The girl will be in directly with coffee.”