“And according to his friend Mr. Murray, he’s also been playing heavily in a few other St. James clubs. I think it would be very interesting to ask him about his father.”
“Laurence is still here in London?” Miranda folded her hands and considered. “How very odd. It’s only been a little under a week since his father died. Why hasn’t his mother summoned him back to Thornwood?”
“It’s very odd,” agreed Jason. “I should like to find out more.”
“Very well then, sir,” said Miranda. She rose to her feet. “Thank you again. You will keep me apprised of your progress?”
Jason stood as well, inclining his head briefly. “If that is your wish, Miss Thornwood.”
“It is.”
He nodded, and she turned to leave, but the sound of Jason’s voice stopped her.
“Wait.”
She turned her head and found him regarding her from across the expanse of desk separating them.
“If you wish to leave the club today, inform Oliver,” he said. “He’ll send for the carriage and open accounts in your name at any Oxford Street shops that interest you.”
Miranda stiffened. The idea of spending Jason’s money filled her with instant distaste, though she ought to be beyond such niceties. She had, after all, already accepted the highly improper gift of new clothes earlier that morning, and moreover, she had consented to become his mistress only the night before. Though she was country-bred and not very worldly, she knew men customarily provided their paramours with all manners of gowns, jewels and other expensive gifts.
Nevertheless, the thought of everything they had once shared being reduced to a mere transaction made her sick. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit she had agreed to be his mistress because she was weak, and she had loved him more than life, and had never stopped loving him. If the only way she could have some small part of him once again was as his lover, she was willing to pay the price. But when she went to him, it would not be because of his promise to help her. She was not for sale—not for money, not for jewels, not even for her brother’s safety.
Aloud, she merely said, “That will not be necessary, thank you.”
“You would like to go riding then, perhaps?” He gestured to the green rolling parkland visible from the window behind his desk. “I can have one of my men arrange for the purchase of a mare at Tattersall’s this afternoon.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I would prefer to remain here. At Blakewell’s.”
“You would?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be exceedingly dull for you, I’m afraid. There isn’t a great deal for a lady to do at a gentleman’s club. I suppose you could read. There are the books in my suite, and if you want something from the library, have Olly or Mr. Page or one of the footmen fetch it for you.”
“Do not worry about me, sir,” said Miranda quietly. “I do not require entertaining.”
Dipping a slight curtsy, she turned on her heel and crossed the length of Jason’s office, stepped out and shut the door very gently behind her.
Not long after Miranda had returned to her room, Harriet brought up a light luncheon and laid it out on the small table.
“Thank you, Harriet,” said Miranda, though she was not particularly hungry.
The girl nodded and bobbed a quick curtsy. She turned, but for the first time that day, Miranda caught a clear glimpse of the girl’s face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her cheeks were splotchy. She had been crying.
“Are you well, Harriet?” Miranda asked quickly.
Beneath the fringe of her massive lace cap, Harriet’s eyes grew round and she gave another reflexive curtsy.
“Yes, of course, miss,” she said, but her mouth trembled.
Miranda gazed sharply at her. Before her aunt’s arrival, Miranda had been mistress of Thornwood since she was little more than a child. Along with the housekeeper Mrs. Andrewes and the butler Hawkins, she had once ruled over an entire battalion of ladies’ maids and housemaids, sewing girls and laundry maids, kitchen maids and scullions. She was intimately acquainted with the species; she had nursed them through head colds and measles, listened to their rapturous exclamations when they fell in love, and comforted them when they were betrayed.
Miranda had only met Harriet the night before and they had exchanged very few words, but she knew with a deep and unshakable certainty the girl was not well. Perhaps, despite the blotches on her face, Harriet was not actually ill, but