Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 29

She slipped her hand into his, linking their fingers.

"I can't predict what will happen in the future," he stated.

"But it will be something wonderful," she hurried to reply. "I'm certain of it."

"For now, I have to know that you belong to me."

"Yes, I'm yours. Forevermore, if it's what you want."

"To have and to hold," he said, in an abbreviated version of the wedding ceremony, "for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward."

"I take thee, Tristan Harcourt."

"And I take thee, Harriet Stewart. Will you have me?"

"Yes, I will."

He kissed her, and though they'd merely been spewing romantic nonsense, he was inundated by the perception that the words had a deeper meaning, as if they'd actually exchanged vows.

He felt as if G.o.d had been listening, as if they'd attached themselves in a manner Tristan had never intended, but he wasn't about to complain.

The time he had been granted with Harriet was a gift to cherish and nurture. Until they had to leave the island, he would shower her with all the care and devotion a wife deserved, and when their idyll ended, he would revel in his recollections of how marvelous it had been.

He draped her body across his, her ear pressed over his heart. As he drifted off, a vision tried to intrude-of Miranda walking down the aisle at the cathedral in London-and the image was so terrifying that he felt ill.

He closed his eyes and slept.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"James, what is it? Where are you going?"

"There's news."

"About Tristan?"

"Yes."

Miranda studied his traveling clothes, the pack slung over his shoulder, and her heart pounded with dread.

All through the summer, she'd been panicked that Tristan would return safe and hale. If he was located, she'd have to pretend to be glad, and her scheme to snag James would end.

It was September already, and so far, she'd had no luck in garnering his affection. Nor had she been able to orchestrate a compromising situation. He'd proved himself adept at avoiding the few traps she'd managed to set.

Surely Tristan was dead. How could he be alive after so many months had pa.s.sed?

"Oh, do tell me he's been found!" She struggled to look excited.

"No, but there's a message from Aiden Bramwell, coming in on a ship that's docking in Portsmouth."

The search had galvanized national interest. The story of how Le Terreur Franais had tried to kill Tristan had spread across the land. As a result, the hunt for Tristan had become nearly a patriotic duty on the part of British sea captains, with the general public following the saga as if it were a staged melodrama.

James constantly received reports from Bramwell, funneled through various ships heading to England, but there had been no sightings of Tristan and no clue as to his whereabouts.

"You're riding to Portsmouth?" she asked.

"Yes. I'm leaving immediately."

"Why not simply wait for the letter to make its way to London?"

"The last one took forever, and I can't bear the delay." He paused and grinned, appearing sheepish. "I realize this will sound silly, but I've been having the most strident thoughts of Tristan. I feel that his rescue is very close."

"My goodness!"

"It's ridiculous, I know." He waved a disparaging hand. "I don't mind if you say so."

"No, it's just that...well...I hope your confidence isn't misplaced. This entire ordeal has been so frustrating. I'd hate to see you disappointed again."

"As long as Bramwell is out there, I can't possibly be disappointed."

"At least take the coach. I'll worry if you're on horseback."

"I want to get down and back as fast as I can. Don't fret over me."

"All right, I won't."

"I should return next week."

A whole week! It was an eternity. Anything could transpire.

"G.o.dspeed, then."

As she smiled and walked him out, she was quickly plotting as to how she'd use the interval to her advantage. His absence would provide her with ample opportunity for dealing with Miss Stewart, which was too difficult when he was at home.

His horse had been saddled and was standing in the front drive. He leapt onto the animal and had grabbed the reins to be off when she remembered that she'd needed to speak with him on an important topic.

"Before you go," she said, "did you pen the notice of termination to the housekeeper as I suggested?"

"Yes, it's on my desk in the library-with a small stipend for her."

The housekeeper had been with them a short time, and it had become evident that she lacked the necessary skills for such a ma.s.sive job. The maids were growing slothful, the footmen inattentive, and the butler was in an uproar.

Miranda had convinced James to get rid of her.

"Should I find a replacement while you're away? Or would you like to take care of it yourself once you're back?"

He reflected for a moment. "Why don't you call on Mrs. Ford and ask her to generate a list of suitable candidates? I'll interview them when I return."

She nodded. "Have a safe journey."

"I will."

He gave her a jaunty salute, then cantered away.

She went inside and proceeded straight to the library, and she seated herself at the desk and read the termination letter. She'd just stood to convey it to the woman, to notify her that she'd been fired, when a very diabolical, very wonderful idea dawned on her.

"Why not?" she mused.

With James gone, there was no one to contradict any story Miranda told. When he was away, she was in charge. Who was there to gainsay her?

She smirked and, letter in hand, hurried to James's bedchamber.

Helen braced herself and knocked on the door to James's private suite.

She'd been his mistress for months, but she rarely joined him in his personal quarters, choosing instead to tryst in her much smaller, less conspicuous room.

The secret of their affair was no secret at all, with the staff aware that she was consorting with him. No one had dared mention the situation to her face, but from the curious glances and condemning glares, it was obvious everyone was gossiping about her.

She refused to fuel the fire of speculation. They could t.i.tter until Doomsday, but they'd get no confirmation from her that any untoward conduct was occurring.

Unfortunately, James had left suddenly for Portsmouth to retrieve the most recent message about his brother, and she was extremely nervous over his rapid departure. It had her feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Miranda wanted to meet with Helen. Immediately. In his bedchamber.

A maid had delivered the disturbing edict, and Helen had had to question the girl three times to be certain she'd heard correctly.

"Enter," Miranda commanded in a sleepy, sultry voice.

Prepared for anything, Helen gritted her teeth and stepped inside.

She hadn't known what she expected to find. She'd understood that it would be very bad, that she was at Miranda's mercy, but the reality was so shocking that-at first-she couldn't figure out what she was witnessing.

The sitting room was empty, with Miranda being farther in the suite, in James's actual bedchamber. Through a crack in the door, Helen could see most of James's bed, and someone was in it.

Not James. He was gone. She'd observed from an upstairs window as he'd ridden away.

"Miss Stewart," Miranda called, "is that you?"

"Yes."

"Come here, would you? I must speak with you."

Helen's feet were frozen to the floor. She wanted to go to Miranda, but she couldn't move. Her heart was hammering, her ears ringing. What was happening?

Miranda seemed to be lying in James's bed, but the notion was so upsetting that Helen couldn't accept it.

"Miss Stewart!" Miranda impatiently barked. "Oh, never mind. I'll come out there."

Helen watched as Miranda tossed back the blankets and slid to the rug.

Shortly, she was leaned against the doorframe, a sly smile on her lips. She was attired in James's robe, the front loosely draped so Helen could see she wore nothing underneath. Her hair-typically arranged in a tidy bun-was flowing down her back. She looked mussed and adorable, a woman who'd just entertained her lover-or who was about to.

"What did you need?" Helen fought to remain composed, to conceal her anguish and confusion.

"After living through all the drama when his mother left, James hates scenes, so he asked me to deal with you-so he doesn't have to."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's letting you go."

"Letting me...go?"

"Yes."

Helen scoffed. "I don't believe you."

"You think I'm making it up?"

"Yes."

"Why would I?"

"Because you loathe me, and while he's out of town, you see a perfect chance to get rid of me."

Miranda rolled her eyes as if Helen was a nuisance.

"He wrote you a letter. You may not wish to believe me, but you can hardly ignore his own orders."

Miranda walked to his desk, and she riffled through his papers as if she did it all the time, as if she had every right.

"Where is that blasted note?" she asked more to herself than Helen. "Ah...here we are."

Miranda held it out, but Helen couldn't make herself reach for it.

She swallowed, licked her bottom lip. "What does it say?"

"I'm not your slave. Read it yourself."

Miranda flung it on the desk, then went to a sofa and sat down, reclining on the arm, her robe flopping open as a reminder that she wasn't dressed. She appeared very comfortable, as if she often lazed on that very couch in a state of dishabille.

Helen evaluated her, pondering the spectacle, anxious to ascertain what was true, what was real.

"Why are you in here, Miranda?" she finally inquired.