Page 2

T he morning sun gilded London, painting brick and stone with a warm glow. Windows winked in the first sparks of day and even the dull Thames was temporarily a reflected ribbon of light.

“I vow, it almost looks beautiful,” Miranda Wilton said, azure eyes sweeping the horizon beyond the carriage window. “Look, Mama, there are the houses of Parliament. Is it not fine, the way the rays strike the glass? One can almost fancy them huge diamonds.”

“There are no diamonds in Parliament, not since Pitt the Younger departed that pile of stone,” Lady Wodesby said sleepily, peering out from under the wide brim of her hat.

The pert nose that resembled her daughter’s wrinkled in disgust. “By Hecate!

Is that the Thames I smell? ‘Tis hard to credit that this is the same river that runs past The Wode.”

“Like a huge chamber pot,” Miranda goaded deliberately, carefully watching her mother’s expression.

“And then they wonder why the catch of fish has dropped of late. Were I a finned creature I would be swimming for Oxford with every ounce of strength in my tailbone,” Lady Wodesby murmured, still half asleep.

“The state of the Thames is but minor compared with the crime and the noise that occur on its shores,” her daughter added, trying to keep from smiling as she echoed her mother’s customary diatribe about London.

Usually Mama would have been able to read any change of Miranda’s expression easily, but in her state of near-exhaustion, Mama was not nearly as wary.

With a bit of luck, she might be led into some revelation about this capricious excursion to a city she loathed.

“Tis a marvel that anything or anyone would choose to visit”

“Much less live here,” her mother agreed, her lids drooping. “Were it not for Bond Street and Monsieur Doucet’s Herb Emporium, there is not a . . .”

Miranda let her amused expression loose as her mother’s eyes widened with the realization that there was a hook hidden in her daughter’s seemingly innocent baiting. Knowing that she was nearly caught out, the older woman shoved the arms of Morpheus aside.

“Why do you not continue, Mama?” Miranda asked sweetly, leaning back in her seat.

“I believe you were about to say, ‘there is not a person or place that is worth the trouble to harness the horse or the price of the tolls.’ That is your customary line, I believe, whenever you are forced to go to Town.”

Silence was the only answer, but there was something wary in her mother’s eyes.

A silky swath of Miranda’s strawberry blonde hair came unpinned, momentarily obscuring her vision, but by the time she had smoothed it away, that fleeting expression was gone.

Still, she refused to give it up. “Sometimes, I suspect you would rather be burnt at the stake than have to endure an evening of idle chit-chat, much less an excursion into Polite Society.”

“Here, turn around,” Lady Wodesby ordered, moving to sit beside her daughter. Deftly, she pulled Miranda’s loose pins and began to repair her daughter’s coiffure. “It would not do to arrive in Town looking like a ragamuffin.”

Miranda stifled a sigh. With her mother at her back there was no hope of catching her out by reading her expression.

The time had come for plain speaking. “With Macadam’s roads, London is but half a day from The Wode, yet I can count on one hand the number of times you have visited Town since Papa’s passing.

You have gone to a great deal of trouble to retain this reclusive life of ours, declining every overture or invitation- until tonight. I find myself wondering why?”

“Lady Enderby is a dear friend,” Lady Wodesby said, struggling valiantly against the tide of conversation.

Miranda arched a sandy brow in abject doubt. “Are we speaking of the woman you once styled as ‘Hester the Hopeless?’?”

“I was remiss if I did so,” Lady Wodesby said weakly, brushing the last of Miranda’s loosened knot firmly into line with her fingers before coiling it with a skillful twist and fixing it in place. “And will deny it if you dare to repeat it”

“I believe you once said that if Hester’s thoughts were pounds and pence, she would not have enough in her purse to visit Vauxhall.

” Miranda turned to face her mother. No one else would have seen the signs of agitation.

Miranda knew she had hooked on to the truth.

Relentlessly she reeled her mother in. “It was during my Season, if I recall. ‘No more wit than a woodcock’ were the words you used to describe her.”

“Your recall is extremely selective,” Lady Wodesby replied, rallying a lame attack. “Lady Enderby and I were quite close in our schoolroom days. She is a perfectly affable woman and she knows everyone worth knowing.”

“So now we get to the meat of the matter.” Miranda pressed on, fixing her mother with a determined stare.

“I have no inkling of what you are trying to imply,” Lady Wodesby said, as she returned to her seat, and pointedly turning her attention out the window.

“Really, Mama!” Miranda said, taking an exasperated breath. “You know my meaning full well. Ever since that letter from Aunt Titania last month, you have been brooding about-”

“I do not brood.” Lady Wodesby remonstrated sharply.

“Did she have a foretelling?” Miranda dared at last to ask the question that had been troubling her. “Did she see something for Damien’s future?”

The older woman shook her head, the shadow in her eyes clearing for a moment “No, my sweet, you need not fear for your brother. Your aunt’s vision shows nothing of import and Damien is quite charmed.

He is as safe as any man in Wellington’s army may be.

I only wish that he would take up his duties as England’s Chief Mage instead of racketing around the Peninsula. ”

“Mama, please do not say that you are considering asking Lord Enderby to use his influence with the Regent, so that Damien might be less in harm’s way,” Miranda suggested.

“You know full well that Damien would not thank me for meddling with his Fate, much as I might want to.”

The two women sighed in accord, their thoughts racing along with the clatter of the carriage wheels as they considered the potential danger that Lord Wodesby faced as Wellington’s Magician.

“If it is not Damien, then what is vexing you?” Miranda asked, as they crossed the bridge. “What did Aunt Titania say?”

Lady Wodesby hesitated. Miranda wondered if she would choose truth or prevarication. Although Miranda lacked the familial talents, she had learned to read the myriad signs that allowed her to detect a lie no sooner than it was uttered. Her mother sighed deeply. Truth then.

“Your aunt was Dreaming of the Future, as she occasionally does this time of year,” Lady Wodesby began hesitantly.

“There were typical signs and omens, nothing terribly specific, of course. Cousin Delia will be delivered of a healthy boy when her time comes. There is good fortune in store for Uncle Seth; I suspect his investments on the Exchange will bear fruit. Unfortunately, as you know foretellings are rather vague when it comes to people of the Blood. But Tania did see an image of you . . .” her voice trailed off.

“What did she see?” Miranda asked.

“A bride . . . Titania saw a bride,” Lady Wodesby said, her voice barely above a hopeful whisper.

“Me?” Miranda asked, not quite daring to believe her mother’s tight nod. “Could it be that Martin will finally come to the point? I was hoping, but considering my years…”

“You are only six and twenty,” Lady Wodesby’s tones rose indignantly. “That scarcely renders you an ancient.”

“You know full well that I am eight and twenty,” Miranda corrected, a catch in her voice as she allowed herself to dare a dream.

A husband . . . a family of her own. “Certainly old enough to place me quite securely on the shelf as far as the world is concerned, but if Aunt Titania says I am to marry. . .”

“Not Martin Allworth,” her mother snapped.

“Was there anything specific in Auntie’s prediction?” Miranda asked, watching her mother carefully. “As you say, when it comes to those of us who share the Blood, Foreshadows of Destiny are often ambiguous.”

The older woman shook her head. “Nothing definitive.

I read the Cards for you immediately of course, as soon as I heard.

Though, as you say, the messages they reveal for our family members is oft deceiving; a wedding for you, my love, is a distinct possibility.

But ‘tis my opinion that you will not marry Allworth,” she repeated.

“Are you certain that Martin is not the man?” Miranda asked, knowing full well that there could be no lies or prevarication when it came to the cards.

“No.” Her mother’s reluctant answer was barely above a whisper. “You know full well your brother would never allow it, Miranda. Allworth is an Outsider.”

“Damien will have no choice but to reconcile himself to Martin,” Miranda said. “Especially since he is the only man likely to ask for my hand. I cannot understand why you dislike him so. He is considered quite handsome and his bloodlines are excellent.”

“I have heard better recommendations for a horse.” Lady Wodesby snorted. “And I daresay you might find more intelligence in a good thoroughbred than you would in Sir Martin Allworth. By comparison, Hester is a veritable Athena.”

“Martin is a man of few words,” Miranda said, her lips pursing into a straight line.

“And those precious few that he utters, his Mama places on his tongue,” Lady Wodesby retorted. “An echo of a man, if ever there was one, petticoat ruled. . .”