I’M BACK! So, after struggling with this chapter extensively and cursing
it and calling its ancestors rude names, here is Chapter 13 of To the
Upper Air, finished, complete, done. I’ll be moving onto Chapter 14 and
closer to wrapping this up soon. I’ve also got one other thing done and
waiting in the wings and more fic planned so…. comment and review and
I’ll get it all done faster! I am a feedback-based lifeform, friends. That and coffee. 

Chapter 13: To Catch a Fox

She looked like a different person.

Miranda regarded the woman in the mirror before her in the mirror
critically. She looked tired, she thought. Small wonder, of course – she
had had no rest the previous night and the small amount she had gotten
upon arriving at Kitty Ashe’s home had been negligible at best. It was a
familiar look for her, one she had worn for ten years while she
attempted to run a small farm on her own.  The look in her eyes, though –
that was foreign. Had she always looked so – hardened? Had her gaze
always looked like this, or was it only now – now with her husband in
danger, her lover potentially in greater danger still, and all of their
fates resting on her shoulders? She looked into her own eyes for a
moment longer. It was strangely familiar, the look on her face. If she
looked longer, she could spot the lines forming around her mouth –
familiar lines, born of frowning too often and laughing too little.
Lines that she had last seen on one of the men she loved.

James. The name put steel into her spine and hardened her resolve. It
was long past the time for regrets. She would not fail him. She
straightened, looking into her own gaze, unhappiness turning to resolve.
Enough doubts. If James could do it, then so could she.

“Lady Hamilton? Are you well?” The chambermaid that called out to her sounded anxious, and Miranda turned.

“I’m fine,” she reassured. “Do you know where Lady Ashe might be found?”

“I believe she’s downstairs in the parlor with the Duchess, Ma’am.” The answer sounded timid, and Miranda frowned.

“I’m hardly likely to bite you, Millie,” she said, and the girl’s eyes widened.

“Ma’am -?” she started, and Miranda sighed.

“Yes, I know your name,” she said. “You are a person, Millie, not an
object, and people have names. It is only right that I should use
yours.”

“Ma’am,” Millie stammered, and Miranda shook her head.

“Please let Lady Ashe and her Grace know that I will be joining
them,” she requested, and the girl dipped a curtsy and scurried down the
hall, leaving Miranda to her contemplations.

 “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.” The Duchess’
voice was a sharp thing, Miranda thought, but she did not care – not
now, not after the night she had had.

 “Do you not?” she asked. “Tell me, your Grace – exactly how much
do you stand to profit from your brother-in-law’s scheme? I will assume
that he is doing this for the money, somehow, as I presume that he was
involved somehow in dealings with my father-in-law and the man thought
of nothing else.”

 “Miranda!” Kitty sounded shocked, and Miranda’s gaze flicked over to her friend.

 “Kitty – tell me you had nothing to do with this, and I will
believe you,” Miranda said calmly. She could see the moment that
Katharine Ashe’s eyes narrowed. She saw her friend rake her gaze over
Miranda’s somewhat battered form – and then watched her turn her gaze on
the Duchess.

 “Your Grace,” she addressed the woman directly, “is there any truth to this?”

 “None whatsoever,” the Duchess answered. She turned back to
Miranda. “Lady Hamilton – you are tired. You appear to have been handled
roughly, and I will assume your accusations are -”

 “Well-founded, given what I managed to ascertain from the men who
did this,” Miranda finished. “I will thank you not to pretend that I
have become unhinged, your Grace.”

 “No – indeed not,” the older woman answered. She looked Miranda
over again. “Dear God,” she murmured, and Miranda raised her chin.

 “This was done,” she said, gesturing to the abrasions around her
wrists, “by your brother-in-law’s men, your Grace. Will you tell me that
they were not your men too? That you have nothing to do with this?”

 The Duchess closed her eyes.

“I will have George’s head for this,” she murmured. When she
opened her eyes, she was looking directly at Miranda. “Come in, Lady
Hamilton. I’m certain that Kitty can find something for you to wear, and
we will have a doctor attend to your injuries. You can tell us the
entire tale when you have had a chance to rest and recover.”

One hour and a great deal of fussing and arguing later, Miranda
stood, the abrasions on her wrists neatly salved and bandaged, and her
hair drawn into a tight bun of the sort she had worn on New Providence.
She had, against the maid’s objections, also found a dress to wear that
was serviceable rather than fashionable, and had removed all but her
wedding ring by way of jewelry. She was, she thought, altogether more
comfortable and infinitely less noticeable – which was her intention.

She did not, of course, trust the Duchess. Sarah Churchill could
protest her innocence all she liked and still Miranda would not have
believed her.

She could believe that the woman had not known about her
brother-in-law’s ambitions. She could believe that George had acted
without his brother’s permission or knowledge – that much was entirely
within the realm of possibility and even probability. The man was a
notorious thorn in the Duke’s side. What Miranda could not believe was
Sarah’s apparent willingness to throw the younger Churchill under the
carriage wheels without so much as a second thought. No. It was simply
not the way that things were done among the upper echelons. They might
squabble internally, but to throw one of them to the wolves was to risk
the pack turning on the rest of the family having gotten a taste for the
blood. Sarah knew this all too well – she of all people, who spent her
days in a delicate balancing act between her husband and her Queen.
Miranda did not believe her for two seconds – but she also could not
dismiss her. She needed assistance – that much was blindingly obvious,
and the Duchess’ aid could still prove useful, hedged with thorns though
it might prove. She’d always been a careful gardener, after all.

She stood, giving her hair one final pat before she headed out of the room. She had some pruning to do.
************************************************
James’ Lodging House, the Same Morning:

He was running out of places to look.

“James McGraw,” Hennessey muttered under his breath, “when I find
you, I am going to have you skinned. No. Nevermind that – I’ll do the
skinning m’self.”

The room was neat and clean. The bed was made. The clothing was
folded and James’ effects hung on hooks or sat tucked away in his sea
chest, and the man himself –

“I’ve told you, Sir, Captain McGraw hasn’t been here since the day before yesterday!”

The landlady’s voice carried up the stairwell, and Hennessey pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said. “I may be old but I am not deaf. I
heard you the first time. Would you happen to have any notion where he
might be?”

“No, sir. And now, once again, I will ask you to leave the Captain’s rooms. God alone knows what he would say about -”

He allowed the landlady to prattle on as he sunk down into one of the
chairs in James’ room, his eyes taking in the room. If not here, and
not at the Hamiltons’ residence, then where the hell had the man gotten
to? The thought sent a jolt of fear running through him. James had left
his residence. He was not to be found at his lovers’ home. What if -?

The fear was a relatively new feeling for Hennessey. He considered
himself a plain man – not given to either small talk or gossip, and
certainly not in any way fond of games, whether they were political or
personal. He detested being left in the dark more still, and the past
two weeks had been an exercise in patience in the face of a complete and
utter lack of communication, brought on by he knew not what. It was
infuriating. It was extremely confusing. It was –

It was horrifying.  

He had hurt James. The knowledge gnawed at him, tearing him
to shreds with each new day he heard nothing from his son. He had gone
over their conversation over and over again in his head, and the
conclusion that he had come to was not a pleasant one. He had hurt
James, by word or deed, and he had evidently done it so many times that
the boy had come to the inevitable conclusion that Hennessey hated him.
The raw pain and confusion and anger in James’ voice had tied his
stomach in knots and featured in more than one nightmare since that
night. And for him to be missing now –

He shook off the thought. He was not going to start recriminating
himself all over again – not here, not right now. James was in London
somewhere, and whatever Hennessey had done to make his son doubt him,
now was the time to start making amends. If he could find James, he
would make this right, and he would find him. Perhaps he was aboard his ship.

“Mrs. Pritchard,” he called. “If you would be so kind, please tell my
driver our destination has changed. I’ll be heading to the docks.”

“Sir! Sir!”

The sound of a boy’s voice stopped him in his tracks and he turned.

“Sir!” the boy repeated, and Hennessey held up a hand.

“Easy,” he ordered. “Get your breath back.” He waited until the lad
had stopped panting, and then nodded. “Now. The message, slowly if you
please.”

“You’re to meet Captain McGraw, sir. He sent me – “

He brandished a piece of paper, and Hennessey snatched it from his hand and read it over.

“Wapping Street?” he murmured. “What the devil-? Nevermind, I’ll find out myself. Was there any further message?”

“Yes sir. Said to come quickly sir and not bandy it about too much.”

Hennessey closed his eyes.

“If that noble brat of his has gotten him into trouble, I will -” He
opened his eyes and shook his head. “You’ve done well, lad.” He dug into
one pocket and produced a few coins, handing them over to the boy,
whose eyes widened. “Go on. Back to wherever you came from,” he said,
and the boy nodded.

“Yes sir!”

Hennessey turned, heading for his carriage and Wapping Street.

“James, what in God’s name -?” he muttered.
**********************************************************
“So – you have an admiral for a father?”

James turned.

“For all intents and purposes – yes,” he repeated, and quirked one
eyebrow at the look on John’s face. “What?” he asked. “You didn’t think
I’d sprung fully formed from the sea, able to sail a ship did you?”

The shorter man gave him a smirk.

“I’ll confess, the thought had crossed my mind.”

James raised one eyebrow.

“Tell me – when this thought crossed your mind – just how delirious were you?”

He laughed, but in all seriousness, the thought had in fact occurred
to him. The thought of James having a parent – any parent, even an
adoptive one – was foreign – unimaginable, somehow. If he had been asked
when he had first come aboard Flint’s ship where he thought the man had
sprung from, he might have guessed the depths of the ocean itself.
Flint had appeared to him to be a god of sorts – a vengeful, clever, and
entirely merciless one, Poseidon himself perhaps, risen from beneath
the waves. He had been aboard the Walrus for several months before he
had started to see glimpses of the man beneath the sea-god, and that man
had been compelling all on his own, for all that John had been forced
to add deeply wounded to the list of Flint’s traits as a result. In the
wake of James’ confessions regarding his past, he had been forced to
reevaluate, but the war had taken precedence, as had other developments
in his life around the same time. He had speculated briefly about the
man that James had mentioned perhaps twice in all the time that John had
known him – the man, he said, that had taken him in and taught him most
of what he knew about sailing and then cast him out.  John had started
to speculate once or twice about the man and inevitably been distracted
by the incongruous image of a young James, entirely devoid of the
snarling bitterness that plagued his friend as an adult. He had formed a
picture of Hennessey in his head that was, he suspected, inaccurate at
best.

“So what is he like?” he asked, and James gave him an amused expression.

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” he answered, and John rolled his eyes.

“And some help that will be,” he answered. “I’d like to know
something about the man before you bring him here. What should I
expect?”

They had elected to bring Hennessey to them rather than the other way
around. After speaking with Thomas and John, James had reluctantly
agreed, giving way when John pointed out the likelihood of the walls
having rather large ears in Hennessey’s office. Thomas had gone out and
fetched a doctor for James’ knee and bruised head, and then they had
settled in, waiting, with James firmly encouraged to sit down and stay
off the injured leg, grumbling all the while.

“You know James?” Thomas asked, answering John’s question, and John
raised an eyebrow. “Imagine him, but older and less impulsive.”

“Thomas – Ah! Be careful, damn it!” James glared down at the
doctor who had just finished wrapping his injured knee. The man looked
up, unimpressed, and John once again repressed a grin. Oh, how nice it
was to see that look directed at someone other than him for a change!

“You’re the one that took it into your head to sprain your knee,” the doctor scolded, and James’ scowl deepened.

“I did not take it into my head to -” he started, and winced
again as the doctor wrapped the bandage just a touch too tight,
immediately murmuring half-hearted apologies. Of course, given the
source, it was hardly surprising.

“There,” John Howell said, exasperation leaking into his voice. “God
knows you’ll only manage to do it again the moment I turn my back but
for the moment it’s stable. I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to
stay off of it for a day or two to give it time to heal?”

“Probably,” John piped up from the corner, and Howell rolled his eyes.

“Of course,” he muttered. “You’ll receive my bill by post, and so help me, if I find press gangs anywhere near my residence -”

“You won’t,” James answered, still scowling. “Christ.”

“Good,” Howell said firmly. “Good day, gentlemen. Captain.” He donned
his hat. “I swear – if it’s not one leg injury it’s another,” he
muttered on his way out the door, and John turned, staring after him,
startled. Had he just said -? Thomas opened it for him, and went through
after, following him down the stairs.

John turned to James, and they shared a look between them.

“Do you think -?” James started to ask, and John raised an eyebrow.

“I truly don’t know,” he answered.

“Why else would he have mentioned leg injuries? And press gangs?”
James asked, and John shrugged helplessly. They looked at each other for
another moment, and then James sniggered.

“The poor bastard,” John said, his voice choking with suppressed laughter, and James snorted.

“I wondered why he was being so bloody rough,” he said wryly. “Do you think he remembers everything?”

“I really hope not,” John answered, and stopped. James was looking at
him, and he shot him a grin, hoping to cover the moment. “You never did
answer me about the Admiral,” he said, and James shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I didn’t. And you never answered my question from this morning.”

“What? You still don’t know where we are?” Silver asked lightly, and James gave him a look.

“You know that’s not the one,” he said, and Silver went still.

He had known this was coming. Still – here it was and he was no more
ready for it now than he had been that morning when he’d been blindsided
by the revelation that James no longer remembered the past fifteen
years, and how in the fuck was he supposed to -?

He blew out a breath. There was no avoiding it, and no point in doing
so. He’d survived a leg amputation. Surely he could survive this.

“You really want to know?” he asked, and James nodded.

“You’re not going to like it,” he warned, and James rolled his eyes.

“Stop prevaricating and get on with it,” he answered, and John grimaced.

“Alright,” he answered moving to sit on the arm of a nearby chair as
James leaned forward, his eyes still fixed on his former quartermaster.

“Well?”

“I’ll tell you what,” John answered, and James groaned. “I’ll give you an answer for an answer.”

“You want to play f-bloody games even now?” he asked, and Silver
couldn’t help the twitch of his mouth at one corner at the bitten off
profanity.

“That’s still odd,” he said.

“What is?”

“You, behaving yourself.”

James snorted.

“So were the looks the first time I slipped up in public,” he answered, and John gave a huff of laughter.

“I’m sure. So – what do you say? A question for a question?”

“Are you going to answer or are you going to spin some bullshit
story?” James demanded, but there was no real rancor behind it, and John
marveled once again at the difference.

“I swear, on whatever you please, no lies.”

“Quickly,” James muttered, “notify the papers. Judgment Day has come!”

John grinned, and sat back.

“You ask first,” he offered, and James gave him a long look.

“How long has it been for you?” he asked, and John took a deep
breath. Of course. Of course he would go for the meaningful, important
question right off.

He’d forgotten what this was like – talking with James, but the more
he did it, the more he recalled. There was a trick to this, he recalled
now – a fun one, as it happened.

“How long since what?” John asked in return. “How long since I’ve
eaten? Too long. That apple was an hour ago. Speaking of which – you
know, I don’t know if I’ve actually seen you eat anything at all today.
Have you?”

James gifted him an unimpressed expression.

“How long?” he repeated, and John sighed. He was rusty at this
particular trick, or James had gotten more persistent without the grief
that had fueled his anger, or a bit of both. Or maybe he was just tired.

“Since I’ve seen you, or since the bits of our shared history that you remember?” he asked, and James frowned.

“What’s the difference?” he asked, and John gave a mirthless laugh.

“About ten years, give or take,” he answered. “I got tired of
trailing around, watching you drink yourself into a stupor and trying to
convince you it was worth it to get off your ass and live.”

James winced, and John shrugged.

“You asked,” he said, and James ran a hand through his hair. He
looked downward, visibly trying to decide whether he dared get up and
pace, and John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t get like that,” he said, and James looked at him,
startled. “I know what you look like when you’re about to do something
stupid. That much hasn’t changed.”

James’ grimaced.

“I’m sorry -” he started, and John shook his head.

“You know, if you keep that up I might get used to it,” he said. “The
apologizing, that is. It’s still strange as fuck, I hope you know
that.”

James’ expression turned what John could only describe as stricken, and John sat back, dismissing the conversation.

“My turn,” he said. “You’re an Admiral’s brat. Tell me how that happened.”

“Correction,” James answered. “I’m a carpenter’s brat that got lucky
enough to have an Admiral take me in when my father died because I was
onboard his ship and constantly in his way. He couldn’t ignore me, so he
took me on as a servant, in part as a sort of penance for getting my
father killed. John -”

“Oh now you remember my name,” John said. “Let it go, James, for
fuck’s sake. The Admiral.  You mentioned him, when you told me what
started you on the path to becoming Captain Flint, but you never
mentioned who he was to you. Why hide it?”

James shook his head. He was still looking at John strangely, as if
he wanted to say something more, but he let it go, silently acquiescing
to John’s request, and John felt relief wash over him. Not as rusty as
he’d feared, then.

“Two questions,” James objected, and Silver rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “Your turn.”

“Where were you when you woke up?”

“You know where I -” Silver started, and then stopped. “Wait. You don’t know, do you? I haven’t told you that yet.”

James shook his head.

“I went to sleep the night before our first battle alongside the
Maroons,” he answered. “Somehow, you little shit, you’ve managed to get
my entire story out of me without returning the courtesy.”

John grinned.

“Not the entire story,” he countered. “I don’t know, for example, why -”

James gave him a look, and he subsided, still grinning.

“I was asleep in bed, with a rather attractive woman whose name I
could not for the life of me remember,” he answered finally. “She was
not pleased, believe me, and worse, she seemed to think I had made
certain promises. She stormed out, and I upped stakes the same day on
the off chance that there were others I had forgotten about.”

James snorted.

“That doesn’t answer the question of where you were,” he said, and Silver made a face.

“You’re irritatingly perceptive when you’re not halfway down a bottle
or trying to murder me with your eyes, you realize that?” He dragged a
hand over his face. “I was in the East End, not far from the orphanage I
grew up in. There, are you happy now?”

“So the story about the orphanage was true?” James asked, and John nodded.

“Yes.”

“And Solomon Little?”

John started, looking at him incredulously.

“You remembered that?”

James shrugged.

“You give out details of your past rarely enough that I have no trouble keeping track of them,” he said dryly.

“Who doesn’t like a bit of mystery?” John asked, and James snorted.

“Admiral Hennessey,” he answered, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” he asked, and James nodded.

“I know you’ve always found me distressingly blunt,” he says. “I’ll
own I don’t bother with subtlety often, but the Admiral -” He shook his
head. “When you meet him, do us all a favor and don’t try the dancing
act. He’ll take to it even more poorly than I did when we first met.”

“Yes, and when, pray tell, was that?”

A voice sounded from the door, and John watched, bemused, as James
jumped to his feet, wincing as he did so. He turned to find a man who
could only be the Admiral standing in the doorway, his blue eyes
focusing on James.

“Perhaps,” he said, “one of you would like to tell me what the devil is going on?
**************************************************************
Windsor:

She had left the parlor when Miranda and the Duchess had begun their discussion.

It was not that she was a coward, Kitty Ashe thought. Indeed, she
liked to think that she had as much pluck as any other woman – and twice
the brains of most men, for she had learnt long ago that she did best
for herself and her only daughter when she kept out of the affairs of
her husband his associates. She was not a silly woman, but she did her
best to pretend that she was, and most of the time, she was successful.
She was not ashamed of doing so, either. She was not Miranda, with her
intrigues and her handsome young lovers and her ambition. She wished her
friend all the luck in the world and sometimes wished that she herself
possessed some of the same courage and willful disregard for opinions,
but Kitty Ashe was made of different stuff.

Or so she had thought, until Miranda had appeared on her doorstep
that morning, her clothing and hair in a deplorable state, looking as
though she had not slept the night before, telling Kitty she had been
set upon by agents of the Churchills. She had been shocked – until she
had caught sight of Sarah Churchill’s expression, and felt a cold chill
travel down her spine. It was true, she realized – true enough for Sarah
to look at Miranda with a look that spoke of calculations and
collateral damage and the sort of dealings that Kitty had so carefully
sequestered herself away from in the past. She wanted nothing to do with
this – with any of this, and yet –

“-just as horrified by this as you are, Lady Hamilton, I assure you,”
the Duchess was saying. “If you will accompany me to George’s
residence, I assure you -”

“You don’t seriously believe that I will agree to that,” Miranda
scoffed. “Perhaps I was not clear, your Grace. I spent part of this
morning confined to a carriage, headed for what I can only presume is
your brother-in-law’s residence, after being accosted the night before
and threatened with the death of one of our oldest servants if I did not
comply. I hardly think -”

“George would never attempt anything so foolhardy in my presence,”
Sarah answered calmly. “My presence would be protection enough against
-”

Kitty did not listen any further.

“I’ll have George’s head for this,” Sarah had murmured, and Kitty had
understood. Worse – she knew what Sarah would do, if given the chance.

She hoped and prayed that Miranda had also understood. She knew her
friend for a shrewd woman, but if it came to a threat to her husband –

There were those, she thought grimly, who thought her and Miranda
peas in the same pod – who looked at her, and looked at her friend, and
saw only two silly women, one of whom had more of a taste for gossip
than the other. There were those who mistook Miranda’s dalliances for a
lack of care for Thomas. They could not have been further from the
truth, and Kitty feared what Miranda would prove willing to do to
safeguard him. Then, too, she had seen the way both Miranda and Thomas
looked at the Naval officer they had become fast friends with. She knew
that look – fondness, mixed with a sort of pride and comfortable
understanding. She had felt that way about Peter once, and she
understood what it meant when she heard his name through the door where
she stood.

“And Captain McGraw?” her friend asked. “If he is dead, or injured –
what will you do about that? Do you intend to hold your brother-in-law
to account for that, your Grace, or only for his crimes against me and
my husband?”

Yes, Kitty reflected – she knew Miranda, and she knew what her friend
would do for either of her men, and that was a truly excellent reason
for Kitty herself to reluctantly dip her foot in the waters of intrigue
once again. Miranda would be making no foolish decisions on her watch.
She straightened, turning to her daughter.

“You remember what I asked?”

Abigail nodded quickly.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good girl. This once only, and then never again, do you understand?”
Abigail nodded again, and Kitty nodded, opening the door to the study.
Both women were on their feet. Good. She was just in time.

“Aunt Miranda!” The little girl leapt forward, and Miranda turned, startled.

“Abigail!” She opened her arms almost automatically, and the girl
flung herself forward to be duly hugged and kissed, and then wriggled
free, turning to the Duchess.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping a quick curtsy, and Kitty saw the Duchess’ startled expression turn to polite amusement.

“Lady Abigail,” she greeted, and Kitty’s daughter giggled at the formal address.

“I’m not a lady,” she answered, and the Duchess gave her a mock startled expression.

“Why – is there another little girl in the house that looks so much like your mother? Am I speaking to Miss Abigail Ashe?”

Abigail giggled again.

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Well, then – Lady Abigail it is.” The Duchess sat down again,
inviting Abigail to come and join her on the chaise with a pat. “Now,
Lady Abigail -”

She cut off abruptly, giving a strangled gasp. Abigail stood, a
horrified expression on her face, staring at the wine that had spilled
onto the Duchess’ gown, knocked over as Abigail had come closer, her
hand having brushed against the glass.

“Your Grace -!” she started, and the older woman stood, reaching for a napkin.

“Oh – this is silk, it will never come out -”

Kitty brushed through the door, taking hold of Abigail.

“Go,” she instructed her daughter, and Abigail nodded, her task
complete. She ran from the room, and Kitty moved immediately to the
Duchess.  “Your Grace,” she said. “A thousand apologies. Please, come
with me. My maid, Mary, does wonders with stains but she’ll need to wash
this immediately. Please -”

She ushered the still sputtering Duchess into the hands of the
chambermaid and waited. The sound of the woman’s fussing died down after
a moment or so as she moved further away from the room, and Kitty
turned to Miranda, who sat, quite calm, watching her friend with one
eyebrow raised.

“You disapprove,” she said, and Kitty shook her head, closing the door behind herself.

“Far from it,” she answered, and Miranda frowned.

“Then why -?”

“-did I send Abigail in with instructions to make a mess?” Kitty asked archly, and Miranda inclined her head.

“It was well done,” she acknowledged, and Kitty gave her a smile.

“I rather thought so,” she answered, and sat down next to her friend. “Miranda,” she started, and Miranda held up a hand.

“No, Kitty,” she said. “Please – don’t waste your breath. I am going
to find James and extricate Thomas from this mess, one way or another.”

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you,” Kitty answered. “But I would
prefer it if you didn’t call down the wrath of God on yourself in the
process. Miranda – you know who she is. You know -”

Miranda’s eyes went hard, and Kitty stopped.

“I know,” Miranda said quietly, “that she is part of a plan that
would have seen me taken from my home, my husband treated as a pawn on a
chessboard, and any progress we have made toward real change in the
Bahamas reversed in a heartbeat. And I know that until she is stripped
of her ability to maneuver in court circles, none of us will ever be
safe.”

“None?”

Kitty’s question caught Miranda off-guard, and she stopped, looking at her friend.

“You know about James,” she said. It was not a question, but Kitty nodded.

“Yes.” Miranda swallowed hard and closed her eyes, and Kitty could
not resist. She reached out a hand and placed it on Miranda’s, squeezing
it comfortingly.

“He’s a very handsome man,” she said softly. “And a well-spoken one.” Miranda opened her eyes, and gifted her a watery smile.

“He is,” she answered. “I suspect that he is -” She stopped, and Kitty felt a cold chill go through her.

“Miranda? What’s happened?” she asked, and Miranda looked downward, biting one lip.

“He did not come home last night,” she said finally. “There was no
warning. No note, and it is extremely unlike him. I’m afraid -”

“You think she has him,” Kitty said, and Miranda nodded.

“He’s that important to you, then?” she asked, and Miranda nodded.

“More important than you can possibly imagine,” she answered, and
Kitty frowned. There was something odd in her friend’s voice – something
older than her thirty one years, and that something was tired and, she
realized abruptly, very, very angry.

“You want him back. You want answers, and you want Thomas to be safe,” she summarized, and Miranda looked up, eyes blazing.

“Yes.”

Kitty nodded.

“Very well, then. Do you think the Duchess is sufficiently angry yet?”

Miranda started, staring at her, and Kitty gave her a wry grin.

“I may not play the Game very often, but I know what it looks like
when someone else is doing it,” she said. “You had her halfway to
slapping you, I think.”

“I was rather hoping she would, actually,” Miranda confessed. “I
would have more leverage that way, and I would be sure she would go.”

“I think the wine may have done it,” Kitty said. “We may as well
spare your face. How are you planning on getting into the Admiral’s
residence without being recognized?

Miranda stared for another moment, and then she smiled, hesitant, but sincere.

“I’ve chosen the right house, it appears,” she said, and Kitty squeezed her hand again.

“You’ve seen me through a great deal,” she answered. “It’s only fair that I return the favor. What can I do to help?”

Miranda looked at her wordlessly for a moment and then reached out,
wrapping her arms around her friend and holding on for a moment,
gratitude and relief in the warmth of her embrace. She pulled back after
a moment, and met Kitty’s gaze, determined and focused once again.

“I shall need to speak to your servants.”