"Yes, and I've installed an agent to keep an eye on things so you only take what's yours. I own it all. The furniture. The land. The animals. The carriages and farm equipment. It's all mine."

"But where will we go?" Nigel inquired. "What will we do?"

"It doesn't matter to me. Just be out in thirty days."

Westwood leapt onto his horse and rode away.

"You wanted to see me?"

Miranda flounced into James's library, struggling to appear happy and pert, as if she hadn't a care in the world, but in reality, she was quivering with anxiety. Furtive events were occurring, but she hadn't been able to learn what they were. The servants all knew what was transpiring, but they wouldn't say a word.

Most of the time, James and Tristan were gone, and when they returned, they were huddled together, whispering and plotting, and she was terrified that their scheming would be to her detriment.

James was seated at his desk, and Tristan stood behind him. They looked angry, as if she'd done something wrong, when she couldn't imagine what it might be.

"Sit down, Miranda," James commanded, not a hint of affection showing in his gaze.

She slid into the chair directly across from him, and she kept her smile firmly in place, declining to let him realize that she was scared silly.

"What is it, James? What's happened?"

"I will give you one chance to explain yourself," he said.

"One chance?"

"Yes, so make it good, because I won't listen to any of your excuses ever again."

She flashed a beseeching glance at Tristan, but he stoically stared back.

"Tristan," she stammered, "do you know what this is about? Do you know why he's upset with me?"

"Don't pretend, Miranda," Tristan scolded. "We're far beyond girlish games and nonsense."

"I'm curious," James mused, "about the last day Helen Stewart worked for me. You remember it, don't you? I had journeyed to Portsmouth to check on news about your fiance."

Helen Stewart! Blast the accursed woman! Would Miranda never be shed of her?

"Helen Stewart?" Miranda frowned, feigning confusion. "Why on earth would you ask me about her?"

"I told you, Miranda: You get one chance to explain your behavior. Do you wish to try?"

"I did nothing to Miss Stewart! Nothing, I tell you. If she said differently, bring her here, and I shall call her a liar to her face!"

Both brothers were silent, condemning, and Miranda started to cry.

"Why are you being so horrid to me? Why are you acting this way?"

Her tears-always so successful in the past-were having absolutely no effect. She swiped at them with the back of her hand.

"As your guardian," James said, "I am severing your betrothal."

"What? You can't do that!"

"I can, and I have. Besides, I don't believe your fiance desires to continue with the engagement."

She jumped to her feet, her temper spiking. "Tristan, what is he saying? He can't be serious. You still want to go forward, don't you?"

"I don't, Miranda. I truly don't."

"But why? What have I done?"

She reached out to him, thinking he might walk over to comfort her, but he didn't move.

"Shall I begin with your attempting to ensnare James in marriage?" Tristan asked. "Or would you like me to mention your cruelty to Helen Stewart? Perhaps we could discuss your crawling-naked-into James's bed and claiming you'd fornicated with him. Which situation shall we review first?"

Miranda's cheeks flushed bright red. She'd meant to control the reaction, but she couldn't.

"You can't jilt me," she insisted. "It's the height of outrage. When word gets out, no other female will ever have you."

"I don't care."

When she couldn't stir Tristan to sympathy, she turned her attention back to James.

"But...but...if you do this to me, I'll never hear the end of it. I'll be teased and belittled. I'll once again be the laughingstock of the entire city!"

"It won't matter."

"And why wouldn't it?"

"Because you won't be in the city."

Her pulse thudded with dread. This was bad. This was very, very bad. If James sent her away, how would she ever seduce him?

"Where am I going?"

"I have decided that you are not ready for marriage-"

"I am ready! I am!"

"-and before I bother with finding you another husband, you need some solitude to reflect on your conduct."

"What are you saying?"

"There is a small convent outside Edinburgh."

"A convent? In Scotland? Are you mad?"

"You will travel there immediately and spend the next year in quiet contemplation."

She gasped. "Then what?"

"Then...we'll see."

"You'll keep me prisoner?"

"Depending on your att.i.tude, you may spend a second year. I refuse to allow you to inflict yourself on another family as you have inflicted yourself on mine."

"James! James! Say you won't do it!"

She wept in earnest, and she rushed around the desk and fell to her knees. She clasped his hand and rested her cheek on his thigh. She thought he might pat her shoulder or stroke her hair as he often had in the past, but he was still as a statue.

Tristan grabbed her and pulled her away, lifting her to her feet.

"You could stop him," she charged, "if you wanted to."

He shrugged. "I don't want to."

"Oh, let me stay!" she begged. "I'll change. I swear it."

Her pleading was genuine, but it was too late to exhibit any sincerity. They were unmoved.

"I am marrying Helen Stewart," James announced, and Miranda actually staggered as if he'd struck her.

"And I," Tristan added, "am marrying her twin sister, Harriet."

"Ah! No!" Miranda shrieked.

"We can't have you here," James nagged, "making mischief for everyone. So you're leaving."

"When?" Like a cornered animal, she glanced about as if searching for an escape route. "When must I go?"

The library door opened, and she peeked over to discover her Aunt Bertha standing in the threshold.

"Bertha has come from the country," James explained, "to escort you to Scotland. You'll depart at once, and she'll see that you arrive safe and sound."

"But I have to say goodbye to my friends. I have to pack."

"While we were talking," James said, "we had a bag packed for you."

"I need my clothes! I need my things!"

"The nuns asked that you bring only a few personal items. They will have a simple gown for you to wear."

She clutched Tristan's arm. "Please, Tristan! If you were ever fond of me..."

His stony silence told her that, in fact, he had never been fond at all.

"The carriage awaits you." James's words rang with a grim finality. "It's out front."

Miranda wanted to rail, wanted to shout and protest, but they were both so firm and unbending. How could she get them to pity her? How could she get them to relent?

"I'll never forgive you for this as long as I live," she hurled.

"I'm sure you won't," James replied, "and you'll have plenty of time to stew over me. In Scotland. At the convent."

"Miranda," Bertha called, "you're making a spectacle of yourself. The earl has decided; there's no use arguing. Let's be off."

Miranda glared at Tristan, at James, her hatred shining through. Then she whirled away and stomped toward her aunt, her conspirator in every devious, deceitful scheme.

"Honestly, Miranda," the older woman said, "if I'd known the trouble you were going to cause, I'd never have gone home and left you here alone."

"Shut up, you fat cow."

Miranda swept out of the room.

EPILOGUE.

"I can't believe it."

"Neither can I."

Harriet actually started to cry. Harriet-who never cried about anything.

Helen took her sister's hands in her own.

"What's this? Tears on our wedding day?"

"I'm so happy," Harriet sobbed.

"I am, too."

"I never thought I would be again."

"That's not true, Harriet. You never lost hope."

"Everyone has been so kind to us."

"Yes, they have, and Tristan loves you so much."

Harriet cried even harder. "I can't believe he does."

"I can."