Miranda (2 page)

Lady Frances fell so still that her golden ringlets stopped bobbing. “Good Lord, MacVane.
Must
you be so damnably alluring? The fate of Europe is at stake, and all I can think of is your body.”

“You don't even like me, Frances.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

A wry smile curved his mouth. “I think it was the time you made me fight a duel with an unloaded pistol, or perhaps your sending me by unarmed tender to deliver a message during a naval battle. I began to suspect—” Ian stopped himself, for she had done it again. Twisted the conversation away from the point he was trying to make. It was one of her many talents, and one that made her so effective in her secret role as chief spymaster of the Foreign Office.

“The lass,” he said grimly. “I'm still waiting for an answer.”

Frances snapped her fan shut and slapped it against the palm of her gloved hand. “You would have balked. Or gotten—heaven forbid—passionately entangled.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, giving her the full force of an icy glare. “When have I ever gotten passionately entangled?”

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if the room had grown chilly. “God, MacVane. You're as cold as a Highland winter. I've always wondered why.”

There was a reason, but Frances was the last person he would tell. She knew far too much already.

She went to a cherrywood butler's table and poured sherry from a crystal decanter. Ian studied each dainty, deceptive movement. Her costume was a confection of pink silk and frills, with little pink topboots showing beneath the scalloped hem of her skirt. To anyone but the most astute observer, she was an empty-headed miss with no more on her mind than a plumed cap. The one concession to her true vocation was a tiny black lily stamped on the heel of her left boot.

She tasted the sherry and regarded Ian with a half smile. “We had been watching Miranda Stonecypher for some time—along with her father, Gideon. She is presumed to know very little.” Frances's sweet, kiss-me-you-fool mouth twisted into an ironic smile. “Even less now.”

“Bitch.” Ian blew out a sigh and flung his forearm over his brow, scowling out the window again. The scrap of silk had caught in the branch of an elm tree, fluttering red and royal blue on the summer breeze.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to see the wounded with their bleeding faces and wide, wondering eyes, the eyes of innocents caught in the maelstrom of the explosion, eyes that asked the one unanswerable question:
Why?

Ian himself had wondered that, all those years ago, back when he had been innocent, when he had been a victim.

“Everyone who is anyone is coming to London this summer,” Frances continued, ignoring his insult. “There will be an assassination attempt, an elaborate one. So far, that is all we know. Our task is to find out the rest, and then keep it from happening.”

“Go on,” he said through gritted teeth.

“There's nothing more to report.” She took a dainty sip of sherry. “Traitors are a dangerous lot, MacVane. They often turn upon their own.” She paused dramatically. He caught her meaning.

“So it wasna you nor any of your agents who set off the explosion?”

Her nostrils flared. “I'll pretend you never asked me that, MacVane. Innocent people could have died last night, damn your eyes. As it happened, the only casualty was the traitor.”

“You just said the woman knew very little,” Ian pointed out.

She glanced at herself in the mirror over the washstand and primped. “As we know, looks can be deceiving.” She cleared her throat. “The demise of a woman is a regrettable thing. But in this case, it is serendipitous and will—at least for a time—disrupt the plans of Bonaparte's conspirators.”

Ian thought for a long time. His bed was unspeakably comfortable, his home luxurious and a delicious luncheon was set out on a tray. No one would blame him for spending the day in idleness, nursing his wounds and resting.

Damn. The notion tempted him.

And so it was all the more excruciating for him to brace his arms on the mattress and lever himself up. He swung his legs to the floor.

Lady Frances squealed and clapped her hands over her eyes. “MacVane! My virtue!”

He had to laugh at that. “Virtue is surely the least of your worries, Fanny. Don't fret, I won't tell your precious Lucas you were here.”

“He is not
my
Lucas,” she retorted. “Yet.”

He stuffed his legs into buckskin breeches and swore with the pain as he drew on his freshly polished Hessians.

She peeked through her splayed fingers. A tiny gasp slipped from her.

“You're cheating, love,” he said with a wink, but he couldn't resist flexing his chest muscles.

Her fingers snapped shut. “You're insolent. And what the devil do you think you're doing?”

He swore louder now, in English and Gaelic both. “Putting on my shirt. Which is not a comfortable operation given the condition of my shoulder.”

“You shouldn't have gone into that tenement, MacVane. But I'm not surprised you'd insist on playing the hero.”

“Saving a child from certain death is not heroic,” he told her. “Merely human.”

“Then you should have let some other human risk it. I
need
you. Whatever became of the child, anyway?”

A loud crash sounded from somewhere belowstairs, followed by the patter of running feet and a childish giggle. Ian bit back a grin. “Does that answer your question, my lady?”

“God, MacVane! We've got enough troubles without becoming an orphan asylum.”

“Then adopt the little mite, and he'll be an orphan no more. You'd make such a charming
maman
.”

She borrowed one of his choice oaths, and the word sounded incongruous coming out of her cupid's-bow mouth. Then she said, “Are you decent yet?”

He let out a bark of a laugh. “Fanny, my dear, I have
never
been decent. That's what you like about me.”

She dropped her hands to plant them on her dainty waist. “So?”

“She didna die, Fanny.”

Her sweet red mouth formed an O. “What?”

“The girl. She survived the explosion. I had no idea she was the one or I would not have misplaced her.”

“But that's imposs—”

“How would you know?” he snapped. “Unless you ordered her killed.” He watched her closely. “Och, I didna mean that, Fanny. For all that you are, you've never resorted to murder.”

“Yet,” she reminded him, fixing him with a lethal glare. “So where are you going?”

“I'm surprised you haven't guessed yet.” He selected a waistcoat from the clothes press. It was made of tweedy Lowlander stuff, but he had no time to be selective. He donned the waistcoat and said, “I'm going after Miranda.”

Two

Leave me alone. I am looking into hell.

—King George III,
during an episode of madness

M
iranda stood beneath an imposing gray stone lintel. A pair of statues with mouths agape and staring eyes glared down at her, and she recognized them—Cibber's statues of Madness and Melancholy. She looked at the words engraved in the stained granite:
Bethlehem Hospital.

Her heart drummed against her breastbone. Reeling with dread, she turned to her escort, the watchman who had been with her at the fire. “This is Bedlam.”

“Aye, miss.”

“It's a hospital for people who are mad.”

He moved closer to her, put his hand on her arm. She supposed it was meant to comfort, but instead she felt nervous, trapped.

“Miss,” he said, “at least you'll have a roof over your head, a meal—”

“I'm not mad.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “You say you don't know who you are, where you live, who your family are.”

The black gulf of emptiness invaded her again, as it had each time she'd tried to remember
before
. Before the night, before the fire, before the terror and the insanity.

She stared at the ground, studying the cobbled street and the sparrows and rock doves poking at crumbs. London Wall. It wasn't a wall, but a roadway at the edge of Moorfields. How was it that she knew the name of this street if she could not even name herself?

The heavy door of the entranceway creaked open on iron hinges. She found herself looking at a beefy man with a mustache that swept from ear to ear.

She shouldered back her weariness, lifted her chin. “I don't belong here.” Despite the show of resolve, she staggered, on the brink of exhaustion, and her vision swam. “I belong in...in...” Her chest squeezed with dread. “In hell,” she said before she could stop herself. “Just not here,” she finished weakly.

The warden exchanged a fleeting look with the watchman behind her, and she felt their unspoken exchange:
Mad as a March hare.

“That's what they all say,” the warden remarked in a bland voice. “Does she need restraints?”

Restraints. They would chain her like an animal.

She took a step back. Bumped into the watchman. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders.

“Sir!” she choked out. “Unhand me! I do not belong here, and I certainly don't need re—”

“You did well this time, Northrup. Got here before Dr. Beckworth makes his rounds.”

“He oughtn't to complain, the stupid cit. The gate fees pay his wages,” Northrup said. His hand snaked into her hair. He pulled, forcing her head up. “Such a pretty piece will be a nice addition to the menagerie.”

“I'll be able to charge the gawkers double. They like the pretty ones.”

Miranda gasped. “You mean, I am to be sold like a monkey to a zoo?”

The warden lifted a bushy eyebrow. “A show of spirit is always welcome. She'll be an interesting specimen.”

“This is criminal!” she shouted. “Kidnapping!”

The warden captured her wrists in one hand and brought them up high behind her. A wrenching pain seared her elbows and shoulders. She could smell his sweaty body, could feel the heat of his breath on the back of his neck. Could hear the clink of coins in the small cloth purse he gave the watchman.

Outrage gripped her in a choke hold. The man who was supposed to be helping her—a man she had trusted—had sold her to a madhouse.

The watchman slipped away, ambling down the fog-shrouded lane.

Miranda shuddered out a long sigh. “Please, sir,” she said, affecting a small, meek voice. “It has been a rather long, eventful night for me, and I am quite exhausted. Truly, I need no restraining whatever.”

He laughed unpleasantly. “So you'll make it easy on both yourself and old Larkin?”

She swallowed. Her throat still burned from the smoke. Her mind held nothing but emptiness—and fear. “Certainly, Mr. Larkin,” she forced out through dry lips.

The hard grip eased. She rotated her aching shoulders.
Think, think, think...

The man called Larkin opened the door wider. The sharp smells of lye soap and urine gusted out, along with the roars and wails of the inmates.

Miranda ran.

Bunching her tattered skirts in one hand, she plunged down the lane. Her feet, laced into sturdy brown leather boots she did not remember putting on the previous morning, clattered over the uneven cobblestones.

With the curses of the warden ringing through the rows of close-set buildings, she ran blindly. She had no idea where she was going except
away.

Away.
The thought pounded in her head, counterpoint to the rhythm of her running feet.

Away, away, away.

Why are we going away again, Papa? And why must we leave in the middle of the night, without even saying goodbye?

It was a very old memory, incomplete, a vague impression of a slender man in a shabby coat, a warm hand closed around her small, cold one.

“Stop, thief!” the warden bellowed. His big voice roused a few sleepy-looking pedestrians as they walked along the street. Here and there, shutters opened and heads poked out.

“Stop her!” Larkin called again. “Stop her, I say!”

Miranda plunged on. She had a fleeting impression of inquisitive glances, but no one seemed inclined to stand in her way. There was, she decided, some small advantage to having one's face and clothing soiled with black soot. No one wanted to touch her.

Don't touch me don't touch me don't—
Another memory, this one dark and disturbing. She was almost grateful when it evaporated like the fog.

She careened around a corner, nearly colliding with a costermonger's cart. The coster swore. Loose onions and potatoes spilled out, filling the narrow lane. She hesitated, then tried to leap past the cart.

Brutal hands dug into her shoulders. She turned to see Larkin's face, red with fury.

“That's the last time you'll run from me, my fine lady fair,” he said, huffing with exertion. Even as she fought him, he hooked his leg behind her knees and forced her to the hard ground. He settled his weight on her, filling his fist with a handful of hair and giving it a cruel twist. “You want to earn your keep on your back, eh?” His eyes were small and hazel in color, hot and hungry. “I can arrange that.”

Miranda screamed.

* * *

Lucas Chesney grew impatient, waiting for Miranda. She had never been late before. He plucked a gold watch—one of the few items he had yet to pawn—from his pocket and thumbed it open, just to make sure.

Yes, it was half noon. She was late. Was she still angry about their ridiculous quarrel? What a barbarian he'd been, ripping her dress like that.

He paced, noting his surroundings with idle curiosity. The clutter of low buildings was dominated by soot-blackened churches, St. Mary-le-Strand, St. Clement Danes, St. Brides. The area near Blackfriars Bridge was not quite a slum, though it had its share of press gangs and flash houses. Some of the residences still possessed a smidgen of old-fashioned charm in their sandstone edifices and boxy gardens, but the neighborhood was clearly a place for people of less than modest means.

The perfect spot for you, old chap.
Lucas slammed a door on the thought. He could not allow himself to dwell on the state of disaster known as the Chesney family fortune. He was Lucas Chesney, Viscount Lisle, heir to the duke of Montrond, and he had a reputation to uphold.

Even if that reputation hung on the flimsiest string of lies and excuses since the Whigs had dominated Parliament.

The crumbling neighborhood had one distinct advantage, Lucas observed. No one here knew him.

No one except Miranda.

As always, his heart beat faster at the thought of her. A beauty, she had no particular use for her appearance. Though brilliant, she did not use her cleverness as a verbal lash, to cut and belittle people. While her radical views worried him, he had no doubt that in time she would temper her opinions. She was a delicious enigma, sometimes sweet-natured in a distracted, absentminded fashion, other times fiery and tempestuous.

She was fascinating, funny and passionate. Dazzlingly beautiful. She had but a single flaw. It was the one matter that haunted Lucas, troubled his dreams at night and made him feverish to find some solution.

Miss Miranda Stonecypher was penniless.

She made money and possessions seem unimportant, but Lucas loved his family and felt compelled to provide for them. Ever since the hunting accident that had left his father bedridden and staring mad, Lucas had taken on all the duties and debts of his office. And perhaps, he thought with a surge of hope, perhaps he had found an answer at last.

He had recently made the fortunate acquaintance of a—what was Mr. Addingham? A benefactor?

Lucas shook his head and laughed at himself. Silas Addingham was a ruthless social climber who had more money than shame. He wanted an entrée into polite society. Lucas could give it to him.

For a price.

He had tried to explain it to her the previous night, just before their row. Addingham's money would enable Lucas to marry Miranda at last. To bring their relationship out in the open instead of sneaking around, hoping they wouldn't get caught.

Eager to patch things up after their quarrel, he did something he had never done before. He went to her lodgings.

Lucas stood outside Number Seven Stamford Street. He knew only that Miranda lived here with her crack-brained father and a servant called Midge.

Feeling conspicuous, he rang the bell pull, then waited on the stoop. The air was filled with the smells of cooking and rubbish, the occasional laughter of children and shouts from watermen on the river.

When no one answered, he rang again. Not being able to introduce Miranda to his family, to his friends, had always brought him a faint sense of shame. It would be a relief to be open now.

He laughed to himself, picturing the look on Lady Frances Higgenbottom's face when he appeared in public with Miranda.

Lady Frances, as lovely as she was wealthy, had been after Lucas for years. Though her relentless pursuit flattered his manly pride, he had long since grown weary of her shallow, tiresome ways. She swore that only by marrying her could Lucas save his family's estate from the auctioneer's hammer. But he had found another way. He had found Silas Addingham.

There was no response to his second ring. Lucas pushed open the door.

“Hello!” he called out. The smell of sulfur hung in the air. Miranda and her infernal experiments. She was always dabbling in some chemical reaction or other, trying to generate nitrous gases or hydrogen. Once they were wed he would delight in giving her a new outlet for her inventiveness—their marriage bed.

As he mounted a flight of creaky, uncarpeted stairs, he became aware of a subtler scent—acrid, hot and rusty.

Blood.

Lucas took the stairs two at a time, calling Miranda's name. He emerged into a dim sitting room that reeked like an abattoir. The last time he had smelled death this sharply had been in a field hospital in Spain.

He forced away the nightmare memory of his soldiering days and went searching through the flat. It was a ghastly quest marked by a thickening trail of blood, overturned furniture, broken lamp chimneys, scattered papers.

He came to a tiny room with a single bedstead, the coverlet trailing along the floor.

A muffled moan issued from beneath the frayed cloth.

Lucas plunged to his knees. “Miranda!” With a shaking hand, he moved the blanket aside. A death-pale face stared up at him. The odor of fresh blood slammed through him.

And Lucas felt a shameful flood of relief, for the face of the dying woman was not Miranda's.

“You must be Midge,” he said gently. “I am Lucas, a special friend of Miranda.”

The woman's crusted lips moved. He bent forward to hear.

“'Randa...has no friends,” the servant whispered.

Lucas's heart constricted. “She has one,” he said. “She has me.”

A bloodied hand clutched his sleeve. “They took her. And...Gideon.”

Lucas squeezed his eyes shut. Somehow he had known from the moment he'd set foot in this house. Damn! He should never have let her storm off in anger last night.

“Who?” he forced out as grief and rage and panic tore into him. “Please. For Miranda's sake, you must tell me. Who did this?”

She spoke again, her voice fainter than ever. “Vi... Violet.” The word was more sigh than speech.

Despite a pounding sense of urgency, Lucas could not leave her. He held her for what seemed a long time. Her hand, icy cold on his sleeve, went slack and dropped. A rattling sound he remembered from the field hospital filled the silence.

He felt strangely calm as he relinquished his hold on Midge, poor Midge, whom he had never known. He put her head on a pillow and settled the coverlet around her as if she were a child being tucked in for the night. For eternity.