Miranda. Susan Wiggs

      “The lad’s fast asleep in the coach, bless his wee heart,” Duffie said with fondness. His bristly, graying beard outlined the bow shape of his broad smile. “At the moment, you need me more.”

      They stood together in thoughtful silence, surveying the place that had been the home of Miranda Stonecypher.

      It was a modest suite of rooms with scuffed plank floors, threadbare upholstery and papers crammed on shelves or strewn about. Black smears of dried blood marred the walls and floors.

      Books were piled on every available surface. The topics ranged from works on moral philosophy to scientific tracts on physics and cosmography.

      Had Miranda read them, or had they been her father’s? The Englishwomen Ian knew did not trouble themselves to read anything more challenging than La Belle Assemblée. God forbid they should actually have to think.

      By far the most disquieting item in the room was a painting over the mantel. It was a reproduction of The Nightmare by Fuseli, Swiss painter and darling of the radicals. A sleeping woman, clad in a gauzy night rail, reclined on a draped bed. On her bosom perched a creature with a burning gaze and a wicked leer, and in the background loomed a horse with glassy eyes and flaring nostrils.

      “Now that,” Duffie said, “gives me the willies.”

      “Be certain Robbie doesna see it.” Ian turned away from the picture. The room was in a shambles, destroyed by the murderers and then rifled by officers from Bow Street who had been alerted by an anonymous citizen.

      Ian grinned humorlessly. Lady Frances hated the Runners. This was not the first time they had interfered in her work.

      He and McDuff picked through the rubble that was left. A half-written letter responding to a lender’s dun for money. Greek symbols sketching out some mathematical formula. A mundane list in a more feminine hand: foolscap, ink, silk thread...

      In a carpetbag he found a stocking to be mended, along with an unfinished needlework project depicting a spray of forget-me-nots around an old-fashioned tower house. The caption read, “One father is more than an hundred schoolmasters.” A faint floral scent clung to the bag. Ian dropped it and raked a hand through his hair.

      He knew nothing about this woman.

      Except that she read wonderful books and liked dangerous paintings and loved her father.

      And that when he’d held her, he had felt a reluctant stirring in his heart.

      “Och, I dinna believe my eyes,” Duffie exclaimed.

      “What do you mean?” Ian asked in annoyance.

      “The great MacVane of the Highlands actually felt something other than hatred and rage. Ah, dinna deny it. I saw it in your pretty face. You care about the lass, don’t you?” Duffie gave a sly wink.

      Ian clutched the back of a wooden chair and glared down at his gloved hands. The gloves spared him from seeing the stump of his finger, from remembering the past.

      “She’s a puzzlement, Duffie. There was something...not right about her that night.”

      “People dinna generally appear their best following a massive explosion,” Duffie observed helpfully.

      “It was more than just panic and confusion. It was—” Ian nearly strangled on his own words as a blinding flash of memory cleaved his thoughts. Just for a moment, he was in another place, another time...

      Burning buildings, thick smoke, people running to and fro. And his mother, unable to stand what they had done to her, had that same look in her eyes. That look of madness...

      “Madness, you say?” Duffie asked.

      “Did I say that?”

      “Well, if people were to perceive the poor lass to be mad, then...”

      Duffie and Ian looked at each other. At the same time, they snapped their fingers and spoke the same thought.

      “Bedlam.”

       Three

      Marriage is for life. If I were in your place,

      I should tie my sheets to a window and be off.

      —Queen Maria Carolina of Naples,

      grandmother of Empress Marie-Louise

      Ian disliked Dr. Beckworth on sight. It had taken a small fortune in bribes to get this far into the horror chamber that was Bedlam, and now Beckworth stood in the middle of his office, the implacable guardian at the threshold.

      “What do you mean, you willna take my coin?” Ian demanded.

      “I am a man of ethics as well as science, sir. I do not take bribes.” Above a boiled collar, he lifted his chin to a haughty angle.

      “Would you consider a grant in the name of charity, then?”

      Beckworth tightened his mouth until it resembled a sphincter. “Please.”

      “I merely want to see Miss Stonecypher.”

      Beckworth’s hands gripped the lapels of his frock coat. “Stonecypher.”

      Ian cursed himself for showing a card to his opponent. He needed to play them closer to the chest. “There, you see. The poor lass has been here four days and you haven’t even found out her family name.”

      Beckworth sat down behind a writing table. He fingered a quill stuck in the inkwell, staring at the feathers, turning it this way and that. “It’s very irregular. I can speak of this case with no one save the girl’s family...”

      “She has no family.” Ian said. Then, gambling all, he added, “Except me.”

      The doctor lifted a monocle to one eye. “You are related to Miss, er...”

      “Stonecypher.”

      “Stonecypher.” Beckworth tasted the unusual name again.

      “I am betrothed to her,” Ian assured him. Lying had always come easily to Ian. He had learned it at an early age and considered it one of the most fundamental of survival tactics. Please, sir, I canna work today. My cough is infectious...

      “Why didn’t you explain that right from the start?” Beckworth asked.

      He’s as suspicious as I am, Ian thought. “Perhaps, like you, I prefer to guard my privacy.”

      “Ah.” Beckworth tucked the monocle into the pocket of his waistcoat and took a deep breath. “Have you any proof of this betrothal?”

      “I do.” Ian levered himself up out of his chair and paced the office. He ducked his head beneath the lime-washed ceiling beams. He stopped in front of the table and slammed his palms down on the surface.

      Beckworth flinched.

      Ian leaned forward and said, “Aye, I have proof, but she’s locked up like some moonstruck lunatic, damn your eyes!”

      “She can’t remember anything,” Beckworth blurted out, then clamped his mouth shut, clearly angry at himself for having divulged Miranda’s condition.

      This, Ian realized, was no gamble after all. She would not recognize him, but that, of course, would all be part and parcel of her affliction.

      “I want to see her,” Ian stated. “Now.”

      Beckworth hesitated. Ian subjected him to the coldest, most menacing stare he could summon. The stare worked. The doctor stood. “Follow me.”

      Moments later, Ian wondered if Beckworth was leading him along a circuitous route just to punish him. They passed through a long gallery lined with barred cells. Dank