Miranda (13 page)

Was he being helped by his secret benefactor? The thought of Silas Addingham niggled at her. She could not put her finger on the cause for her distaste. Lucas swore the man was an angel in disguise.

“I can't accept such a gift,” she said to the maid. “It is nothing to do with you—it is simply inappropriate.”

Yvette's lower lip trembled. “If mademoiselle sends me away, I shall be disgraced.”

Miranda tamped back a feeling of exasperation. Had she always been dim? she wondered. She felt like a fool, relying on Lucas or Ian or Frances rather than controlling her own life. If only she had her memories back—

“Please, mademoiselle, give me a chance. I am well trained.”

Miranda regarded her soberly. “I have absolutely no doubt of that, Yvette.”

The maid folded her hands carefully in front of her. “If you will not keep me on, I'll have nowhere to go.”

“Just for a time, then,” Miranda said wearily, exchanging a glance with Frances. “Just until Lucas finds you another situation.”

“Bless you, mademoiselle,” Yvette said, her eyes filled with gratitude. “You will not be sorry.”

For the rest of the day, Miranda avoided the flower-filled parlor, retreating to her suite of rooms on the pretext of getting Yvette settled in.

“Tell me,” she said as Yvette brought her carpetbag into the small chamber adjacent to the dressing room. “Have you known Lord Lisle for a long time? Are you a family retainer?”

Yvette shook her head and opened the bag. “Yes and no, mademoiselle. I have known Lord Lisle for several years. But I am no longer a family retainer.”

Miranda expected humble belongings to come from the carpetbag. The quality of Yvette's petticoats and night rails, their fine embroidery, surprised her, but she said nothing.

“I was let go of necessity.” Yvette gave a dainty sigh. “But His Lordship was good to me. He found me a position with Monsieur Addingham.”

Addingham again. He was pleasant. Carefully groomed. And full of pretenses. “A merchant trying to claw his way into society,” Frances had pronounced, dismissing him with a careless shrug.

“But Lord Lisle sent you,” she said to Yvette.

“Yes. He and Monsieur Addingham came to an arrangement.” Yvette smiled. She was vivacious, with small deft hands and an air of competence. “
Tiens.
You have been invited for an outing in Hyde Park. We must get you ready.”

While Yvette bustled her into the dressing room, Miranda frowned. “How did you know about the invitation from the grand duchess?”

“Her card on the hall table.”

Miranda nodded. There was no reason that Yvette should not have read a card left out in the open. She did not think she had ever had a lady's maid before. Perhaps it was a maid's place to keep track of one's social engagements.

The grand duchess of Oldenburg had summoned her on a ride through Hyde Park in an open landau. It was strange and not entirely pleasant to be surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards. Count Matvei Platov ordered his men to range in a tight and menacing circle around the slowly traveling rig.

The duchess seemed accustomed to such treatment and chattered blithely in French about her romantic liaisons, her infuriatingly proper brother, Alexander, her whirlwind travels, her dearly departed young husband. By the time they returned to Biddle House, Miranda was quite certain that she had no ambitions to join the ranks of the nobility.

A butler greeted her at the entrance. “This was delivered while you were gone.”

Unhappily, Miranda took a small silver box from the tray he held and wandered up to her room. Yvette appeared immediately, standing at attention.

“Does mademoiselle need anything?”

“No,” Miranda said distractedly. “No, thank you, Yvette.”

The maid curtsied and went through the dressing room to her own small chamber. Miranda sat on the edge of the bed and opened the box, certain she would find a bauble that Lucas could not possibly afford.

Instead she discovered a single sprig of heather. She was not prepared for the stumble her heart gave when she lifted the blossom to her face, inhaled the light, spicy scent. In that instant she was transported back to the Highlands, to the green-carpeted hills and the village where everyone knew her name, everyone smiled at her and welcomed her as a friend. Where Ian, clad in native tartan, his dark eyes full of promises, had made her his wife.

False promises.

At the bottom of the box lay a tiny, folded card.

Her fingers were clumsy as she opened it. Ian had not written her a note. The message was a printed notice, an announcement that Bedlam Hospital had been endowed with even greater funds, enough to move the institution to a modern site in Lambeth. The endowment was made in memory of Dr. Brian Beckworth.

She knew then that she
did
have memories. She remembered, with crystal-sharp clarity, every single moment she had spent with Ian MacVane. Now those moments came hurling back at her, hitting her with painful force. She saw Ian smiling down at Robbie, giving the orphan a name, a family. Saw him kneeling before his mother, offering her his heart. Saw him standing atop a mountain, filled with the splendor of the Highlands...and sharing it with her.

Breathless with the intensity of her longing, she doubled over on the bed, curling her knees to her chest and staring out the window at the darkening sky. She feared darkness. She feared sleep. Lately her dreams had been filled with mystery and violence. She sensed she was on the verge of remembering her past.

And that was what she feared the most.

* * *

“All of them?” Ian asked Frances with a cynical edge in his voice. “Prinny is insisting that
all
of them pose for the portrait?”

Though she looked impeccable as always, strain pulled taut lines about Frances's lovely eyes. Ian was furious at the way she had swept Miranda into her care, and he felt grimly satisfied that the effort of sheltering Lucas Chesney's one true love was proving to be a trial to Frances.

“Prinny,” she said, rolling the name in imitation of Ian's brogue, “is convinced that such an illustrious collection of dignitaries has never been brought together before. He has decided that the events and people of this singular celebration must be recorded for posterity. He's commissioned Thomas Lawrence to paint a portrait. Promised a knighthood for Lawrence to boot. People are all agog.”

Ian swore and went to the edge of the garden maze. He and Frances had met in St. James Park to discuss what, if any, progress had been made in uncovering the plot against the Allies. It was becoming increasingly clear that Miranda was still their best hope. But until she remembered the past, they knew nothing.

“I'm agog, too,” he said. “Prinny must be working secretly for Bonaparte. Damn the man! He keeps bringing these people together as if they were clay pigeons at target practice. Does he have no notion at all that it might not be healthy for all the world leaders to gather in one place at one time?”

Frances twirled her parasol and sent him an artful smile. “So that is my news. And you haven't once asked me about Miranda.”

Ian made certain that his cynical expression did not change. He had plenty of practice hiding his emotions. He had discovered, at an early age, how to conceal his true thoughts from the men who had tormented him. They had forced him to work as a climbing boy, to watch his brother fall to his death from a sooty rooftop. Yes, it was safer to hide his feelings. It was safest of all to have no feelings whatsoever.

He said to Frances, “I assume if you had any news on that front, you would have reported it. So our mystery woman is still a mystery.”

“Quite so. I haven't had any better luck than you did. But you've gone too far with this one.
Marriage
, for heaven's sake.” She shuddered. “That's so...so
permanent
.”

“Not in Scotland,” he reminded her.

“God, you're cold, MacVane. I could almost feel sorry for the girl.” She pulled distractedly on a golden ringlet. “Perhaps I should torture her.”

Ian refused to rise to the bait. “Go ahead. You might get her to tell us more than we've extracted by being kind.”

“Or I might drive her over the brink into madness, and then she'll be no help at all.”

“I'll leave the choice to you, Fanny. You're so seldom wrong in these things. Just—” He broke off, angry at himself for letting his voice roughen. “Just make certain you watch over the girl. She has no defenses. Look what happened at Bedlam. Beckworth obviously couldn't tell his assailants what they wanted to know.”

“I thought the maid was a clever touch,” she said as if thinking aloud.

Ian thought of the pretty Frenchwoman Lucas had sent to serve Miranda. “Lisle should know that spending money he doesna have is unlikely to impress Miranda.”

“Darling,” said Frances, “
all
the best people spend money they
doona
have.” She laughed. “At least the maid's good with a needle. All Macbeth does is steal food from the pantry. Mangy beast. Where did you get him, anyway?”

“Won him in a game of faro. He's a fine beastie, isn't he, though?” Ian grinned, picturing the ungainly Scottish deerhound bounding about Frances's house and gardens. He had sent the dog to Miranda for protection. And for each of them, it had been love at first sight. Dog and woman had formed a bond, becoming virtually inseparable.

The summer wind swept through the garden, which had been planted with special care in honor of all the dignitaries. A flurry of petals showered over them. “Now,” he said, jerking his thoughts firmly away from Miranda for the moment. “Just when and where is the sitting for this historic portrait?”

* * *

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Miranda said to the grand duchess and Frances. In truth, she had no desire at all to witness the posing and posturing of a group of noblemen and war heroes. She had been in their midst, had taken meals with them, and danced and conversed with them, and she'd had her fill.

But one did not cross the duchess of Oldenburg. Miranda pasted on a bright smile as footmen helped them from the coach and they entered the grand salon of St. James Palace together.

Thomas Lawrence, the long-suffering artist, was shrieking about light sources and composition and clashing uniforms and gowns. Prinny was flitting from group to group like an enormous butterfly seeking nectar.

Prince Frederick of Prussia spied Miranda and started shouldering a path toward her. “Pardon me,” she murmured to Frances.

She took a sharp turn and found herself in a dim alcove window, conveniently equipped with a heavy drape. She stepped back into the alcove and hoped Frederick had not seen.

The curtain parted slightly, revealing the figure of a large man. She thought she recognized him as part of the entourage of the archduke of Austria, but she wasn't certain. “There you are,” he said, acting as though he knew her.
“Aimez-vous la violette?”

“Il reviendra au printemps,”
she replied automatically.

The man slipped away. Miranda stared after him, appalled and confused. Her past was returning to her, creeping back in dangerous bits and pieces, like a rogue tide swamping a village.

“Wait,” she called, hurrying after the man. “Please, I must speak to you.”

He gave one swift glance over his shoulder and ducked out a side door. By the time Miranda followed, she found herself in an empty garden. Empty.

She pressed her hands to her stomach, feeling sick. The exchange had occurred in a matter of seconds. There was no thought involved, no will, no choice.

The words seemed innocuous enough:
Do you like violets?
he'd asked.
They will come back in the spring
, she'd replied.

Yet deep in her guilt-racked soul she understood that the violet was the symbol for Bonaparte. Napoleon Bonaparte, who had cut a bloody swath through Europe, who had caused the death and starvation of millions. He was supposed to be harmless now, living in exile on the isle of Elba.

But Miranda, the old Miranda, the Miranda she did not dare to trust, seemed to know something. She seemed to believe that Bonaparte would return with the spring.

How could she know that, unless she was privy to a terrible plot? She committed to memory the face of the man who had approached her. Dark hair. Bland, pale face. The tiniest of ridged scars on his chin. Black clothing, lacking adornment. He could be one of hundreds of retainers in the service of some monarch or prince.

She started walking through the garden, searching for him, searching for answers. What had he hoped to accomplish by approaching her? She suspected—she feared—he was checking to see if her loyalty was still intact. If she remembered.

Her reply to him had been instant and automatic, a reflex. He had seemed quite satisfied.

He made her skin crawl.

The air was sweet with the fragrance of blooming larkspur and roses. A fountain murmured, trickling into a large basin. Bubbles rose lazily to the surface.

She stared down into the water, stared at the stranger who had her face, and wondered what that face concealed.

“Running away, love?”

With a gasp, she turned. Ian MacVane came striding across the lawn toward her. “I thought,” he said, “you were learning to enjoy the company of great men.”

She pressed her back against the rim of the basin. “Whatever gave you that idea?” Her gaze clung to him. He looked devilishly appealing, his dark hair shining in the sun, his understated breeches and boots and waistcoat singling him out amid the garish blooms in the garden.

“You've become a favorite. I never realized you had social ambitions, but apparently
La Grande
Catherine has turned your head.”

“I think you never knew me at all,” she said.