Miranda. Susan Wiggs

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      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 shadows hung in the unlighted corners. Sleek rats scurried in and out through cracks in the walls. A babble of nonsense talk, moans and tuneless singing joined with the foul stench to make the air almost unbreathable.

      Fashionable people strolled along with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses and they stopped to gape at the inmates. It was a common diversion to buy a ticket to view the insane. Ian, who had looked madness in the face, found the practice more disgusting than anything he could see behind bars.

      “Oh, look at that one,” a lady exclaimed, giggling and pointing. “What is he doing with his—”

      “Surely he is thinking of you,” Ian whispered in her ear as he passed behind the woman.

      She gave a little shriek. She and her gentleman friend hurried out.

      A cleric clutching a prayer book nodded mournfully as he passed. Several inmates reached through the bars, grasping at the air as if it represented freedom itself. Ian fought the urge to run, far and swiftly, away from this place that evoked such uncanny reminders of his past.

      This was different, he told himself. Perhaps СКАЧАТЬ