Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  The study was empty. Cam was gone. The house was very still. I hadn’t noticed before. Books were scattered over the floor and piled on the chairs in untidy stacks. The samurai sword he had purchased from a dealer rested on the window ledge, its ornate brass hilt wound with an intricate pattern of leather, its long, lethal blade glittering in the sunlight. Wads of paper littered the floor around the desk, but there were no pages under the lopsided pewter owl. The inkwell was open, a broken quill beside it. I put the stopper back into the inkwell, frowning. Where could he be? Had he finished the book? If so, where were the pages? Worried, distracted, I went into the bedroom, removed my muslin frock and put on a violet blue cotton work dress with snug waist and low-cut bodice.

  I tidied up the study, straightened up the desk and then went downstairs to the kitchen. Rays of late afternoon sunlight wavered through the windows, polishing the dull red brick floor and making silvery sunbursts on the copper pans that hung on the wall. I lighted the huge black iron stove and put coffee on and broke eggs into a large blue bowl. He’d be hungry when he got back. I’d make an omelet. Cooking was still not my forte—it made me terribly uneasy—but I had learned to make an omelet after much practice and a number of disastrous failures. Beating the eggs thoroughly, I added cream and spices and sprinkled in parsley flakes and put it on to cook slowly in a generously buttered skillet. Chopping up sausage, I placed it on top of the batter once it had begun to firm up, then carefully folded the sides over. This part was always tricky. If the batter hadn’t cooked long enough, it always tore and got runny and then you had a buttery mess on your hands. Success. I flipped the omelete over to brown slowly.

  Wasting my time, probably. You had to eat an omelet hot if it was going to be any good, and I had no idea when Cam might be back. Nothing worse than a cold omelet. Where could he have gone? The man was going to drive me insane, that’s what he was going to do. Why couldn’t he be sensible and normal and uncomplicated like most men? Why did he have to be so complex, so temperamental, so obstinate and infuriating? Scots! The whole lot of ’em must be mad. Maybe it had something to do with the climate. Going out like that, me not having an inkling where he was, when he’d return, worrying myself silly. Why did I have to love him so much? Why did I have to care so desperately? Life was so much easier when you were your own person, when all your happiness didn’t depend on the whim of a bloody, thoughtless, stubborn Scot.

  I turned. Cam was standing in the doorway. I gave a start, dropping the turner I was still holding.

  “Jemminy! You scared the bloody ’ell—you gave me quite a turn! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said dryly.

  He was wearing his old black broadcloth breeches and frock coat, a maroon brocade waistcoat, a steel gray silk neckcloth. His thick black hair was neatly brushed, the sleek, heavy wave slanting over his brow, and his blue eyes were cool. He was so long and lean, much too lean, his features sharp, foxlike, wonderfully handsome to my eyes. I picked up the turner and brushed an auburn wave from my cheek, affecting a calm indifference I was far from feeling. Sod could at least have let me know he was going out and given me some idea when he would be back.

  I flipped the omelet over again. It was beginning to turn a light golden brown.

  “Is that coffee I smell?” he asked.

  “It’s fresh. Do you want a cup?”

  He nodded. I poured a cup and put in sugar and stirred it and handed it to him. He sipped it slowly, thoughtfully, watching me over the rim of the cup with a curious speculation, as though I were some rare species he was trying to figure out. I didn’t like that look at all.

  “Did you finish the book?” I asked.

  “I finished it around two.”

  “I’m eager to read the pages.”

  “Same old formula, same thundering climax awash with blood. The English samurai gets his revenge, gets his inheritance, gets the heroine. He finds out she’s a treacherous bitch after, his money, shoves her away from him in disgust and books passage back to Japan.”

  “A typical ending, I see, full of cynicism and bitter irony. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you to end a novel with a happy embrace.”

  “Never,” he replied.

  “I didn’t see the pages on your desk.”

  “I took them to Sheppard,” he said.

  “Oh?” I was surprised and not a little worried.

  “I brought them downstairs first, intending to leave them on your secretary. I opened all the drawers, looking for a paperweight.”

  He took another sip of coffee, looking at me, watching for my reaction. My heart seemed to stop beating. I felt very cold.

  “You—opened the drawers?”

  “Found some interesting things,” he replied. His voice was casual, much too casual. “Three stories in your handwriting. A copy of The Bard. An original Hogarth. You really should have it framed, Miranda.”

  “You know, then,” I said.

  “Sheppard told me everything—he did so under considerable duress, I might add. After he’d given me all the details, he relaxed somewhat and spent the next half hour enthusing about your remarkable talents. You’re going to be one of the best, he assures me. I read the stories. I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Cam—”

  “I also agree that you’re much too gifted, much too valuable a talent to be wasting your time copying my rubbish. You should be spending that time creating your own masterpieces.”

  “You—you’re angry, aren’t you?”

  “Because you’re a far better writer than I could ever hope to be? Because I took you in off the streets, fed you, clothed you, gave you protection and a roof over your head and you go behind my back and undermine me with my own publisher? Don’t be absurd.”

  “It—it wasn’t that way, Cam. Damn! My omelet!”

  I grabbed a plate and whisked the omelet onto it. Butter was burning in the skillet. I jerked the skillet off the stove and scorched my hand and slung the skillet into the sink and cursed. Cam calmly sipped his coffee as I waved my hand and blew on it. The skin was just lightly scorched and it wasn’t really all that painful, but the bastard didn’t have to be so bloody superior about it. I scowled and placed the omelet on the table and began to take down plates and silverware.

  “It’ll be rather crisp,” I said, “but I’m sure it’s still edible. Shall I slice some cheese and bread? I could—”

  “That’s another thing,” he interrupted, his voice still infuriatingly casual. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time cooking and cleaning house and taking care of a hack like me. Your time is much too precious.”

  “I’d like to know who else you think’s gonna take care of you? If it wudn’t for me, you’d bloody well—”

  “You’re losing your fine veneer, Miranda. The guttersnipe’s beginning to show through.”

  “You—you resent my trying to better myself, don’t you? You’d like me to be a simple-minded little slavey, worshiping the ground you walk on, nourishing your—”

  “Careful. You’re losing control.”

  “Sod you, Cam Gordon!”

  “You’re quite attractive when you’re angry. Your eyes are a flaming blue, your cheeks a lovely pink. Tongue’s a bit salty, though. You may no longer be my property, but I’m still quite capable of slapping you senseless.”

  “What do you mean, no longer your property? I’m bonded to you, you son of a bitch, and—”

  “Not any longer,” he said calmly. “I’ve given you your freedom, and it’s been officially recorded in the books—I attended to that little detail when I left Sheppard’s. You’re a free woman, Miranda. There’s nothing whatsoever to hold you here any longer.”

  “You had no right to do that! I—”

  “You served only a small portion of your allotted time, granted, but I assured the court that you’re a thoroughly reformed character, self-supporting and no longer the least threat to decent society. I signed a statement to that ef
fect, had it duly witnessed. It cost me two pounds to have everything recorded, another twenty in bribes to have it taken care of promptly, without the customary rigamarole and delays, but it’s done now.”

  I stared at him, silent, fighting to control the conflicting emotions that swept over me. He was so cool, utterly unperturbed, standing there sipping his coffee as though we were discussing the weather. A wild panic was building up inside me. I forced it back, willing myself to be calm when the very floor beneath my feet seemed to have vanished.

  “I guess I’m supposed to be grateful,” I said.

  “You’re entitled to a life of your own, Miranda.”

  “My life is with you, you bastard.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I happen to love you.”

  “That’s your misfortune,” he said coldly.

  “Just try throwing me out!”

  Cam took a final sip of coffee and set the cup down, still cool and unperturbed and frighteningly remote, bearing no resemblance to the passionate lover who took me with such fierce abandon, who needed me far more than he would ever acknowledge.

  “If you wish to stay, you may, of course,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you receive a salary commensurate with the services you perform.”

  “Goddamn you, Cam, I—”

  “And I’d advise you to watch your mouth. I demand respect and total obedience from my servants. Step out of line and I’ll beat hell out of you.”

  “Yeah, and lose both your eyes tryin’!”

  Someone pounded on the front door then, startling both of us. Cam cocked his head, listening, a deep, angry furrow creasing the flesh above the bridge of his nose. The pounding continued, echoing down the hall, loud, persistent, urgent. I hesitated a moment and then moved lightly past him and hurried down the hall to open the door.

  The red-haired man who had been at Green’s Coffee House stood on the doorstep, his fist raised to pound against the wood again. I stared at him in surprise, completely taken aback. He was very tall, very thin, his lean, foxlike features somehow familiar, as though I’d seen them many times before. His rich red-brown hair fell across his brow, a heavy wave slanting down to a point just above his right eyebrow, just as Cam’s did. His lips were thin, his blue eyes hostile. He wasn’t at all handsome, raw-boned where Cam was sleek, crude where Cam was elegant, but the family resemblance was so striking I was amazed I hadn’t noticed it that night at Green’s.

  “May—may I help you?” I asked.

  The man shoved past me, slamming the door as though he feared hot pursuit. He looked about anxiously, ignoring me completely.

  “Now just hold on!” I protested. “You can’t—”

  “Where’s Cam? I must speak to him immediately!”

  “He—he’s—”

  “I’ll take care of it, Miranda,” Cam said, moving down the hall. “You go on back to the kitchen.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” he thundered.

  I obeyed, turning in time to see Cam seize the man’s arm and march him into the sitting room. I heard him loudly berating the man for daring to risk coming here in broad daylight, and the man replied just as loudly that it was imperative and then their voices grew quiet and all I could hear was a low, conspiratorial murmur coming from the sitting room. I looked at the omelet, cold now. Dinner was spoiled. Everything was spoiled. I threw the omelet out and put things away and washed dishes and straightened up, deliberately keeping myself busy, holding anger and hurt and curiosity at bay.

  Half an hour must have passed. The kitchen was spotless. The sun was going down, dark orange rays slanting through the windows, fading as soon as they touched the floor. He couldn’t expect me to stay here all night, cowering like a prisoner. I braced my shoulders and stepped into the hall just as they came out of the sitting room. I stepped back, listening.

  “Skinner’s warehouse,” the man said, “by the Thames, eleven o’clock.”

  “It’s too damned risky, Ian! At this stage we have to—”

  “There’s no avoiding it. Next Thursday, she says. We have to make final plans.”

  “Goddammit, it’s too soon. We need—”

  “We have no choice,” the man snapped.

  He left then and Cam closed the door behind him and stood there in the shadowy hallway with a worried look in his eyes. He had forgotten all about me and our argument. I could tell that. He shook his head and frowned, staring at the grandfather clock without seeing it, and then he heaved his shoulders and started upstairs. The house was filling with deep blue-gray shadows. I lighted candles, calm now, determined, knowing what I must do. Cam came downstairs shortly after eight and left without a word. I put aside the book I had been pretending to read. I could feel the tension begin to build.

  Skinner’s warehouse. By the Thames. I had only a vague idea where it was, but I was certain I could find it. At nine-thirty I went upstairs and fetched a heavy cloak and left the house myself. It was a long walk to the warehouse district, and I wanted to allow myself plenty of time.

  28

  Miss Miranda james with all her reading, her well-bred manner and her cultured voice would have been terrified to be out alone at night without masculine protection, but the streets of London held no terrors for Duchess Randy. It was the tough, street-smart urchin who moved along so purposefully now, alert and defensive, though Randy had never owned such a fine violet-blue cotton frock, such a warm purple cloak. I could have hired a coach, of course—they were easy enough to flag down on Fleet—but under the circumstances it would be unwise. The driver might remember me, might remember taking me down to the waterfront, you never could tell. No, it was better this way, even if there was a certain risk involved. I wished I had a blunderbuss with me so I could blow the brains out of any rogue who might accost me, but, unarmed, I’d have to rely on my own resources.

  London at night was a dark, dangerous jungle full of savage beasts ready to maul, maim and murder without the slightest remorse, and the savagery wasn’t confined to slums like St. Giles, either. Criminal gangs like those organized by Black Jack at least had a purpose, did their foul deeds with profit in mind, but the city was full of vicious amateurs who roamed about making mischief simply for the sport. It was almost impossible to get a conviction for rape, particularly when the age of consent was twelve, and bands of well-born dandies frequently prowled en masse, drinking, carousing—any woman they encountered in danger of brutal gang rape. Finding no easy prey, these men of gentle birth often raided brothels, wreaking havoc, leaving the place in shambles, often setting torch to it in order to watch the blaze. Malicious, amoral, sometimes murderous, these high-spirited aristocrats were far more dangerous than those who turned to crime for a living.

  Thieves, cutthroats, white slavers, villains of every description thrived in this savage age when human life had little or no value, when public executions were festive events, when even the most upright citizen merely shrugged his shoulders at murder and accounts of vicious cruelty. How many lives were brutally snuffed out on any given night in London? How many people were beaten senseless, left for dead? How many children were tortured, women violated, men waylaid and robbed? And who really cared? Certainly not the so-called officials. It was a way of life and you took your chances and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. Respectable society, such as it was, put stronger bolts on its doors and windows and never ventured out at night without gun, sword or a bodyguard of burly servants.

  Jesus, Randy, you’re scaring yourself, I thought, quickening my step. You never used to let things like that bother you, accepted ’em just like everyone else. No use dwelling on ’em now. I turned a corner, passed a gambling house ablaze with lights, shouts and raucous laughter spilling through the windows. Three drunken bucks stumbled down the steps, holding onto each other for support, powdered wigs askew, satin frock coats stained with wine. One of them yelled at me, fell flat on his face when his companions let go of him, hitting the pavement like a sack of potatoe
s. His two friends laughed with glee, delighted with the spectacle, even though the man’s nose was bleeding furiously and might well be broken. Such sights were so commonplace as to be unworthy of notice, and I moved on without turning a hair.

  Carriages bowled down the street, many of them surrounded by footmen who ran alongside bearing torches, panting for breath. The flames flickered wildly in the night, leaping and waving like frenzied red-orange demons. I passed an alleyway, a dark, fetid tunnel of darkness. Dull, thudding noises issued from its depths accompanied by agonized cries. Footpads beating their victim or a couple of bucks taking their sport. Someone whistled at me. I ignored it, hurrying on past another gambling house, a number of taverns, an elegant brothel with slender white pillars, velvet curtains at the windows, gorgeously attired creatures capering inside with wealthy old men as music played. A savage-faced footpad gave me the eye as I crossed the street. I gave him the finger. He grinned, taking me for a whore, one of his own kind and therefore safe from his attentions.

  “’Ave a good night, luv!” he called.

  “’Ave a stroke, you bleedin’ sod!”

  He laughed hoarsely and took off after the two drunken bucks who had abandoned their dazed, bleeding companion and were reeling along the pavement with arms linked. They’d be lucky to reach the next street without being assaulted and robbed. Easy marks. Fools. Begging to be victims. Anything that happened to ’em served ’em right. I turned down another street, noisy life spilling out onto the pavements in a kaleidoscope of violent color. I walked briskly, with the hostile, confident air that had served me so well in St. Giles, a bristling manner that warned all not to mess with this ’un. Leaving the populous street, I moved past a darkened square and down another street clothed in darkness, thieves and prostitutes lurking in the murky shadows, and here I assumed a provocative manner, glancing casually about for a potential customer. You didn’t need a blunderbuss if you knew how to conduct yourself. No one was going to rob a whore, and any man who laid a hand on me with rape in mind would find himself clutching his balls and squealing in agony.