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“What do you mean, ‘there is no longer a need’? He is under Wodesby protection,” Miranda said, uneasy as she thought of Adam alone and vulnerable.

At least he would be among people if he was going out for the evening to .

. . to Gutmacher’s! “Hecate!” she murmured.

Gutmacher was the one who had arranged for Adam to be ambushed.

She looked at the closed library door doubtfully, hearing the murmur of voices.

If Damien had decreed that the Wodesby shield was unnecessary, there would be no help from that quarter.

She turned and walked back up the stairs to her room pulling her cloak from the wardrobe and stuffing her pistols into her reticule.

Silently, she stole out the servant’s way, avoiding the curious gaze of the familiars, or so she thought.

Halfway down the square, she heard an inquiring “meow” at her heels.

“An evening stroll,” she replied casually.

Thorpe hissed.

“If you want no lies, then ask no questions,” Miranda told him, walking on toward the corner where there were usually hackney cabs to be hired.

“Cor! Nearly missed yer, I did.” A hulking bruiser stepped into Miranda’s path.

“‘is nibs didn’t tell me yer was mad, but lucky yer crazy enough ter talk ter cats, else I would’ve let yer pass.

Wounnent let th’ darter o’ the ‘ouse out by ‘er lonesome, I tells meself. Then, I ‘ear yer talkin’ ter th’ tom ‘ere, an yer didn’t sound like no servant.”

“I am glad my elocution is pleasing,” Miranda said, her fingers creeping into her reticule as the man walked towards her.

She would puzzle out his meaning later. At the present, however, there was no mistaking the menace of his stance.

It would be a pity to ruin the bottom of the bag, a delightful brocade that matched her walking dress perfectly, but there was no helping it.

She cocked the hammer, aimed by instinct and clipped him neatly in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet.

“I have a second pistol loaded,” she told him, pulling out the gun with a flourish. “Just in case I need to finish the job.”

“Yer daft,” he whispered, clutching his arm.

“Then you had best not risk coming after me again, just in case I am mad enough to kill you.” She favored him with the most maniacal grin she could manage and he cringed. “My cat will keep a paw at the ready.”

Thorpe yowled his objection.

“Yes, you are right,” Miranda agreed, taking her cue from Thorpe.

A good scare was definitely in order. “It might be much simpler to give his brains an airing, but it would mess the walk and we are in a hurry.” She watched from the corner of her eyes as the fellow crawled crabwise toward the cover of the bushes.

“Dinnent mean no ‘arm,” he protested.

“Shall I call the Watch then?” she asked sweetly, keeping him in sight over her shoulder as she walked toward the waiting hackney.

Thorpe yowled once again as she shut the door to the cab before he could jump in.

“Inform Tante Reina that I am going to Gutmacher’s Hall of Wonders to find a cure,” she called as the driver flicked his whip.

“And tell Dominick to remove that giant slug from the shrubbery and hold him. I want to know who sent him and why.” As the carriage careered toward Piccadilly, Miranda recalled Mr. Timmons’ disparaging description of his nephew’s condition, Surly, rude, miserable, close to impossible. She smiled.

. . .

By the time Miranda had paid her fare, she barely had the money left to purchase her ticket to Gutmacher’s Hall of Wonders.

Inside, she found the place so gaudy that it made Prinny’s pavilion at Brighton seem like a Quaker meeting place.

Mirrors and crystal predominated, sending candlelight glittering from the walls to the chandeliers in a series of endless reflections.

Rows of gilt and velvet chairs were arranged in a semi-circular fashion around a raised platform where an impressive monstrosity sat enthroned amidst a maze of wires and glass.

She recognized the Leyden jars from her studies.

A magical education required a thorough knowledge of natural forces.

As her eyes adjusted gradually to the glare, she surveyed the other members of the audience.

A rail-thin woman coughed agony in the corner while an anxious man held her upright.

Consumption from the sound of it. A young mother helped her son toward a chair.

Carefully, she set his crutches beside the seat, ruffled his tow-colored hair in a comforting gesture as she stared hopefully toward the mighty machine.

Liveried servants carried in an elderly man marked with chancres while an old woman in a hideous green dress dozed in the front row, her ancient wig dipping in rhythm with her snores.

Every seat was filled with the lame, the halt, the blind, old and young.

But with all their myriad ailments, they had one thing beyond hope in common. They were obviously well-to-do.

An usher guided her to a seat. Friendly to a fault, he questioned without seeming to pry, worming information that he would undoubtedly relay to Gutmacher.

Undoubtedly, the members of the audience would fail to recall those unobtrusive questions and be astonished when Gutmacher plucked intimate details of their illnesses seemingly from the ether.

As she chatted with the usher, Miranda evaluated the charlatan’s lay.

Obviously the man was a master. All had been carefully planned.

A few minutes in the glare of mirrors and lights and the eye would be thoroughly confused.

The shining planes of the metal machine mimicked the majesty of the druid’s great altar with its velvet draped table at the center.

A silver sickle and mistletoe would have added a touch of authenticity she thought with a secret smile, as she peered around in search of Adam.

Ropwell too, was searching for signs of Lord Brand, but found not a trace.

He leaned back in disappointment as it became apparent that the rumors that he had spread at White’s had failed to bait the hook.

However, the sight of Miranda Wilton entering the room was enough to distract him from his quest. She seemed entirely alone, but her presence was an indication that Brand might well be somewhere nearby.

The Marquess’ interest in the girl had seemed far more than friendly.

With any luck at all, Ropwell would have both the girl and his winnings in hand before the night was done.

He slouched in his seat, using the considerable bulk of the man beside him as a shielding bulwark.

Adam kept his eyes closed against the glare, opening them at intervals to survey the lie of the land.

Favoring the usher with a pinch-mouthed smile, he wondered how long it would take for him to be called upon.

Their master could not be able to resist the tale that he had been given; an endless list of nebulous female troubles that Bob Taylor could simply announce that he had cured, a potential golden goose for the plucking.

The Marquess could barely keep from grinning as he pictured what would happen when he revealed himself as a man.

Taylor would be a laughing stock and the Cockney “professor” would slink back to the gutter from whence he came.

Eyes shut once more, Adam let his mind float, listening to the murmur of the crowd, hearing the threads of pathetic stories and aching for these hopeful miracle-seekers.

Unfortunately, they would find no magic here.

Magic . . . his thoughts drifted inexorably toward Miranda, conjuring her face from the fabric of his fantasy even as he tried to exorcise her from his memory.

But he was well and truly haunted, unable to rid himself of her shade.

He imagined the feel of her mouth beneath his, the yielding softness of her body, even the sound of her voice seemed to come to him clearly through the sounds of the crowd.

Adam’s eyes flew open. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head, raising his lorgnette like a dowager of venerable vintage.

Seated toward the rear, was Miranda, without so much as a companion to give her countenance.

She dabbed her eyes with a wiper as she spoke, favoring the man with a watery smile that was more dazzling than any of the chandeliers.

What in the devil did she think that she was about?

Adam wondered uneasily. He was in the process of fabricating a story about his chance-met niece when the crowd began to stir.

Taylor was making his entrance. To the ignorant, he seemed nearly as German as the Kaiser himself.

. . .

“Gut eefening,” Gutmacher began. His long-winded speech was choked with Teutonic, scientific-sounding folderol.

He spoke of friendships with Franklin and Faraday and named a few Prussian names who had been dead when Miranda’s Grandmere had been rocking in in the cradle.

His fakery was so ridiculously transparent that it was difficult to keep from laughing.

However, the serious countenances of the audience, their nods and expectant expressions showed their impressions to be entirely favorable.

She toyed with the possibility of getting up and making a speech in German.

To a knowing ear, the man’s accent was obviously as false as his credentials.

But she knew that such precipitate action would only get her summarily ejected.

Somewhere in this crowd was Adam. Though she was no witch, she could feel his presence and she was determined to make sure of his safety.