. . .
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.
The sham healer started his demonstration with the chancre-ridden satyr, making the old man’s few remaining hairs stand on end with a dose of simple static electricity before pronouncing his cure in progress. Naturally, the case was too far advanced for one night to render him entirely healthy. However, the old man testified that he was feeling much better and that he would be sure to return.
Adam waited uneasily to be called, but recognized that Taylor was a showman first and foremost. The marquess began to suspect that he was being saved for the grand finale, when the crowd was stoked to a frenzy. At that point they would accept any assertion, no matter how outrageous and the line between audience and mob could fade from thin to nil.
“Iss dere a Calvin Hotchkins in mein audience?” Gutmacher asked, his eyes resting on the tow-headed boy. “You cannot valk, yah?”
The audience murmured at this sage deduction.
“Brink him to mein table, fraulein,” Gutmacher commanded, “and lay him down, yah?”
Trembling, the young woman helped her boy up on his crutches. Eagerly, she placed him up on Gutmacher’s altar, waiting for wonders.
“Votch, fraulein,” he told her “and you vill see the heilig power of mein holy machine. Pray for your boy, fraulein.” Once more the electricity crackled magnified into infinity by the mirrors.
The characteristic smell was like that of a lightning storm before the rain. Miranda leaned forward, holding her breath as Gutmacher seized hold of the boy’s leg and tugged at its bottom until the lad cried out. Before their very eyes the flesh seemed to lengthen. Dramatically, Gutmacher seized the boy’s crutches and broke them one at a time.
“No more vill dese be needed!” he declared solemnly.
“Papa will love me now!” the child proclaimed, his face luminous with happiness. “Papa will love me!”
“Stop!” Miranda proclaimed, unable to bear the cruel illusion any longer. Rising from seat she ran to the platform, confounding the ushers. “His leg has not grown so much as an inch, Madame, just measure it and you will see.”
“But I saw it grow myself” one man protested.
“Yah, as ve all did,” Gutmacher hastened to add, nodding toward his henchmen.
“No,” Miranda said, backing away. “What you saw was this man manipulating the child’s shoe. Measure the foot I tell you. You will see no difference. Gutmacher is a fraud, he is no more a German than I am an Italian.”
“Das poor voman is confused, yah!” Gutmacher said, advancing upon her. “She iss crazy in her head, das is vy dey iss bringing her ‘ere. Ve must pity ‘er, yah? Ve must help ‘er mit a dose from mein machine. A very big d
ose, yah?”
Brand rose menacingly interposing himself between Gutmacher and Miranda. “Do not dare lay a hand upon the girl!”
“Ach, you poor woman,” Gutmacher exclaimed. “It is obvious that you are a victim of your female humors.”
“My female humors? Is that your diagnosis Doctor Guttmancher or should I say, Taylor?” Brand said, throwing his wig to the ground and ripping off his dress to reveal immaculate evening clothes. “But that is not the only false diagnosis you have made tonight. Miss Wilton is quite correct about the foot, is that not so, young man?”
“Aye, Lord Brand. I am not a cripple never was,” said the boy. “And this lady is not my Mama. Gutmacher paid us.”
“You should pay your hirelings better, Taylor, or else they won’t stay bought.” Brand laughed.
“‘ow did you get in ‘ere?” Gutmacher exploded
“Careful of your ‘haitches,’ Taylor, your German is fading.” Brand taunted. “Get out of here Miranda,” he commanded in an undertone, backing her towards the exit. “There is a door directly behind you. My coach is waiting to your left, down the street, pair of greys, no driver, in the alleyway. If I do not return, wait until the furor dies down and head home.”
“But you need my help,” she protested, as they retreated in the face of Gutmacher’s minions.
“If you do not do as I say, we will both be beyond help,” he replied, his teeth gritted as he estimated his chances of getting through the rear door intact. Even if his distraction worked, it would be close, too close.
Miranda reached into her reticule and pulled out a pistol. “I believe that you will find this one is loaded,” she said, checking that the muzzle was clean of spent powder before sliding it into his hand.
“Miranda, my love, you are amazing,” Adam said, brandishing the pistol. “Get back, Taylor,” he warned. “Or else we will see if your miracle machine can accomplish a resurrection.”
“One shot, Brand, is all yer got, an’ I wiv an ‘alf dozen men,” the false professor laughed, abandoning the accent entirely.
“In that case, I’ll reserve it for you,” Brand said steadily. “Now you and your men back off.”
With a scowl, Gutmacher signaled to his men, and they retreated to the edge of the stage.
“Stalemate,” Miranda whispered.
“Not quite.” Brand grinned, pulling a corked flask from his pocket, palming it off to Miranda as he murmured instructions. “An ingenious little device this, thin glass chambers separating some simple chemicals. On the count of three, close your eyes throw it to the ground, hard, then use your feet, my love. I go through the front and you take the back way. One . . . two. . .” He raised the pistol and fired at the heart of Gutmacher’s machine producing a shower of sparks. “Three!” The magnesium compound hit the floor producing a blinding flare of light and a puff of smoke.
Miranda sprinted for the door, eluding the arms of the momentarily dazzled ushers. One of them nearly caught her, pulling at the heavy chain of her emerald pendant and pulling the clasp open. She snatched it from his grasp and ran down the stairs into the night.
Adam’s carriage was exactly where he said it would be. She opened the door and climbed in, leaning back against the velvet squabs to draw a shuddering breath. Her reticule slipped to the floor with a soft thud. Panting, she reviewed the course of the past few moments, wondering if she ought to go back. Had Adam really used the words “my love,” or had it just been her imagination? Once might be fancy or the heat of the moment, but twice, he had said it, twice. The facets of her emerald cut into her clenched fist as her tension mounted. What was keeping Adam? She fiddled nervously with the clasp, finding it had not truly broken. Just as she was about to fasten the chain around her neck, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching the carriage.
“Adam!” she murmured in relief, setting the pendant aside to open the door.
“Actually, I expect that Lord Brand is presently occupied,” Lord Ropwell said, catching Miranda by the wrist and hauling her from the cab. “Last I saw he was being chased out the front door, foolishly noble of him to wait until the temporary blindness wore off so they caught sight of him. That was when I suspected you had taken another route and came seeking for his carriage. My second bit of luck night.”
“Second?” She squirmed, trying to pull herself from his grasp.
“Your friend Brand has just chased the duns from my doorstep. I bet heavily upon his success and the winnings should be substantial. So now, I have money and . . .”
His hand rose. Too late she saw the haft of the dagger in his fist, plunging her into darkness.
“And now I have you.” Ropwell laughed as he threw her into the seat of his waiting carriage.
. . .
“I vow, Damien, I cannot believe that you were so foolish,” Lady Wodesby fumed as the carriage swayed, rounding Piccadilly at a racing pace. “To remove the protection that I placed without informing me.”
Thorpe meowed in agreement.
“Mother, please, must we air our differences before Outsiders?” Damien asked, grabbing at the strap to avoid being thrown into Lawrence Timmons’ lap.
Angel barked vociferously.
“No one asked you,” Lady Wodesby rebuked. “Lawrence is going to be my husband, Damien, your stepfather, like it or no! So I suspect the poor dear will have to get used to our little quibbles.”
“Little quibbles? Like the time Cousin Erasmus set a pair of horns growing from Uncle Walter’s head? Or when little Elise Peregrine wove a spell that caused every stick of wood in Gwynnfold to burst into flame, Chippendale included.”
“Elise is well past that now,” Lady Wodesby declared stoutly. “She will make you an excellent wife, I am sure.”
“One hopes, considering the cost of furniture these days!” Damien snorted. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Timmons. At least we can assure you against a lifetime of boredom.”
Lawrence nodded perfunctorily, checking anxiously out the window.
“I am sure that Adam will be well,” Lady Wodesby said, her hand reaching across the carriage to clasp Lawrence’s. “Miranda is protecting him you know.”
“And who is protecting Miranda?” Damien asked, craning his neck as they approached the Hall of Wonders.
“His carriage will be in that alleyway, there!” Lawrence pointed. “There he is. The devils have him cornered.”
“Handy with his fives, I see,” Damien said appreciatively as he watched Adam plant a facer. “Still, I cannot like those odds; seven to one is still less than sporting.” As the coach came to a halt, Damien pulled off his jacket and swung himself out the door. Glancing toward the sky as he heard the sound of approaching thunder. A few moments more and it would be nearly overhead. He grinned, grabbing a bruiser who was about to take Adam from behind. Raising him by the collar, Damien tossed him toward the wall like a rag doll. Whirling round, he waited until Angel’s snapping jaws herded his prey into range. His fists joined, Damien drove them like a cudgel into the gut of another of Gutmacher’s minions.
Dominick jumped from the box to confront one of the attackers who held a knife. “Excellent, long time since I’ve had a good fight with a blade,” the Gypsy said with a smile, pulling out his own knife. His lip drooped in disappointment as the man turned tail and ran.
“Even odds now,” Lawrence said, swinging his walking stick to smash neatly across the second man’s knees, before leveling him with a well-placed right to the jaw.
“Better than even,” Lady Wodesby said, walking up to a fighter who was trying to ward off a clawing, spitting cat. “Allow me, Thorpe,” she warned. Instantly, the feline padded off as his opponent stood, awestruck at the diminutive turbaned woman who eyed him with disdain. Hesitation was fatal. With a swift fluid movement Lady Wodesby tugged him by the arm and flipped him to the ground like a sausage in a frying pan. “Peter and I learned that in the Orient,” she explained proudly as Lawrence eyed her in astonishment.
“Still want t
o marry the woman, Timmons?” Damien asked.
“I shall just remember not to anger her,” Lawrence replied with dignity. “I see that my nephew has matters well in hand.”
“Where is she, Taylor?” Adam demanded, holding the sham healer up against the wall. “Where is the woman who was with me?”
“Dunno!” he gasped. “Dunno, I swear! Lemme go, milord.”
“She was not in the carriage where she was supposed to meet me. One of your vermin must have taken her. Now tell me where Miss Wilton has been taken, Taylor, or I will paint the wall with the insides of your head.”
“The Tailor!” Lady Wodesby blanched. “Miranda is missing?”
“I found her things in my carriage, but she was gone,” Brand explained, tightening his hold upon Taylor’s collar. “Now where is she?”
“Back away Brand,” Damien said, his green eyes glowing with a feral amber light.
Adam hesitated, but it was not the savage intensity of Damien’s countenance that persuaded him to yield so much as Taylor’s reaction. As the Mage raised his hands skyward, the bloodstained sleeves of his shirt slipped to his shoulders revealing a gold armband decorated with ancient runes. The jeweled ring on his finger emitted a strange light, too strong to be a reflection of the rapidly clouding moon. Taylor began to quiver like an aspic. Perhaps Wodesby could succeed where Adam had failed.
“You are fond of electricity, I hear, Taylor,” Damien said, his voice heavy with threat. “So am I.” The golden band glowed bright as he closed his fist and the thunder rolled. A shimmering spear of silver came to his hand, like Jove on Olympus. “Where is my sister?” he demanded his tones rolling like the thunder itself. “Where is Miranda?”
“Dunno,” Taylor gasped, trying to melt into the wall. “I swear by the devil and all the saints yer worship. Ain’t seen ‘er since she made the lightning come.”
The Would-Be Witch Page 22
