Miranda Read Free

the one unanswerable question: Why?
    Ian himself had wondered that, all those years ago, back when he had been innocent, when he had been a victim.
    â€œEveryone who is anyone is coming to London this summer,” Frances continued, ignoring his insult. “There will be an assassination attempt, an elaborate one. So far, that is all we know. Our task is to find out the rest, and then keep it from happening.”
    â€œGo on,” he said through gritted teeth.
    â€œThere’s nothing more to report.” She took a dainty sip of sherry. “Traitors are a dangerous lot, MacVane. They often turn upon their own.” She paused dramatically. He caught her meaning.
    â€œSo it wasna you nor any of your agents who set off the explosion?”
    Her nostrils flared. “I’ll pretend you never asked me that, MacVane. Innocent people could have died last night, damn your eyes. As it happened, the only casualty was the traitor.”
    â€œYou just said the woman knew very little,” Ian pointed out.
    She glanced at herself in the mirror over the washstand and primped. “As we know, looks can be deceiving.” She cleared her throat. “The demise of a woman is a regrettable thing. But in this case, it is serendipitous and will—at least for a time—disrupt the plans of Bonaparte’s conspirators.”
    Ian thought for a long time. His bed was unspeakably comfortable, his home luxurious and a delicious luncheon was set out on a tray. No one would blame him for spending the day in idleness, nursing his wounds and resting.
    Damn. The notion tempted him.
    And so it was all the more excruciating for him to brace his arms on the mattress and lever himself up. He swung his legs to the floor.
    Lady Frances squealed and clapped her hands over her eyes. “MacVane! My virtue!”
    He had to laugh at that. “Virtue is surely the least of your worries, Fanny. Don’t fret, I won’t tell your precious Lucas you were here.”
    â€œHe is not my Lucas,” she retorted. “Yet.”
    He stuffed his legs into buckskin breeches and swore with the pain as he drew on his freshly polished Hessians.
    She peeked through her splayed fingers. A tiny gasp slipped from her.
    â€œYou’re cheating, love,” he said with a wink, but he couldn’t resist flexing his chest muscles.
    Her fingers snapped shut. “You’re insolent. And what the devil do you think you’re doing?”
    He swore louder now, in English and Gaelic both. “Putting on my shirt. Which is not a comfortable operation given the condition of my shoulder.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have gone into that tenement, MacVane. But I’m not surprised you’d insist on playing the hero.”
    â€œSaving a child from certain death is not heroic,” he told her. “Merely human.”
    â€œThen you should have let some other human risk it. I need you. Whatever became of the child, anyway?”
    A loud crash sounded from somewhere belowstairs, followed by the patter of running feet and a childish giggle. Ian bit back a grin. “Does that answer your question, my lady?”
    â€œGod, MacVane! We’ve got enough troubles without becoming an orphan asylum.”
    â€œThen adopt the little mite, and he’ll be an orphan no more. You’d make such a charming maman .”
    She borrowed one of his choice oaths, and the word sounded incongruous coming out of her cupid’s-bow mouth. Then she said, “Are you decent yet?”
    He let out a bark of a laugh. “Fanny, my dear, I have never been decent. That’s what you like about me.”
    She dropped her hands to plant them on her dainty waist. “So?”
    â€œShe didna die, Fanny.”
    Her sweet red mouth formed an O. “What?”
    â€œThe girl. She survived the explosion. I had no idea she was the one or I would not have misplaced her.”
    â€œBut that’s imposs—”
    â€œHow