MORGAN WAS HAVING MORE than a little difficulty believing himself to be where he already knew he was—in the small, stuffy office of the owner of the Woodwere Asylum for Lunatics and Incorrigibles. He was having even more trouble reconciling himself to the fact that he was accompanied by a wizened, foul-mouthed Irishwoman named Peaches—for the love of Christ, Peaches!—who had eaten with her hands when they stopped for nuncheon at a nearby inn, and then strolled outside to the innyard, moved her skirts to one side, spread her feet wide apart, and relieved herself beside the closed coach, like some stray dog lifting its leg against a tree trunk.
“Coo! Not bad for a loony bin, is it, yer worship? Bet ye a bit of this would be like a torchlight procession goin’ down m’throat.”
Morgan, shaken from his reverie by this rude interruption, looked to where Peaches was standing beside a well-supplied drinks table, fondling a lead-crystal container filled with an amber liquid he supposed to be brandy. “You will oblige me by removing your grimy paws from that decanter at once, Miss O’Hanlan.”
Peaches pulled a face at him, but moved away from the drinks table. “No need to put yerself in a pucker, yer worship. And it was just a little nip I was after, don’t you know. That beefsteak at the inn was tough as the divil and left m’gullet dry as a bleached bone.”
Morgan sat very straight, his right calf propped on his left thigh. The woman had been trying his patience all day, but he refused to be baited. “I’m sure there is a pump out in the yard, if you’re in need of liquid refreshment. I believe I can handle things from here without your assistance.”
Peaches swaggered across the room to stand in front of him. “Oh, and is that so, yer high-and-mighty worship? Like I keep tellin’ ye, Caroline won’t give ye the time o’day without me here to vouch fer ye. Not that it’s much of that I’ll be doin’, still not knowin’ what ye’re about and all.” She marginally relaxed her threatening pose. “Is our Caroline really rich? Always thought there was somethin’ special about the wee darlin’. Raised her up m’self, I did—raised her up proper—and fed her outta me own bowl. Wouldna had a whisker of a chance without me, and don’t you know. Now, yer worship, if we could talk a little mite more about that reward?”
Morgan ignored her questions and asked one of his own, not of Peaches, but merely rhetorically. “Where is this fellow Woodwere? That dwarf said I should wait here for him. I doubt I should tarry too long, for this is such an insane quest that it would be no great wonder if I ended the day locked inside this madhouse myself.” He turned to look at Peaches, still unable to believe the woman was proud of what she had done. “A madhouse. How could you have steered Caroline—any child—into employment in such a pesthole?”
“Because there weren’t no better openin’s hereabouts for earls’ daughters, I suppose,” Peaches shot back, jamming her fists on her hips. “Ye beat Banaghan for fanciful notions, yer worship, do ye know that? And where else was I apposed ta put her, I ask ye? The local workhouse? Caroline wouldna lasted a fortnight there.”
“A-hem.”
Morgan wheeled about in the chair to see the dwarf standing just at the edge of the threadbare carpet. “What is it? Didn’t you locate Woodwere?”
“No, I didn’t, which isn’t surprising, because I didn’t go looking for him,” the dwarf answered solemnly, then grinned. “But I did tell Miss Monday about you and the Irishwoman. You can come upstairs, if she comes with you,” he said, indicating Peaches with a slight inclination of his large head. His smile disappeared as he added, “What did Caroline do wrong, sir? Is this about the oranges?”
Morgan stood, then retrieved his hat, gloves, and greatcoat from a nearby table. “No. Oranges do not enter into any business I have to discuss with Miss Monday, although you have piqued my interest, Mr.—”
“Haswit. Frederick Haswit. But you can call me Ferdie, since you’re not here about the oranges. Unless you’ve come about that bolt of cloth, of course. But you don’t look any more like a draper than you do a greengrocer. What crime of Caroline’s are you here to punish?”
“Ah, and it’s keepin’ her hand in, our Caroline is,” Peaches said happily, walking over to pat Ferdie’s misshapen head. “Taught her all she knows, I did, and it’s a pretty fair teacher I am, too, even if I’ve lost the touch a mite. The rheumatism, ye know. Else why would I be workin’ with foundlin’ brats, only the good saints could say. It sure an’ isn’t because Mary Magdalene O’Hanlan cares a clip about the creatures. A roof over me head and a dry cot, that’s all I cares about now—and mayhap a little reward for doin’ a good turn now and again. Come on, little fella, fetch me ta Caroline.”
Morgan lifted his eyes to the chipped paint of the ceiling and silently cursed his dead uncle who, he believed, was probably grinning up at him from the bowels of hell at the moment, enjoying his nephew’s predicament immensely, then followed after Peaches and Ferdie as they left the room and walked toward a wide flight of stairs.
As the marquis walked along, he took out his pocket watch, glanced at its face, and was faintly surprised to see that it was only a few minutes past five. It should have been later, considering all he had been through already this day, since encountering Peaches that morning at the orphanage fifteen miles away in Glynde.
But now, at last, the moment had arrived, and he was about to come face-to-face with one Caroline Monday, who might or might not be Lady Caroline Wilburton, who as a child of three had disappeared without trace from the scene of her parents’ brutal and still unsolved murder.
Morgan had been only fifteen when he saw young Lady Caroline for the first and last time. He had very little remembrance of her beyond a hazy impression of blond hair and very sharp elbows, one of which she dug into his ribs when, at his mother’s orders, he attempted to pick her up as she teetered precariously at the edge of the fish pond while Morgan, Jeremy, and their parents were at Witham for a visit.
He remembered the earl and his beautiful young wife much better, having suffered an impressionable youth’s wild infatuation with the countess, Lady Gwendolyn, that hadn’t lived out the summer. News of her horrific death that October had reached him at school, and he had immediately remembered his supposed deathless passion for the woman, which caused him to sink into months of melancholy, during which he produced the only poems he had ever penned in the name of Grand Romance.
As he climbed the stairs, Morgan conjured up a mental picture of Lady Gwendolyn, sure that the real Caroline, whom everyone had searched for, then presumed dead all these long years, would be the picture of her beautiful, sweet-smelling mother. That was all that this visit to madness would take, he was sure, one quick, assessing look—and then he would be on his way back to Clayhill and sanity and, of course, his solitary thoughts of revenge.
“This way, sir,” Ferdie called back to Morgan. The dwarf was already dancing down the long hallway in the direction of the single open door at the end of the passage. “Miss Twittingdon is waiting for you. But don’t mind her—she’s an inmate, if you take my meaning.”
“She’s one of the loonies, ye mean,” Peaches—whose steps had slowed as she gained the hallway—said, her usually booming voice lowered to a whisper. “And what would ye be, Ferdie, iffen ye don’t mind me askin’?”
Ferdie pulled himself up to his full height, which brought him just past the bottom button of Morgan’s waistcoat, and announced:
“All men are measured alike in the eyes of God;
but a father’s vanity gauges
