Read A Dangerous Madness for Free Online Page A

only a few’ve been allowed in. Some what come had interesting tales to tell.”
    “Oh?”
    “Chap round here today, name of Hokkirk, said Bellingham’s father was mad. Committed to St. Luke’s. For the barmy ones that go violent, St. Luke’s is. Said the son has taken after the father.” Newman leaned a little closer, and James caught the whiff of porter and beef stew on his breath. “That British Press journalist, Jerdan, he were right pleased to hear what the man had to say ’n all, seeing he believes the prisoner is mad as they come.” He rocked back on his heels and tugged the grey wool of his waistcoat over his pot belly. “Be in the paper tomorrow, no doubt.”
    “No doubt.” James wondered what effect an article like that would have on the current mood of the country.
    From the few minutes he’d spent in Bellingham’s company, he had the sense of someone desperately trying to control himself and his situation. He had felt no hint of violence, except that one moment when he’d spoken the word ‘murder’ and Bellingham had stood.
    Then again, Bellingham had killed a man—the ultimate violence.
    It could well be he had inherited his father’s madness.
    “Do you agree with Jerdan, Mr. Newman?”
    “Rubbish, is what I think. Never seen anyone so ordered and calm. He’s not mad.”
    But mad didn’t mean frantic. There was a disturbing earnestness to Bellingham, an inflexibility under the good manners and the good clothes.
    “Why does Jerdan believe him to be mad?” It was curious that Jerdan was so convinced of his insanity he was visibly pleased to find evidence of it, when everyone else seemed to be looking for reasons to pronounce Bellingham sane.
    “Jerdan were there. When it happened. He were standing right behind the prime minister when he were shot.” Newman shrugged. “Suppose that affects the way he sees things.”
    James gave a nod in agreement. “Anyone else come to see him?”
    Newman shrugged again. “Plenty. The magistrates, the Treasury solicitor, journalists.” He smiled, a thin, wicked drawing up of his lips. “I only let the officials in, though.”
    James pulled the guinea from his pocket and held it out to Newman, who took it in a smooth, practised move.
    He gave another bow and James made his way to the entrance and stepped out, standing on the top step and looking out into the street.
    Jerdan would be a good person to speak to next. Someone who’d witnessed what had happened.
    He was trying to remember the address of the offices of the British Press when he caught a furtive movement from the corner of his eye.
    He turned, and found himself staring, once more, into the dark blue eyes of Miss Hillier.

Chapter Seven

    S he hadn’t seen him go in.
    Phoebe wondered if it had happened when the crowds had gotten a little rowdy, and she had turned her attention to them for a time, or if he’d been inside already when she arrived.
    It didn’t matter.
    He had seen her, and she knew that nothing but at least some of the truth would appease him now.
    He strode toward her, his face stark and guarded, and she was surprised again to see none of the dissolution and decay she would have expected from someone with his reputation.
    “Miss Hillier.” He stopped in front of her, and his brows rose in question.
    “Your Grace.” She gave a flawless curtsy and as she rose again she caught his grimace as her actions attracted the attention of the crowds around them.
    “This is a surprise. To see you here.” His voice was low, neutral, but his eyes were anything but.
    “Likewise.” Phoebe matched his tone.
    He stared at her, surprised, and then gave a short laugh. “ Touché .”
    She couldn’t help the smile his sudden humour brought to her own lips. She schooled her face to blank neutrality again, but the damage had been done.
    “We will talk.” It was not a request.
    “Not here,” she said, lifting a hand as the wind tugged at the hood of her cloak, threatening