Unraveled (25 page)

She could feel the wax against her fingers.

He turned back to her, a quizzical expression on his face. “The noose?”

“The knots,” she amended.

He turned away, not noticing her own confusion. “But if I have to imagine how Richard Dalrymple felt all those years, must I also think like a drunkard? A murderer? Am I supposed to find compassion in me for every benighted criminal?”

She was marked as one herself. She’d never stolen, never killed anyone. She’d never done anything truly criminal at the Patron’s behest. Still, she didn’t think he’d muster up any great respect for her past life.

But he shook his head, rejecting her argument before she could form it. “No,” he said. “That would make a hash of morality. We’d excuse murder and mayhem. There must be a limit.”

“You are very good at drawing limits,” Miranda said.

He must have caught that hint of bitterness in her tone because he stopped mid-pace and cocked his head. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

She let out a breath. “Only this, then. One day I’ll be wrong. I don’t know when it will be. But it will happen. And when it does, I don’t think you’ll have any warmth for me.”

He didn’t contradict her. She’d been half hoping for that.

“Miranda Darling,” he said. The words came out slowly.

“Is that Miranda, comma, darling, or—”

“Miranda Darling,” he repeated without clarification, “I wish I could tell you otherwise. But I am not a warm person. I’m not the sort who dithers.”

“If it were me, wouldn’t you dither just a little bit?”

He didn’t even have to think. “No.” But then he laid his hand on her cheek. “I don’t dither for myself, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Not even for Richard Dalrymple?”

He gave her a grim smile. “You may not believe this, but we were once good friends. I met him when I first came to Eton, which was not the easiest time in my life.”

“Jonas didn’t much like Eton, either,” Miranda offered.

Smite paused. “Actually,” he continued in more normal tones, “that was precisely the problem. Eton
was
the easiest time in my life. I had survived my mother’s madness. From there, I’d run to the streets of Bristol. Then my eldest brother came home, fabulously wealthy, and all at once, instead of scraping for bread and fighting for my younger brother’s virtue, my challenges were reduced to the conjugation of verbs. I had been too busy surviving to actually take notice of how horrid things were. At Eton, it all caught up with me. I...” He took a deep breath, looked away from Miranda. “I had nightmares. Horrible nightmares. And inexplicable fits of weeping. It was awful.”

“It couldn’t have been as bad as all that.”

He exhaled. “It was,” he said bluntly. “Nobody needed me for anything any longer, and so I fell apart. That’s when I met Dalrymple. He had just discovered that he was...different. He needed someone to lean on. So I came up with a sentimentality quota. There isn’t any need for doubt. There isn’t any room for dithering. I don’t like this fussing about.”

She could think of a hundred responses to that. But he was arguing with himself more effectively than she ever could.

“For one second, tonight,” he said, “I saw how things must have seemed to him. He wasn’t right. He was completely wrong. There was no excuse for the things he did…” Smite sighed, staring off into the distance. “No. Enough with this dithering. I’m not doubting; I’m being too kind to myself. He would not have done those things if I’d had an ounce of compassion for his situation.” He grimaced. “I
knew
he thought I’d tell. I didn’t bother to correct him.”

“Are you sorry I asked him back here?” Miranda asked.

He didn’t answer that. He simply turned from the window to look at her. “Miranda Darling,” he said. And then he crossed the room and sat beside her.

There had been a comma-like pause between
Miranda
and
Darling
—the closest he ever came to an endearment. She wasn’t sure why a hint of bittersweet invaded his voice at that, why his breath grew just a little ragged. She only knew that he pulled her close, that she felt the whisper of warm air against her forehead.

He held her for a few moments longer, his arms tight bands around her. And then he disengaged, turning from her.

She didn’t know what men typically did with their mistresses, but she wanted to hold him longer. To feel the warmth of him next to her throughout the night. She didn’t want him going home alone to a cold bed.

But he never stayed.

“Smite,” she said softly. She reached for his hand. The grip of her fingers about his was all the entreaty she dared to make.

His other hand found hers. He squeezed her fingers—not hard, but just enough to communicate. When he let go and moved away, it was all the answer she needed.

No.

Miranda wasn’t foolish. She had more of him than any woman had in the past. Quite possibly more than any woman ever would. He gave a part of himself over to her that he didn’t show to anyone else, and she treasured it. Nonetheless, it hurt to have so little. A few hours every day; not even a night’s worth. It was foolish to want more when he’d told her that was all he could give.

He’d also told her he would have her for a month. The days were slipping past too quickly. What would happen when he came to the end of her? Perhaps that month he’d allotted had not been some initial period to determine if they’d suit. Maybe he’d simply given himself a Miranda quota. When he came to the end of those days, would he cut her off as ruthlessly as he cut off all other sentiment?

No use getting exercised over something that hadn’t yet happened. She stared at his silhouette.

No, she vowed. He wouldn’t set her aside so easily. She wouldn’t let him.

Chapter Fifteen

T
HERE WAS NO ROOM
for doubt in Smite’s duties. But his arrangement with Miranda had infected him with uncertainty. Last night’s questions had followed him into today’s hearing room. He sat, arrayed in black under an itchy wig, and stared in front of him in dismay.

The defendant, a hard-eyed woman with stringy blond hair, was charged with public obscenity. Specifically, Mrs. Grimson had been accused of shouting, “I hope your stones shrivel up and rot off, you bloody bastard,” in a public square.

There was no question as to her guilt. Everyone had heard her, and she’d admitted to uttering the words in question. It should have been a five-second discussion.

And yet, when he thought of Dalrymple, what had once been simple became all too complex.

“Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it?”

There was no element of
why
in the inquiry.

Mrs. Grimson scowled at him. “Are you simple?” she demanded. “I said it ’cause I hoped his stones would—”

“No need to repeat it,” the mayor interjected hastily. “Really. Does it matter?”

Not to the law, it didn’t. But now that Smite had found doubt, he could not dispel it. Every crime, even one as simple as this, seemed suddenly shaded about by circumstance. What if she’d been provoked? What if the man had groped her? It wouldn’t excuse the conduct—the law was clear on that point. No matter how angry she’d been, she couldn’t utter obscenities so blithely in a public place.

He found himself persisting. “Why did you hope it?”

“Because he ran into me,” Mrs. Grimson said sullenly. “And because he had an ugly face.”

Smite let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Guilty,” he said.

But even that didn’t stop his mind running. When the day’s work was over, he followed his fellow magistrates into the back room.

“You’re getting even more particular,” the mayor said. “Asking questions. Wanting to know details that can’t possibly matter. What’s got into you, then?”

Smite handed his robes off to Palter. “It’s a passing fancy.”

“Lady Justice must be giving you quite the ride.” A raised, leering eyebrow shaded the otherwise innocent statement with something sordid.

Smite gritted his teeth and turned away.

“Something’s putting color in your cheeks,” the mayor continued. “And here I’d thought that if you ever took a mistress, it would make you
more
willing to skip over details, so that you could run back and ride her once more.”

Smite moved in front of the man so quickly, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing. He held his hand up, and the other man stopped and took a step back.

“Never talk about her that way again,” he heard himself growling.

“What? There
is
someone?” The mayor let out a loud guffaw. “Oh, that’s famous. It explains your extra attention today. You don’t want Lady Justice getting jealous, so you’re sending her extra trinkets. This other woman… When you’re done with her, let me know. She must be—” the man mimed bosoms, melon-large, with his hands “—if she’s distracting even you.”

Smite reached out, and tangled his hands in the other man’s lapels. “Don’t talk about her that way,” he repeated.

The mayor stopped, looked down at Smite’s grip on his shirt. He took a deep breath. “Ahh,” he said. “I see. A lady, then.”

She wasn’t, not in any usual sense of the word. Still, he found himself nodding in agreement. He was finding doubts everywhere these days.

“That’s difficult,” the mayor said, giving him a condescending pat on the shoulder.

Smite jerked away.

I
T WAS NOT YET
six when Miranda heard the door open several floors beneath her.

Smite was earlier than usual. In fact, in the first week of their arrangement, he’d never been so early. Her maid was still dressing her for his arrival. When she pulled away, Betsy murmured in protest.

Light footsteps ascended the stairs—too light to be his, and besides, Ghost had taken to bounding up before his master and greeting her, and she didn’t hear the click of his claws against the wood floors.

A scratch on her door, and the housekeeper ducked her head in. “There’s a man here.”

“A man? You can’t mean Mr. Turner, then?”

“No, it’s not His Worship. But he’s asking for the master of the house. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

“Did he give you a card? Is he waiting outside?”

Behind her, Betsy gave a final tug on the laces of her gown, and Miranda turned.

“He’s waiting in the parlor.” Mrs. Tiggard gave her an apologetic look. “He just... I opened the door, and he walked in as if he owned the place. He doesn’t look like the sort of man who would easily shoo.”

A brief panic took Miranda. The Patron would not so brazenly send someone to confront her, would he? No—not and ask for the master of the house. And besides, the sort of man connected with the Patron wouldn’t have been able to cow Mrs. Tiggard.

“Maybe he knew the previous owner.”

By Mrs. Tiggard’s sheepish look, she obviously hoped Miranda would oust the man.

Miranda shook her head. “Betsy, are we done?”

“Not quite, ma’am.”

Miranda needed her sash tied and a few errant curls tucked away. Betsy found her a shawl for her shoulders—“Makes you look more imposing, miss,” she explained.

But even those tasks took only a few minutes. No more delay was possible. Miranda left her dressing room, walked down two flights of stairs, and entered the parlor. The man had his back to her; he was tall and broad. He was wearing a thick, sable topcoat, and his boots were polished to a shine.
Not
an emissary from the Patron, but almost as frightening. This man was wealthy and important, and no doubt he could cause her trouble.

He must have heard her footsteps, but he didn’t turn. Instead, he was examining the wall-clock.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “You never used to take so long to dress.”

There was something wrong with his accent. It was
almost
right—like a piano that had only one note out of tune. She could usually hear Eton or Harrow or Rugby on most wealthy men’s tongues. That subtle boyhood influence left its mark like indelible ink. But this man wasn’t marked. He hadn’t gone to public school.

He sighed. “And that’s the welcome I get, is it?” He turned around, and then stopped when he saw her. His eyes widened. There was something familiar in his features—that dark hair, that nose...