“Thirty entire minutes?” Miranda said. “Goodness. I’m so glad you’ve ceased to be so self-indulgent.” She looked at Dalrymple. “He’s down to twenty now.”
Dalrymple was just beginning to warm to his subject. “You have no idea how irritating it was. I would repose the greatest confidences in him. He’d listen intently, kindly even—up until the minute he’d interrupt me mid-sentence to inform me that we’d reached our sentimentality quota for the day, and it was back to Virgil with us.”
Miranda let out a delighted laugh.
“It’s not the least bit amusing,” Dalrymple said. “I didn’t have a sentimentality quota, and I resented being subject to his. In any event, he passed me up in Latin in a few months, and had mastered Greek entirely by the end of the year. So maybe it had some utility.”
“Of course it did,” Smite put in. “My studies benefited, and I limited my indulgence in sentimentality, which is a particularly useless waste of time.”
Miranda laughed. “I like you better and better the more I learn of you,” she said to Smite. “If I could have subjected some of the actresses in my father’s troupe to a sentimentality quota, oh, how easy things would have been.”
That was not how things were supposed to be. After what had been said this evening, she was supposed to shrink from him. Instead, there was a playful lilt to her words, but no smile lingering on her face. He didn’t even need to search his memory to understand. After all, it wasn’t an actress’s temper that came to mind. It was her father who’d needed to limit his sentiment.
She sighed in memory, and Smite reached out and took her hand in his.
“There,” Dalrymple said, pointing. “What’s that? That’s sentiment. I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”
Smite looked at her hand, intertwined with his. He turned it in his grip. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”
“Hush,” Miranda said to Dalrymple. “I’ve found that if you don’t speak of them, he doesn’t count gestures against the quota.”
Smite met her eyes. Quite deliberately, he folded his other hand about hers. “You’ve both got it entirely wrong,” he said. “The sentimentality quota only forbids the tired relation of mawkish particulars. It has never forbidden action. That is the point of it: to channel what would otherwise be endless yammering into firm resolve.”
“Resolve,” Miranda said thoughtfully. “Is that what you’re calling that particular firmness?”
Dalrymple was overtaken by a coughing fit. When he recovered, he said, “I see I’m about to become extraneous.”
“Indeed,” Smite agreed. “Shall I show you out?”
Dalrymple smiled. “Don’t be so eager, Turner.” But this time, there was no insult in his words.
“I DON’T BELIEVE IN doubts.”
Miranda pulled up her knees beside her on the bed. Richard Dalrymple had left hours before; Smite stood at the window looking out over the city. He’d said very little, but by the twitch of his jaw, he seemed at war with himself.
“Everything fits in its place,” he said to the window. “Things are right or they are wrong; and even when matters are confused, there is a thread I can tug on to unravel the entire mess.”
He was arguing with himself, not with her.
Miranda weighed responses and fingered the dark rock weighing down her pocket. “Not everything is courtroom-simple,” she finally said. “Sometimes you tangle yourself. Sometimes you don’t even know you’ve done it until it’s too late. At that point, yanking strings only serves to tighten the noose.”
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 w
ith 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
THERE 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.
IT 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...
But all he said was: “Oh.” He took in her gown—turquoise silk with seed pearls tucked into the seams where the fabric gathered, and matching lace gloves. His eyebrows beetled together in puzzlement.
“The house has newly changed ownership,” Miranda said. “I collect I am not who you expected.”
But the man didn’t make his apologies. “I know,” he said. “About the house. And the ownership. That’s why I came.” He gave her another curious look. “This is a devil of an awkward question. But…are you by any chance married to my brother?”
Miranda felt her mouth dry.
“You see, my solicitor sent me a note that after nearly a decade of Spartan quarters, my brother had finally purchased a house that was suitable to his station. I decided to investigate forthwith. I had thought—”
Somewhere, some book of etiquette dealt with this situation—what to do when your lover’s brother asked if you’d recently married. But if it did, Miranda had never seen it. She choked back nervous laughter.
“I think we’d better start this again.” He gave her a bow. “If you’re married to my brother, you’d better call me Ash.”
If he could have seen the stockings she wore under her gown, the improper red ribbons she’d tied as garters, he’d have known instantly. “I’d better call you ‘Your Grace,’” Miranda said, as calmly as she dared.
“Ah.” He looked down. “Well. This is even more awkward.” He didn’t seem discomfited. He strolled to a chair and stood behind it, as if waiting for an invitation to make himself at home.
Miranda frowned. “Do you really think your brother would get married and not inform you?”
“Yes,” he said instantly. “How well do you know him?”
“Well enough to know he wouldn’t.” She paused, waited for him to open his mouth to argue, before she spoke again. “He wouldn’t marry at all,” she added.