“True. So you’re his mistress, then?”
Of course a duke would be comfortable with the notion.
No point in dissembling. “Yes.”
He sat down. “Is he well? Is he happy? What is he doing these days?”
“I don’t know that he would want me giving out private information.”
The Duke of Parford winced. “Damn. He’s already infected you with his peculiar brand of reticence.”
“Reticent?” she said in surprise. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve found him extraordinarily forthcoming.”
“Really? Are you…no. You’re not joking.” He stared at her as if she were some kind of a strange beast, and she found herself bristling.
“You’d better call me Ash in any event,” he finally said. “And now I can’t decide if I was right to leave my wife behind for this interview or not.” He studied her face for a moment and then shook his head. “Next you’ll be telling me that pigs fly, and he has Richard Dalrymple over for tea.”
“Brandy,” Miranda replied. “It was brandy, not tea.”
The duke’s countenance shifted. “Was it, then?” That last came out quietly, but his face darkened.
Before he could say anything else, the door opened once more. This time, claws skittered against the floor. Ghost bounded in and barked at Miranda; he made a second circuit about the Duke of Parford and barked again. She reached down to pet him, just as Smite walked into the room.
The two brothers ought to have embraced, or at least clasped hands. Instead, they simply stared at one another.
“Ash,” Smite finally said. “I see you’ve acquainted yourself with Miss Darling. What are you doing here? And why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“Oh, I have to hire criers to get any sort of welcome?” Parford rubbed his forehead. “Have it your way. I’ll be off. I can see when I’m unwanted.”
Smite frowned in puzzlement. “I implied you were unannounced. I did not say you were unwanted.”
The duke turned to him. “You don’t need to say it. All this time, you’ve told me that you won’t come to Parford Manor when my brother-in-law is about because the two of you have some quarrel you can’t sort out. But now I hear that you took brandy with Richard, of all people. Was it all just a ruse, then?”
“Oh, I objected to Dalrymple’s company,” Smite snapped, drawing himself up. “But what the devil do you mean, complaining of that? You’re always harping on me to give him a chance.”
“Couldn’t you have given him a chance last summer, when all the family was together?” The duke’s knuckles clenched. “I’ve been telling myself that it means nothing when you decline my invitations, that it isn’t me, it’s your quarrel with Richard. Obviously, that tale you gave me was a pack of lies.”
Miranda winced, and Smite stiffened. “I don’t lie.”
Parford must have sensed that he’d gone too far. He sighed. “You could try explaining matters to me. I have to hear everything from Mark. It…it hurts, a little, that you can tell Mark what the matter is and not mention it to me. I’m your brother, too.”
Smite shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t tell Mark. I never have to explain anything to Mark. He, unlike you, was present when everything relevant occurred.”
Parford flinched. “It’s down to that again? Will you ever forgive me for absenting myself when you needed me?”
“Needed you?” Smite snapped. “That’s always the problem. I’ve never needed you.”
“Oh, bollocks. You just shove everything I try to give you back in my face. All I want is to be a brother to you. Is it so hard?”
They’d forgot about her. They circled each other now, tense and wary as wolves, looking for a weakness in the other.
“You want me to be dependent on you,” Smite said. “You’ve always resented that Mark comes to me first when something is wrong.”
“I do not!”
“You do. When we were young, Mark would always go to you, and you would make things right.”
The duke paused. “I’d forgot that.”
“Then Hope died, and you left. And I became the one who protected Mark. I made sure he had enough to eat. I kept Mother’s eye from falling on him. I took it upon myself to make sure that she never, ever hurt him the way she hurt us. It was too late when you returned. Mark is mine, and there is nothing you can do about it. Don’t pretend this is about my failings, Ash. You’ve resented me since Mark first turned to me instead of you. You can’t stand that I took your place.”
There was a long pause. Then: “Mark is yours?” the duke asked.
There was a pregnant silence. Smite put his hand over his face and shook his head.
Miranda didn’t understand any of what she’d just heard. But there was one thing she especially didn’t understand. “Who is Hope?” she asked.
The way the two looked to each other, she feared the worst. He’d had a wife, or a sweetheart—but no. He’d been eight years old when his brother left. Far too young to be considering such matters.
Parford was the one who answered. “Hasn’t he mentioned her, then? Hope is—was—our sister. She passed away decades ago.”
Smite turned away. “Hope is your sister.” His voice shook. “She’s my twin.”
And on that pronouncement, he left the room.
“Well,” Miranda said. “That went...” She couldn’t think of a word sufficiently calamitous.
Parford stared after his brother. “It always does,” he sighed. “Tell him—no, never mind supper tomorrow; Richard will be over. And the day after, I’ve a meeting...” The man sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. The gesture looked so akin to something Smite might do, she frowned at him. “Tell him that I’d love to have his company two days from now. For tea. Conversation. Surely he can manage a few hours.” He glanced at her. “I wish to God he’d married you.”
“He would be ostracized,” she said in shock.
“Indeed.” Parford shrugged, and that faint hint of sarcasm in his voice seemed like a pale echo of Smite. “Because he isn’t now.”
SMITE COULD HEAR HIS brother leave, could hear Miranda’s soft footsteps trudging up the stairs. His head pounded. He didn’t know what to say to her.
So, he imagined her saying, you have a dead twin sister. Odd that you never mentioned her before now.
So. Care to explain why you claimed ownership of your younger brother?
Instead, she entered the room quietly and came to stand next to him by the window. She didn’t touch him, which almost made him cringe more—she’d learned that when he was upset, he couldn’t bear to have skin-to-skin contact.
“So,” she said softly.
He flinched.
“Did your mother kill Hope the way she almost killed you?”
He shook his head. “Different. Infected rat bite.” That was all he could manage. He took another deep breath. “My mother wouldn’t let her be treated. She told Hope when she became ill that the heat of her fever was the fires of hell, come to claim her.”
“What a terrible thing to say to her own daughter. If Hope was anything like you—”
“She wasn’t,” Smite interrupted. “She was a hellion. In her own way, she was worse than Ash. She was forever getting me into trouble. I was forever holding her back. Don’t give me that look. You’re giving me that look that says, ‘Oh, a twin.’ I know what people say about twins. She wasn’t the other half of my soul or any other such ridiculous claptrap. We were never in perfect sympathy. We had the most magnificent rows. The only time we weren’t fighting with each other was when we were fighting with someone who was trying to separate us. We never shared a secret language. Hell. Sometimes I wondered if we both spoke English, as I never understood her.” He glanced at Miranda. “If she’d lived, I would never have introduced the two of you. It would have been a disaster. She wouldn’t have simply stolen into the box at the opera with you; she’d have convinced you to do some other horrific thing to
draw attention.” He sighed. “After she died, nothing ever seemed fun again.”
“Shocking,” Miranda said. “After that, you had only to keep your brother safe from your mother’s madness, escape a cellar, dodge a few floods, and frolic about the streets of Bristol. What could be more amusing?”
She soothed some deep, wary part of him. He reached out and took her hand. “I don’t believe I would like you half so well if you weren’t sarcastic.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t like by halves. You don’t have casual acquaintances and people you hold in mild distaste; you have best friends and bitter enemies. You don’t have an occupation that takes up the daylight hours; you have a calling that requires that you devote your entire life to it.”
“True,” he said.
“Have you ever considered doing things in smaller portions? You don’t have to give your brother your undying and unconditional affection; you just have to enjoy his company from time to time. You don’t have to exonerate your brother-in-law of all harm. You just have to tolerate his presence.”
“You make it all sound so reasonable.”
“Only because you’re unreasonable in the first place.”
“I am not,” he protested.
She folded her arms around him. “Yes, you are. You can’t even be sentimental by quarters, and so you’ve apportioned it off to a specific time. You’re utterly unreasonable.”
He was silent for a little while longer. “Are you…are you doing me by quarters, then?” He spoke in a casual tone of voice, as if the question were scarcely of interest. Still, he felt himself holding his breath.
“No,” she said. “You know I’m not. I don’t believe anyone can do you by quarters, no matter how hard she might try.”
“Good.” He leaned into her and inhaled her scent. In truth, he feared he’d taken on too much of her.
But she gave him a brilliant smile. “I’m giving you at least thirty-seven percent.”
Chapter Sixteen
“APPARENTLY,” MRS. TIGGARD SAID on the next morning, “there’s a new fashion in mystery. Last night it was an unannounced gentleman. Today, a boy brought this by.”
Miranda turned to see her housekeeper holding out a single envelope.
There was no name stamped on the paper, no card attached, and no return direction. She took the envelope, turned it over, and then tore it open.
A sheet of paper was inside. The writing on it was thin and spidery. Portions had been crossed out, but the import was clear enough.
The Patron is pleased to hear that you have influence over Lord Justice. He imagines Lord Justice would be simmarlly interested in your prior activities. If you want to keep your seeckrits, you know what you must do. Our arranjemint is not over.
Miranda hadn’t responded to the stone left on her doorstep. She’d been trying not to think of it ever since. But now the threat had grown to include blackmail. Miranda didn’t know what Smite would do if he heard about the three years of favors she’d granted the Patron—guards she’d flirted with, constables she’d distracted so that the Patron’s men might evade detection.
Mrs. Tiggard was watching her, so she flipped the paper closed.
“It’s from an old friend,” Miranda said. “One I haven’t heard from in a good long while. She wants me to do her a favor.”
Mrs. Tiggard sighed. “Isn’t that always the way? You never hear from them except when they need you.”
Turner no doubt suspected she’d not kept her hands entirely clean, but he’d hardly want to be confronted with a detailed list of her crimes. She knew how straitlaced he could be about such matters—and how unforgiving he was. She didn’t want to see the light fade from his eyes when he looked at her.
She could manage this on her own. It would be simple. She’d go to Temple Church… She’d find out what the Patron wanted. Maybe she’d even do it. Smite would be gone all day. He would never have to know.
Unbidden, the memory returned of her last time in Temple Church. The Patron had wanted information. He’d obtained it; he’d discovered that she cared enough for Robbie that she’d revisit the rules she’d originally set. The Patron might not be angling after control over Lord Justice. But information?
The Patron wanted to know if he could make her do his bidding.
Miranda hadn’t so much as thought of gruel since she came here. Robbie was happy, situated in his new apprenticeship. She’d seen him on his half-day, and they’d not even argued once.
She’d forgotten the weight of her responsibilities. But she hadn’t rid herself of them. She’d only misplaced them.
She could take care of this on her own.
She shut her eyes and imagined what Jeremy would say. You are going to get yourself killed. Smite had asked for very little in exchange for this bargain, but he’d wanted honesty and fidelity. She suspected he would rather she engaged in intimacies with another man than perform a favor, however innocent, for a known criminal.
If she were someone else… But no. She wasn’t.
Smite had bought her gowns and paid for lemon cakes, but she’d bargained for those things. She’d not bargained for his forbearance. She couldn’t pay him for it, and she didn’t know if she could ask for a favor she couldn’t repay.
Her hands trembled, and she stared blankly at the wall.
Independence was all well and good when it was only dinner on the line. But if she didn’t learn to live with this, it would surely kill her. And so, instead of dashing off to Temple Church, she went to her desk and wrote a single word. She sanded the paper, tucked it into an envelope, and addressed it. After some thought, she searched until she found the dark stone that had been left on her doorstep a few nights past. These things she handed to her maid, to be delivered to Temple Church.
IT HAD BECOME A foregone conclusion that, instead of heading to his own home after work, Smite would go to Miranda’s. It was a foregone conclusion that he’d spend the evening in her company—reading, talking…making love to her. It was almost enough to make a man think sentimental thoughts.
Almost.
He smiled privately at that, and tried not to think of the passage of time. Surely, by the end of the month…
No. No. He was definitely better off not thinking about it.
He let himself in by means of the front door. One of the maids was dusting bric-a-brac on the curio shelf in the parlor. She ducked her head at him. Miranda didn’t call out in greeting, though. He let Ghost off his lead.
“Well,” he said softly. “What are you waiting for? Go find her.”
The dog looked up at him, sniffed the ground, and then trotted off. After a few false starts, Ghost clambered up the stairs. But the dog barely sniffed at the door of the sitting room. Smite was just beginning to wonder if she was out—but surely the maid would have said something?—when Ghost paused at the threshold of the library and waved his tail happily. Smite peered around the door.
Miranda was poring intently over a book, making notes on a sheet of paper as she read. She was wearing a light green gown of muslin, embroidered in little white flowers. She’d managed to spatter droplets of ink on the lace of the cuffs, though, and her fingertips were stained black. Rationally, she hadn’t become prettier over the course of their arrangement. Subjectively…well.
She leaned forward and scratched something on a piece of paper, and then gingerly turned the page of the book. Ghost chose that moment to scamper toward her and thrust his nose in her lap. She reached down, idly, to pat Ghost—using the flat of her palm to avoid getting ink on him. Then she set down her pen and looked up.
As always, he realized how much he’d missed her when she lit up at his presence. Her eyes were green and mobile, and filled with a spark that made him think she was amused.
But he didn’t say anything so ridiculously maudlin.
“What is it that has you so engrossed?” He walked forward and tipped back the book so he could read the spine. “Investment on Real Securities,”
he read in bemusement. “I didn’t know you invested.”
She rubbed her ink-stained fingers against a cloth. “I don’t. Not yet. But…after, I won’t be able to return to Temple Parish. I’ll need to find some way to get a decent return on my investment.”
“After,” he repeated stupidly.
“I don’t think I can stay in Bristol, either,” she was saying. “I’m not sure where I’ll go. Up north is too cold. Bath is too close. But—here—” She thrust a piece of paper at him. “There’s this scheme for transporting coal from the midlands via canal.”
“Miranda, what are you talking about?”
“After you’re done with me,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I can’t stay here. You see, I received this piece of blackmail today, and it got me thinking about what I was to do. I have to take care of myself, so—”
“Wait.” Smite set his hands on her shoulders and leaned in. “What the devil do you mean, you received a piece of blackmail today? I should think that you ought to lead with that, and not babble on about shares in some canal venture and how I’m going to be done with you.”
She looked up into his eyes, her own sparkling brilliantly up at him. “Yes,” she said, her voice almost breathy. “Do that again?”
“Do what?”
“That—that thing. With your eyebrows. And leaning over me, your voice cold as stone. I love it when you try to intimidate me.”
“I’m not—damn it, Miranda. Stop trying to distract me. The blackmail.”
She gave him a negligent wave of her hand. “Well, that’s important, too. Still, if you insist.” She sounded grudging, as if the matter of blackmail were a mere trifle. “I was sent a threatening little note today, saying that he would tell you about all the things I had done if I did not agree to meet with him.”
“He.” Smite rubbed at his forehead. “When you say ‘he,’ you are referring to the Patron?”
Her breath sucked in. “You know of him?”
He knew only what he’d overheard of her conversation with Robbie. But he waved his hand at her. “Obviously, you’ve not done anything that you need to be concerned about.”