Nobody said anything, so she kept her eyes on the floor. How many people had stood here like this, hoping for the best? A bead of sweat collected on her forehead. After a few moments—seconds really, although it felt an age—she dared to lift her eyes.
Lord Justice watched her, unblinking, one hand on his chin. If there’d been a hint of softness in his manner toward Widdy, it had evaporated at her appearance. Next to him, his colleague frowned in puzzlement.
It would be a mistake to let the stretching silence drive her to speak. That way lay babbling, and too much revelation altogether. She dropped her chin and contemplated the floor instead.
Lord Justice spoke first. “You saw the entire thing.” It wasn’t quite a question, the way he said it. Still, she bobbed her head in response.
Beside her, the clerk shuffled his feet. “Should she be sworn in?”
Lord Justice gave a negative wave of his hand. “What is your name?”
“Whitaker,” Miranda said. “Miss Daisy Whitaker.”
Her day-gown was serviceable muslin, one that a countrified girl might wear. He’d already taken note of her accent. He glanced to either side of her, and then scanned the room before raising one eyebrow.
“You are here unaccompanied,” he commented.
“My father is a farmer. A gentleman farmer. He’s here for market, and brought me along to town. It’s my first time.” Miranda ducked her head. “I didn’t think it was wrong to come. Was it?” She glanced up once more through darkened lashes, and willed him to see a headstrong girl from Somerset. Someone not used to being chaperoned at all times. Someone who might walk through fields by herself at home. She wanted him to see a foolish chit, so innocent that she believed going out alone in the city was no different than traipsing down a dusty lane.
“I had to come,” she added softly. “He was just a child, Your Worship.”
Lord Justice examined her a minute longer—as if she were a mouse, and he the owl about to swoop down and gobble her whole. “Where do you and your father stay?”
“The Lamb Inn.”
His gaze cut away from her. “Mr. Pathington, in what manner did Master Widdy remove the loaf of bread from your premises?”
The baker who’d made the accusation jerked his head up. “I—well—that is to say, I did not precisely see him take it. But there was no one else about. I saw him; I turned away for the barest of instants. I turned back, and the loaf was gone. Who else could it have been?”
Lord Justice tapped his fingers against the bench. “Precisely how bare was your instant?”
“Pardon?”
“Estimate how long you stood with your back turned. What were you doing?”
“Counting change for a half-crown, Your Worship.”
Magistrate Turner looked up and away, as if in calculation. “As much as a half-minute, then. You want me to punish this boy, who had no bread on him when he was apprehended, because you did not watch your storefront?”
Pathington flushed red. “Well, Your Worship, I wouldn’t put it precisely like that—”
Lord Justice turned to face the other magistrates. “In my opinion, the charges have not been proven. Gentlemen?”
“Here now,” the mayor said, “Miss…uh, the miss over here has not delivered her testimony.”
Turner’s lips compressed. “No,” he said shortly. “But there is no need to hear it, as it is duplicative of what we can determine by reason. The lady—” he glanced sharply at Miranda “—need not expose herself.”
“You cannot be serious, Turner. Maybe the boy didn’t steal this particular loaf of bread,” the mayor said. “But surely he is guilty of something. Skulking about bakeries, carrying billy-dos. We can’t just let him go.”
Lord Justice turned to the mayor. Miranda had that sensation once again—that he could have been on a stage, so clever was his timing.
“How curious,” he finally offered. “Here I thought our duty was to decide if the charges before us could be proven. I recall the indictment most particularly, and yet I don’t remember seeing this boy charged with the illegal carrying of letters.”
The mayor flushed and looked away. “Suit yourself, Turner. If you insist on letting the rabble run free, I suppose I can’t stop you.”
A small smile touched Lord Justice’s lips. “You heard the man. Master Widdy, you are free to go.”
Miranda held her shoulders high, not daring to gasp. Still, relief flooded through her. Thank God. He’d not seen through her. This time, she’d scarcely had to talk with him. She’d survived. She felt as if she’d landed that double backflip atop a moving horse, and she could not keep from grinning.
But just as the babble in the room was beginning to grow, Lord Justice held up one hand.
“Miss…” He paused. “Whitaker, you said?” His lip curled.
Miranda’s apprehension returned in full force. “Yes, Your Worship?”
“The Lamb Inn is through the market. A woman shouldn’t walk down those mobbed streets unaccompanied. There are cutpurses loose. And worse.”
“If I leave now, Your Worship, I’ll be back before my father returns.”
He drummed his fingers against the oak bench. “I’ll see you to your lodgings, if you’ll wait a few minutes in the anteroom.”
Oh God. What a ghastly proposition. “Your Worship. I sh-shouldn’t take you from your duties.”
He sighed. “We are in complete accord on that point. Nevertheless.”
Before she had a chance to argue, he signaled and the clerk struck the gavel. The waiting crowd rose to its feet, and the magistrates stood as well. Miranda wanted to run. She wanted to shriek. But she didn’t dare draw attention to herself—not here, not with constables and magistrates both close by.
The clerk hopped to his feet and ran to open the rear door. The other judges turned and marched out of the room, one in front of the other.
Turner was the last of the three to leave, his black robe swirling about him as if he were some kind of dark angel. But the clerk held the door open even after Lord Justice passed through, as if waiting for one last judge. And sure enough, from under the bench, a dog pushed to its feet and headed for the door. Miranda hadn’t seen it before; it must have lain quietly on the floor for the duration of the session.
The animal, a bit higher than her knee, was a mass of gray-and-white fur. It followed on Turner’s heels, as stately and ageless as its master. It paused when it reached the doorway, and looked back. She couldn’t even see its eyes through all that fur. Still, it felt as if the creature were marking Miranda, ordering her to wait until Lord Justice could see to her. She shivered, once, and the creature turned away.
Just her imagination.
And just her luck that His Worship had chosen today to show a gallant streak. She could not let him accompany her. There was no gentleman farmer, no comfortable inn. There was nothing but her cold garret waiting, and if he knew that the shining blond ringlets on her head were a wig, and her gown a costume…
Miranda swallowed. She didn’t need justice. She needed to get out of the room—and fast.
Chapter Two
THERE WERE TIMES WHEN Smite Turner disliked his Christian name. And then there were times when it felt all too appropriate. Today, it seemed, was one of the latter occasions. As soon as the door shut on the hearing room, he sprang into action. Step one was to divest himself of his robe; that was accomplished in one fluid motion. After all, if his suspicions were correct—and they usually were—he had only seconds to act. He threw the dark, heavy wool in a careless heap to the side, and spun around.
His coat wasn’t on his desk where he’d left it.
“Palter,” he swore, “What have you done with my greatcoat? I’ve got to get out of here now.”
“See?” the mayor muttered to Clark, the other magistrate, in tones not quite low enough to escape Smite’s notice. “Now he’s in a tearing hurry. I’ll never make sense of the man.”
Smite ignored his colleagues, an
d instead removed his uncomfortable wig. Palter appeared behind him, advancing at a rate that would have been better suited to an octogenarian on the brink of permanent decline rather than a spry young clerk in his thirties.
“Your Worship,” the man said. He spoke as slowly as he walked. “I was brushing your coat. It was covered in dog fur.” Palter cast an accusing glance behind Smite as he spoke. But the object of Palter’s scorn had embarked on a vigorous campaign of ear-scratching, and took no notice.
“Never mind that.” Smite held out his hand. “I need it. Now.”
She’d called herself Daisy Whitaker this time. Nobody else would have made the connection—they’d have been blinded by the perfectly arranged blond hair, the well-made walking dress. But when she’d stood, she’d glanced warily from side to side as if she felt unsafe in her surroundings. Her eyelashes had been darkened. And her wrists… No gentleman farmer’s daughter had wrists so thin. Poor fare at the dinner table showed first on the wrists.
“You know how I feel about your going out covered in gray hairs.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he took in Smite’s shirtsleeves. “Your Worship. Never tell me you went out in the hearing room, not wearing a coat under your robe.”
Smite simply stared at him. “That robe is blazing hot,” he said. “Nobody can see beneath it. And my attire really is my own concern, and none of yours. Now where is my greatcoat?”
Palter was supposed to be just his clerk—a fellow who looked up legal precedents, when such were needed, who took dictation and handled the more laborious paperwork that arose. But within a few days of work, he’d appointed himself Smite’s valet-in-residence at the Council House. He’d made himself utterly indispensable on all fronts. That only meant that when Smite wanted him dispensed with, he was damned inconvenient.
“I heard what you said out there.” Palter strolled to the far side of the room once more, leisurely as you please. “Think about the dignity of your station. You ought to wear a coat to talk to an innocent miss.”
Innocent. Ha.
Everyone else had been fooled. But for years, Smite had been blessed with a superior memory. He had an eye for face and color, an ear for words. He remembered conversations that had taken place decades in the past. He could recall the precise shape of the brooch his mother had worn to his sister’s funeral.
And so it had taken only a few seconds to recognize the supposed Miss Whitaker. The last time he’d seen her, she’d had orange hair and freckles. She’d been wearing a simple frock of dark green, matching brilliant eyes that she had been unable to conceal now. She’d given a different name, too. It had been a year since that first encounter, but he’d thought he’d seen her more than once, dressed differently each time.
He didn’t know what she was up to, but he didn’t like it, and he was going to make her stop.
Across the room, his man opened a wardrobe and pulled out the missing coat.
“I see no reason to elevate my dignity to the level of pomposity.” Smite crossed the room in three quick strides, and took the garment. “In my experience, dignity naturally follows competence. I’ll look after my work, and trust my dignity to take care of itself.”
“Your Worship, you’ve got powder on the coat now,” Palter accused. “You could spare a half-minute for dignity. The girl will wait.” His clerk handed over a pair of gloves, which Smite jammed in his coat pocket.
A liar who had been prepared to commit bald-faced perjury? Unlikely she’d still be around. Smite simply shook his head and strode to the door. But retrieving the coat had been a cue: Ghost instantly perked up and moved to the door, a silent shadow. The dog looked up in entreaty. Liquid brown eyes begged: Take me with you. I’ll be good.
Oh, the lies that dogs told.
“Ghost,” Smite commanded, “you will stay.”
The dog let out a faint huff of protest. Palter, by contrast, made a muffled, choking sound in response.
Smite turned and raised an eyebrow. “Do cheer up, Palter. I took him for a long walk this morning. He shouldn’t careen off the walls more than five, six…” Smite paused and looked at Ghost. The dog watched, his paws practically quivering in frustrated want. “Maybe seven thousand times,” he finished.
Ghost sat as still as an animal scarcely out of puppyhood could manage. The expression on his face was deeply earnest.
“Ghost. Do listen. In the event that I need a squirrel brought to justice, I will go to you first. Until then…” He adopted his harshest tone. “Behave in my absence, or you will pay the consequences when I return.”
“Your Worship.” Palter’s voice trailed off plaintively.
“Keep the dog in,” Smite advised. “I don’t need him following me.” The last thing he saw as he stepped outside was Palter ducking his head in acquiescence.
Turner pulled the door shut behind him, stepping out into a larger hall. His footsteps echoed on the wood floor. A few laborers were dawdling in the antechamber, but Miss Whitaker—or Miss Darling, as she’d called herself the first time he’d seen her—was not present in any of her incarnations. Damn Palter, for robbing him of those extra seconds. Still, it had not been so long. She couldn’t have gone far.
Smite headed out the main door.
The Council House stood just behind him. High Street was crowded, faces shielded from view by hats and umbrellas and cloaks drawn tight about figures. It was, after all, raining. Nothing but a determined drizzle, but still, it was enough that he tamped down a frisson of unease.
Stop coddling yourself, Turner. Sugar melts; you’ll survive.
Instead, he crossed the street to stand in front of All Saints Church, and concentrated on the crowds about him. He was looking for a young woman, and he couldn’t depend upon the color of her hair or the style of her gown. She’d been disguised in the courtroom; she could be again. He was looking for how, not what.
He found his how a few seconds later. She ducked out of an alley, now dressed in a shabby cloak more appropriate to a serving girl. She glanced from one end of the street to the other with that telltale wariness.
He couldn’t say what it was about her that made him know she was the one. Her hair, whatever color it actually was, was hidden beneath a massive straw bonnet. She started down the street, and then glanced over her shoulder, toward the building beside the Council House. Where Smite was supposed to have met her.
She didn’t see him standing across the street.
He began to walk toward her. He’d left his hat—Palter would rant about it when he returned—and the rain plastered his hair uncomfortably to his head.
But before he reached her, she started off, her strides now swift and purposeful. He was taller, but he made little headway. She darted through the crowds with a determined agility. He followed her down one crowded cobblestone street, past a market and then another church. Buildings loomed, dark gray stone streaked by the rain. Smite’s cuffs became damp, and he pulled the gloves Palter had shoved at him from his pocket.
She was making her way to the Floating Harbour. Just beyond the crowds, he could see the stone wall that bounded the water. Masts of ships stretched skyward. Gulls circled and called as he pushed through the waterfront crowds. He could hear timbers creaking in the wind, the shout of men, and the shrieking complaint of a winch—the all-too-familiar sounds of Bristol’s lifeblood, trade and transportation. In the distance, he could see the high topmasts of the S.S. Great Britain where she waited, silent and lifeless, in the docks. Her funnel, a dark, imposing chimney against the sky, was cold. No smoke issued from it; no boilers worked below. She was the largest steamship ever built, and she was imprisoned where she stood.
He felt an odd sort of sympathy with the ship. They’d neither of them been served well by water.
He shook his head, dispelling the sentiment. Her straw bonnet bobbed down the street some fifteen yards in front of him, and she darted across the Bristol Bridge.
She’d crossed to the other side by the time Smite reached the edge. He came
to a stop.
There was nothing odd about this slow-moving body of water—it was a bit of liquid, nothing more. He was perfectly safe. The solid stones of the bridge had withstood the traffic of heavy-laden carts for almost a century. Its span stretched twenty feet above the level of the water. On a clear, sunny day, he could cross with only the slightest twist to his stomach.
Today, though, the waters were gray-green from a week’s worth of hard rains. They seemed closer than usual, and, as they slapped against the stones of the channel, they spoke a language all of their own. In Smite’s ear, the sound whispered of dark cellars and the rising tide of a flood.
Nonsense. He snorted. It wasn’t even a river. Besides, the level of the Floating Harbour never rose—it was regulated by locks.
“Don’t be an ass,” he advised himself aloud.
And she—whoever she was—was disappearing down the street. If he didn’t follow now, he’d lose her. With a deep breath, Smite looked forward. He set his gaze on the street across the bridge, where a team and horses stood, men loading goods into the cart. So long as he didn’t think of the water at all, it couldn’t bother him.
Smite looked at the solid ground on the far side and stepped forward. He had more important things to concern himself with today.
THERE WEREN’T MANY PEOPLE who felt easier in the dark corners of the slums than in the wide streets of the city center. But Miranda had lived in Temple Parish for three years. She knew the backstreets, the people. She knew the alleyways she shouldn’t visit, and the ones where she’d be watched by unseen eyes and kept safe. Here, she was free from the harshness of sanctioned order, arbitrarily enforced by constables in blue tailcoats. She’d paid for her freedom; she might as well enjoy it.