But outdoors did not have embroidered silks hanging on the walls. Today, it was cloudy and gray, in sharp contrast to the bucolic autumn scene depicted on the nearby wall. And gentlemen wore hats and the ladies bonnets outdoors. The two men who struggled to their feet at their entrance were both hatless.
Miranda had no time to balk. Smite pressed his hand into the small of her back, and she stepped into the room.
It was the biggest parlor she had ever seen. The mural on the wall was not just an autumn scene, but a harvest scene. Sheaves of grains rested against beets and turnips… She could eat a raw turnip. She could eat a raw, painted turnip.
She knew both of the men. Richard Dalrymple had just stood up from his seat in one of the chairs. By the corner of the sofa was the Duke of Parford, Smite’s brother. Still seated on the sofa… The woman was dark-haired and pretty. She was dressed in an exquisite silk morning dress. It was a deep, dark purple—the color of a bunch of grapes. Miranda swallowed hungrily. Her metaphors were running toward meals.
The servant who had entered before them spoke. “Mr. Smite Turner. Miss Miranda Darling.”
The woman’s expression seemed to freeze in place.
Dalrymple’s mouth dropped open, and he glanced over at the sofa. She had to be the duke’s wife—and therefore Dalrymple’s sister, the Duchess of Parford.
Miranda winced and slid her ungloved hands into her skirt pockets. It was one thing for Smite to introduce his mistress to an older male acquaintance from his school days. It was another to bring her into a duke’s hotel rooms when said duke’s wife was in residence. It was still another to do all of that, and not give said mistress sufficient time to change into a gown that wouldn’t embarrass her.
The duchess was eyeing her with frank curiosity. Her gaze dropped to Miranda’s skirts. The gown had been serviceable when clean, but it was dusty and wrinkled now. Her hem was torn, and Miranda felt a well of resentment. The duchess had likely never worried about whether her wigs would sell. All that purple silk wouldn’t have lasted a night in a cell. And she wouldn’t look nearly so serene if she hadn’t eaten in over a day.
“Smite,” the duchess said. “You have yet to perform a proper introduction.”
“Of course. Margaret,” and Smite sounded almost bored as he spoke, “this is Miss Miranda Darling. Miranda, Her Grace the Duchess of Parford, my sister-in-law. I believe you are already acquainted with my brother.” He glanced once at Dalrymple, and then looked away. “Brothers.”
“I say, Turner,” Dalrymple muttered, looking away. But if he had been about to object to Smite’s introducing Miranda to his sister, he chose not to do so. He didn’t grumble when Smite conducted Miranda to a seat. Miranda sank into the cushions gratefully; Smite stood by her side and folded his arms.
The duchess’s impassive mask did not alter in the slightest during all of this. “A curious introduction, Smite.” She had not taken her eyes from the other woman. “And precisely who is Miss Darling to you?”
“A witness to an ongoing criminal endeavor.”
“And?” Parford prompted.
Smite didn’t respond. He simply tapped his foot and waited.
The duchess sighed and looked upward. “A witness,” she said. “Ash, you have done a very poor job convincing your brothers to involve themselves with suitable women.”
Parford shrugged. “How was I to accomplish that? Mark is the only person who has ever convinced Smite to go to a ball, and even then he nearly asphyxiated within the first few minutes.”
Miranda converted a surprised laugh into a cough.
The duke grinned down on his wife. “I’ve long accepted that I’m the only one of us who would have a suitable wife. And that was rather an accident on my part.”
The woman frowned at her husband, and then glanced up at Miranda. “Well, then, Miss Darling,” she said. “Six years ago, I believe I would have had you thrown out. Beware the Turners. They’ll upend your life.” There was no rancor in her voice, and Miranda noticed that she was holding the duke’s hand. Still, she gave Smite a level look. “At least Mark gave me a chance to collect myself so I could plan what I was going to say. If you don’t give me any notice, I fear I might say something uncivil.”
“Ah, yes,” Dalrymple mused. “Turner propriety. Satisfied so long as everyone has something to say. I’ve almost accustomed myself to the prospect.”
Smite glared at Dalrymple, who held up his hands.
“Don’t pounce on me now,” Dalrymple said. “I’m Margaret’s bastard brother, in more than one sense of the word. I’m the beneficiary of Turner propriety, and hardly one to criticize. I know I might have, in the past. But, ah…” He looked up. “I’m talking too much, then. Why are we talking about this in the first place? Smite was always the formal one anyway.”
“Indeed.” Smite leaned back casually. “There’s no reason to talk of it at all. It’s well known that I can do no wrong.”
The duke simply nodded.
“What!” Dalrymple said. “But—he—I—” He glanced at Smite again, and then frowned. “Oh. You’re joking.”
“It is equally well-known,” Smite said, “that I am a humorless barbarian.”
“Who is never wrong,” Parford added.
The room was beginning to swim around Miranda. Their words were blurring together.
“I believe,” the duchess said, “that we’re beginning to overwhelm Miss Darling. It’s easy to forget that the family can be a bit much gathered en masse.”
“In any quantity,” Dalrymple muttered.
‘You have to understand,” the duchess continued, “we so rarely see Smite. We wouldn’t throw him out, even if he showed up with five baboons and a leper in tow.”
Smite crossed his arms. “If you’re comparing Miranda to baboons…”
“True. You’re more of a leper than she is.” The duke grinned at Smite, and then turned to Miranda. “This makes it all the easier to tease him. I don’t suppose Smite ever told you about the time he locked himself in the bell tower, did he?”
Miranda managed a shake of her head. Her stomach gurgled.
Parford gave her a brilliant smile. “Oh, lovely. He was seven, and—”
Smite turned around, quite abruptly, and without saying a word, left the room.
Everyone stared after him—his brother, the duchess, Dalrymple, and especially Miranda herself, who swallowed the faint meep of protest when the door closed behind him.
“Was it something I said?” the duke was muttering. “It was in good fun. He was teasing me back.”
“It will all make perfect sense in a few hours,” Miranda ventured. “It always does, your Grace.”
This made the duke examine her more directly. “No,” he contradicted. “It does not. Damn it. He is so bloody impossible.”
“Speaking of impossibilities.” This not-quite-casual comment came from the duchess. “Who are your people, Miss Darling?”
It was turning into a regular interrogation without Smite around. Miranda gripped the arms of her chair. “My father was Jeremiah Darling. He owned the Darling Players. You might, perhaps, have seen them in London many years ago.” Blank looks surrounded her. “No? Well. Then. My mother was born Eliza Scripling. She was a scullery maid for about two months, before she quit to tread the boards. That she did for almost ten years before she met my father, had me, and was married.” She glanced at the duchess. “I have never inquired as to the order of those events.”
“Of course.” The duchess rubbed her forehead. “Mark and Jessica have evaded censure by staying in the country, where there’s little chance of the truth coming out. But there’s no chance of Smite quitting Bristol.”
If her head had been spinning before, it positively whirled now. “I wasn’t aware there were social requirements to being a man’s mistress. It won’t help, but after my father’s death, Jonas Standish was appointed my guardian. He was of good family, until they disowned him.”
Perhaps she should not have s
aid that. She scarcely knew them, after all. But hunger bred familiarity. The duke and duchess exchanged glances over her head.
“Believe you me,” Miranda said, aware that perhaps it would make more sense to keep quiet, “he’s still trying to figure out how to rid himself of me. It only makes it worse that he cares for me.”
The door opened and Smite came back inside. He was closely followed by a footman bearing a tray. At the first waft of the scent rising off it, a wave of hunger assailed Miranda. She was instantly salivating.
The servant set the tray on the table in front of her—a wide bowl of soup and an array of delicate sandwiches.
Smite sat down beside her.
“You’d mentioned not eating anything in the last day,” he said. “Your stomach was growling.”
She could have kissed him. She took a sandwich instead, only to look up and see everyone staring at him once more. It was as if they had no notion that he could be kind under that gruff exterior. Smite shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Don’t mind him,” Miranda said airily. “He only needs to question me. He can’t if I keel over from hunger. He’s just being…efficient.”
He met her eyes with rueful humor. “Precisely. I’m nothing if not efficient.”
Miranda took a bite of sandwich.
In a voice that was not quite soft enough, the duchess said, “I think that may be one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen. Either that or the strangest.”
The tips of Smite’s ears turned pink, but he handed Miranda another sandwich. The first had disappeared with remarkable speed, and the second didn’t take much longer.
“When you’re ready,” Smite told her, “I’d like to hear what happened since last I saw you.”
None of the others made any move to leave, and after a moment, Miranda began to speak. She described leaving the Blasseurs’ shop to find the cart missing. She told them how she had walked on her own, how the constables had found her along the way.
She told them about the visit she’d received in the dark of night, and Smite’s visage grew more serious.
Finally, she recounted what Jeremy had told her. As she spoke, she reached into her pocket and took out a piece of paper and handed it to Smite.
“Hatts for the Guy,” he read.
“We still have the other notes. There was one that I received, and then the one that Robbie got. I think they were all written by the same person.”
“Likely.” Smite stared at the paper, and then looked off. “It’s the same sort of paper as well.” He tapped his fingers against the leg of his trousers. “It’s possibly enough to issue a warrant for Old Blazer’s arrest. But an arrest is only the beginning. I am trying to decide if we have enough evidence to sustain a conviction. You know the shop well. Did you see any signs that a criminal enterprise was conducted on the premises? Shady characters coming and going, shipments that were hidden… Even something as simple as goods being displayed that you thought might not have been purchased.”
Miranda shook her head. “Nothing. I know you won’t believe this, but my friend Jeremy would never stand for that sort of thing. He’s terribly straitlaced.”
“Then this is simple.” Smite drummed his fingers on the table. “We only need to ask your friend to testify.”
Miranda gasped. “You can’t ask Jeremy to testify against his own grandfather!”
“On the contrary,” Smite rumbled. “It’s perfectly within my powers to issue a subpoena—”
“Of course you’re capable of it. But it wouldn’t be right to force him to tell tales about the man who raised him.”
“I still beg to differ. If your friend is so upright, he should jump at the chance. One can frown on snitches in the schoolyard when the consequences rise to skinned knees and hurt feelings. When we are talking murder, however, every right-thinking man will speak out rather than let the guilty go free.”
“Oh, I suppose technically you are right,” Miranda muttered. “But don’t expect anyone to agree with you.” She glanced up at the watching faces. “I doubt that the Duke of Parford, for one, would be willing to betray you. Even if you had murdered someone. You can’t hang your hopes of a conviction on the belief that Jeremy will betray his own grandfather. He won’t do it.”
Smite simply regarded her for a few moments, and then closed his eyes with a sigh. “Well, then. We’ll surround the building with constables dressed in street clothing—”
“No constables,” Miranda said.
“No constables?”
“One of the men who arrested me yesterday mentioned the Patron. The man on patrol let a woman into my cell at the station. There may be more. Bring the constables in, and the Patron will know before you arrive, and he’ll disappear.”
He accepted this with a slight tightening of his mouth. “What of using hired men?”
“Hired from where? Robbie’s shipwright must employ men loyal to the Patron; they threatened him there. Half of the workforce of Bristol lives in Temple Parish. Do you have any idea how many people’s lives the Patron has touched? You can’t organize an expedition of any kind without the Patron catching wind of it.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Smite asked. “Attempt to uncover the truth by myself? With you? That would hardly be safe. No; nothing is without risk, this least of all. But I’d rather risk the possibility of losing secrecy than doing this alone. I’d need at least two others—”
“Let’s see if I have this right,” Dalrymple said. “You’re facing a crazed criminal, the risk of death, and a police force that might not be on your side. It’s lovely being a magistrate.” He tensed. “Useless people rarely face risk.”
“Speaking from experience?” Smite snapped.
Dalrymple gave him a pale smile. “Speaking from stupidity, I’m afraid. I volunteer.”
THE NEXT TEN HOURS passed with far too little to occupy Smite. He had only to sit by and watch as Miranda sent a note to Temple Church in the hopes that it would find its way into the hands of the Patron.
He hated the thought of using her in that way. Unfortunately, they’d not come up with a better plan. After they’d hashed out the details, Smite paced uselessly in the room while Miranda had a bath and then a nap. Under the interfering auspices of his sister-in-law, he couldn’t even watch her sleep. He had a brief moment of activity, when Ash had a drawing of plans for Temple Church sent up, and they’d squabbled companionably over their respective roles. But after that, there was nothing to do but wander uselessly about the room.
Half an hour before they were to leave, Miranda finally came out, dressed and scrubbed and clean. He walked over to her. But Margaret didn’t leave the room, and so Smite could do very little more than bow over Miranda’s hand and conduct her to the sofa. He sat next to her, feeling rather out of sorts.
The muffled sound of his eldest brother dictating instructions in the next room formed a murmured, calm counterpoint to his frustration. Smite didn’t even know what to say to Miranda. Instead, he simply contemplated her.
The corners of her lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. “I’ll wager that sometimes you wish you’d never come after me that day,” she said.
He met her eyes. “Do you, then?”
A few feet away, the duchess grimaced. She glanced once at Miranda, and then looked away.
“No,” Miranda said thoughtfully. “I suppose not.”
“There you are,” he said. “I make it a habit not to harbor regrets.” A small smile touched his lips. “I’m especially particular about the matter when regrets would be unwarranted.”
“Flatterer,” Miranda said calmly.
Margaret was trying valiantly to appear uninterested in their conversation.
But Miranda leaned over to the other woman. “Despite his apparent fluency in the English language,” she said earnestly, “Smite lacks the capacity to express some very basic thoughts. Compliments that other people manage quite easily, like ‘My, you look lovely,’ or ‘I hope you don’t d
ie tonight’ are quite difficult.”
God. How had he ever thought he would be able to send her away? He still had her hairpin in his pocket. It made no substitute for her.
“You look lovely,” Smite repeated. “I’d rather you didn’t die. Don’t believe a word Miss Darling says, Margaret. I can express any concept I wish. I merely prefer not to.”
“Oh?” Margaret’s gaze dipped down to their fingers. Smite’s hand lay close to Miranda’s on the sofa. They were mere inches apart.
In the other room, Ash’s voice trailed off. Margaret glanced over. “I’ll wager you ten pounds you can’t go tell my husband that you love him.”
Smite shifted back in his chair. His breath caught in his lungs. And then Margaret met his eyes, and he realized that she was in dead earnest. How many years had it been since he’d said the words?
All his vaunted memory, and he couldn’t call up a single instance. It had seemed a given. They’d had their share of anger and resentment, he and Ash. But love was still the bedrock of their relationship. Ash knew that. Didn’t he?
He stood and crossed over to the open doorway.
“Ash,” he said.
An indistinct murmur came back. Smite put one arm behind his back. His hand formed a fist, and then he drew himself up. “Are you ready? It’s almost time.”
“Yes.” The duke’s response was barely audible. “I just need to—”
“Because I wouldn’t want to be late. We need to be there before Miranda arrives on the scene.” Smite’s fist clenched just a little bit more.
Ash frowned at him. “Anything amiss?”
He felt his face growing hot. “Where in God’s name is Dalrymple?” Smite turned swiftly away. He couldn’t avoid Margaret’s eye as he turned. She didn’t shake her head or otherwise indicate her disapproval. He’d had every intention of saying it.