Unraveled Page 5

  Smite tapped the paper. “It says to appear before any two magistrates. I am singular.”

  Dalrymple rolled his eyes. “Indeed. I’ve always said so.”

  “In addition, I make it a habit to recuse myself from hearing cases where one of the parties is known to me. It is my duty to be impartial.”

  Dalrymple looked honestly shocked at that. “You’re not going to do anything?”

  Smite shrugged. “If you’re particularly hard up, I can loan you forty shillings.”

  “I don’t need more Turner money, damn it. I’m telling you it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. Your team ought to have put itself away. What you really mean, Dalrymple, is that because your father was a duke, you don’t believe you should be subject to laws like everyone else. Blame the horses. Blame the tiger. Blame me. It’s always everyone’s fault but yours, isn’t it?”

  Dalrymple let out a sigh. “This is not how I envisioned this conversation proceeding. I’m here in Bristol to talk with you, Turner. I owe you an apology.”

  Smite had waited too many years to hear those words—almost two decades, now—for them to have any meaning.

  He turned away. “If you’re looking to kiss and be friends, Dalrymple, I suggest you start with your horse. I’m surely not interested.”

  “Fuck you,” Dalrymple snapped.

  “No, thank you,” Smite heard himself say, his tone casually polite. But, some wayward part of his brain added, try your horse again. You’ll probably have better luck.

  Even though he’d left off half the thought, Smite almost expected Dalrymple to strike out at him under such provocation. Instead, the other man simply rubbed his forehead.

  “Very well,” Dalrymple muttered. “I suppose I deserved that. Old habits die hard.” He let out a bit of a laugh. “You always do manage to get under my skin. I’m sorry. For all of it. I just want to talk to you. Give me half an hour.”

  Smite didn’t trust himself to answer. Instead, he simply said, “Go to the hearing. Being a duke’s brother makes you more obligated to uphold the laws, not less so.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  Dalrymple left, one backward glance over his shoulder. Smite gathered up Ghost’s lead. He would have left, too, but he didn’t want Dalrymple to think he was following him. Whatever game his brother-in-law was playing now, Smite wanted no part of it.

  “You know him?” the clerk asked.

  He had thought he did, long ago. He’d once believed that he’d known Dalrymple better than anyone. Smite stared after the man, a host of unwelcome memories stirring inside him. He’d hidden them away carefully, but he still felt the sting of that betrayal.

  “Yes,” he finally answered. “I knew him.”

  “Is he a…?” The clerk trailed off, obviously at a loss to characterize what he’d seen.

  “An enemy. A friend.” Smite shrugged. “A brother.” That last, twice over.

  The clerk was watching him curiously, and he hadn’t intended to be so cryptic. Mystery, after all, invited questions, and questions led to inquiry.

  “We were friends at Eton,” he finally said. “But our brothers did not get along, and when circumstances forced us to take sides, the friendship crumbled. Years later, my elder brother married his sister. We manage to keep to common courtesies, so long as we stay out of each other’s way.”

  Long ago, they’d sworn to treat each other as brothers. That obviously hadn’t lasted. Dalrymple had no doubt decided that it was in his best interests to try to mend their old friendship.

  Alas. Smite knew him rather too well to be taken in.

  He shook his head, signaling the end of the conversation, and gathered up the lead.

  That was when a woman turned the corner into the records room. She stopped at the sight of him.

  Not just any woman. It was Miss Darling. She was dressed as herself—no wig, no fashionable gown, just a frock of faded blue cotton and her own too-bright hair.

  She stared into his eyes in shock.

  “Ma’am.” The clerk rose behind Smite. “Might I help you?”

  She turned on her heel and disappeared.

  Smite handed Ghost’s lead to the puzzled clerk. “Hold him,” he said. “Hold him fast. He’ll track me otherwise.”

  “What?”

  No time for explanation. Smite started after her. She was nearly to the front entrance, walking so swiftly she was almost running.

  “Hold there,” he called. “Ahoy, you.”

  She broke into a run, slapping open the front doors of the Council House. And he pursued. He was yards behind her when he came down the front steps. He could hear Ghost, yelping behind him, before the doors swung shut on his dog’s protest.

  She’d turned down Corn Street. He followed. Running outright, she wasn’t a match for him. He was taller and swifter. But she didn’t realize the inevitability of her capture. She kept running, dodging down one street, and then another, scarcely staying ahead of him.

  His lungs burned, but she was only two strides in front of him. He was almost close enough to grab her. A few seconds and—

  And she turned right, so abruptly that he stumbled trying to follow her. He brought his hands up just in time to keep himself from careening face-first into a wall.

  His hands skittered across rough granite. He swiveled to track his quarry—and he swore. She’d turned onto Queen Street. It was scarcely a street; instead, it was closer to a narrow alley. It rose at an angle so sharp that the paving stones had been set as steps, not as a smooth incline. The public house on the corner was serving, and a crowd had gathered for the midday meal. Because carts could not negotiate the steps, the merchants along either side had partially spilled into the street, hawking their wares from tables and stools. They’d half blocked the way through, and what little space remained was crowded with customers. The air was thick with the scent of boiled fish and bread and fresh-brewed beer.

  She was ten feet away now, but it might as well have been ten yards. She was darting and ducking through the crowd, and here his size was a curse, not a benefit. She squeezed between two passersby, finding gaps where he would never fit. By the time she got to the top of the steps, he wouldn’t be able to see her. In the warren of streets on the hill above, she’d escape.

  If he yelled, “Stop, thief!” now, the crowd might catch hold of her.

  But she wasn’t a thief, and he wasn’t a liar. “Stop, attempted perjurer!” didn’t have the same ring. He stared after her. But the baleful frustration didn’t last long.

  It didn’t matter. If his legs wouldn’t do the trick, he’d have to use his mind.

  BY THE TIME MIRANDA found her way back to the tilted bell tower of Temple Church, she’d managed to catch her breath. Her pulse, on the other hand, was still racing.

  She stormed into the building—empty, still, as it was hours before evensong—and pushed aside the curtain that shielded the closet-cum-confessional.

  She was too outraged to sit. Instead she paced—two steps forward, a turn, two steps back, over and over, back and forth, and then forth and back once more. She wasn’t sure when she became aware that she wasn’t alone. The fury of her exercise had masked any of the usual betraying sounds. Only the slow prickle at the back of her neck informed her that someone had arrived.

  “I didn’t get the list,” she said. “And in case you were wondering, Lord Justice saw me. He took one look at me and said, ‘You there—what do you think you’re doing?’ He chased me over half of Bristol. I scarcely escaped.”

  “And yet you did.” The voice that came out of the darkness was the same as the one she’d heard yesterday—dark and raspy, and more than slightly forbidding. “Why was it that he chased you?”

  Miranda remembered belatedly that she’d not recounted her entire history with Lord Justice. “He recognized me. From yesterday.”

  “Useful,” the representative remarked, “that he should have paid
so marked attention. It might be advantageous to have someone who’s caught the eye of a man like Lord Justice.”

  “No. If he had some sort of lustful interest in me, I should think he’d have tried a more gentle tactic than shouting ‘Ahoy, you!’ Not unless he’s particularly inept with women.”

  He had many faults, she was sure, but somehow over the course of their short, dismal acquaintance, she’d gleaned enough to guess that ineptitude with women was not one of them.

  “So there it is,” she said. “No papers. I doubt I’ll be of further use to you. I don’t dare go near the Council House again.” And how she was to keep Robbie safe, if she had nothing to bargain with, she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure if she should weep at what would become of them or rejoice at her freedom.

  “The Patron didn’t want the list,” the voice said.

  Miranda stared at the curtain, her fists balling. “Pardon?”

  “It would have been convenient if you had been able to wield some influence over Lord Justice as well, but the Patron has no real interest in him, either.”

  Miranda stared at the rosewood screen. “Then…then why have me take so large a risk? I might have been caught. Arrested.” She tried to keep all hint of anger from her voice. She didn’t succeed.

  “The Patron wanted information,” the voice said. “And now he has received it. You will be informed when you are required again.”

  “What? What did he want to know? I haven’t told you anything!”

  She waited, but only silence met her. She sat on the stool and peered as best as she could through the grate, but she could see nothing. She waited until she was ready to poke the broom through the holes in the screen, just so she could have some kind of response. Any kind of response.

  But there was nothing. The audience was over.

  What had the Patron learned? She pondered the question as she left the church and crept back down the alley. He’d learned that she could outrun Lord Justice—or at least, out-dodge him, with a little luck. But what use was that?

  He’d learned that Lord Justice would give chase. She glanced to either side when she reached the main thoroughfare, waited until a brewer’s dray passed by, and then zagged across the street to the alley on the other side. This one was scarcely wide enough for her, little more than a gap between buildings, but at the moment, she didn’t want to talk to people. She didn’t have much friendliness in her.

  None of the things she came up with seemed the sort of information that would justify the smug tone the voice had used.

  Perhaps it was simply that. If you were a shadowy, anonymous figure, it made sense to pretend everything had gone according to some diabolical plan. Never mind if it hadn’t. Maybe it was all just for show. Miranda understood show.

  Thomas Street was clotted with slow-moving carts. It took her a few minutes to jog down to her alley.

  She might have negotiated Temple Parish by scent alone. The wealthy might choose their abodes by view—did one want a panorama that included the cathedral, or a look at Brandon Hill?

  The poor chose by smell. At Miranda’s home, the scent of the coal burned by the glassblowers predominated during the day. At night, the breeze off the Floating Harbour brought in the smell from the starch works a few buildings over—a scent that put her in mind of clean laundry and boiling wheat. Far better than what she’d have endured with the stockyard as neighbor.

  She shut her eyes and inhaled. And just as she did so, it came to her—the information the Patron had received.

  “He wanted to know if I was willing to put myself in real danger after all this time being careful.” She spoke aloud. “And I let him know I was. I’m such a fool.”

  Before she could do anything more, though, an arm snaked around her from behind—a strong, solid arm. She opened her eyes and tried to turn, tried to fight, but whoever had her took hold of her wrist and held it in such a way that she could scarcely wriggle without pain shooting down her arm. She hadn’t a chance to feel fear—not until she looked down and saw that the arm holding her was clothed in unwrinkled superfine wool.

  Of course. Lord Justice knew where she lived.

  “I’m such a fool,” she repeated.

  “Would you know,” a familiar voice said in her ear, “I quite agree.”

  WITH HIS ARM AROUND Miss Darling and his hand on her wrist, Smite could tell how thin she was. He could feel her pulse hammering against his grip.

  “I’m going to turn you to face me,” he said, “as this is no way to conduct a conversation, but I’m not about to let go. I’ve chased you three miles already, and I’m not interested in starting over.”

  “I didn’t offer false testimony today.” She struggled against him, but he held fast. “Ask anyone you like. Check the records if you wish. The clerk can tell you.”

  He already knew that. He’d been there, after all. He took his arm from around her, but did not let go of her wrist.

  She turned to face him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Then why did you run?”

  “You said you’d have me arrested if you saw me again.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I never said any such thing.”

  “You did.”

  He stared at her, searched his memory. And then—“I said, ‘If ever I see you before me again, dressed as someone else and spouting falsehoods, I will have you arrested on the spot.’ I can’t have you arrested merely because I catch sight of you in a public building.”

  She yanked her hand from his grasp. “Begging your pardon, Your Worship, but you could have me arrested for breathing. Who would gainsay you?”

  “If you wouldn’t act guilty, I wouldn’t—”

  “Act guilty?” she cried. “I’m poor. My mother was an actress; my father the manager of a traveling troupe of players. I sew some for a living, and when I’ve got the wherewithal, I make wigs. I don’t have to do anything to be guilty. I’m guilty the instant a constable lays eyes on me and decides I appear out of place.” Her hands balled into fists at her side. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done or what I say. Who would listen to me?”

  “I would.” He glared at her. “I do listen to people like you. Every day.” He took a step closer, and she shrank against the wall. “If you’re so innocent,” he pressed, “why were you there?”

  But her gaze fixed on something just beyond him. Her mouth rounded. “Look out,” she called. “Behind you.”

  He didn’t take his eyes from her. “A feeble attempt. There’s nobody there. You won’t be evading me so easily.”

  And that was when something struck him from behind. He experienced a sharp, splintering pain in his head—a savage sense of disbelief—and then, the sure knowledge that his knees were giving way beneath him.

  Darkness flooded his vision before he hit the ground.

  Chapter Five

  SMITE WOKE TO HEAD-POUNDING confusion. A twisting burn of pain at the back of his skull warred with the dryness of his mouth. Straws poked his back; a warm, wet cloth lay on his forehead. The air around him was thick with a perplexing mixture of smells: heavy coal smoke, overboiled wheat, lye soap, and over everything, a heavy, distasteful scent that put him in mind of the worst of the street’s refuse.

  Gradually, memory returned. He’d chased after Miss Darling in the gloom of a cloudy afternoon, ducking through the alleys of Temple Parish. He’d put his arm around her. She’d yelled at him. And then, the last thing he could bring to mind: her eyes cutting up and to the right, widening at what she saw behind him.

  So. Her surprise hadn’t been a ruse.

  That explained the knot of hurt at the back of his head. Someone had struck him from behind.

  And now he didn’t know where he was or who held him. The thought of moving made his head whirl. He wasn’t precisely in a position to fight his way to safety.

  “Wash your hands,” a voice said, not so far away. “It’s time to eat.” Not just a voice; it was Miss Darling. Rather a relief; he didn’t thi
nk she intended him any harm.

  Smite also didn’t think that a bare nod to hygiene would make any difference, not with that scent of sewage so prominent. An unfortunate consequence of living in the poorer areas. No matter how the authorities tried to stamp out the practice, people would toss the contents of their chamber pots in the streets.

  “I don’t want to.” That voice was unfamiliar. Flat and monotone, it hovered just barely above baritone range.

  Miss Darling sighed. “Don’t be difficult.”

  “You’re not my mother.” There were clinking sounds—dishes being moved, perhaps? He tried slitting his eyes open, but his head was turned full toward a window, and the red rays of sunlight left him temporarily blind.

  “What does it matter, Robbie?” Miss Darling said. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you. Can’t you see that?”

  “Ha,” came the morose response from the other occupant.

  Smite couldn’t see him, but he could form an image in his mind of this Robbie. Young and hulking, if one trusted that voice. Muscular. A sweetheart, perhaps? He found himself vaguely annoyed by the thought of Miss Darling entertaining so boorish a lover.

  “I can’t believe you hit him,” Miss Darling said.

  “Huh,” came the man’s brilliantly articulate reply.

  Wood scraped against wood. Smite moved his head a fraction, angling it away from the window, and slitted his eyes open again. From beneath his eyelashes, he could make out silhouettes against the light.

  By the voice, Smite had expected Robbie to be a large, surly fellow, barely into manhood. But Robbie was a thin reed of a child, his voice desperately outsized in a scrawny body. Miss Darling, not precisely tall herself, towered a good six inches over him.

  “You don’t let me do anything,” Robbie rumbled. Or rather, he attempted to rumble. His voice quavered on the last syllable, hanging on the verge of breaking until he cleared his throat and deliberately dropped it a handful of notes. “Can’t take work at the mills. And now Joey says I’m not to be allowed to work with him either. That’s ready money you’re stopping me from getting, to be had for the taking.”