Unraveled (37 page)

T
HE 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 die 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.

Maybe the words had gone rusty from disuse. Nothing else could explain it.

He walked over to his sister-in-law, and after examining the contents of his pockets very carefully, handed over a banknote. He didn’t dare look Miranda in the eye as he did.

T
HE PLAN HAD SEEMED
so simple earlier: they had to catch Old Blazer in the act of being the Patron.

It had been easy enough to answer his request for an audience. Miranda had agreed to come speak with the Patron, but only if he came in person. Given what Jeremy had implied, she thought he might come. If he did, he’d prove his own guilt.

Simple.

But as Miranda crept down Temple Street after dark, the prospect seemed fraught with difficulty. Ensconced in the warm, bright hotel room, everything had seemed possible. Now, she felt uncomfortable and out of place. Her cloak was too good, her boots were too new for this part of town. She’d never felt the need to hide on a busy street before. But now, the crowds seemed subtly hostile.

As she came up on the little lane that led to the church, she repeated to herself the arguments she’d made earlier. So far, the Patron had only asked to see her. His representative had spoken of good will. If Old Blazer wanted her dead, he could have ordered it already.

He was looking for a replacement, after all. That made her safe.

It was one thing, though, to talk of safety while surrounded by friends. Here…

She ducked into the dark lane that led to the church and clutched her cloak tightly. She was still surrounded by friends.

That dim figure, leaning against a far-away building—that was the Duke of Parford himself, keeping watch over the front entrance. Smite and Richard Dalrymple stood guard at the back doors. They’d argued for what had felt like hours about whether they needed to bring more men. In the end, they’d decided that secrecy was preferable to a show of force.

But close as the men were to her, nobody walked beside Miranda into the church. The evening service had ended hours past, and the place was deserted. Only softly guttering candles, burnt almost to the stub, lit her way as she walked down the aisle to the confessional.

She pushed aside dusty curtains and took her seat on the stool.

Even through her gloves, her hands were cold. When the curtains stopped swaying, they cut off even the hint of faintly flickering candlelight. She’d started the day cocooned in the darkness of her cell; her memory stirred uneasily in these close, dark quarters.

She smelled wood and soap and wax. But her ears brought her no sound—nothing but the faint creaks of the building around her. No footsteps. No breath.

Each minute seemed to stretch into forever. The darkness slowed time.

There was no warning when things changed—no announcement, no sound except the sudden, sharp crack of the rosewood screen one second, and the whistle of falling wood the next. Miranda scarcely had a chance to lift her hands to shield her head before the wood struck her, hard.

She was too scared to scream. She scrambled backward through the curtains, tripping over her own skirt. Even the dim light in the chapel seemed blinding. Her heart pounded. She launched to her feet and dashed down the aisle.

Her eyes had scarcely adjusted when she caught sight of a silhouetted figure in front of her. She tried to stop but couldn’t. Strong arms grabbed her shoulders.

“Miranda.”

She let out a gasp of relief. It was Parford.

“Tell me they have Old Blazer,” Miranda said.

“No.” She was now beginning to make out features. Parford’s face was set in a grim mask. “They’re gone. Smite and Richard. They’ve vanished.” The duke ran his hands through his hair. “God
damn
it,” he swore. “I shouldn’t have let him do this.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Rouse the constables,” Parford rumbled. “Rouse every able-bodied man I can find. Muster the militia, if I have to, and tear this city apart brick by brick until I find them.”

“Do you know what will happen if the militia comes after the Patron?” Miranda demanded. “Here? The Patron has been all that’s kept us safe. It will be like the Riots of ’31 again, except this time, the other side will be organized. It will be war.”

“The Patron grabbed a magistrate off the streets.” Parford glared at her. “The Patron took my brother. It already
is
war. I walked away from him once before. I don’t care if it takes a riot to get him back. I am
not
leaving him on the streets of Bristol again.” He bristled in fury. “As it is, it’ll take ’til dawn to get everything in readiness. There isn’t any time to spare.”

He turned and strode off, obviously expecting her to follow. She did—but she could scarcely keep pace with him. And when he turned on to Temple Street…

There was almost nobody about at all now. The shops stood silent and closed. Only a hint of music in the distance suggested life. Miranda slowed; Parford hadn’t noticed yet that she’d dropped back.

If the Patron was confronted with force and backed into a corner, who knew what he might do with his hostages?

Parford didn’t realize when they passed Blasseur’s Trade Goods & More, but Miranda surely did. There had to be a better way.

She was going to have to find it herself. Before Parford noticed her absence, Miranda slipped into an alley and stole away.

Chapter Twenty-three

M
IRANDA GAVE UP AFTER
a few seconds of tossing pebbles at Jeremy’s window. The tiny stones weren’t drawing attention. Instead, she searched in the rubble against the building for a rock. She had just found a likely candidate when the scrape of wood against wood sounded above her. She looked up. Jeremy leaned out over the sill.

“Miranda, what are you
doing
here?” Jeremy asked.

What she could see of his hair was tousled; most of it was hidden under a voluminous nightcap. A heavy nightshirt covered his torso.

“Where is Old Blazer?” Miranda hissed.

Jeremy frowned down at her from his window, rubbing his eyes. “God, Miranda. That’s all you have to say? Last I saw you, you said you were leaving town. After—” He looked about. “I heard you were set free. Why in God’s name did you stay, when you’d had the dangers spelled out so clearly?” He frowned down at her. “It’s not safe out. I’ll go down and let you in.”

“No, I—”

But he’d already ducked back into his room, and her words were swallowed in the screech of his window closing.

She waited at the back door. A few infinitely long minutes passed before Jeremy opened the door. He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt, but his feet were bare. He folded his arms about him against the cold, and jerked his head, indicating that she should come inside.

She tapped her toes stubbornly on the doorstep. “Where is Old Blazer?”

“Asleep. Listen—you can hear him snoring.”

She could, very distantly. Miranda shook her head. “Then I’m not going in. It’s not safe. He’s got to be furious at me right now. Jeremy, we need to do something.”

Jeremy rubbed his chin. “Furious? Why would Old Blazer be furious?”

“This whole thing…” She blew out her breath furiously. “God. I wish I’d never been involved. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Everything I do just digs me deeper, and now—”

Jeremy caught hold of her shoulders and pulled her inside. He shut the door quietly behind her. “Calm down. Take a breath. What has you so upset?”

“Smite,” she said. Just saying his name brought to mind her deepest fears. What if he’d already been killed? What if his throat was slit, and he’d been tossed—but no. She couldn’t think that. She couldn’t let herself.

“Lord Justice?”

She nodded. “There’s no good way to say this, Jeremy. The Patron had his men arrest me after I left your shop the other day.”

“I know,” he interjected. “I thought you’d had the good sense to leave town after you got free.”

She took a deep breath. “Lord Justice didn’t think much of the Patron using his constables and his court for personal gain. And so he came up with a plan to…to, um, to, um...”

“To bring the Patron to justice?” Jeremy’s voice grew a hint chillier. “That would comport with what I have seen on this end. Don’t tell me: it didn’t work as planned.”