Unraveled (6 page)

Perhaps the Patron would claim that this favor didn’t count, that it didn’t clear her debt for the month. Miranda’s stomach churned.

But instead of disputing the point, the voice simply said, “Tell me about Lord Justice.”

“He offered to accompany me back to my inn. I mean, he offered to accompany Daisy Whitaker. I slipped away before he found me after the hearing.” No point in giving more information than requested. The Patron hardly needed
more
of a hold on her.

The voice didn’t remark on her second omission. The Patron probably didn’t know about her second interaction with Lord Justice.

“Hmm,” that raspy voice said. “Do you think that he might have a prurient interest in Miss Whitaker? That might be useful.”

She could call to mind the turn of his shoulder, the quarter profile he’d given her.
I particularly remember you, Miss Darling.
She’d felt the most absurd curl of heat run through her at that, so much that she shivered now in recollection.

“No,” she said forcefully. “I’m fairly certain that he recognized me. He was suspicious, not lustful. I don’t think he believed me.” She shook her head, and then blurted out the words that danced on the tip of her tongue. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Silence met this pronouncement. Her pulse beat. More dangerous than working for the Patron was
refusing
to work for him. One didn’t say
can’t
to a representative of the Patron.

But it was either that or cross paths with Lord Justice once more. Miranda clenched the broom straw in her fingers, waiting.

A sigh came from the other side of the screen. “Then your association with the Patron is at an end. You’re not a slave, child. You have always been free to make your own choices.”

“Th-that’s it?”

“Of course. Consider the old arrangement dissolved, if that is what you wish.”

“I do.” Her words were quiet, but she almost swayed on the stool, dizzy with blossoming hope.

“The Patron’s blessings upon you, child.”

She stared at the rosewood screen, waiting for some signal. But a minute passed without any more word. For all she knew, the figure who’d spoken had stolen away in the silence. She couldn’t quite believe that everything had worked out so easily. She
had
landed that backflip for a second time, and she felt suddenly warm, despite the draft that fluttered the curtain. She stood and patted her dress into place.

And that was when the voice spoke again. “Of course,” came those whispered words, “if you are not bound by any agreement, neither is the Patron.”

Miranda shivered. The straw snapped between her fingers.

“Robbie is…your brother, is he? He is so
eager
to help. So
interested,
when his little friend Joseph shows him the treasures that he’s obtained by offering me his scant assistance. He chafes, making a mere pittance as a runner.”

Robbie wasn’t her brother; he was something akin to her ward. They had a long and complicated relationship. But she was responsible for him, and had been for years. She couldn’t walk away from that kind of a threat. Miranda sat back on the stool.

The voice continued in singsong tones. “He would leap at the chance to be included in one of the finer opportunities the Patron offers. There’s a house that needs burgling, and he’s just the fellow to do it.”

“He’s never done anything like that.”

“The Patron is aware of his history.”

“He’ll get caught,” Miranda said miserably.

“Most likely.”

“They’ll hang him for burglary.”

“It seems probable,” the voice agreed carelessly.

“Then why have him do it? There’s no profit in it for you.”

“The Patron has little interest in Robbie’s death. But he takes a great deal of interest in you, Miss Darling.”

If she could just go back to the moment when she’d first struck this bargain… She’d been seventeen and new to Bristol, with a nine-year-old boy in tow. She had thought she had no choice at the time. It had been either the Patron, or…

She’d been raised in a troupe of traveling players. She could sew any costume, take on any disguise. She could change her voice until she hardly recognized it herself. She’d thought herself very clever, offering those services. So sure that the Patron would see her value.

He had. Unfortunately.

“If Lord Justice has me imprisoned, I’ll not be of much use,” she essayed.

“The Patron will take your protest under advisement. For now, it is important to determine what Lord Justice truly wants of you. To that end, tomorrow you will go back to the records room at the Council House, and ask to see the papers on—”

“
Tomorrow?”
Miranda echoed in shock. “But we had an agreement—I was to owe you a favor no more than once a month, and nothing dangerous or so unsavory as to—”

“Child,” the voice interjected, “you
had
an agreement with the Patron. You dissolved it. This is the new bargain.”

She stared at the screen, her hands cold. She could protest. She could argue. She wanted to scream and run away. But there was no need to force the Patron to repeat his threat toward Robbie. He could make good on it.

Robbie was twelve, now—headstrong and growing, believing he knew what was best for himself without understanding how vulnerable he was.

Well. She had no choice. There was nothing to do but smile, and hope she could make the landing instead of breaking her back.

“Very well, then,” she said. Her voice didn’t quiver. She refused to show the fear that welled up inside of her. “Tell me what I must do.”

Chapter Four

“W
HAT IN BLAZES IS
this thing?” The voice, haughty and arrogant, came out of the records room.

Smite paused in the hall of the Council House. Beside him, Ghost skittered to a halt.

He should just walk on. He didn’t need to intervene; in fact, the men who worked here were quite adept at explaining the necessary procedures to difficult fellows.

But he recognized that voice—that spoiled drawl, from a man who’d never worked a day in his life. A regular plague, he was.

Paper rustled in the room beyond the open doors, and the voice of the harried clerk sounded. “My good man, I—”

“My good man?” the voice demanded. “Are visitors to this city always addressed in so cavalier a fashion?”

Some things never changed. The man Smite heard was still as annoyingly determined on receiving his due as ever, no matter that the last years had changed his fortune entirely.

A pause. “Sir,” he heard the clerk continue in a more placating tone of voice, “I should think the summons was perfectly clear. You are to appear on Tuesday next, at one of the clock, before—”

“Yes, but I don’t
wish
to make a public appearance. What must I do to avoid that?”

Smite sighed, and stepped through the door. The clerk saw him and let out a deep breath in relief. The visitor towered over the other man, and brandished a familiar paper: a printed form, the blank spaces filled in with handwriting. Smite had seen a hundred like it in the course of his work.

“It goes away like most legal paperwork,” Smite heard himself say. “By proper attention to the rule of law. You weren’t trying to browbeat the clerk to escape a summons, were you?”

The man drew himself up and turned. Even knowing beforehand who the fellow was, it still felt like a punch to the gut when Smite looked him in the eyes. Smite knew Richard Dalrymple all too well, although he wished he could forget him.

The feeling, obviously, was mutual. Dalrymple froze. His mouth opened once, and then shut. He drew himself up very carefully.

“Turner,” he said. “I—uh—this was not how I intended us to meet. You see, I just arrived last night, and I’ve been having the most dreadful difficulties.”

“I know you used to have problems with Latin,” Smite said with feigned carelessness, “but this is written in English.” He reached out and took the paper from Dalrymple’s fingers.

“I understand perfectly what it says.” Dalrymple pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I don’t understand why I received it.”

“Let me explain.” Smite scanned the paper. “You, the said Richard Dalrymple, et cetera et cetera, did leave a team and carriage stationed in the street for two hours—two hours, Dalrymple, really?”

“I told you I’ve been having difficulties,” the man replied. “The solicitor I used before seems to have disappeared entirely. Besides, I had no idea the team was in the street, my tiger having abandoned them to, um,
other
entertainments the instant he arrived in the city.”

“You admit it was in the street.”

“Yes, but I’m telling you, it wasn’t my fault.”

“You left your carriage blocking the way, contrary to the statute passed in the third year of the Reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, entitled—”

Dalrymple snatched the paper from Smite’s hand. “I can read, damn it.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Must you always be so condescending? I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Well.” Smite snorted. “That’s new.”

Dalrymple grimaced, but ignored that gibe. “We’ll get to that in just a bit. It says I’m supposed to appear before Her Majesty’s Justices of the Peace.”

“Yes.”

“You’re one of them. You know how the public has been these last years—looking for any sign to point to, some signal of my dissolute decay.”

Smite knew it quite well. Dalrymple had been born a duke’s heir, but a few years ago it had come out that his father was a bigamist—and he was a bastard. He’d weathered quite a bit of criticism in the years since—so much that he’d abandoned one attempt to buy himself a title.

But habits of birth never faded. Dalrymple didn’t need to hold a title to act entitled. He raised his eyebrows at Smite significantly. “Is there any way we might settle this quietly?”

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.”