“Uncertain?” He drew himself up. “What makes you think I’m uncertain? I’m certain. I’m quite certain. I’m—”
He lost his words, the entire rest of his sputtering speech, when she stepped close to him, popped up onto her toes, and kissed him. The feel of her was a cool, clean shock, as bracing as fresh morning air after a tortured night.
Smite remembered everything. He remembered every prisoner he’d thrown in gaol, and the ones he had let go. He remembered reports of crimes and the details of bloody history.
But when she kissed him, he forgot. He forgot everything in the world except the heady feel of her hands, resting against his lapels. For just that moment, he was nothing but an ordinary fellow out with his sweetheart. When she kissed him, she made him feel like a man—just a man, not a burdened magistrate responsible for the fate of half of Bristol.
And so he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her lips. He set his hands on her hips and pulled her close, and she didn’t resist. She nestled against him, sighing deep in her throat. He kissed her until the rumble of a cart intruded on the quiet fog shielding their tryst.
She drew back. He felt almost unsteady on his feet. He was drunk on the taste of her. He’d been knocked off balance, and he wouldn’t be able to walk a straight line for years.
No, he definitely wasn’t going to miss his thousand pounds. He’d got the better end of that bargain. Even if she never gave him one scrap of affection.
But what he said instead was, “So that’s a yes, then.”
“It’s a yes.”
The sun wasn’t coming up yet, but it ought to have done. It felt like dawn, warm and red, arriving on the heels of a very dark night.
“About your other concern,” he heard himself say. “Do you know how to avoid pregnancy?”
She hadn’t stopped smiling at him. “I was raised by actors,” she said archly. “And if those measures prove ineffective… Well, there is that thousand pounds.”
If they proved ineffective, there’d be more than a thousand pounds, but he saw no need to spell that out. All he said was, “Good. Then I’ll be in contact to arrange further particulars.” He cast her one last look. “Don’t expect to wait long.”
“JEREMY,” MIRANDA WHISPERED, “NOW I know I’ve done something foolish. Tell me I mustn’t go through with it.”
It was a scant few hours since her assignation with Lord Justice, and Miranda was still reeling. She’d wandered about in a daze after, watching the city come fully to life. She’d waited until the shops opened—and as soon as she’d been able, she’d come to see Jeremy.
Jeremy dropped his thimble and leaned in. “What? Oh God. Don’t tell me. You—”
“I just agreed to be a man’s mistress.”
“What?!” His eyes widened.
“Shh!” Miranda glanced across the shop, searching out Old Blazer. He sat in his place at the front, watching the passersby through the window. He nodded and waved at acquaintances as he smoked his pipe.
Jeremy obligingly dropped his voice. “Why?”
“Because he’s going to put me up in a nice house. And pay me a tidy sum.” Because he’d wanted her, so damned badly he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Because he’d made her think she was worth a thousand pounds—that, in fact, he was getting the better end of the deal.
Jeremy must have caught the dazed look in her eyes. “You know,” he said cautiously, “whatever he’s said, he doesn’t love you.”
“I’m not stupid,” Miranda scoffed. A bit impulsive, yes. “He said he didn’t want affection.” She believed that story as much as that tale he’d spun about the cats. “And if you must know, he kisses like the devil. I want him, and he wants me. It’s horribly wrong of me. I can’t stop thinking how wicked it is, how much of a risk, how it’s not too late to back out and tell him I’ve changed my mind—”
“But you don’t want to,” Jeremy finished softly.
“There’s that, and…” She ran her hands along the countertop, not sure how to express her other reason.
“You don’t think he’ll hurt you,” Jeremy finished.
Miranda nodded. Impulsive girls with a taste for wicked men…well, it didn’t always turn out so well for them. It wouldn’t have made sense if she’d explained it to anyone else.
“Besides,” Jeremy said, “I always thought you were more likely to be a mistress than a wife.”
“Raised by actors,” Miranda said, mock-mournfully. “My morals have never been what they should.”
“No.” Jeremy frowned at his hands. “You’re happier when your relationships can be framed in terms of commerce. You never accept help from anyone.”
“I’m not so bad as that!”
“As you say,” Jeremy said, which was his way of disagreeing without arguing. “Is this going to get you away from the Patron?”
“With what he’s paying me? It’ll get me out for good. Me and Robbie.”
Jeremy leaned toward her, his pale eyes intense. “Do it,” he said. “Do it. Go. Get out.”
“I won’t be living in Temple Parish any longer. I…I might not ever come back.”
Jeremy didn’t flinch. “Well, don’t look back at me.”
Miranda had always known that Jeremy was a good friend. But she hadn’t quite realized how good until now. She’d just told him that she might never see him again, and he’d told her to grab hold with both hands.
Footsteps sounded behind her. And then a gruff voice spoke. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Becoming a mi—” Jeremy stopped, and blushed red hot, as if suddenly realizing what he’d been about to disclose to his grandfather. “A muh,” he sputtered. “A mah.”
“A magistrate,” Miranda filled in smoothly, turning to Old Blazer. “We’re talking about how one becomes a magistrate.”
Jeremy screwed up his face in a grimace and gave her a short shake of his head. But it was too late. Old Blazer’s eyes snapped, and he thumped his fists onto the table in front of them.
“A magistrate!” Old Blazer said. “It takes nothing to become a magistrate but lily-livered idiocy, that’s what. They don’t do any good, magistrates. Do you know what they’ve done?”
She’d seen Old Blazer run off on a tirade before—usually about workmanship and machine-knit cloth. She’d not known he put magistrates in the same category.
“Yes,” Jeremy was saying soothingly. “I know.” He shrugged hopelessly at Miranda.
Old Blazer would not be calmed. “Back in ’31, it was, when they sent that nasty piece of work Wetherell down for the Assizes. City broke out in riots. And what did the magistrates do, Jeremy?”
“Nothing, Old Blazer.” Jeremy spoke like a child repeating a lesson learned long before.
“Quite right. They did nothing. They hid in their homes like rabbits. Didn’t bother to muster the militia. Not even when the rioters broke open the gaol and let the criminals free. The whole thing went on for days. And then, because the bloody magistrates had let the whole thing explode beyond fixing, what had to happen?”
“They called in the dragoons,” Jeremy intoned dutifully.
Old Blazer’s eyes swept the room. “They called in the dragoons. Opened fire on innocent men. Killed quite a few. Including my son—your father.” By now, Old Blazer was practically spitting with rage. “So don’t talk to me about magistrates. Those useless bastards killed my boy.” He drew a deep breath, and then another.
“Blazer,” said a voice behind them, “are you fretting again?”
Miranda breathed a sigh of subtle relief as Mrs. Blasseur stepped out from the back room.
“You know it’s not good for you.” She took his arm and gently led him to the back.
Miranda could hear her humming, could hear Old Blazer’s raspy protests, muffled by the curtain. Finally, Mrs. Blasseur came back through.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Jeremy said.
“It’s my fault,” Miranda added. “I didn’t know it would set him off.
Truly.”
Mrs. Blasseur simply shook her head. “He’s a strong man, Old Blazer. But the older he gets, the angrier he becomes. Sometimes, it simply can’t all be contained.”
“He’s not unwell, is he?”
As if in counterpoint, the smell of pipe smoke drifted into the room.
Mrs. Blasseur rolled her eyes. “No. He’ll be perfectly well in a few minutes. It’s just better that he not fuss at the customers while he’s in this state. He does take it personally.”
“But his son died.”
“My husband.” Mrs. Blasseur sighed. “Jeremy’s father. That’s the way these things go. Only lawlessness and chaos can be born out of lawlessness and chaos. No point getting angry when it happens, no matter whom you might lose. All you can do is try to make things better. Old Blazer has yet to learn that.” She reached for a pair of scissors, and began to cut up bits of foolscap with a vengeance. The little slips of paper would be adorned with prices, and pinned to goods.
“But so solemn a subject, and on such a gloomy day. Tell me, Miss Darling—what’s this I hear about Robbie and a shipyard?”
There were some details one divulged to one’s best friend’s mother. And then, there were some things one lied about. Doubly true when one’s friend’s mother wanted one to marry her son.
“A friend of my father’s was recently in town,” Miranda said smoothly. “My father left me a little bit of money after all. We’ve used it to apprentice Robbie to a shipwright.”
Mrs. Blasseur looked suitably impressed. “A lucky chance, there. Jeremy, isn’t that lovely?”
“Yes, Mama.” Jeremy didn’t sound so dutiful, though, whatever his words. “It’s wonderful for Robbie.”
“It’s so lovely that he’ll not be spending his afternoons with those wretched boys,” Mrs. Blasseur continued.
“Yes.”
Was that anger in his voice? Anger, from even-keeled Jeremy?
“I’m always happy when someone escapes Temple Parish,” Jeremy added stiffly. “This place kills.”
As if to underscore that, Mrs. Blasseur coughed twice. Jeremy met Miranda’s eyes, his gaze communicating what he did not need to say any longer.
Get out. Get out, if you can.
Chapter Eleven
AS IT TURNED OUT, Turner settled the details that very morning.
It was scarcely ten when a runner came by. Robbie was to report to the shipwright for his apprenticeship in a handful of hours. Miranda helped him pack his things, and hugged him good-bye. He harrumphed at this treatment, and pulled away. But before he left, he stopped in front of her.
“Miranda?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll still see you on Sundays, won’t I? You’ll want me to come over?” His voice had grown so deep that it almost disguised the querulous note to his inquiry.
“I’d be miserable if you didn’t,” Miranda told him.
He turned away. “Huh,” he said.
Miranda tugged on his elbow. “You know,” she said, “I love you. If ever you need anything…”
“Sure.” He shrugged, and then looked at her and straightened to the height of his not-quite-five-feet yet. “I’m going to be a shipwright. So, later, when you need something, I’ll be the one to provide it.”
There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, as he took his satchel to the door. Don’t get in trouble. Don’t drink gin. Try not to do anything stupid.
Instead, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. “Here,” she said, handing it over. “You forgot to pack one.”
He rammed it into his pocket and then left with the courier. While she waited, Miranda piled her own things into the valise that the runner had brought. She finished packing before the courier returned; there wasn’t much to take. But a scant hour later, she left her garret room for good.
The runner conducted her across the water, past the cathedral and up a slope. Halfway up the hill, he turned onto a street overshadowed by trees. The bare limbs moved slightly in a breeze that brought with it only the smell of fallen leaves—no sewage, no starch. A row of houses, several stories high, rose on one side of the street. On the other was a park and a large stone building.
She had no time to explore her environs before she was ushered into the house.
She’d imagined Turner would obtain something for her along the lines of his own residence—a few rooms, perhaps smaller. But this was a lavish affair. The entry opened on a wide staircase, spiraling up two stories. A housekeeper—she introduced herself as Mrs. Tiggard—greeted Miranda, and she presented a cook and a pair of maids. She’d scarcely had a chance to get an impression of richly-papered walls and dark polished wood in the entry, before she was whisked on a tour of the house: parlor, pantry, dining room, all on the ground floor; then, up a flight of stairs, a sitting room, a morning-room, and a library. On the floor above that there was a dressing room and several bedchambers. The largest had been furnished for her.
The bed had four solid posts, and was covered in ivory linen sheets and a heavy gold coverlet. It seemed far too large for one person—or, for that matter, for two. Tonight, he’d come to her. There. Her skin tingled. Oh, God. She was really going to do this.
Before she had a chance to think matters through, however, a dressmaker was announced, along with three assistants. They’d brought with them a handful of mostly-finished gowns. Satins and silks and fine merino wools in browns and greens and blues—terribly impractical attire if one were to go walking down Temple Street. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as they tried them on her, pinning and basting in place. It was as if she were dressing up again as a lady. This time, the charade would last not for an afternoon, but for a month. This time, she was being paid to have the gowns, instead of paying for their use.
The dressmaker clucked at the light stays she was wearing, frowned at her chemise, and sent one of her assistants out with a list of items to be purchased.
She was pinned and measured and prodded; the assistants made adjustments, and no sooner was one dress fitted than it was whisked away and another put on in its place.
A brief respite was allowed for tea in the afternoon. Miranda took the opportunity to corner one of the maids and to ask her to obtain a few items for her bedchamber. She was about to manufacture an explanation for why she needed them—a perfectly reasonable explanation, of course—when the woman simply curtsied and left.
Apparently, she didn’t need to explain herself any longer. She just needed to ask.
And her time away from the dressmaker didn’t last long. No sooner had she drained her cup than one of the assistants returned, laden with packages. Her personal maid stripped her down to her skin, and everything was tried on to test the fit—fine linen shifts and drawers and petticoats, followed by knee-high silk stockings held in place with garter-ribbons. She caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror as they fastened the corset for her. The seamstress grumbled about the fit, but it seemed finer than any of the ill-fitting secondhand garments Miranda had ever tried.
She was surrounded by feminine bustle, but she could not help but dwell on the masculine. He was going to see her like this tonight. He’d see her in far less. Tonight, he’d be the one undoing those laces. She found herself flushing.
She wasn’t finished, not even when the dressmaker departed for the evening. Miranda’s maids drew her a bath. They scrubbed her hair with something soft and floral-smelling, and dumped warm water over her when she stood. Afterward, they wrapped her in thick, warm towels and dried her hair by the fire. She had almost drifted off to sleep before they intruded again, this time to dress her in a cream-and-green striped silk gown. The smooth fabric spilled over petticoats that swished when she walked. Her clothing seemed to belong to another woman.
No, she corrected herself. Another man. Who was going to take it off—every last inch of it.
The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it sent tendrils of heat sifting through her. When she
sent her maids away, she pulled out the parcel she’d had them obtain. A bit of sea sponge, a bottle of vinegar, and some silk thread. The simplest of the prophylactics she knew. Somehow, readying herself in that final way brought home the fact that she stood on the verge of something irrevocable. His body would fit where her fingers dipped. That sponge, soaked in vinegar, was lodged inside her because he was going to have her.
She could scarcely wait.
A scratch sounded at her door. She jumped to her feet, patting her skirts back into place, and rushed to open it. The maid blinked in surprise when Miranda threw it open herself; apparently, that had been the wrong thing to do, too.
But all the maid said was, “Supper is ready.”
Supper, when she’d had tea just three hours past? She could scarcely touch the soup or the meat pie or the roasted beetroot. The repast was whisked away, and Miranda was left alone in the library, with tea and a tray of small, delectable lemon cakes. They were too good not to eat, even though she was full beyond belief.
“I could grow used to this,” she remarked aloud. The books had nothing to say in response.
Easy to grow used to something when she hadn’t yet paid the price for any of it. Tonight, she’d have to surrender herself to him. If she’d had any proper sensibilities, she should have been trembling in fear. But it was distinctly not fear that had her thumbs pricking. She wandered from shelf to shelf, glancing at titles of books that she couldn’t bring herself to read, and reliving the feel of his hands on her skin, his mouth on her. She couldn’t feel the sponge inside her, but she was aware of its secret promise. Tonight. It was going to happen tonight.
Finally, the housemaid ducked in once more.
“Mr. Turner to see you,” she said.
He stood behind the maid, and her heart stopped beating.
Miranda had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she’d not heard him arrive. He waved the maid away—she wondered, briefly, what the servants said amongst themselves about this arrangement—and leaned against the doorway. His eyes met hers, smoldering with barely suppressed intent.
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