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.
THE 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.
&nbs
p; Chapter Twenty-three
MIRANDA 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.”
She nodded. “The Patron took Lord Justice.”
Jeremy scrunched his hair with one hand and screwed up his face. “Damn it.”
“It’s worse than damning. His brother, the Duke of Parford, is threatening to turn Bristol upside down in the search.”
“Of course he is,” Jeremy muttered. “It wanted only that—she’s holding the entire city hostage now. I’ll get the message shortly.” He blew out his breath. “Miranda, I wish you weren’t here. But it is so good to have even one person to turn to. I can’t do this.” He began to pace the floor. “But I have to. But I can’t. I couldn’t do it even for George.”
“We can stop it,” Miranda said. “While all his men are busy with Lord Justice. Jeremy, I know he’s your grandfather, but the two of us could tie Old Blazer up, take him in right now. We could avert the entire crisis.”
Jeremy stopped mid-pace and cocked his head. “Old Blazer?” he asked. “What does Old Blazer have to do with any of this?”
There were no words to describe the feeling of sick, sinking vertigo that assailed Miranda. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“You think Old Blazer is the Patron?” Jeremy asked.
All of Miranda’s certainty came to a tumbling halt. There had been that letter, written in the same hand as those prices. Jeremy had told her the Patron was Old Blazer. Hadn’t he?
Miranda shut her eyes, and an image drifted to her mind: Mrs. Blasseur, seated on a stool, cutting foolscap into strips.
Her heart stopped. “Oh, no,” she moaned. “I thought—”
“No,” Jeremy snapped. “You didn’t. You didn’t think at all. Old Blazer has no sense of discretion. Have you ever known him to keep his mouth shut?”
“Well, no, but—”
“He’s forever talking to people. And he won’t even do his part in the shop if he feels the slightest ache in his little toe. Do you really think he’d be the sort to work long hours on a thankless endeavor?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“More to the point,” Jeremy said softly, “Old Blazer isn’t in dire need of a replacement. My mother—” His voice cracked.
“Your mother can’t be the Patron.” Miranda shook her head. “Why would she want me to replace her? It doesn’t make any…”
She trailed off once more at the dire look in Jeremy’s eyes.
“Oh,” she said stupidly.
“Miranda,” Jeremy said gently, “you haven’t any sense of discretion either. You haven’t any training. You haven’t any claim to the enterprise.” Jeremy reached into his pocket and fished a hank of hair, gleaming dully copper in the moonlight that filtered through the windows.
Miranda shivered, remembering the knife that had removed that.
“That lock of hair,” Jeremy said, “was delivered to me as a warning. My mother thinks I’m in love with you, after all. And she thinks that George is my friend—she had him arrested, too, and when he was about to be released, had him secreted away as a hostage. This isn’t about you.” He gave her a sad smile. “It’s about my refusal to take up the family business.”
A knock sounded at the front door—two blows, a pause, and then three short raps.
“There,” Jeremy said. “That will be my invitation. All I have to do is go with whomever she’s sent, and I can avert this whole crisis. There’s an initiation ceremony.” His lip curled in distaste. “If I’m supposed to take up the Patron’s mantle, I have to administer the Patron’s justice. It…it proved to be a sticking point before.”
His tone had grown harder as he spoke.
“What kind of…” Miranda stopped, not willing to go forward. She knew what the Patron’s justice was like. The man who’d threatened her all those years ago had been driven out of town—and that, just for a threat. Men had died for the Patron’s justice—died and disappeared. If Jeremy was supposed to become the Patron…
His skin was the color of cold wax. “I can do it,” Jeremy was saying, more to himself than to her. “If I agree to take her place, I can find out where he’s held. Have him released. The stakes this time…there could be riots. I can kill one man to save the city.”
Miranda wasn’t sure she believed him. Moreover, she wasn’t sure what it would do to him, to commit murder.
“If I knew where my mother kept prisoners,” he was muttering, “perhaps I could… But no. No. There is no other way.”
Miranda caught his arm.
“Actually,” she said. “I have an idea. I know how to find them, without going through the initiation first.”
Jeremy glanced at the front door.
“Quickly,” Miranda said. “If we go out the back way, you won’t have to talk to him at all.”
IT WAS COLD AND lightless when Smite awoke. He was slumped against some hard surface. He twitched; even that slight movement sent a scatter of pain through his head. No sun played against the lids of his eyes; no lantern-light danced nearby.
It made no difference when he cautiously opened his eyes. It was still black. The floor under h
im was hard and cold, and a series of curiously regular bumps jutted into his skin. Even breathing hurt.
It took him a moment to orient himself. Last he’d known, he’d been standing behind Temple Church, pretending to smoke a pipe and watching the church. He’d had his back to the wall.
Someone had hit him from the side. He had a vague, troubled recollection of movement, but no memory of how he came to be here. Wherever here was.
There was no movement to the air; it hung about him, close and still. The setting almost felt like one of his nightmares, yet it seemed curiously tactile for a dream. He could make out the odor of metal and grease, and he could never smell in dreams. And in his dreams, he always heard the babble of the passing millrace, growing to a crescendo.
Here, silence engulfed him. Only a faint sound—an almost liquid burble—hovered at the edge of his hearing. It made him uneasy.
He put his hand out. Cold metal met his fingertips, and he found a hard edge in the floor next to him. A moment’s exploration brought the surface to life.
It wasn’t a ridge, and he wasn’t asleep. It was a seam, and those bumps marching alongside the hard metal edge were rivets. He was enclosed in a box made of iron.
Don’t think of it, Turner. If you don’t think of it, it needn’t affect you.
“Turner?” It was a familiar voice. “Is that you?”
“Dalrymple.” Smite felt an unreasonable sense of relief at finding himself not alone. The man’s voice brought back everything—the plan, the church, the Patron… “Tell me Miranda’s not here,” he said.
“If she is, I’ve not encountered her.”
“Ash?”
“Not him, either.”
No point in thinking of them now. He hoped they were safe.
Instead, he ran his hand along the metal beneath him. “Where are we?”
“I’m not certain. I only saw a bit near the end, when the scarf binding my eyes slipped. They took us aboard a ship. I only got a glimpse before they slammed the door shut.”
“Ah,” Smite muttered. A simple word, to hide the unbidden nausea that rose in his gorge. There was only one deserted ship in the Floating Harbour. He was aboard the Great Britain. Buried deep in her bowels. That noise he heard—that was the flow of liquid around the hull. His hand trembled against the cold floor.
The Turner Series Page 94