Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“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.