Unraveled (Turner, #3)

A SHADOW FELL ACROSS Smite’s desk.

He was scheduled to meet Miss Darling in a few hours, and so he had rather more work than usual to cram into his foreshortened working hours. The shadow was an annoyance. He moved the report he was reading over a few inches to fall into the sunlight.

The shadow moved. Smite looked up, and his annoyance froze into something harder.

“Look,” Richard Dalrymple said. “I know this is a bit much to ask. But do you suppose we can start over?”

“Start what over?” The lack of sleep during the previous evening made him feel as if a gritty veil had been cast over his eyes. It left him rather more cross than usual.

“Um.” Dalrymple shifted uncomfortably. “Everything?” The man was dressed perfectly, his trousers creased with edges so sharp that they could have cut someone. He’d tied his cravat in some complicated knot. He could strangle on his neckcloth, for all Smite cared. Still, he hunched uneasily, not meeting Smite’s eyes. “Everything since that first year and a half at Eton,” he added.

“You want me to simply discard the last nineteen and a half years.”

Dalrymple hunched further. “Yes,” he said. “That would be lovely.”

“And just be friends again, as if nothing had transpired.”

“Please?”

Smite opened a drawer in his desk and slid his papers inside. “Have you any notion—” But that question answered itself as easily. “No. You haven’t an inkling. One doesn’t simply pick up a friendship again after all that you’ve done.”

Dalrymple licked his lips uneasily. “I can understand that. But in the name of what we once had, and what we have now, could you not at least listen to me? For God’s sake, the last time we were both at Parford Manor, it was a disaster. For the sake of our families, this can’t continue.”

“What am I supposed to say? ‘Let’s shake hands, old chap, and let bygones be bygones’?”

Dalrymple’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “I’m relieved to hear you agree. Can we?”

Smite snorted, wishing he could stuff Dalrymple in the drawer alongside his papers. If only he could put him off, to be examined at some other time. Instead, he pushed the drawer closed. “I didn’t agree. And there’s a problem with what you propose. I can’t forget.”

Dalrymple flinched.

“What does an apology mean?” Smite pushed back his chair and stood. “I look at you and I remember the day you told the headmaster at Eton that I’d cheated on my examination.”

A wince in response. “I’m sorry.”

“You had my quarters searched when we were at Oxford, claiming that I had stolen from you. Am I supposed to forget that, too?”

Dalrymple shut his eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“And then there was that rumor you started a handful of years ago.”

Dalrymple bit his lip.

“Ah.” Smite set his hands on the desk, leaning forward. “Even you can’t forget that one.”

“I am,” Dalrymple said, “most especially sorry for that. More than you can realize. But…”

“Here it comes. You haven’t forgotten any of this at all.” Smite leaned back against the wall. “Go on, Dalrymple. Tell me how you justified your lies.”

The other man shook his head.

Smite smiled grimly. “Then let me advocate on your behalf. You had to do all those things—accuse me of cheating, lying, stealing, and buggery—because you feared that I would tell your secrets. You thought I would tell the world that you were a bastard. You feared that I would tell everyone that you—”

Dalrymple stepped forward, hands outstretched.

Smite snorted. “Ah, yes. It was that last one, wasn’t it? You thought I would tell the truth, and so you spread lies about me to discredit my character. Before I’d even done anything wrong.”

“Turner,” Dalrymple said. There was a pleading note in his voice.

Smite ignored it. “There’s a difference between the two of us. I promised you I wouldn’t tell. And unlike you, I remember my promises. So, no, Dalrymple. I don’t think I’m about to forget the last couple of decades. I’m not so foolish as to turn my back on you once more.”

Dalrymple’s features were frozen. He stared ahead, his arms straightening into ramrods at his side.

“God,” he said. “That’s it, then. No mercy. No forgiveness. There’s nothing I can do to make matters right between us.”

Smite shook his head.

“Not even…” He blinked, licked his lips. “Not even for our family? For Margaret and Ash?”