Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“And that,” Mrs. Blasseur said, thumping him on the collar, “is why Miranda is meeting another man. You’re neat and tidy and orderly, and you never cause me any problems. But…you’re neat and tidy and orderly, and you never cause anyone problems. Women want men with problems. We need something to fix.”


There was not the least chance that Jeremy would fall in love with her, nor she with him. He met her eyes in quiet apology. Miranda shook her head. No need for him to be sorry. It was heartbreaking to watch Mrs. Blasseur fade away. All that exuberant wit and energy and charm seemed to compress in these final weeks. For all her physical weakness, she radiated frustration. She was leaving her life incomplete, too many things undone.

“Leave off Miranda,” Jeremy said, his voice weary. “Or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Mrs. Blasseur’s fingers slid across the counter. She took the lace that Jeremy had just mended from his hands, scanning it with a practiced eye. Mrs. Blasseur always wanted to fix everything. She found nothing to quibble about, though, and laid it aside.

“I haven’t got forever,” Mrs. Blasseur said. “You’d best act quickly. You know what will happen if I have to take matters into my own hands.”

Jeremy set his jaw.

Miranda couldn’t imagine how intensely frustrating it would be for Mrs. Blasseur, to have all of her thwarted ambition run aground on something as impossible as her own mortality.

But Jeremy simply shook his head. “It won’t be happening,” he said. “Not even to please you. And besides, I think Miranda has an appointment with a man.” He gave her a shrug.

It was not just apology she saw in his eyes. Sorrow, resignation, bitterness, and more than a little anger. His father had died years before; his mother had practically raised him. Jeremy had watched her die for close to a year. No wonder he was bitter.

She reached out to him, but he jerked away. “You’d best be off, Miranda, unless you plan to be late.”





Chapter Seven




THE CLOCK STRUCK TWO as Miranda arrived at the Council House. Overhead, clouds obscured the sun. Still, even the midday gloom could not hide the empty steps of the building. Magistrate Turner wasn’t here.

She had imagined he would be punctual. He seemed the sort to be precise about—well, everything.

She waited for a minute, until she heard a faint mewing sound emanating from a nearby alleyway. Curious, she stepped back and peered around the corner.

Ah. Here was the reason Magistrate Turner wasn’t standing on the stairs.

He had squeezed in that small gap between the buildings. His face was set in grim concentration, as if he were listening to a prisoner’s speech. But he was sitting in judgment over a pair of cats—one small and orange, the other large and white.

One meowed again, and he broke off a piece from what appeared to be a meat pie, and tossed it to them.

He was dressed in sand-colored wool. Up until now, she’d only seen him in dark colors—black robes, navy jackets. The light color of his coat made his hair seem all the blacker. It brought out a warmth in his skin that she’d not seen before.

And when he looked up from the cats and met her gaze, she realized for the first time how intensely blue his eyes were—emphasis on intense. He seemed to see straight through her, right through her threadbare cloak and her nondescript dress, through her flesh, straight into her heart. That unruly organ thumped heavily in her chest.

She raised her hand to give him an awkward wave. Her pulse beat, and an unexpected thrill ran through her at the sight of him. The sensation spilled through her body in little shocks, like a harpist strumming out an arpeggio against her ribs.

Oh, drat. She was attracted to him.

“Magistrate Turner,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “Turner,” he corrected her.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“You called me Magistrate.” His nostrils flared. “Magistrates decide cases and issue warrants for arrests. They don’t go on walks with intriguing women, no matter what the destination might be. I must make it clear that I’m helping you in my private capacity. If you call me Magistrate Turner again, I’ll turn around and walk away.”

He made it sound so grim, the prospect of taking a walk with her. It took her a moment to hear that word—intriguing. But he wasn’t smiling at her. That couldn’t be an attempt at flirtation, could it?

Miranda shook her head slowly. “Good heavens. That’s quite an act you put on.”

He drew himself up haughtily. “I beg your pardon.”

“An act,” Miranda repeated. “Stand as tall as you like, and frown at me all you wish. I saw you just now. You were feeding cats.”

“So I was. And do you make something of that?”

“You,” Miranda said daringly, “have a kind heart.”

He turned away from her, the tails of his greatcoat swirling about him. “Don’t enlarge too much upon the matter. The cats were hungry. I had food. This seemed to be a problem with a ready solution. It’s not kindness to solve problems; it’s efficiency.”

“I stand corrected. You have an efficient heart.”