Unraveled (Turner, #3)

She listened attentively as the baker who was prosecuting the case—a florid-faced gentleman by the name of Pathington—railed against Widdy specifically, and all small scourges upon honest sellers in general. The urchin looked confused and desperate against that onslaught.

When the baker had completed an exaggerated recounting of crime, infamy, and a missing half-loaf of bread, it was Lord Justice who turned to Widdy. “What is your name, young master?”

Widdy swallowed. “Widdy.”

There was a pause. The clerk next to Miranda wrote the word, then looked up. “I beg your pardon, Your Worships. Is that his Christian name or his surname?”

Widdy looked beleaguered.

“Well?” the mayor said. “Speak up. Is that short for something?”

“Yes?” Widdy shifted his feet uneasily.

A faint chuckle rose from the onlookers.

“Well, what for?”

“I don’t know. Me mam called me Widdy, back when.”

“And what is your mother’s name?”

Widdy looked away.

“Well, boy,” the magistrate in the lopsided wig thundered, “what is your mother’s name?”

Widdy shrunk in on himself. “People called her ‘Spanky.’”

The laughter rang out again, darker and just a little more cruel.

Lord Justice cast a quelling glance over the room. “What did she do?”

“She’s dead,” Widdy replied earnestly. “But she used to drink gin.”

The hearing room erupted at that. Lord Justice didn’t even crack a smile. “Do you have work? A place to stay?”

“I sweep streets, sometimes. I hold horses, when gentlemen go into the shops. That’s my favorite. Sometimes, I deliver billy-dos.”

“Billy-dos?” The mayor’s mouth quirked up.

“For ladies,” Widdy explained earnestly. “When they don’t want their words to be seen.”

Skew-wig reached over and nudged the mayor’s elbow. “I believe the boy is referring to billets-doux.” His mouth twitched in a self-satisfied smile.

Lord Justice cut his eyes briefly in their direction, and did not join in their merriment. “Did you take the bread?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t mine.”

“That’s what they all say,” Skew-wig said, shaking his head. “It’s his word against a respectable business-owner. I believe the man who doesn’t carry billy-dos about.”

That was as good an entry cue as any. Miranda took a deep breath, expelling all her fears. Then she reached out and tapped the clerk again. The man jumped, spattering ink, and then caught her eye. She pointed at Widdy, and the man coughed once more.

“Your Worships,” the clerk said, “there is a lady here who claims to have witnessed the whole affair.”

“Where is she?” the mayor asked.

The clerk jerked his head at Miranda. She felt as if she’d been thrust onstage: every eye in the room trained on her. She went from cold to too-hot. Still, as she pushed to her feet, she also felt a hint of excitement for the performance.

“Your Worships.” The girl she was playing might have that slight tremor to her hands. She would drop her eyes from the intensity of Lord Justice’s gaze. “I saw the events in question. This boy merely watched.” Her words felt almost mushy in her mouth. She pitched her accent somewhere between aristocratically smooth and street-wary, with an added touch of broad country. She needed to hover on the brink of respectability. In this gown, she’d never manage wealthy.

Nobody said anything, so she kept her eyes on the floor. How many people had stood here like this, hoping for the best? A bead of sweat collected on her forehead. After a few moments—seconds really, although it felt an age—she dared to lift her eyes.

Lord Justice watched her, unblinking, one hand on his chin. If there’d been a hint of softness in his manner toward Widdy, it had evaporated at her appearance. Next to him, his colleague frowned in puzzlement.

It would be a mistake to let the stretching silence drive her to speak. That way lay babbling, and too much revelation altogether. She dropped her chin and contemplated the floor instead.

Lord Justice spoke first. “You saw the entire thing.” It wasn’t quite a question, the way he said it. Still, she bobbed her head in response.

Beside her, the clerk shuffled his feet. “Should she be sworn in?”

Lord Justice gave a negative wave of his hand. “What is your name?”

“Whitaker,” Miranda said. “Miss Daisy Whitaker.”

Her day-gown was serviceable muslin, one that a countrified girl might wear. He’d already taken note of her accent. He glanced to either side of her, and then scanned the room before raising one eyebrow.

“You are here unaccompanied,” he commented.

“My father is a farmer. A gentleman farmer. He’s here for market, and brought me along to town. It’s my first time.” Miranda ducked her head. “I didn’t think it was wrong to come. Was it?” She glanced up once more through darkened lashes, and willed him to see a headstrong girl from Somerset. Someone not used to being chaperoned at all times. Someone who might walk through fields by herself at home. She wanted him to see a foolish chit, so innocent that she believed going out alone in the city was no different than traipsing down a dusty lane.