Unraveled (Turner, #3)

Just her imagination.

And just her luck that His Worship had chosen today to show a gallant streak. She could not let him accompany her. There was no gentleman farmer, no comfortable inn. There was nothing but her cold garret waiting, and if he knew that the shining blond ringlets on her head were a wig, and her gown a costume…

Miranda swallowed. She didn’t need justice. She needed to get out of the room—and fast.





Chapter Two




THERE WERE TIMES WHEN Smite Turner disliked his Christian name. And then there were times when it felt all too appropriate. Today, it seemed, was one of the latter occasions. As soon as the door shut on the hearing room, he sprang into action. Step one was to divest himself of his robe; that was accomplished in one fluid motion. After all, if his suspicions were correct—and they usually were—he had only seconds to act. He threw the dark, heavy wool in a careless heap to the side, and spun around.

His coat wasn’t on his desk where he’d left it.

“Palter,” he swore, “What have you done with my greatcoat? I’ve got to get out of here now.”

“See?” the mayor muttered to Clark, the other magistrate, in tones not quite low enough to escape Smite’s notice. “Now he’s in a tearing hurry. I’ll never make sense of the man.”

Smite ignored his colleagues, and instead removed his uncomfortable wig. Palter appeared behind him, advancing at a rate that would have been better suited to an octogenarian on the brink of permanent decline rather than a spry young clerk in his thirties.

“Your Worship,” the man said. He spoke as slowly as he walked. “I was brushing your coat. It was covered in dog fur.” Palter cast an accusing glance behind Smite as he spoke. But the object of Palter’s scorn had embarked on a vigorous campaign of ear-scratching, and took no notice.

“Never mind that.” Smite held out his hand. “I need it. Now.”

She’d called herself Daisy Whitaker this time. Nobody else would have made the connection—they’d have been blinded by the perfectly arranged blond hair, the well-made walking dress. But when she’d stood, she’d glanced warily from side to side as if she felt unsafe in her surroundings. Her eyelashes had been darkened. And her wrists… No gentleman farmer’s daughter had wrists so thin. Poor fare at the dinner table showed first on the wrists.

“You know how I feel about your going out covered in gray hairs.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he took in Smite’s shirtsleeves. “Your Worship. Never tell me you went out in the hearing room, not wearing a coat under your robe.”

Smite simply stared at him. “That robe is blazing hot,” he said. “Nobody can see beneath it. And my attire really is my own concern, and none of yours. Now where is my greatcoat?”

Palter was supposed to be just his clerk—a fellow who looked up legal precedents, when such were needed, who took dictation and handled the more laborious paperwork that arose. But within a few days of work, he’d appointed himself Smite’s valet-in-residence at the Council House. He’d made himself utterly indispensable on all fronts. That only meant that when Smite wanted him dispensed with, he was damned inconvenient.

“I heard what you said out there.” Palter strolled to the far side of the room once more, leisurely as you please. “Think about the dignity of your station. You ought to wear a coat to talk to an innocent miss.”

Innocent. Ha.

Everyone else had been fooled. But for years, Smite had been blessed with a superior memory. He had an eye for face and color, an ear for words. He remembered conversations that had taken place decades in the past. He could recall the precise shape of the brooch his mother had worn to his sister’s funeral.

And so it had taken only a few seconds to recognize the supposed Miss Whitaker. The last time he’d seen her, she’d had orange hair and freckles. She’d been wearing a simple frock of dark green, matching brilliant eyes that she had been unable to conceal now. She’d given a different name, too. It had been a year since that first encounter, but he’d thought he’d seen her more than once, dressed differently each time.

He didn’t know what she was up to, but he didn’t like it, and he was going to make her stop.

Across the room, his man opened a wardrobe and pulled out the missing coat.

“I see no reason to elevate my dignity to the level of pomposity.” Smite crossed the room in three quick strides, and took the garment. “In my experience, dignity naturally follows competence. I’ll look after my work, and trust my dignity to take care of itself.”