Unraveled (Turner, #3)

Miranda needed her sash tied and a few errant curls tucked away. Betsy found her a shawl for her shoulders—“Makes you look more imposing, miss,” she explained.

But even those tasks took only a few minutes. No more delay was possible. Miranda left her dressing room, walked down two flights of stairs, and entered the parlor. The man had his back to her; he was tall and broad. He was wearing a thick, sable topcoat, and his boots were polished to a shine. Not an emissary from the Patron, but almost as frightening. This man was wealthy and important, and no doubt he could cause her trouble.

He must have heard her footsteps, but he didn’t turn. Instead, he was examining the wall-clock.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “You never used to take so long to dress.”

There was something wrong with his accent. It was almost right—like a piano that had only one note out of tune. She could usually hear Eton or Harrow or Rugby on most wealthy men’s tongues. That subtle boyhood influence left its mark like indelible ink. But this man wasn’t marked. He hadn’t gone to public school.

He sighed. “And that’s the welcome I get, is it?” He turned around, and then stopped when he saw her. His eyes widened. There was something familiar in his features—that dark hair, that nose...

But all he said was: “Oh.” He took in her gown—turquoise silk with seed pearls tucked into the seams where the fabric gathered, and matching lace gloves. His eyebrows beetled together in puzzlement.

“The house has newly changed ownership,” Miranda said. “I collect I am not who you expected.”

But the man didn’t make his apologies. “I know,” he said. “About the house. And the ownership. That’s why I came.” He gave her another curious look. “This is a devil of an awkward question. But…are you by any chance married to my brother?”

Miranda felt her mouth dry.

“You see, my solicitor sent me a note that after nearly a decade of Spartan quarters, my brother had finally purchased a house that was suitable to his station. I decided to investigate forthwith. I had thought—”

Somewhere, some book of etiquette dealt with this situation—what to do when your lover’s brother asked if you’d recently married. But if it did, Miranda had never seen it. She choked back nervous laughter.

“I think we’d better start this again.” He gave her a bow. “If you’re married to my brother, you’d better call me Ash.”

If he could have seen the stockings she wore under her gown, the improper red ribbons she’d tied as garters, he’d have known instantly. “I’d better call you ‘Your Grace,’” Miranda said, as calmly as she dared.

“Ah.” He looked down. “Well. This is even more awkward.” He didn’t seem discomfited. He strolled to a chair and stood behind it, as if waiting for an invitation to make himself at home.

Miranda frowned. “Do you really think your brother would get married and not inform you?”

“Yes,” he said instantly. “How well do you know him?”

“Well enough to know he wouldn’t.” She paused, waited for him to open his mouth to argue, before she spoke again. “He wouldn’t marry at all,” she added.

“True. So you’re his mistress, then?”

Of course a duke would be comfortable with the notion.

No point in dissembling. “Yes.”

He sat down. “Is he well? Is he happy? What is he doing these days?”

“I don’t know that he would want me giving out private information.”

The Duke of Parford winced. “Damn. He’s already infected you with his peculiar brand of reticence.”

“Reticent?” she said in surprise. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve found him extraordinarily forthcoming.”

“Really? Are you…no. You’re not joking.” He stared at her as if she were some kind of a strange beast, and she found herself bristling.

“You’d better call me Ash in any event,” he finally said. “And now I can’t decide if I was right to leave my wife behind for this interview or not.” He studied her face for a moment and then shook his head. “Next you’ll be telling me that pigs fly, and he has Richard Dalrymple over for tea.”

“Brandy,” Miranda replied. “It was brandy, not tea.”

The duke’s countenance shifted. “Was it, then?” That last came out quietly, but his face darkened.

Before he could say anything else, the door opened once more. This time, claws skittered against the floor. Ghost bounded in and barked at Miranda; he made a second circuit about the Duke of Parford and barked again. She reached down to pet him, just as Smite walked into the room.

The two brothers ought to have embraced, or at least clasped hands. Instead, they simply stared at one another.

“Ash,” Smite finally said. “I see you’ve acquainted yourself with Miss Darling. What are you doing here? And why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“Oh, I have to hire criers to get any sort of welcome?” Parford rubbed his forehead. “Have it your way. I’ll be off. I can see when I’m unwanted.”