Unraveled (Turner, #3)

Mrs. Tiggard sighed. “Isn’t that always the way? You never hear from them except when they need you.”


Turner no doubt suspected she’d not kept her hands entirely clean, but he’d hardly want to be confronted with a detailed list of her crimes. She knew how straitlaced he could be about such matters—and how unforgiving he was. She didn’t want to see the light fade from his eyes when he looked at her.

She could manage this on her own. It would be simple. She’d go to Temple Church… She’d find out what the Patron wanted. Maybe she’d even do it. Smite would be gone all day. He would never have to know.

Unbidden, the memory returned of her last time in Temple Church. The Patron had wanted information. He’d obtained it; he’d discovered that she cared enough for Robbie that she’d revisit the rules she’d originally set. The Patron might not be angling after control over Lord Justice. But information?

The Patron wanted to know if he could make her do his bidding.

Miranda hadn’t so much as thought of gruel since she came here. Robbie was happy, situated in his new apprenticeship. She’d seen him on his half-day, and they’d not even argued once.

She’d forgotten the weight of her responsibilities. But she hadn’t rid herself of them. She’d only misplaced them.

She could take care of this on her own.

She shut her eyes and imagined what Jeremy would say. You are going to get yourself killed. Smite had asked for very little in exchange for this bargain, but he’d wanted honesty and fidelity. She suspected he would rather she engaged in intimacies with another man than perform a favor, however innocent, for a known criminal.

If she were someone else… But no. She wasn’t.

Smite had bought her gowns and paid for lemon cakes, but she’d bargained for those things. She’d not bargained for his forbearance. She couldn’t pay him for it, and she didn’t know if she could ask for a favor she couldn’t repay.

Her hands trembled, and she stared blankly at the wall.

Independence was all well and good when it was only dinner on the line. But if she didn’t learn to live with this, it would surely kill her. And so, instead of dashing off to Temple Church, she went to her desk and wrote a single word. She sanded the paper, tucked it into an envelope, and addressed it. After some thought, she searched until she found the dark stone that had been left on her doorstep a few nights past. These things she handed to her maid, to be delivered to Temple Church.



IT HAD BECOME A foregone conclusion that, instead of heading to his own home after work, Smite would go to Miranda’s. It was a foregone conclusion that he’d spend the evening in her company—reading, talking…making love to her. It was almost enough to make a man think sentimental thoughts.

Almost.

He smiled privately at that, and tried not to think of the passage of time. Surely, by the end of the month…

No. No. He was definitely better off not thinking about it.

He let himself in by means of the front door. One of the maids was dusting bric-a-brac on the curio shelf in the parlor. She ducked her head at him. Miranda didn’t call out in greeting, though. He let Ghost off his lead.

“Well,” he said softly. “What are you waiting for? Go find her.”

The dog looked up at him, sniffed the ground, and then trotted off. After a few false starts, Ghost clambered up the stairs. But the dog barely sniffed at the door of the sitting room. Smite was just beginning to wonder if she was out—but surely the maid would have said something?—when Ghost paused at the threshold of the library and waved his tail happily. Smite peered around the door.

Miranda was poring intently over a book, making notes on a sheet of paper as she read. She was wearing a light green gown of muslin, embroidered in little white flowers. She’d managed to spatter droplets of ink on the lace of the cuffs, though, and her fingertips were stained black. Rationally, she hadn’t become prettier over the course of their arrangement. Subjectively…well.

She leaned forward and scratched something on a piece of paper, and then gingerly turned the page of the book. Ghost chose that moment to scamper toward her and thrust his nose in her lap. She reached down, idly, to pat Ghost—using the flat of her palm to avoid getting ink on him. Then she set down her pen and looked up.

As always, he realized how much he’d missed her when she lit up at his presence. Her eyes were green and mobile, and filled with a spark that made him think she was amused.

But he didn’t say anything so ridiculously maudlin.

“What is it that has you so engrossed?” He walked forward and tipped back the book so he could read the spine. “Investment on Real Securities,” he read in bemusement. “I didn’t know you invested.”

She rubbed her ink-stained fingers against a cloth. “I don’t. Not yet. But…after, I won’t be able to return to Temple Parish. I’ll need to find some way to get a decent return on my investment.”