Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“Is that likely tonight?”


“I just came from my mother’s house. It’s a possibility. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.” He shrugged. He didn’t think that show of indifference convinced her.

She pulled her coat more snugly about her. He stepped down from the phaeton; she gave him her hand. His hand clenched around hers through her gloves. But the only comment she made in passing was, “Lady Justice is a lucky woman.”

If there was a hint of bitterness in her voice, it did not show in her face when they entered the lamp-lit entryway of the inn.

The proprietress had roused herself from the kitchen; she ran her gaze over them with a sharply trained eye. No doubt she was considering the fine cut of Smite’s coat, the smooth wool of Miranda’s traveling habit. The ostler had likely whispered a word about the phaeton—hired from Bristol, but well-made. This, she weighed against the lack of servants traveling with them.

“Welcome,” she said, with a hint of curtsy that suggested she’d totted up the sums and decided the two of them ranked just above poor gentry. “Might I be having your names for the register?”

It was at that moment that Smite realized he’d made a tremendous miscalculation. He’d been so preoccupied with the prospect of going to his mother’s house—and then the necessity of staying in an inn—that he’d simply not considered how they were to present themselves.

He cast Miranda a pained look—one that the sharp-eyed woman detected instantly. One hand shot to her hip and her lips narrowed. But if Miranda noticed this, she paid it no attention. Instead, she gave Smite a brilliant smile—one that seemed to slice deep into his belly. “May I do it, dearest?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Sign the inn’s register.” Miranda beamed at the innkeeper’s wife.

The woman’s face was still frozen in a mask of suspicion.

But Miranda simply removed her gloves and set them on the counter. “I can’t get enough of it.”

Smite made a gesture, which Miranda seemed to take as permission. She swept forward, took hold of the barrel of the pen, and spoke as she signed. “Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood. I just adore the sound of that. It never grows old.”

Miranda was wearing a ring made of simple gold on her finger. It looked the sort of thing that impoverished gentry might use as a wedding band. She must have slipped it on in the phaeton. Smite shook his head. She’d come prepared to tell a story.

The scowl on the woman’s face began to melt away. “You’re newlyweds, are you?”

“Oh, no,” Miranda said earnestly. “We’re not new at all. It’s been all of…two months, one week, and three days. Isn’t that right, dearest?”

“Mmmm.” It was fascinating to watch her spin the tale. She’d adjusted her accent yet again, adding just a twitch of country. She looked up at him with just the right amount of girlish adoration. As if they were deeply in love and barely beginning to discover one another.

He couldn’t help looking back with the same expression. He wasn’t dissembling.

“Well, go on,” Miranda said. “You are going to tell her, are you not? About the, um, the other thing.”

He had no idea what she might be alluding to. She didn’t expect him to participate in this lie, did she? He raised an eyebrow at her repressively.

“We don’t want a repeat of two nights ago,” she admonished him, and then turned to the woman. “The proprietor of the hotel…well, he broke into our room. At two in the morning, no less.”

“Of all things!” said the woman in front of her. “Why would he do that?”

Miranda flushed a dainty pink. “It’s—it’s a bit delicate, you understand? He heard shouts. He thought I was being hurt. I can understand his concern. It was entirely laudable, but so, so embarrassing.” She made a little motion with her hand, so adorably coy that he almost believed her himself.

“I wasn’t,” she said, looking down. “Hurt, I mean.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t imagine what the innkeeper was thinking—I wasn’t even the one making noises. It was dreadfully embarrassing.”

“At two in the morning?” the innkeeper’s wife repeated in fainter tones.

Miranda blushed deeper. “I know. What would my mother say? But…he always does make it worth my while. And I never can say no.”

Smite heard himself make a strangled noise in his throat.

The woman gave him a sharper appraising glance. “Doesn’t talk much, does he?”

Miranda leaned in. “Doesn’t need to,” she whispered, just loud enough for Smite to hear.

The innkeeper’s wife smiled at Miranda, coming to some feminine understanding. “You have him wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?”