Unraveled (Turner, #3)

Miranda had no time to balk. Smite pressed his hand into the small of her back, and she stepped into the room.

It was the biggest parlor she had ever seen. The mural on the wall was not just an autumn scene, but a harvest scene. Sheaves of grains rested against beets and turnips… She could eat a raw turnip. She could eat a raw, painted turnip.

She knew both of the men. Richard Dalrymple had just stood up from his seat in one of the chairs. By the corner of the sofa was the Duke of Parford, Smite’s brother. Still seated on the sofa… The woman was dark-haired and pretty. She was dressed in an exquisite silk morning dress. It was a deep, dark purple—the color of a bunch of grapes. Miranda swallowed hungrily. Her metaphors were running toward meals.

The servant who had entered before them spoke. “Mr. Smite Turner. Miss Miranda Darling.”

The woman’s expression seemed to freeze in place.

Dalrymple’s mouth dropped open, and he glanced over at the sofa. She had to be the duke’s wife—and therefore Dalrymple’s sister, the Duchess of Parford.

Miranda winced and slid her ungloved hands into her skirt pockets. It was one thing for Smite to introduce his mistress to an older male acquaintance from his school days. It was another to bring her into a duke’s hotel rooms when said duke’s wife was in residence. It was still another to do all of that, and not give said mistress sufficient time to change into a gown that wouldn’t embarrass her.

The duchess was eyeing her with frank curiosity. Her gaze dropped to Miranda’s skirts. The gown had been serviceable when clean, but it was dusty and wrinkled now. Her hem was torn, and Miranda felt a well of resentment. The duchess had likely never worried about whether her wigs would sell. All that purple silk wouldn’t have lasted a night in a cell. And she wouldn’t look nearly so serene if she hadn’t eaten in over a day.

“Smite,” the duchess said. “You have yet to perform a proper introduction.”

“Of course. Margaret,” and Smite sounded almost bored as he spoke, “this is Miss Miranda Darling. Miranda, Her Grace the Duchess of Parford, my sister-in-law. I believe you are already acquainted with my brother.” He glanced once at Dalrymple, and then looked away. “Brothers.”

“I say, Turner,” Dalrymple muttered, looking away. But if he had been about to object to Smite’s introducing Miranda to his sister, he chose not to do so. He didn’t grumble when Smite conducted Miranda to a seat. Miranda sank into the cushions gratefully; Smite stood by her side and folded his arms.

The duchess’s impassive mask did not alter in the slightest during all of this. “A curious introduction, Smite.” She had not taken her eyes from the other woman. “And precisely who is Miss Darling to you?”

“A witness to an ongoing criminal endeavor.”

“And?” Parford prompted.

Smite didn’t respond. He simply tapped his foot and waited.

The duchess sighed and looked upward. “A witness,” she said. “Ash, you have done a very poor job convincing your brothers to involve themselves with suitable women.”

Parford shrugged. “How was I to accomplish that? Mark is the only person who has ever convinced Smite to go to a ball, and even then he nearly asphyxiated within the first few minutes.”

Miranda converted a surprised laugh into a cough.

The duke grinned down on his wife. “I’ve long accepted that I’m the only one of us who would have a suitable wife. And that was rather an accident on my part.”

The woman frowned at her husband, and then glanced up at Miranda. “Well, then, Miss Darling,” she said. “Six years ago, I believe I would have had you thrown out. Beware the Turners. They’ll upend your life.” There was no rancor in her voice, and Miranda noticed that she was holding the duke’s hand. Still, she gave Smite a level look. “At least Mark gave me a chance to collect myself so I could plan what I was going to say. If you don’t give me any notice, I fear I might say something uncivil.”

“Ah, yes,” Dalrymple mused. “Turner propriety. Satisfied so long as everyone has something to say. I’ve almost accustomed myself to the prospect.”

Smite glared at Dalrymple, who held up his hands.

“Don’t pounce on me now,” Dalrymple said. “I’m Margaret’s bastard brother, in more than one sense of the word. I’m the beneficiary of Turner propriety, and hardly one to criticize. I know I might have, in the past. But, ah…” He looked up. “I’m talking too much, then. Why are we talking about this in the first place? Smite was always the formal one anyway.”

“Indeed.” Smite leaned back casually. “There’s no reason to talk of it at all. It’s well known that I can do no wrong.”

The duke simply nodded.

“What!” Dalrymple said. “But—he—I—” He glanced at Smite again, and then frowned. “Oh. You’re joking.”

“It is equally well-known,” Smite said, “that I am a humorless barbarian.”

“Who is never wrong,” Parford added.