Unraveled (Turner, #3)

The muffled sound of his eldest brother dictating instructions in the next room formed a murmured, calm counterpoint to his frustration. Smite didn’t even know what to say to Miranda. Instead, he simply contemplated her.

The corners of her lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. “I’ll wager that sometimes you wish you’d never come after me that day,” she said.

He met her eyes. “Do you, then?”

A few feet away, the duchess grimaced. She glanced once at Miranda, and then looked away.

“No,” Miranda said thoughtfully. “I suppose not.”

“There you are,” he said. “I make it a habit not to harbor regrets.” A small smile touched his lips. “I’m especially particular about the matter when regrets would be unwarranted.”

“Flatterer,” Miranda said calmly.

Margaret was trying valiantly to appear uninterested in their conversation.

But Miranda leaned over to the other woman. “Despite his apparent fluency in the English language,” she said earnestly, “Smite lacks the capacity to express some very basic thoughts. Compliments that other people manage quite easily, like ‘My, you look lovely,’ or ‘I hope you don’t die tonight’ are quite difficult.”

God. How had he ever thought he would be able to send her away? He still had her hairpin in his pocket. It made no substitute for her.

“You look lovely,” Smite repeated. “I’d rather you didn’t die. Don’t believe a word Miss Darling says, Margaret. I can express any concept I wish. I merely prefer not to.”

“Oh?” Margaret’s gaze dipped down to their fingers. Smite’s hand lay close to Miranda’s on the sofa. They were mere inches apart.

In the other room, Ash’s voice trailed off. Margaret glanced over. “I’ll wager you ten pounds you can’t go tell my husband that you love him.”

Smite shifted back in his chair. His breath caught in his lungs. And then Margaret met his eyes, and he realized that she was in dead earnest. How many years had it been since he’d said the words?

All his vaunted memory, and he couldn’t call up a single instance. It had seemed a given. They’d had their share of anger and resentment, he and Ash. But love was still the bedrock of their relationship. Ash knew that. Didn’t he?

He stood and crossed over to the open doorway.

“Ash,” he said.

An indistinct murmur came back. Smite put one arm behind his back. His hand formed a fist, and then he drew himself up. “Are you ready? It’s almost time.”

“Yes.” The duke’s response was barely audible. “I just need to—”

“Because I wouldn’t want to be late. We need to be there before Miranda arrives on the scene.” Smite’s fist clenched just a little bit more.

Ash frowned at him. “Anything amiss?”

He felt his face growing hot. “Where in God’s name is Dalrymple?” Smite turned swiftly away. He couldn’t avoid Margaret’s eye as he turned. She didn’t shake her head or otherwise indicate her disapproval. He’d had every intention of saying it.

Maybe the words had gone rusty from disuse. Nothing else could explain it.

He walked over to his sister-in-law, and after examining the contents of his pockets very carefully, handed over a banknote. He didn’t dare look Miranda in the eye as he did.



THE PLAN HAD SEEMED so simple earlier: they had to catch Old Blazer in the act of being the Patron.

It had been easy enough to answer his request for an audience. Miranda had agreed to come speak with the Patron, but only if he came in person. Given what Jeremy had implied, she thought he might come. If he did, he’d prove his own guilt.

Simple.

But as Miranda crept down Temple Street after dark, the prospect seemed fraught with difficulty. Ensconced in the warm, bright hotel room, everything had seemed possible. Now, she felt uncomfortable and out of place. Her cloak was too good, her boots were too new for this part of town. She’d never felt the need to hide on a busy street before. But now, the crowds seemed subtly hostile.

As she came up on the little lane that led to the church, she repeated to herself the arguments she’d made earlier. So far, the Patron had only asked to see her. His representative had spoken of good will. If Old Blazer wanted her dead, he could have ordered it already.

He was looking for a replacement, after all. That made her safe.

It was one thing, though, to talk of safety while surrounded by friends. Here…

She ducked into the dark lane that led to the church and clutched her cloak tightly. She was still surrounded by friends.

That dim figure, leaning against a far-away building—that was the Duke of Parford himself, keeping watch over the front entrance. Smite and Richard Dalrymple stood guard at the back doors. They’d argued for what had felt like hours about whether they needed to bring more men. In the end, they’d decided that secrecy was preferable to a show of force.

But close as the men were to her, nobody walked beside Miranda into the church. The evening service had ended hours past, and the place was deserted. Only softly guttering candles, burnt almost to the stub, lit her way as she walked down the aisle to the confessional.