Unraveled (Turner #3)(14)

“Let me explain.” Smite scanned the paper. “You, the said Richard Dalrymple, et cetera et cetera, did leave a team and carriage stationed in the street for two hours—two hours, Dalrymple, really?”

“I told you I’ve been having difficulties,” the man replied. “The solicitor I used before seems to have disappeared entirely. Besides, I had no idea the team was in the street, my tiger having abandoned them to, um, other entertainments the instant he arrived in the city.”

“You admit it was in the street.”

“Yes, but I’m telling you, it wasn’t my fault.”

“You left your carriage blocking the way, contrary to the statute passed in the third year of the Reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, entitled—”

Dalrymple snatched the paper from Smite’s hand. “I can read, damn it.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Must you always be so condescending? I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Well.” Smite snorted. “That’s new.”

Dalrymple grimaced, but ignored that gibe. “We’ll get to that in just a bit. It says I’m supposed to appear before Her Majesty’s Justices of the Peace.”

“Yes.”

“You’re one of them. You know how the public has been these last years—looking for any sign to point to, some signal of my dissolute decay.”

Smite knew it quite well. Dalrymple had been born a duke’s heir, but a few years ago it had come out that his father was a bigamist—and he was a bastard. He’d weathered quite a bit of criticism in the years since—so much that he’d abandoned one attempt to buy himself a title.

But habits of birth never faded. Dalrymple didn’t need to hold a title to act entitled. He raised his eyebrows at Smite significantly. “Is there any way we might settle this quietly?”

Smite tapped the paper. “It says to appear before any two magistrates. I am singular.”

Dalrymple rolled his eyes. “Indeed. I’ve always said so.”

“In addition, I make it a habit to recuse myself from hearing cases where one of the parties is known to me. It is my duty to be impartial.”

Dalrymple looked honestly shocked at that. “You’re not going to do anything?”

Smite shrugged. “If you’re particularly hard up, I can loan you forty shillings.”

“I don’t need more Turner money, damn it. I’m telling you it wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Your team ought to have put itself away. What you really mean, Dalrymple, is that because your father was a duke, you don’t believe you should be subject to laws like everyone else. Blame the horses. Blame the tiger. Blame me. It’s always everyone’s fault but yours, isn’t it?”

Dalrymple let out a sigh. “This is not how I envisioned this conversation proceeding. I’m here in Bristol to talk with you, Turner. I owe you an apology.”

Smite had waited too many years to hear those words—almost two decades, now—for them to have any meaning.

He turned away. “If you’re looking to kiss and be friends, Dalrymple, I suggest you start with your horse. I’m surely not interested.”

“Fuck you,” Dalrymple snapped.

“No, thank you,” Smite heard himself say, his tone casually polite. But, some wayward part of his brain added, try your horse again. You’ll probably have better luck.

Even though he’d left off half the thought, Smite almost expected Dalrymple to strike out at him under such provocation. Instead, the other man simply rubbed his forehead.

“Very well,” Dalrymple muttered. “I suppose I deserved that. Old habits die hard.” He let out a bit of a laugh. “You always do manage to get under my skin. I’m sorry. For all of it. I just want to talk to you. Give me half an hour.”

Smite didn’t trust himself to answer. Instead, he simply said, “Go to the hearing. Being a duke’s brother makes you more obligated to uphold the laws, not less so.”

“And the rest?”

“I’ll think on it.”

Dalrymple left, one backward glance over his shoulder. Smite gathered up Ghost’s lead. He would have left, too, but he didn’t want Dalrymple to think he was following him. Whatever game his brother-in-law was playing now, Smite wanted no part of it.

“You know him?” the clerk asked.

He had thought he did, long ago. He’d once believed that he’d known Dalrymple better than anyone. Smite stared after the man, a host of unwelcome memories stirring inside him. He’d hidden them away carefully, but he still felt the sting of that betrayal.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “I knew him.”

“Is he a…?” The clerk trailed off, obviously at a loss to characterize what he’d seen.

“An enemy. A friend.” Smite shrugged. “A brother.” That last, twice over.

The clerk was watching him curiously, and he hadn’t intended to be so cryptic. Mystery, after all, invited questions, and questions led to inquiry.

“We were friends at Eton,” he finally said. “But our brothers did not get along, and when circumstances forced us to take sides, the friendship crumbled. Years later, my elder brother married his sister. We manage to keep to common courtesies, so long as we stay out of each other’s way.”