Unraveled (Turner #3)(21)
It filled his lungs, caustic as lye soap, and he swallowed it, choking, burning—
Smite woke, jerking upright, swallowing a shout on his lips. He could hear it ringing around him, and he felt that old sense of embarrassment. Not that it mattered; there was nobody else about. What servants he employed lived outside his home; he’d arranged matters that way for this very reason. He gulped breath and urged his heart to cease racing.
There was a rustle in the dark, and then, against the palm of his hand, a cold nose.
So maybe there was someone around.
“Come on up.” Smite’s throat seemed sore. He had been shouting, then.
The bed swayed as Ghost jumped on it. His fur was still slightly damp; Smite had washed him on his return home last night. He gathered the animal to him.
Long, soft fur met his fingers. He breathed in and willed his heart to slow. He commanded the nauseating cramp in his stomach to relax. After a few minutes, his body obeyed.
Just the usual evening specter, then, although the heat of the water was an interesting twist. There had been no smell. There were never smells in his dreams.
When he was younger, his dreams had been a cause for consternation. He’d tried everything to rid himself of them. Hot milk. Exercise. Women. Laudanum.
Some afflictions, he’d concluded, weren’t worth fighting. Not at that cost. He’d accepted the nightmares as a fact of his existence, no more debilitating than, say, a scar that restricted movement. Scars were manly. He’d won this one fair and square.
Of course, as afflictions went, this one was rather more like the gout than a scar. Made worse by alcohol; brought on by rain. No point in deluding himself.
He smiled into Ghost’s fur and felt the tension slowly ease from him.
He’d long since stopped seeing the nightmares as a cause for complaint. They were more like a call to arms. They were a reminder of what had transpired. Of what it meant for him to do his job, to listen carefully to those who came before him. Of what might happen if he turned a blind eye.
When he woke on odd nights, he lulled himself back to sleep by reciting names as another man might count sheep. Mrs. Wexforth. Jack Bloomsmith. Davy Duglett. On down a parade of people he had seen during his days as magistrate. Ghost leaned against him as their faces danced through his memory.
His brother had obtained Ghost from a shepherd back in Shepton Mallet. Ghost had been the progeny of one of the most renowned sheepdogs in all of Somerset and some unknown stray. When they’d tested his instinct for herding as a small puppy, the little dog had shown an unsavory interest in the sheep’s leavings and no interest at all in the sheep. And so he’d been passed on to Smite—a tiny bundle of gray-and-white fur. Eight weeks old, and already marked a failure.
In tonight’s darkness, Ghost leaned against him.
He came to the end of his list.
When they needed someone, I was there. I listened. I acted. What happened to me won’t happen to them. Not while I can prevent it.
Then there was Miss Darling.
God, what a conundrum she posed. Any pretense of impartiality had vanished when he’d seen her with Robbie. The boy reminded him all too much of what it had been like, taking charge of Mark, when they’d roamed Bristol’s streets. He wasn’t exactly thinking of her with the requisite disinterest. He knew all too well what it was like to be saddled with a charge, with no way to make good.
And as for Miss Darling herself… Smite had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he felt more alone around others than he did by himself. Any woman with a hint of education could never comprehend what Smite had been through; anyone who could fathom his childhood could never understand what he’d made of himself. It didn’t matter how he yearned for companionship; there was none to be had. He’d resigned himself to short, lonely encounters.
But Miss Darling… damn. Apparently all it took was a combined knowledge of Sophocles and the streets. He was susceptible to her. If he wasn’t careful, he might end up nursing a full-blown interest. Not a good idea. He had too much else to do.
In the dark of night, it was impossible to shove aside his memory of the canny flash of her smile, the turn of her profile. In some faraway world, their journey tomorrow might end, improbably, in some secluded park instead of at the gaol. She might call him Turner instead of Lord Justice. She might open up when he touched her…
Foolish fantasies, those. His c**k didn’t think so; it had grown hard and erect in anticipation. He gave it a thump in protest and leaned back against the pillow. Beside him, Ghost curled up. The animal let out a doggy sigh.
“Well,” he said to Ghost. He could imagine the animal’s ears flicking back toward him in the darkness, turning ever so slightly to catch his words. “I suppose we’ll have to find something else for you to do tomorrow. I have a woman to see.”
He wished he didn’t sound so eager.
A SHADOW FELL ACROSS Smite’s desk.
He was scheduled to meet Miss Darling in a few hours, and so he had rather more work than usual to cram into his foreshortened working hours. The shadow was an annoyance. He moved the report he was reading over a few inches to fall into the sunlight.
The shadow moved. Smite looked up, and his annoyance froze into something harder.
“Look,” Richard Dalrymple said. “I know this is a bit much to ask. But do you suppose we can start over?”
“Start what over?” The lack of sleep during the previous evening made him feel as if a gritty veil had been cast over his eyes. It left him rather more cross than usual.