Unraveled (Turner #3)(38)

But what he said instead was, “So that’s a yes, then.”

“It’s a yes.”

The sun wasn’t coming up yet, but it ought to have done. It felt like dawn, warm and red, arriving on the heels of a very dark night.

“About your other concern,” he heard himself say. “Do you know how to avoid pregnancy?”

She hadn’t stopped smiling at him. “I was raised by actors,” she said archly. “And if those measures prove ineffective… Well, there is that thousand pounds.”

If they proved ineffective, there’d be more than a thousand pounds, but he saw no need to spell that out. All he said was, “Good. Then I’ll be in contact to arrange further particulars.” He cast her one last look. “Don’t expect to wait long.”

“JEREMY,” MIRANDA WHISPERED, “NOW I know I’ve done something foolish. Tell me I mustn’t go through with it.”

It was a scant few hours since her assignation with Lord Justice, and Miranda was still reeling. She’d wandered about in a daze after, watching the city come fully to life. She’d waited until the shops opened—and as soon as she’d been able, she’d come to see Jeremy.

Jeremy dropped his thimble and leaned in. “What? Oh God. Don’t tell me. You—”

“I just agreed to be a man’s mistress.”

“What?!” His eyes widened.

“Shh!” Miranda glanced across the shop, searching out Old Blazer. He sat in his place at the front, watching the passersby through the window. He nodded and waved at acquaintances as he smoked his pipe.

Jeremy obligingly dropped his voice. “Why?”

“Because he’s going to put me up in a nice house. And pay me a tidy sum.” Because he’d wanted her, so damned badly he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Because he’d made her think she was worth a thousand pounds—that, in fact, he was getting the better end of the deal.

Jeremy must have caught the dazed look in her eyes. “You know,” he said cautiously, “whatever he’s said, he doesn’t love you.”

“I’m not stupid,” Miranda scoffed. A bit impulsive, yes. “He said he didn’t want affection.” She believed that story as much as that tale he’d spun about the cats. “And if you must know, he kisses like the devil. I want him, and he wants me. It’s horribly wrong of me. I can’t stop thinking how wicked it is, how much of a risk, how it’s not too late to back out and tell him I’ve changed my mind—”

“But you don’t want to,” Jeremy finished softly.

“There’s that, and…” She ran her hands along the countertop, not sure how to express her other reason.

“You don’t think he’ll hurt you,” Jeremy finished.

Miranda nodded. Impulsive girls with a taste for wicked men…well, it didn’t always turn out so well for them. It wouldn’t have made sense if she’d explained it to anyone else.

“Besides,” Jeremy said, “I always thought you were more likely to be a mistress than a wife.”

“Raised by actors,” Miranda said, mock-mournfully. “My morals have never been what they should.”

“No.” Jeremy frowned at his hands. “You’re happier when your relationships can be framed in terms of commerce. You never accept help from anyone.”

“I’m not so bad as that!”

“As you say,” Jeremy said, which was his way of disagreeing without arguing. “Is this going to get you away from the Patron?”

“With what he’s paying me? It’ll get me out for good. Me and Robbie.”

Jeremy leaned toward her, his pale eyes intense. “Do it,” he said. “Do it. Go. Get out.”

“I won’t be living in Temple Parish any longer. I…I might not ever come back.”

Jeremy didn’t flinch. “Well, don’t look back at me.”

Miranda had always known that Jeremy was a good friend. But she hadn’t quite realized how good until now. She’d just told him that she might never see him again, and he’d told her to grab hold with both hands.

Footsteps sounded behind her. And then a gruff voice spoke. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Becoming a mi—” Jeremy stopped, and blushed red hot, as if suddenly realizing what he’d been about to disclose to his grandfather. “A muh,” he sputtered. “A mah.”

“A magistrate,” Miranda filled in smoothly, turning to Old Blazer. “We’re talking about how one becomes a magistrate.”

Jeremy screwed up his face in a grimace and gave her a short shake of his head. But it was too late. Old Blazer’s eyes snapped, and he thumped his fists onto the table in front of them.

“A magistrate!” Old Blazer said. “It takes nothing to become a magistrate but lily-livered idiocy, that’s what. They don’t do any good, magistrates. Do you know what they’ve done?”

She’d seen Old Blazer run off on a tirade before—usually about workmanship and machine-knit cloth. She’d not known he put magistrates in the same category.

“Yes,” Jeremy was saying soothingly. “I know.” He shrugged hopelessly at Miranda.

Old Blazer would not be calmed. “Back in ’31, it was, when they sent that nasty piece of work Wetherell down for the Assizes. City broke out in riots. And what did the magistrates do, Jeremy?”