Unraveled (Turner #3)(54)

As if to answer her question, a man turned the corner and started up the staircase. “Pardon,” he said, as he brushed past Smite and Miranda.

Just that one word, and Smite knew who he was. He froze, willing the fellow not to stop. Not to turn around.

Too late. The man halted two steps above them, as if registering what he’d seen. He turned around. And then, ever so slowly, Richard Dalrymple’s jaw went slack at the sight of Smite with his arms halfway round a woman.

“I see,” he said slowly. “So when I sent round that note yesterday afternoon, you really weren’t just putting me off. You have been busy.”

Smite had not wanted to think of the man.

Dalrymple gave a wave of his hand. “I know what that stubborn set of your chin means,” he said. “It means you’re planning to tell me to go to the devil. If you want to put me off, put me off. Nevertheless, I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?” He cast a glance at Miranda—a glance that bespoke a certain curiosity. Smite wanted to strike that look off his face. “I have a box tonight, and I’m the only one in it.”

“Ah, so that empty box is occupied, then.” Smite glanced at Miranda beside him.

Miranda met his censorious gaze with doe-eyed innocence. “I repent,” she said. “It would have been utterly unforgivable if we had been caught out in your—” She paused, looking at Dalrymple, and Smite realized he’d not introduced them.

“His brother-in-law,” Dalrymple supplied. His eyes had grown large at this exchange.

“This is my…brother-in-law, Richard Dalrymple,” he said. “Dalrymple, Miss Miranda Darling.”

Dalrymple’s eyes widened further at the Miss, but he said nothing more.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Miranda said. “I’ll be even more pleased to sit in your box, as Mr. Turner here has got us cast out of our own seats.”

Dalrymple glanced again at Smite, an utterly befuddled look on his face. And when Smite did not bother to contradict this particular tale—it was true, after all, if not precisely the way she’d laid it out—Dalrymple shook his head. “Miss Darling,” he said slowly. “I fear that you are not a good influence on our upright friend. I’m not sure what to say.”

Miranda gave Dalrymple a beatific smile. “I know what you should say: ‘Thank you’ comes to mind.”

Dalrymple gave a surprised snort of laughter.

“You see?” Smite said. “That is precisely how we came to be arguing in the hall and not watching the play.”

“Well. Then. Turner, if you please? I can conduct Miss Darling up, if you’re worried about your upright reputation.” Dalrymple smiled slightly. “It would probably be as good for my reputation as it would be for yours, if you’re thinking about being observed.”

Before he could answer—before he could even think of how he should answer—Miranda stepped forward and threaded her arm through Dalrymple’s.

“We would love to,” she said.

Chapter Fourteen

MIRANDA WAS BEGINNING TO understand precisely who Richard Dalrymple was—or, rather, who he wasn’t—by the end of the play. She’d had few enough clues. Smite had maneuvered Miranda to sit between the two of them, effectively forestalling any opportunity for him to converse with the man. That knocked out the possibility that they’d had any pretension to friendliness.

But she didn’t think it was a case of simple indifference, either.

Dalrymple kept casting glances at Smite throughout the play. Smite, in turn, studiously avoided the other man’s gaze. When the curtain fell at the end, they all stood. Smite reached over and gave the man his fingers in the barest of handshakes. And Dalrymple looked…annoyed.

No, they were definitely not friends. But they weren’t quite enemies, either. Was Dalrymple some sort of hanger-on, then?

“Look, Turner,” she heard him murmur, “at least you could assuage my feelings by pretending to accept my apology.”

“I took notice of your apology on the previous occasion when it was offered,” Smite said. “I’m considering it.”

“I was wrong,” Dalrymple said. “But can’t you consider that maybe you were not entirely in the right, either?”

Smite’s jaw set. She didn’t know what had transpired between these two, but there was murder in his look.

“Ah.” Dalrymple turned away. “I forgot. How foolish of me. You’re never wrong.”

“On the contrary. I am daily reminded of my own fallibility. Having come to a decision, however, I choose not to doubt it.”

She’d heard that tone of finality from him before. He’d spoken so to Billy Croggins in his hearing room all those weeks ago, when he’d had him charged with arson. He’d used it on her not an hour in the past, when she’d suggested that they steal into this box unattended.

“Smite,” she ventured, “don’t you think you could hear him out?”

He cast one glance at her and then looked away. “No.”

“What could it hurt?”

“Nothing,” he said, “but—”

“Then I’ll hear you,” she said to Dalrymple directly. “Would you care to take brandy with us this evening?”