Unraveled (Turner #3)(56)

She pulled her cloak around her and followed him to her door. On the threshold, she stopped, her gaze caught. There, next to the door, sat a small, smooth rock. She bent and picked it up. It was dark—almost black—and the underside was dribbled with red wax.

The Patron’s sigil. He wanted a meeting with her. She almost dropped it.

“What is that?” Smite asked.

No. There were some things he didn’t need to know about her past. Her hand clenched around the rock and she slipped it into her pocket.

“Nothing,” she said. And then, because that seemed too suspicious, she added, “Just a rock.”

He was too distracted to think more of it. Instead, he stepped inside. “Come. Let’s ready ourselves for your guest.”

MIRANDA WAS CHANGING TOO much about Smite’s life.

It wasn’t just the sweet cakes and brandy that she’d called for when they arrived at her home. It wasn’t simply the comforting smell of wax and lemon and polish that pervaded the atmosphere, or the soft cushions of the sofa where he sat. It wasn’t even the luxury of physical intimacy.

No. It was Richard Dalrymple leaning back against his chair, stiff and uncertain. It was Miranda’s smile as she settled on the cushion near Smite. She drew him in, reminding him of a time when he and Dalrymple had been friends. A time when he’d been lulled into complacency.

Miranda took up her own glass of brandy and took a sip.

“Do you enjoy the theater?” she asked. Her gestures were delicate, even if the spirits she imbibed were not.

Smite knew he was being rude, retreating from the conversation as he was. But he had little truck with easy conversation. Nothing about him was easy; why should he pretend otherwise?

Dalrymple waved his hand back and forth. “I take some pleasure in it.” He shrugged. “But I like boxing equally well. Fencing. Opera. My tastes are…”

“Unformed,” Smite supplied.

Miranda cast him a pointed, sidewise glance. “Broad,” she said instead. “What sort of opera do you like?”

Smite had lost the habit of conversing over polite nothings. Or maybe he’d neglected to learn it in the first place. Instead, he stared at the coals in the grate. The conversation flowed around him like the tide—always moving, never going anywhere.

“So what was it like being raised by actors?” Dalrymple was asking.

Smite looked up from the coals to see Miranda watching him. She’d spoken so freely with Dalrymple. They were on the verge of friendship, and once again, Smite felt that touch of uneasy jealousy. Miranda could make even Smite feel welcome; naturally, a charming fellow like Dalrymple would win her over.

He’d set the term of their liaison at one month. The time was supposed to be sufficiently short that she’d not grow disappointed with him.

Apparently, he’d misjudged. He could almost feel her approval of him fading. It made him feel utterly savage inside. Smite stood and walked away from their charming conversation. He turned to the fire, the better to stab it with a poker.

Miranda didn’t even track him with her gaze. Instead, she was still conversing with Richard.

“Nobody ever believes me,” she was saying, “but I had the most marvelous childhood. Jonas and Jasper took over the primary responsibility of looking after me.” She was looking off into the fire as she spoke, a soft smile on her face. “Jasper was sporting-mad. He took me to every prizefight, every horse race that occurred within any county where we traveled. He’d put me on his shoulders and explain how to place a bet. Jonas would come along and shake his head in horror. I always supposed that’s what fathers did.”

Dalrymple shook his head. “Not mine. Mine took me to a brothel when I was thirteen.” A grimace. “That did not go so well.”

As a stratagem to involve Smite in the conversation, it was too obvious to work. Smite didn’t care about Dalrymple’s revelations. He didn’t want to think about any of it.

“But then,” Dalrymple was saying, “they weren’t your parents. They were just employees.”

“Not just!” Miranda protested. “And besides, my parents weren’t neglectful. They were just busy. I had supper with them every evening, and Mama always tucked me into bed. It was Mama who insisted that Papa find a patron when I was ten. She said we’d been bouncing about long enough. And so we moved to London.”

“Did you enjoy settling down?” Dalrymple asked.

“No.” Miranda scowled. “Jonas and Jasper left. Permanence wasn’t to their taste. I wept for days.”

Smite had never noticed it before, but there was something about the rhythm of that pairing. Jonas and Jasper. As if she’d often said those names coupled together in that particular singsong rhythm. Dalrymple’s hand clenched at his side. He looked up, his gaze sharp, as if he’d heard it too. Like that, the conversation lost its easy feel. Somehow, they’d drifted far out to sea.

“Tell me,” Dalrymple whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “This Jonas. This Jasper. They were…”

“They were good people,” Miranda said sharply. “Very good. They practically raised me.”

“They left together?” Dalrymple echoed.

“Ah,” Smite heard himself interject from his vantage point by the fire. “Miranda. You should know something. Of the many unforgivable things that Dalrymple has done, the worst was this: he started a rumor a few years back, claiming that I preferred men.”