Unraveled (Turner #3)(65)
She rubbed her ink-stained fingers against a cloth. “I don’t. Not yet. But…after, I won’t be able to return to Temple Parish. I’ll need to find some way to get a decent return on my investment.”
“After,” he repeated stupidly.
“I don’t think I can stay in Bristol, either,” she was saying. “I’m not sure where I’ll go. Up north is too cold. Bath is too close. But—here—” She thrust a piece of paper at him. “There’s this scheme for transporting coal from the midlands via canal.”
“Miranda, what are you talking about?”
“After you’re done with me,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I can’t stay here. You see, I received this piece of blackmail today, and it got me thinking about what I was to do. I have to take care of myself, so—”
“Wait.” Smite set his hands on her shoulders and leaned in. “What the devil do you mean, you received a piece of blackmail today? I should think that you ought to lead with that, and not babble on about shares in some canal venture and how I’m going to be done with you.”
She looked up into his eyes, her own sparkling brilliantly up at him. “Yes,” she said, her voice almost breathy. “Do that again?”
“Do what?”
“That—that thing. With your eyebrows. And leaning over me, your voice cold as stone. I love it when you try to intimidate me.”
“I’m not—damn it, Miranda. Stop trying to distract me. The blackmail.”
She gave him a negligent wave of her hand. “Well, that’s important, too. Still, if you insist.” She sounded grudging, as if the matter of blackmail were a mere trifle. “I was sent a threatening little note today, saying that he would tell you about all the things I had done if I did not agree to meet with him.”
“He.” Smite rubbed at his forehead. “When you say ‘he,’ you are referring to the Patron?”
Her breath sucked in. “You know of him?”
He knew only what he’d overheard of her conversation with Robbie. But he waved his hand at her. “Obviously, you’ve not done anything that you need to be concerned about.”
“Oh,” she said. “Obviously.” She glanced at him and he realized that beneath her airy demeanor, she was on edge. “Why is it obvious again? Because, actually, if you recall the initial circumstances of our encountering one another—”
He sat down next to her. “Are you telling me that you performed tasks for this…this Patron that were illegal?”
“Oh, no. I never stole anything. Or hurt anyone. There might have been a time or two when I distracted a constable while someone else did something, but I personally never did anything wrong.” Her tone seemed easy, but she watched him carefully.
He winced. “I don’t think I wanted to know that. I suppose now is not the time to acquaint you with the complicated doctrine of vicarious criminal liability?”
She frowned. “No. No, it is not.” She twirled her hair around her finger. “I assumed I would be better off telling you about this, rather than waiting for the entire thing to blow up in my face. You did ask for honesty, after all. It seemed to be a matter of basic common sense. When one is threatened by a shadowy criminal figure, one goes to the magistrate that shares one’s bed rather than the shadowy criminal figure.”
By her voice, he might have thought her without a care in the world. By her hands… It suddenly all made sense. The investment. The nervousness.
She thought he was done with her. He should have been. A few weeks ago, he’d have been coldly annoyed at her declaration. But…but, God, he felt sick at heart just thinking of walking away from her. This wasn’t a hearing room, and she wasn’t accused of any crime.
She’d flat out admitted that she’d been involved in one. There was no excuse for what she’d done.
Was there?
He sat down next to her. “Tell me, Miranda. Why did you go to the Patron in the first place?”
“You don’t want to hear my excuses,” she said. “I’m sure it was all the usual reasons. I was scared. I needed money.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “I had no choice.”
“You had a choice,” he said. “But maybe I want to know how you came to make it.”
She looked away. “I was seventeen when I first went to the Patron. I’d been in Bristol for a few months. And…and if you want to understand this, you need to know something about me.”
“I’m listening.” He pulled a seat from the wall and sat next to her.
She swallowed. “I enjoy a little bit of danger. I suppose I got the taste for it from my father. My parents always lived one step from ruin. Even when we were at our best, we had little money. If my father had a windfall, he tossed it away. If he found an extra sixpence, he bought me ice cream. If he got an extra ten pounds, we’d travel to London and see the circus. If he received fifty, there would be silks and cashmere as gifts, and extravagant lodgings. My father used to say that money was meant to be spent, not kept.”
“That sounds a precarious way to live.”
She shrugged again. “Perhaps. But when you’re a child and it’s all you’ve known, it doesn’t seem unusual. My mother always laughed at the worst of it. We would play this one game when I was younger. She called it ‘How Many Landlords,’ and we’d have to guess how many people my father would have to visit until he could talk someone into giving us a place to stay.” Miranda sighed. “Sometimes I think my father would talk to people he had no hope of convincing, just so I could win.