Unraveled (Turner #3)(70)

“The Patron is a poor speller,” Smite noted.

Miranda lifted the paper to her nose and inhaled. There was a faint scent of stale tobacco smoke. It could have meant anything, but… “The Patron smokes a pipe,” she said. “But no. It’s possible the Patron didn’t write this himself.”

“If they thought I stole the ring, they’d hang me, wouldn’t they?” Robbie whispered.

Smite gave a slight shrug of his shoulder.

“You’re staying with me,” Miranda said flatly. “You’re not to leave this house, hear?”

“I have to leave.” Robbie hunched deeper into the cushions. “It’s a crime to desert an apprenticeship. Besides, I can hardly stay here forever.”

“You can’t go back out there.” Miranda stared at the paper. “Or I have to—” Her eyes darted away and met Smite’s briefly.

His expression was frozen in hard contemplation. “It’s not any kind of life either of you will live, hidden away inside a building.” He frowned. “Robbie, how did you get in here? I sincerely doubt the maids would have let you simply take up residence in the parlor upon application.”

Robbie looked sheepish. “I, uh, I picked the lock. It’s easy enough. You just need a hairpin, and you slide the tumblers up and to the right.”

“Don’t tell me where you learned that.” Miranda put her head in her hands.

“Joey,” Robbie offered anyway.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Miranda said. “I’m not worth the bother. The Patron has plenty of other minions. He’s going to extraordinary lengths to get my attention. Why?”

Smite stalked across the room to the window. They’d not lit any lamps in the room, but he pulled the curtains shut, regardless. “Does it matter? You’re not safe here.” His gaze swept the room, encompassing both Miranda and Robbie in that sweeping statement.

Robbie spoke first. “So what do we do?”

Smite looked at Robbie. “You’ll have to leave Bristol.”

Robbie’s eyes jerked down. “Why?” He swallowed. “By myself? Am I…am I going to another apprenticeship? Because I don’t really mind when Mr. Allen clouts me over the head. Aren’t they going to force me to come back?”

“No,” Smite said. “It’s only a crime to leave when you abscond without permission. That can be obtained easily enough. This will be somewhere temporary. Secure.”

“A prison?” Robbie gulped.

“A home in the country.” Smite turned.

“It’s an orphanage.” Robbie stared at the wall, his spine rigid. “A place for unwanted children.”

“No,” Smite said softly. “Not an orphanage. I’m taking you to my brother. He’ll enjoy having you. He might not want you to leave.”

“Likely, I’ll have to fight him to give you up,” Miranda added.

Robbie lowered his head.

“Can you consent to that?” Smite asked.

There was a long pause. And then, Robbie gave a bit of a shrug. “I guess,” he said.

Smite took this equivocation in stride. He simply nodded. “We’ll leave in the morning.” He glanced at the curtained windows. “I’ll be here all night, to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re…you’re staying the night?” Miranda asked.

He glanced at her, perhaps understanding what she was intimating. He gave her a slow shake of his head. “Not as you might think. I won’t be sleeping.”

THE FIRST FEW HOURS were not so awful. Smite called for pen and paper and sent off a series of instructions—a long one to his solicitor, a shorter note to his clerk, and a brief query to the shipwright to whom Robbie was apprenticed. But he hesitated a good long while before he started the last communication.

Ash—

I will be unable to attend you tomorrow evening. I have been called out of town on urgent business.

He found himself drawing in the margins and staring at the still mostly blank sheet of paper, not knowing how to go on without making things worse between them.

Undoubtedly, you will hear that my urgent business is with Mark. I can only imagine how that will seem to you—my abandoning our time together, in favor of visiting him. I beg you not to enlarge upon it.

I will return the day after tomorrow, and if it is convenient, I will wait upon you at noon.

He paused once more. In years past, he’d received letters from his brother. They had all been written entirely in his secretary’s hand, save for the complimentary closing. That alone had been scrawled in Ash’s scarcely intelligible script. When he’d been younger, he’d thought it had been negligence on his brother’s part—that he’d been too busy to even compose his own letters. He’d only learned what those additions had meant to his brother years later. Writing did not come easily to Ash.

Sometimes, he felt that the gulf between him and Ash was unbridgeable. But if it could be spanned by anything, maybe it was those few words Ash had always offered in closing.

And so now, he finished as carefully as possible.

All my love,

Smite.

He blotted the ink dry and then passed this, too, to the maid to seal and deliver.

Responses started to return to his inquiries. Some were long; others were quite short. It was hours before Ash’s reply arrived.