Unraveled (Turner #3)(87)
It was turning into a regular interrogation without Smite around. Miranda gripped the arms of her chair. “My father was Jeremiah Darling. He owned the Darling Players. You might, perhaps, have seen them in London many years ago.” Blank looks surrounded her. “No? Well. Then. My mother was born Eliza Scripling. She was a scullery maid for about two months, before she quit to tread the boards. That she did for almost ten years before she met my father, had me, and was married.” She glanced at the duchess. “I have never inquired as to the order of those events.”
“Of course.” The duchess rubbed her forehead. “Mark and Jessica have evaded censure by staying in the country, where there’s little chance of the truth coming out. But there’s no chance of Smite quitting Bristol.”
If her head had been spinning before, it positively whirled now. “I wasn’t aware there were social requirements to being a man’s mistress. It won’t help, but after my father’s death, Jonas Standish was appointed my guardian. He was of good family, until they disowned him.”
Perhaps she should not have said that. She scarcely knew them, after all. But hunger bred familiarity. The duke and duchess exchanged glances over her head.
“Believe you me,” Miranda said, aware that perhaps it would make more sense to keep quiet, “he’s still trying to figure out how to rid himself of me. It only makes it worse that he cares for me.”
The door opened and Smite came back inside. He was closely followed by a footman bearing a tray. At the first waft of the scent rising off it, a wave of hunger assailed Miranda. She was instantly salivating.
The servant set the tray on the table in front of her—a wide bowl of soup and an array of delicate sandwiches.
Smite sat down beside her.
“You’d mentioned not eating anything in the last day,” he said. “Your stomach was growling.”
She could have kissed him. She took a sandwich instead, only to look up and see everyone staring at him once more. It was as if they had no notion that he could be kind under that gruff exterior. Smite shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Don’t mind him,” Miranda said airily. “He only needs to question me. He can’t if I keel over from hunger. He’s just being…efficient.”
He met her eyes with rueful humor. “Precisely. I’m nothing if not efficient.”
Miranda took a bite of sandwich.
In a voice that was not quite soft enough, the duchess said, “I think that may be one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen. Either that or the strangest.”
The tips of Smite’s ears turned pink, but he handed Miranda another sandwich. The first had disappeared with remarkable speed, and the second didn’t take much longer.
“When you’re ready,” Smite told her, “I’d like to hear what happened since last I saw you.”
None of the others made any move to leave, and after a moment, Miranda began to speak. She described leaving the Blasseurs’ shop to find the cart missing. She told them how she had walked on her own, how the constables had found her along the way.
She told them about the visit she’d received in the dark of night, and Smite’s visage grew more serious.
Finally, she recounted what Jeremy had told her. As she spoke, she reached into her pocket and took out a piece of paper and handed it to Smite.
“Hatts for the Guy,” he read.
“We still have the other notes. There was one that I received, and then the one that Robbie got. I think they were all written by the same person.”
“Likely.” Smite stared at the paper, and then looked off. “It’s the same sort of paper as well.” He tapped his fingers against the leg of his trousers. “It’s possibly enough to issue a warrant for Old Blazer’s arrest. But an arrest is only the beginning. I am trying to decide if we have enough evidence to sustain a conviction. You know the shop well. Did you see any signs that a criminal enterprise was conducted on the premises? Shady characters coming and going, shipments that were hidden… Even something as simple as goods being displayed that you thought might not have been purchased.”
Miranda shook her head. “Nothing. I know you won’t believe this, but my friend Jeremy would never stand for that sort of thing. He’s terribly straitlaced.”
“Then this is simple.” Smite drummed his fingers on the table. “We only need to ask your friend to testify.”
Miranda gasped. “You can’t ask Jeremy to testify against his own grandfather!”
“On the contrary,” Smite rumbled. “It’s perfectly within my powers to issue a subpoena—”
“Of course you’re capable of it. But it wouldn’t be right to force him to tell tales about the man who raised him.”
“I still beg to differ. If your friend is so upright, he should jump at the chance. One can frown on snitches in the schoolyard when the consequences rise to skinned knees and hurt feelings. When we are talking murder, however, every right-thinking man will speak out rather than let the guilty go free.”
“Oh, I suppose technically you are right,” Miranda muttered. “But don’t expect anyone to agree with you.” She glanced up at the watching faces. “I doubt that the Duke of Parford, for one, would be willing to betray you. Even if you had murdered someone. You can’t hang your hopes of a conviction on the belief that Jeremy will betray his own grandfather. He won’t do it.”