Unraveled (Turner #3)(88)

Smite simply regarded her for a few moments, and then closed his eyes with a sigh. “Well, then. We’ll surround the building with constables dressed in street clothing—”

“No constables,” Miranda said.

“No constables?”

“One of the men who arrested me yesterday mentioned the Patron. The man on patrol let a woman into my cell at the station. There may be more. Bring the constables in, and the Patron will know before you arrive, and he’ll disappear.”

He accepted this with a slight tightening of his mouth. “What of using hired men?”

“Hired from where? Robbie’s shipwright must employ men loyal to the Patron; they threatened him there. Half of the workforce of Bristol lives in Temple Parish. Do you have any idea how many people’s lives the Patron has touched? You can’t organize an expedition of any kind without the Patron catching wind of it.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Smite asked. “Attempt to uncover the truth by myself? With you? That would hardly be safe. No; nothing is without risk, this least of all. But I’d rather risk the possibility of losing secrecy than doing this alone. I’d need at least two others—”

“Let’s see if I have this right,” Dalrymple said. “You’re facing a crazed criminal, the risk of death, and a police force that might not be on your side. It’s lovely being a magistrate.” He tensed. “Useless people rarely face risk.”

“Speaking from experience?” Smite snapped.

Dalrymple gave him a pale smile. “Speaking from stupidity, I’m afraid. I volunteer.”

THE NEXT TEN HOURS passed with far too little to occupy Smite. He had only to sit by and watch as Miranda sent a note to Temple Church in the hopes that it would find its way into the hands of the Patron.

He hated the thought of using her in that way. Unfortunately, they’d not come up with a better plan. After they’d hashed out the details, Smite paced uselessly in the room while Miranda had a bath and then a nap. Under the interfering auspices of his sister-in-law, he couldn’t even watch her sleep. He had a brief moment of activity, when Ash had a drawing of plans for Temple Church sent up, and they’d squabbled companionably over their respective roles. But after that, there was nothing to do but wander uselessly about the room.

Half an hour before they were to leave, Miranda finally came out, dressed and scrubbed and clean. He walked over to her. But Margaret didn’t leave the room, and so Smite could do very little more than bow over Miranda’s hand and conduct her to the sofa. He sat next to her, feeling rather out of sorts.

The muffled sound of his eldest brother dictating instructions in the next room formed a murmured, calm counterpoint to his frustration. Smite didn’t even know what to say to Miranda. Instead, he simply contemplated her.

The corners of her lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. “I’ll wager that sometimes you wish you’d never come after me that day,” she said.

He met her eyes. “Do you, then?”

A few feet away, the duchess grimaced. She glanced once at Miranda, and then looked away.

“No,” Miranda said thoughtfully. “I suppose not.”

“There you are,” he said. “I make it a habit not to harbor regrets.” A small smile touched his lips. “I’m especially particular about the matter when regrets would be unwarranted.”

“Flatterer,” Miranda said calmly.

Margaret was trying valiantly to appear uninterested in their conversation.

But Miranda leaned over to the other woman. “Despite his apparent fluency in the English language,” she said earnestly, “Smite lacks the capacity to express some very basic thoughts. Compliments that other people manage quite easily, like ‘My, you look lovely,’ or ‘I hope you don’t die tonight’ are quite difficult.”

God. How had he ever thought he would be able to send her away? He still had her hairpin in his pocket. It made no substitute for her.

“You look lovely,” Smite repeated. “I’d rather you didn’t die. Don’t believe a word Miss Darling says, Margaret. I can express any concept I wish. I merely prefer not to.”

“Oh?” Margaret’s gaze dipped down to their fingers. Smite’s hand lay close to Miranda’s on the sofa. They were mere inches apart.

In the other room, Ash’s voice trailed off. Margaret glanced over. “I’ll wager you ten pounds you can’t go tell my husband that you love him.”

Smite shifted back in his chair. His breath caught in his lungs. And then Margaret met his eyes, and he realized that she was in dead earnest. How many years had it been since he’d said the words?

All his vaunted memory, and he couldn’t call up a single instance. It had seemed a given. They’d had their share of anger and resentment, he and Ash. But love was still the bedrock of their relationship. Ash knew that. Didn’t he?

He stood and crossed over to the open doorway.

“Ash,” he said.

An indistinct murmur came back. Smite put one arm behind his back. His hand formed a fist, and then he drew himself up. “Are you ready? It’s almost time.”

“Yes.” The duke’s response was barely audible. “I just need to—”

“Because I wouldn’t want to be late. We need to be there before Miranda arrives on the scene.” Smite’s fist clenched just a little bit more.