Unraveled (Turner #3)(89)

Ash frowned at him. “Anything amiss?”

He felt his face growing hot. “Where in God’s name is Dalrymple?” Smite turned swiftly away. He couldn’t avoid Margaret’s eye as he turned. She didn’t shake her head or otherwise indicate her disapproval. He’d had every intention of saying it.

Maybe the words had gone rusty from disuse. Nothing else could explain it.

He walked over to his sister-in-law, and after examining the contents of his pockets very carefully, handed over a banknote. He didn’t dare look Miranda in the eye as he did.

THE PLAN HAD SEEMED so simple earlier: they had to catch Old Blazer in the act of being the Patron.

It had been easy enough to answer his request for an audience. Miranda had agreed to come speak with the Patron, but only if he came in person. Given what Jeremy had implied, she thought he might come. If he did, he’d prove his own guilt.

Simple.

But as Miranda crept down Temple Street after dark, the prospect seemed fraught with difficulty. Ensconced in the warm, bright hotel room, everything had seemed possible. Now, she felt uncomfortable and out of place. Her cloak was too good, her boots were too new for this part of town. She’d never felt the need to hide on a busy street before. But now, the crowds seemed subtly hostile.

As she came up on the little lane that led to the church, she repeated to herself the arguments she’d made earlier. So far, the Patron had only asked to see her. His representative had spoken of good will. If Old Blazer wanted her dead, he could have ordered it already.

He was looking for a replacement, after all. That made her safe.

It was one thing, though, to talk of safety while surrounded by friends. Here…

She ducked into the dark lane that led to the church and clutched her cloak tightly. She was still surrounded by friends.

That dim figure, leaning against a far-away building—that was the Duke of Parford himself, keeping watch over the front entrance. Smite and Richard Dalrymple stood guard at the back doors. They’d argued for what had felt like hours about whether they needed to bring more men. In the end, they’d decided that secrecy was preferable to a show of force.

But close as the men were to her, nobody walked beside Miranda into the church. The evening service had ended hours past, and the place was deserted. Only softly guttering candles, burnt almost to the stub, lit her way as she walked down the aisle to the confessional.

She pushed aside dusty curtains and took her seat on the stool.

Even through her gloves, her hands were cold. When the curtains stopped swaying, they cut off even the hint of faintly flickering candlelight. She’d started the day cocooned in the darkness of her cell; her memory stirred uneasily in these close, dark quarters.

She smelled wood and soap and wax. But her ears brought her no sound—nothing but the faint creaks of the building around her. No footsteps. No breath.

Each minute seemed to stretch into forever. The darkness slowed time.

There was no warning when things changed—no announcement, no sound except the sudden, sharp crack of the rosewood screen one second, and the whistle of falling wood the next. Miranda scarcely had a chance to lift her hands to shield her head before the wood struck her, hard.

She was too scared to scream. She scrambled backward through the curtains, tripping over her own skirt. Even the dim light in the chapel seemed blinding. Her heart pounded. She launched to her feet and dashed down the aisle.

Her eyes had scarcely adjusted when she caught sight of a silhouetted figure in front of her. She tried to stop but couldn’t. Strong arms grabbed her shoulders.

“Miranda.”

She let out a gasp of relief. It was Parford.

“Tell me they have Old Blazer,” Miranda said.

“No.” She was now beginning to make out features. Parford’s face was set in a grim mask. “They’re gone. Smite and Richard. They’ve vanished.” The duke ran his hands through his hair. “God damn it,” he swore. “I shouldn’t have let him do this.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Rouse the constables,” Parford rumbled. “Rouse every able-bodied man I can find. Muster the militia, if I have to, and tear this city apart brick by brick until I find them.”

“Do you know what will happen if the militia comes after the Patron?” Miranda demanded. “Here? The Patron has been all that’s kept us safe. It will be like the Riots of ’31 again, except this time, the other side will be organized. It will be war.”

“The Patron grabbed a magistrate off the streets.” Parford glared at her. “The Patron took my brother. It already is war. I walked away from him once before. I don’t care if it takes a riot to get him back. I am not leaving him on the streets of Bristol again.” He bristled in fury. “As it is, it’ll take ’til dawn to get everything in readiness. There isn’t any time to spare.”

He turned and strode off, obviously expecting her to follow. She did—but she could scarcely keep pace with him. And when he turned on to Temple Street…

There was almost nobody about at all now. The shops stood silent and closed. Only a hint of music in the distance suggested life. Miranda slowed; Parford hadn’t noticed yet that she’d dropped back.

If the Patron was confronted with force and backed into a corner, who knew what he might do with his hostages?