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It was a scant few hours since her assignation with Lord Justice, and Miranda was still reeling. She’d wandered about in a daze after, watching the city come fully to life. She’d waited until the shops opened—and as soon as she’d been able, she’d come to see Jeremy.
Jeremy dropped his thimble and leaned in. “What? Oh God. Don’t tell me. You—”
“I just agreed to be a man’s mistress.”
“What?!” His eyes widened.
“Shh!” Miranda glanced across the shop, searching out Old Blazer. He sat in his place at the front, watching the passersby through the window. He nodded and waved at acquaintances as he smoked his pipe.
Jeremy obligingly dropped his voice. “Why?”
“Because he’s going to put me up in a nice house. And pay me a tidy sum.” Because he’d wanted her, so damned badly he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Because he’d made her think she was worth a thousand pounds—that, in fact, he was getting the better end of the deal.
Jeremy must have caught the dazed look in her eyes. “You know,” he said cautiously, “whatever he’s said, he doesn’t love you.”
“I’m not stupid,” Miranda scoffed. A bit impulsive, yes. “He said he didn’t want affection.” She believed that story as much as that tale he’d spun about the cats. “And if you must know, he kisses like the devil. I want him, and he wants me. It’s horribly wrong of me. I can’t stop thinking how wicked it is, how much of a risk, how it’s not too late to back out and tell him I’ve changed my mind—”
“But you don’t want to,” Jeremy finished softly.
“There’s that, and…” She ran her hands along the countertop, not sure how to express her other reason.
“You don’t think he’ll hurt you,” Jeremy finished.
Miranda nodded. Impulsive girls with a taste for wicked men…well, it didn’t always turn out so well for them. It wouldn’t have made sense if she’d explained it to anyone else.
“Besides,” Jeremy said, “I always thought you were more likely to be a mistress than a wife.”
“Raised by actors,” Miranda said, mock-mournfully. “My morals have never been what they should.”
“No.” Jeremy frowned at his hands. “You’re happier when your relationships can be framed in terms of commerce. You never accept help from anyone.”
“I’m not so bad as that!”
“As you say,” Jeremy said, which was his way of disagreeing without arguing. “Is this going to get you away from the Patron?”
“With what he’s paying me? It’ll get me out for good. Me and Robbie.”
Jeremy leaned toward her, his pale eyes intense. “Do it,” he said. “Do it. Go. Get out.”
“I won’t be living in Temple Parish any longer. I…I might not ever come back.”
Jeremy didn’t flinch. “Well, don’t look back at me.”
Miranda had always known that Jeremy was a good friend. But she hadn’t quite realized how good until now. She’d just told him that she might never see him again, and he’d told her to grab hold with both hands.
Footsteps sounded behind her. And then a gruff voice spoke. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Becoming a mi—” Jeremy stopped, and blushed red hot, as if suddenly realizing what he’d been about to disclose to his grandfather. “A muh,” he sputtered. “A mah.”
“A magistrate,” Miranda filled in smoothly, turning to Old Blazer. “We’re talking about how one becomes a magistrate.”
Jeremy screwed up his face in a grimace and gave her a short shake of his head. But it was too late. Old Blazer’s eyes snapped, and he thumped his fists onto the table in front of them.
“A magistrate!” Old Blazer said. “It takes nothing to become a magistrate but lily-livered idiocy, that’s what. They don’t do any good, magistrates. Do you know what they’ve done?”
She’d seen Old Blazer run off on a tirade before—usually about workmanship and machine-knit cloth. She’d not known he put magistrates in the same category.
“Yes,” Jeremy was saying soothingly. “I know.” He shrugged hopelessly at Miranda.
Old Blazer would not be calmed. “Back in ’31, it was, when they sent that nasty piece of work Wetherell down for the Assizes. City broke out in riots. And what did the magistrates do, Jeremy?”
“Nothing, Old Blazer.” Jeremy spoke like a child repeating a lesson learned long before.
“Quite right. They did nothing. They hid in their homes like rabbits. Didn’t bother to muster the militia. Not even when the rioters broke open the gaol and let the criminals free. The whole thing went on for days. And then, because the bloody magistrates had let the whole thing explode beyond fixing, what had to happen?”
“They called in the dragoons,” Jeremy intoned dutifully.
Old Blazer’s eyes swept the room. “They called in the dragoons. Opened fire on innocent men. Killed quite a few. Including my son—your father.” By now, Old Blazer was practically spitting with rage. “So don’t talk to me about magistrates. Those useless bastards killed my boy.” He drew a deep breath, and then another.
“Blazer,” said a voice behind them, “are you fretting again?”
Miranda breathed a sigh of subtle relief as Mrs. Blasseur stepped out from the back room.
“You know it’s not good for you.” She took his arm and gently led him to the back.
Miranda could hear her humming, could hear Old Blazer’s raspy protests, muffled by the curtain. Finally, Mrs. Blasseur came back through.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Jeremy said.
“It’s my fault,” Miranda added. “I didn’t know it would set him off. Truly.”
Mrs. Blasseur simply shook her head. “He’s a strong man, Old Blazer. But the older he gets, the angrier he becomes. Sometimes, it simply can’t all be contained.”
“He’s not unwell, is he?”
As if in counterpoint, the smell of pipe smoke drifted into the room.
Mrs. Blasseur rolled her eyes. “No. He’ll be perfectly well in a few minutes. It’s just better that he not fuss at the customers while he’s in this state. He does take it personally.”
“But his son died.”
“My husband.” Mrs. Blasseur sighed. “Jeremy’s father. That’s the way these things go. Only lawlessness and chaos can be born out of lawlessness and chaos. No point getting angry when it happens, no matter whom you might lose. All you can do is try to make things better. Old Blazer has yet to learn that.” She reached for a pair of scissors, and began to cut up bits of foolscap with a vengeance. The little slips of paper would be adorned with prices, and pinned to goods.
“But so solemn a subject, and on such a gloomy day. Tell me, Miss Darling—what’s this I hear about Robbie and a shipyard?”
There were some details one divulged to one’s best friend’s mother. And then, there were some things one lied about. Doubly true when one’s friend’s mother wanted one to marry her son.
“A friend of my father’s was recently in town,” Miranda said smoothly. “My father left me a little bit of money after all. We’ve used it to apprentice Robbie to a shipwright.”
Mrs. Blasseur looked suitably impressed. “A lucky chance, there. Jeremy, isn’t that lovely?”
“Yes, Mama.” Jeremy didn’t sound so dutiful, though, whatever his words. “It’s wonderful for Robbie.”
“It’s so lovely that he’ll not be spending his afternoons with those wretched boys,” Mrs. Blasseur continued.
“Yes.”
