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THERE WAS NO ROOM for doubt in Smite’s duties. But his arrangement with Miranda had infected him with uncertainty. Last night’s questions had followed him into today’s hearing room. He sat, arrayed in black under an itchy wig, and stared in front of him in dismay.
The defendant, a hard-eyed woman with stringy blond hair, was charged with public obscenity. Specifically, Mrs. Grimson had been accused of shouting, “I hope your stones shrivel up and rot off, you bloody bastard,” in a public square.
There was no question as to her guilt. Everyone had heard her, and she’d admitted to uttering the words in question. It should have been a five-second discussion.
And yet, when he thought of Dalrymple, what had once been simple became all too complex.
“Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it?”
There was no element of why in the inquiry.
Mrs. Grimson scowled at him. “Are you simple?” she demanded. “I said it ’cause I hoped his stones would—”
“No need to repeat it,” the mayor interjected hastily. “Really. Does it matter?”
Not to the law, it didn’t. But now that Smite had found doubt, he could not dispel it. Every crime, even one as simple as this, seemed suddenly shaded about by circumstance. What if she’d been provoked? What if the man had groped her? It wouldn’t excuse the conduct—the law was clear on that point. No matter how angry she’d been, she couldn’t utter obscenities so blithely in a public place.
He found himself persisting. “Why did you hope it?”
“Because he ran into me,” Mrs. Grimson said sullenly. “And because he had an ugly face.”
Smite let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Guilty,” he said.
But even that didn’t stop his mind running. When the day’s work was over, he followed his fellow magistrates into the back room.
“You’re getting even more particular,” the mayor said. “Asking questions. Wanting to know details that can’t possibly matter. What’s got into you, then?”
Smite handed his robes off to Palter. “It’s a passing fancy.”
“Lady Justice must be giving you quite the ride.” A raised, leering eyebrow shaded the otherwise innocent statement with something sordid.
Smite gritted his teeth and turned away.
“Something’s putting color in your cheeks,” the mayor continued. “And here I’d thought that if you ever took a mistress, it would make you more willing to skip over details, so that you could run back and ride her once more.”
Smite moved in front of the man so quickly, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing. He held his hand up, and the other man stopped and took a step back.
“Never talk about her that way again,” he heard himself growling.
“What? There is someone?” The mayor let out a loud guffaw. “Oh, that’s famous. It explains your extra attention today. You don’t want Lady Justice getting jealous, so you’re sending her extra trinkets. This other woman… When you’re done with her, let me know. She must be—” the man mimed bosoms, melon-large, with his hands “—if she’s distracting even you.”
Smite reached out, and tangled his hands in the other man’s lapels. “Don’t talk about her that way,” he repeated.
The mayor stopped, looked down at Smite’s grip on his shirt. He took a deep breath. “Ahh,” he said. “I see. A lady, then.”
She wasn’t, not in any usual sense of the word. Still, he found himself nodding in agreement. He was finding doubts everywhere these days.
“That’s difficult,” the mayor said, giving him a condescending pat on the shoulder.
Smite jerked away.
IT WAS NOT YET six when Miranda heard the door open several floors beneath her.
Smite was earlier than usual. In fact, in the first week of their arrangement, he’d never been so early. Her maid was still dressing her for his arrival. When she pulled away, Betsy murmured in protest.
Light footsteps ascended the stairs—too light to be his, and besides, Ghost had taken to bounding up before his master and greeting her, and she didn’t hear the click of his claws against the wood floors.
A scratch on her door, and the housekeeper ducked her head in. “There’s a man here.”
“A man? You can’t mean Mr. Turner, then?”
“No, it’s not His Worship. But he’s asking for the master of the house. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“Did he give you a card? Is he waiting outside?”
Behind her, Betsy gave a final tug on the laces of her gown, and Miranda turned.
“He’s waiting in the parlor.” Mrs. Tiggard gave her an apologetic look. “He just... I opened the door, and he walked in as if he owned the place. He doesn’t look like the sort of man who would easily shoo.”
A brief panic took Miranda. The Patron would not so brazenly send someone to confront her, would he? No—not and ask for the master of the house. And besides, the sort of man connected with the Patron wouldn’t have been able to cow Mrs. Tiggard.
“Maybe he knew the previous owner.”
By Mrs. Tiggard’s sheepish look, she obviously hoped Miranda would oust the man.
Miranda shook her head. “Betsy, are we done?”
“Not quite, ma’am.”
Miranda needed her sash tied and a few errant curls tucked away. Betsy found her a shawl for her shoulders—“Makes you look more imposing, miss,” she explained.
But even those tasks took only a few minutes. No more delay was possible. Miranda left her dressing room, walked down two flights of stairs, and entered the parlor. The man had his back to her; he was tall and broad. He was wearing a thick, sable topcoat, and his boots were polished to a shine. Not an emissary from the Patron, but almost as frightening. This man was wealthy and important, and no doubt he could cause her trouble.
He must have heard her footsteps, but he didn’t turn. Instead, he was examining the wall-clock.
“Took you long enough,” he said. “You never used to take so long to dress.”
There was something wrong with his accent. It was almost right—like a piano that had only one note out of tune. She could usually hear Eton or Harrow or Rugby on most wealthy men’s tongues. That subtle boyhood influence left its mark like indelible ink. But this man wasn’t marked. He hadn’t gone to public school.
He sighed. “And that’s the welcome I get, is it?” He turned around, and then stopped when he saw her. His eyes widened. There was something familiar in his features—that dark hair, that nose...
But all he said was: “Oh.” He took in her gown—turquoise silk with seed pearls tucked into the seams where the fabric gathered, and matching lace gloves. His eyebrows beetled together in puzzlement.
“The house has newly changed ownership,” Miranda said. “I collect I am not who you expected.”
But the man didn’t make his apologies. “I know,” he said. “About the house. And the ownership. That’s why I came.” He gave her another curious look. “This is a devil of an awkward question. But…are you by any chance married to my brother?”
Miranda felt her mouth dry.
“You see, my solicitor sent me a note that after nearly a decade of Spartan quarters, my brother had finally purchased a house that was suitable to his station. I decided to investigate forthwith. I had thought—”
Somewhere, some book of etiquette dealt with this situation—what to do when your lover’s brother asked if you’d recently married. But if it did, Miranda had never seen it. She choked back nervous laughter.
“I think we’d better start this again.” He gave her a bow. “If you’re married to my brother, you’d better call me Ash.”
If he could have seen the stockings she wore under her gown, the improper red ribbons she’d tied as garters, he’d have known instantly. “I’d better call you ‘Your Grace,’” Miranda said, as calmly as she dared.
“Ah.” He looked down. “Well. This is even more awkward.” He didn’t seem discomfited. He strolled to a chair and stood behind it, as if waiting for an invitation to make himself at home.
Miranda frowned. “Do you really think your brother would get married and not inform you?”
“Yes,” he said instantly. “How well do you know him?”
“Well enough to know he wouldn’t.” She paused, waited for him to open his mouth to argue, before she spoke again. “He wouldn’t marry at all,” she added.
