AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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.”
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 d
ie 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.
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.
