So maybe there was someone around.
“Come on up.” Smite’s throat seemed sore. He had been shouting, then.
The bed swayed as Ghost jumped on it. His fur was still slightly damp; Smite had washed him on his return home last night. He gathered the animal to him.
Long, soft fur met his fingers. He breathed in and willed his heart to slow. He commanded the nauseating cramp in his stomach to relax. After a few minutes, his body obeyed.
Just the usual evening specter, then, although the heat of the water was an interesting twist. There had been no smell. There were never smells in his dreams.
When he was younger, his dreams had been a cause for consternation. He’d tried everything to rid himself of them. Hot milk. Exercise. Women. Laudanum.
Some afflictions, he’d concluded, weren’t worth fighting. Not at that cost. He’d accepted the nightmares as a fact of his existence, no more debilitating than, say, a scar that restricted movement. Scars were manly. He’d won this one fair and square.
Of course, as afflictions went, this one was rather more like the gout than a scar. Made worse by alcohol; brought on by rain. No point in deluding himself.
He smiled into Ghost’s fur and felt the tension slowly ease from him.
He’d long since stopped seeing the nightmares as a cause for complaint. They were more like a call to arms. They were a reminder of what had transpired. Of what it meant for him to do his job, to listen carefully to those who came before him. Of what might happen if he turned a blind eye.
When he woke on odd nights, he lulled himself back to sleep by reciting names as another man might count sheep. Mrs. Wexforth. Jack Bloomsmith. Davy Duglett. On down a parade of people he had seen during his days as magistrate. Ghost leaned against him as their faces danced through his memory.
His brother had obtained Ghost from a shepherd back in Shepton Mallet. Ghost had been the progeny of one of the most renowned sheepdogs in all of Somerset and some unknown stray. When they’d tested his instinct for herding as a small puppy, the little dog had shown an unsavory interest in the sheep’s leavings and no interest at all in the sheep. And so he’d been passed on to Smite—a tiny bundle of gray-and-white fur. Eight weeks old, and already marked a failure.
In tonight’s darkness, Ghost leaned against him.
He came to the end of his list.
When they needed someone, I was there. I listened. I acted. What happened to me won’t happen to them. Not while I can prevent it.
Then there was Miss Darling.
God, what a conundrum she posed. Any pretense of impartiality had vanished when he’d seen her with Robbie. The boy reminded him all too much of what it had been like, taking charge of Mark, when they’d roamed Bristol’s streets. He wasn’t exactly thinking of her with the requisite disinterest. He knew all too well what it was like to be saddled with a charge, with no way to make good.
And as for Miss Darling herself… Smite had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he felt more alone around others than he did by himself. Any woman with a hint of education could never comprehend what Smite had been through; anyone who could fathom his childhood could never understand what he’d made of himself. It didn’t matter how he yearned for companionship; there was none to be had. He’d resigned himself to short, lonely encounters.
But Miss Darling… damn. Apparently all it took was a combined knowledge of Sophocles and the streets. He was susceptible to her. If he wasn’t careful, he might end up nursing a full-blown interest. Not a good idea. He had too much else to do.
In the dark of night, it was impossible to shove aside his memory of the canny flash of her smile, the turn of her profile. In some faraway world, their journey tomorrow might end, improbably, in some secluded park instead of at the gaol. She might call him Turner instead of Lord Justice. She might open up when he touched her…
Foolish fantasies, those. His cock didn’t think so; it had grown hard and erect in anticipation. He gave it a thump in protest and leaned back against the pillow. Beside him, Ghost curled up. The animal let out a doggy sigh.
“Well,” he said to Ghost. He could imagine the animal’s ears flicking back toward him in the darkness, turning ever so slightly to catch his words. “I suppose we’ll have to find something else for you to do tomorrow. I have a woman to see.”
He wished he didn’t sound so eager.
A SHADOW FELL ACROSS Smite’s desk.
He was scheduled to meet Miss Darling in a few hours, and so he had rather more work than usual to cram into his foreshortened working hours. The shadow was an annoyance. He moved the report he was reading over a few inches to fall into the sunlight.
The shadow moved. Smite looked up, and his annoyance froze into something harder.
“Look,” Richard Dalrymple said. “I know this is a bit much to ask. But do you suppose we can start over?”
“Start what over?” The lack of sleep during the previous evening made him feel as if a gritty veil had been cast over his eyes. It left him rather more cross than usual.
“Um.” Dalrymple shifted uncomfortably. “Everything?” The man was dressed perfectly, his trousers creased with edges so sharp that they could have cut someone. He’d tied his cravat in some complicated knot. He could strangle on his neckcloth, for all Smite cared. Still, he hunched uneasily, not meeting Smite’s eyes. “Everything since that first year and a half at Eton,” he added.
“You want me to simply discard the last nineteen and a half years.”
Dalrymple hunched further. “Yes,” he said. “That would be lovely.”
“And just be friends again, as if nothing had transpired.”
“Please?”
Smite opened a drawer in his desk and slid his papers inside. “Have you any notion—” But that question answered itself as easily. “No. You haven’t an inkling. One doesn’t simply pick up a friendship again after all that you’ve done.”
Dalrymple licked his lips uneasily. “I can understand that. But in the name of what we once had, and what we have now, could you not at least listen to me? For God’s sake, the last time we were both at Parford Manor, it was a disaster. For the sake of our families, this can’t continue.”
“What am I supposed to say? ‘Let’s shake hands, old chap, and let bygones be bygones’?”
Dalrymple’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “I’m relieved to hear you agree. Can we?”
Smite snorted, wishing he could stuff Dalrymple in the drawer alongside his papers. If only he could put him off, to be examined at some other time. Instead, he pushed the drawer closed. “I didn’t agree. And there’s a problem with what you propose. I can’t forget.”
Dalrymple flinched.
“What does an apology mean?” Smite pushed back his chair and stood. “I look at you and I remember the day you told the headmaster at Eton that I’d cheated on my examination.”
A wince in response. “I’m sorry.”
“You had my quarters searched when we were at Oxford, claiming that I had stolen from you. Am I supposed to forget that, too?”
Dalrymple shut his eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“And then there was that rumor you started a handful of years ago.”
Dalrymple bit his lip.
“Ah.” Smite set his hands on the desk, leaning forward. “Even you can’t forget that one.”
“I am,” Dalrymple said, “most especially sorry for that. More than you can realize. But…”
“Here it comes. You haven’t forgotten any of this at all.” Smite leaned back against the wall. “Go on, Dalrymple. Tell me how you justified your lies.”
The other man shook his head.
Smite smiled grimly. “Then let me advocate on your behalf. You had to do all those things—accuse me of cheating, lying, stealing, and buggery—because you feared that I would tell your secrets. You thought I would tell the world that you were a bastard. You feared that I would tell everyone that you—”
Dalrymple stepp
ed forward, hands outstretched.
Smite snorted. “Ah, yes. It was that last one, wasn’t it? You thought I would tell the truth, and so you spread lies about me to discredit my character. Before I’d even done anything wrong.”
“Turner,” Dalrymple said. There was a pleading note in his voice.
Smite ignored it. “There’s a difference between the two of us. I promised you I wouldn’t tell. And unlike you, I remember my promises. So, no, Dalrymple. I don’t think I’m about to forget the last couple of decades. I’m not so foolish as to turn my back on you once more.”
Dalrymple’s features were frozen. He stared ahead, his arms straightening into ramrods at his side.
“God,” he said. “That’s it, then. No mercy. No forgiveness. There’s nothing I can do to make matters right between us.”
Smite shook his head.
“Not even…” He blinked, licked his lips. “Not even for our family? For Margaret and Ash?”
“I care for Margaret,” Smite said carefully. “I don’t want her unhappy. But given what I know of you, it seems unlikely that you’ll bring her happiness. All you have ever done, so far as Margaret is concerned, is put yourself first.”
Years ago, Dalrymple would have swelled up in indignation at that accusation. It had always been too easy to bait him into displaying his temper. Instead, he bit his lip and looked away, and some small, neglected part of Smite’s sympathies tugged in response. Once, this man had been his friend.
He shoved the thought away.
“Yes,” Dalrymple finally said. “You’re right. You’re completely right. But maybe I want to do better.”
People always claimed to want such things when they faced the harsh light of judgment. With the prospect of punishment looming over their heads, they would promise anything.
Sometimes people changed. Mostly, though, they forgot their fine resolutions within a week. Smite didn’t give Dalrymple that long.
“You’ve always wanted to do better,” Smite said. “I know you too well to believe in it.”
Dalrymple simply looked at him. “You will,” he finally said. “You will.”
“I THINK,” MIRANDA SAID, “I am about to do something foolish this afternoon.”
It was just past noon, and Blasseur’s Trade Goods & More was bustling with customers. Old Blazer was holding court in the front of the shop, entertaining a crowd of people while measuring out fabric. Jeremy, as usual, was ensconced at the table in the back and occupied with the mending. The shop was so crowded they might as well have been alone. Nobody paid them the least attention.
Miranda twirled a bit of ribbon about her finger and let it go, before looking up. “Tell me I mustn’t do it.”
Jeremy sat on a stool, his lips clenched in concentration as he carefully matched two broken ends of lace together. “Don’t do it,” he said absently, reaching for his needle.
“Are you listening? It might prove dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“Mmm.” He started in on careful stitches, lashing the lace together. “Stop being so dramatic and spit out what it is.”
Miranda expelled a breath and looked away.
“Ah.” Jeremy set another precise stitch in the lace, and still didn’t glance at her. “I see. You want to do it. You just came here to get my permission. So what is it?”
“I’m going—” She cut herself off, remembering what the journey was really about. Jeremy was fragile enough on the question of George; she didn’t want to get his hopes up, only to have to dash them. “I’m going somewhere with a man,” she tried instead. “I’m not sure why he asked me. Maybe he was just being nice.” She frowned. Nice didn’t seem to be part of Lord Justice’s vocabulary.
“Maybe he wants to get you alone and have his wicked way with you.” Jeremy raised an eyebrow at her.
Actually, she’d been thinking that maybe he’d arranged to have her come by the Council House and accompany him to the gaol to save him the trouble of marching her there himself. That possibility lent a certain piquancy to the afternoon’s activity.
“Maybe,” Jeremy surmised, his smile stretching to the sly, “you want him to have his wicked way.”
She leaned her head back to contemplate the ceiling. “He’s not very wicked.”
“And you’re still interested?” He pulled back in surprise.
So maybe she did have a preference for wicked men. She tried not to act on it anymore—not if she thought it would endanger her. Lord Justice hardly fit her usual mold. And she was far too canny to be interested in Lord Justice. But even if her mind knew that, it had not quite convinced her body. A little frisson went through her, just thinking of meeting him.
“Is this man you’re meeting affiliated with the Patron?” Jeremy asked calmly.
Miranda choked. “What do you know of the Patron?”
“Shh!” Jeremy cast a baleful glance at her. “You don’t have any idea who’s listening.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She glanced behind her. “Old Blazer is showing off the tweed. Nobody’s listening to us.”
And indeed, his grandfather had the group quite enraptured. She could only see the back of him, stooped with age, hair a tumbling mass down his shoulders. But his hands gestured wildly, and she could hear the sonorous cadences of his voice.
“Better safe than sorry,” Jeremy whispered. “I dislike the notion of finding out that you’ve had your throat slit, or that you’ve been sent to the gallows. Tell me this has nothing to do with the Patron.”
“The only reason I’m safe on the streets is because of the Patron,” Miranda whispered back.
Jeremy dropped his eyes. “Don’t you believe that. Don’t you ever believe that. George thought he was safe, too.”
Miranda swallowed and looked away. “I’m sure that George is…safe. Somewhere. He’ll be back soon. You know it must be the case.” She set her hand atop his.
Jeremy simply looked at her fingers. “I have no faith in any such thing.” He pulled away from her and picked up his scissors, turning to the next gown in need of mending with a vengeance.
“If it sets your mind at ease, this man has nothing to do with the Patron,” Miranda said. “In fact, he is about as exactly opposite the Patron as you can get. I’m afraid I might make a fool of myself over him. I’m not even sure he would notice if I did.”
“Oh, Miranda!” The voice came from her left. Miranda jumped, and then let out a sigh of relief as Mrs. Blasseur pushed through the curtain at the very back. Jeremy’s mother was carrying a basket filled with laundry; she set it down on the counter with a resounding thump, and paused to catch her breath. Her hair was tied up in a knot, but strands escaped from it and curled about her cheeks.
Once, those cheeks had been pleasantly plump. But recent illness had stripped Mrs. Blasseur of all excess flesh. Her clothing hung loosely on her too-thin frame. She was pale; her skin had a sickly, bluish cast to it. But her eyes were quick, darting about intelligently, and her smile was warm and welcoming.
“What’s this about making a fool of yourself over a man?”
“Um.” Miranda pressed her lips together.
“I do wish you’d choose Jeremy,” Mrs. Blasseur continued brazenly. “He doesn’t talk of any other girls but you.”
The tips of Jeremy’s ears turned bright red. “Mama.”
“No, truly!” Mrs. Blasseur ignored her son. “I want to see him settled before I—before, well. I don’t have time to be polite any longer.”
Jeremy put his head in his hands. It didn’t hide the mortified scarlet of his cheeks.
“I think he’s in love with you,” Mrs. Blasseur continued sincerely. “He’s a good boy. He’d do anything for you.”
Jeremy peered at her through his fingers and grimaced in silent apology. He was most definitely not in love with Miranda; in fact, Jeremy was very much in love with someone else, and he’d thank her not to mention the matter to his mother, of all people.
“Mama,” Jeremy muttered, “I kn
ow you want everything to be settled before…well, soon at any rate. But Miranda has nothing to do with this. I’m not in love with her.”
“Am I meddling too much? I’m meddling too much. But, Jeremy…”
It was impossible to dislike the woman, no matter how interfering she seemed. She’d been afflicted by consumption for over a year. She was so thin now; her breath had grown labored.
A wealthy family might have taken her to the seaside, in hopes that gentler weather would allow her to recuperate. But Mrs. Blasseur stayed in the depths of Bristol, breathing coal-smoke all day. She kept to her daily tasks, doing laundry and tending the shop when she should have been in bed. Only her strength of will kept her going.
By the way she doubled over with the next cough, even her will couldn’t overcome her body.
“I’m not in love with Miranda,” Jeremy repeated. “Besides, she’s going to meet a man just now. I’m happy for her. Really.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Blasseur’s face fell. Then she turned to Miranda and impulsively took her hand. “But you’d give him up, wouldn’t you? Whoever you’re seeing. I’m sorry. I haven’t time to be tactful any longer. You would make a lovely daughter, Miranda.” Mrs. Blasseur sighed. “Wishful thinking, I suppose. I’m that hard up for help with the laundry.”
Miranda couldn’t help but smile. “My thanks, Mrs. Blasseur. But you persist in this notion that I’m a nice girl, and we all know I was raised by actors.”
The older woman pulled a towel from the basket and snapped it straight before folding it. “Well, that hardly signifies,” she said. “You’d fit right in. After all, Jeremy was raised by monkeys.”
“Mama!”
“At least I assume that to be the case.” She folded the fabric in her hands, and then reached into the basket once more. “He surely didn’t acquire his manners from me.”
“He’s a nice boy.”
“I suppose.” His mother frowned. “Still, there was that one time, when he got snails and—”
“Mother, please.” Jeremy waved a hand. “I was three.”
“Proper disclosure, dear. I wouldn’t want a daughter-in-law claiming I brought her in under false pretenses. She’d find out the truth soon enough.”