As she spoke, she doubled over and coughed once more. Miranda met Jeremy’s eyes over her bent form. He looked absolutely stricken. He reached one hand out to her.
But Mrs. Blasseur straightened before he touched her. She tucked away the handkerchief she’d whisked out. And before Miranda could venture to ask if she needed assistance, she delivered a sunny smile. “I suppose there’s this to say for Jeremy: he’ll never do anything wrong.”
“No,” Jeremy said, setting his jaw. “I won’t.”
“And that,” Mrs. Blasseur said, thumping him on the collar, “is why Miranda is meeting another man. You’re neat and tidy and orderly, and you never cause me any problems. But…you’re neat and tidy and orderly, and you never cause anyone problems. Women want men with problems. We need something to fix.”
There was not the least chance that Jeremy would fall in love with her, nor she with him. He met her eyes in quiet apology. Miranda shook her head. No need for him to be sorry. It was heartbreaking to watch Mrs. Blasseur fade away. All that exuberant wit and energy and charm seemed to compress in these final weeks. For all her physical weakness, she radiated frustration. She was leaving her life incomplete, too many things undone.
“Leave off Miranda,” Jeremy said, his voice weary. “Or I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Mrs. Blasseur’s fingers slid across the counter. She took the lace that Jeremy had just mended from his hands, scanning it with a practiced eye. Mrs. Blasseur always wanted to fix everything. She found nothing to quibble about, though, and laid it aside.
“I haven’t got forever,” Mrs. Blasseur said. “You’d best act quickly. You know what will happen if I have to take matters into my own hands.”
Jeremy set his jaw.
Miranda couldn’t imagine how intensely frustrating it would be for Mrs. Blasseur, to have all of her thwarted ambition run aground on something as impossible as her own mortality.
But Jeremy simply shook his head. “It won’t be happening,” he said. “Not even to please you. And besides, I think Miranda has an appointment with a man.” He gave her a shrug.
It was not just apology she saw in his eyes. Sorrow, resignation, bitterness, and more than a little anger. His father had died years before; his mother had practically raised him. Jeremy had watched her die for close to a year. No wonder he was bitter.
She reached out to him, but he jerked away. “You’d best be off, Miranda, unless you plan to be late.”
Chapter Seven
THE CLOCK STRUCK TWO as Miranda arrived at the Council House. Overhead, clouds obscured the sun. Still, even the midday gloom could not hide the empty steps of the building. Magistrate Turner wasn’t here.
She had imagined he would be punctual. He seemed the sort to be precise about—well, everything.
She waited for a minute, until she heard a faint mewing sound emanating from a nearby alleyway. Curious, she stepped back and peered around the corner.
Ah. Here was the reason Magistrate Turner wasn’t standing on the stairs.
He had squeezed in that small gap between the buildings. His face was set in grim concentration, as if he were listening to a prisoner’s speech. But he was sitting in judgment over a pair of cats—one small and orange, the other large and white.
One meowed again, and he broke off a piece from what appeared to be a meat pie, and tossed it to them.
He was dressed in sand-colored wool. Up until now, she’d only seen him in dark colors—black robes, navy jackets. The light color of his coat made his hair seem all the blacker. It brought out a warmth in his skin that she’d not seen before.
And when he looked up from the cats and met her gaze, she realized for the first time how intensely blue his eyes were—emphasis on intense. He seemed to see straight through her, right through her threadbare cloak and her nondescript dress, through her flesh, straight into her heart. That unruly organ thumped heavily in her chest.
She raised her hand to give him an awkward wave. Her pulse beat, and an unexpected thrill ran through her at the sight of him. The sensation spilled through her body in little shocks, like a harpist strumming out an arpeggio against her ribs.
Oh, drat. She was attracted to him.
“Magistrate Turner,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “Turner,” he corrected her.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“You called me Magistrate.” His nostrils flared. “Magistrates decide cases and issue warrants for arrests. They don’t go on walks with intriguing women, no matter what the destination might be. I must make it clear that I’m helping you in my private capacity. If you call me Magistrate Turner again, I’ll turn around and walk away.”
He made it sound so grim, the prospect of taking a walk with her. It took her a moment to hear that word—intriguing. But he wasn’t smiling at her. That couldn’t be an attempt at flirtation, could it?
Miranda shook her head slowly. “Good heavens. That’s quite an act you put on.”
He drew himself up haughtily. “I beg your pardon.”
“An act,” Miranda repeated. “Stand as tall as you like, and frown at me all you wish. I saw you just now. You were feeding cats.”
“So I was. And do you make something of that?”
“You,” Miranda said daringly, “have a kind heart.”
He turned away from her, the tails of his greatcoat swirling about him. “Don’t enlarge too much upon the matter. The cats were hungry. I had food. This seemed to be a problem with a ready solution. It’s not kindness to solve problems; it’s efficiency.”
“I stand corrected. You have an efficient heart.”
He turned to look at her, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. That half-smile sent another prickle down her spine.
“Also,” he said, “I happen to like cats. They’re aloof creatures that want nothing from me except a little food. Once they’ve had that, they walk away.” He raised his chin. “I have a great deal of respect for creatures that walk away from me.”
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Miranda set one hand on her hip.
He simply gave her a level look.
“It won’t work. I seek out frightening stories, just to send a shiver up my spine. I climb to the top of bell towers, just so I can look down at the ground. I like being scared. So please, give me that repressive look. Just once more.”
She’d said it to tease him. But her stomach roiled as she spoke. It was true, all too true. He scared her with his curt speeches. He wielded extraordinary power, and he was willing to use it. He frightened her, and she liked it.
That hint of a smile flickered across his face once more. But all he said in response was, “I see. Shall we be off? It’s a bit of a walk, and it looks like rain.”
“You have an umbrella, Lord Justice.”
He gave a deep sigh. “Don’t call me that, either. Just a plain ‘Turner’ will do.”
She trotted after him. “It’s intended as a compliment. You’re a stalwart defender of justice, and so forth.”
“I suppose it started that way. When it was just the common people calling me that, I didn’t mind. But my brother magistrates took up the cry as well.” He stopped, took her elbow, and turned around, pointing back down the street. They’d scarcely gone twenty feet.
Miranda shook her head in confusion.
He touched her chin, tilted her head up—but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he directed her attention to the roof of the Council House, still visible down the street. “Do you see that figure up there?”
It was hard to concentrate with his glove warm against her jaw. Still, she peered upward. There was a statue of a seated woman in flowing robes atop the Council House roof.
“That’s Lady Justice,” he explained.
“Isn’t Justice supposed to be blindfolded?”
“No. In Bristol, Justice stares you straight in the face.” He spoke matter-of-factly.
“Where are her scales? Has she misplaced them?”
/> “It would explain a great deal about my colleagues,” he said dryly. “But never mind that. One of my fellow magistrates said that the common people call me by that unfortunate appellation because I was so dedicated to my work that I might as well be married to Lady Justice—hence the name. The jest has been played out all too often. Don’t call me Lord Justice.” He started off down the street once more.
Miranda followed. “That doesn’t sound so awful as jokes go.”
“I paraphrased only. He didn’t imply actual marriage.”
“So circumspect, Mr. Turner.” Miranda spread her hands. “You forget: I have no sensibilities to offend. I was raised by actors.”
“Very well, then. He said I must be tumbling Lady Justice—‘It would account for the hours, and would explain why you’re cold as stone.’ I can’t hear the name now without calling to mind that ribald jest.”
He cast a glance at her. Just a simple glance, but it reminded Miranda of a time she’d slipped in winter and slammed her palms on the ice to break her fall. Maybe he was cold, but sometimes ice burned.
He was walking at a good clip. His route dipped behind buildings, around squares, avoiding the crowds nearer the water’s edge.
“You’re not cold,” Miranda offered. “You’re…controlled. Besides, if you’re a duke’s brother, why aren’t you Lord—um—Lord…” She trailed off. She didn’t know his Christian name. There was a book somewhere that listed it, doubtless. She’d never seen it.
Little droplets of rain began misting down. Beside her, he swept up his umbrella and pushed it open.
“You mean, why am I not called Lord Andrew or Lord John, like a proper duke’s son?”
She nodded.
“Simple. I’m not named John.” He spared her another glance. “You’d better walk closer. No point in your getting wet.”
She stepped toward him.
“No, all the way,” he said. “If you keep your distance, I’m liable to poke your eye out with the ribs.”
She stepped under his umbrella. No doubt it was her imagination, but it was warmer close to him. He smelled like clean, uncomplicated soap—just soap, no fussy perfumes or scents. The rain intensified, drumming into the fabric above.
“‘It’s efficient to feed the cats,’” she said, mimicking his gruff tone. “‘If you don’t share my umbrella, I might accidentally blind you.’ I believe you’re speaking English, Turner, but I’m not sure you’re doing a good job of it. It makes a girl wonder what you meant by, ‘Here, let me take you to gaol.’”
“I always mean precisely what I say, even if I don’t say precisely what I mean.”
She was trying to work that one out, when he continued.
“As for the other, I’m not a duke’s son, which is the normal method of acquiring a courtesy title. My brother is a duke, but he took the title from a distant relation. I am just Mr. Turner.”
They’d reached the Prince Street Bridge. He stopped at the edge of the water and rubbed his cheek.
From here, they could see the city’s docks spread out before them. The harbor was full these days. A slim three-masted ship had been hoisted in the dry docks, and a crew scraped barnacles from her hull.
Beside her, Lord Justice—Turner—took a deep breath, and stared ahead.
“Are you much interested in ships?” she asked.
“Your pardon?”
“I ask only because you’ve stopped to look. I took Robbie to the launch of the Great Britain last summer.” She frowned. “It’s still in dock. I don’t know why. It’s been months.”
He turned to where she was looking. “It won’t fit out the locks.” He started across the bridge, his pace even faster.
She jogged along beside him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s the largest steamship ever built from iron. While she was being built, Bristol made some alterations to the locks that regulate the level of the Floating Harbour. Now the locks are too small—or the ship is too big—and she’s trapped until the company can convince the harbormaster to widen the locks. It’s an incredible waste.”
They reached the other side of the river.
“Do you know much about ships, then? It’s the only thing Robbie will talk about. I’ve tried to speak with him about them, but mostly, when I make an attempt, he rolls his eyes and says, ‘That’s not a ship you’re pointing to; it’s a boat.’”
“I know what is happening hereabouts, generally, and that means I occasionally know a tidbit about ships. I have a fair knowledge of watercraft.” He cast her another glance. “I’m unlikely to board one, if that’s what you’re asking, and so all my understanding is theoretical.”
“Oh.”
They walked on in silence for a while, past dying weeds dripping rainwater along the footpath.
“So,” Miranda finally said, “if you were to have a courtesy title, what would it be? Lord Andrew? Lord Robert?”
“No.”
The street they were on was terribly muddy. The rain had only intensified, coming down in heavy sheets, but she was safe under his umbrella. He glanced sidelong at her. His eyes were blue—brighter than the stone-gray of the sky. It was only a few moments that he contemplated her, but still, she dropped her eyes in confusion. It didn’t help; her gaze fixed on his hands, on long fingers encased in dark gloves. One of those fingers reached out and she held as still as she could, waiting…
But he only took her elbow and conducted her to the other side of the road.
“I don’t like my Christian name,” he said as they crossed to the other side. “I thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to contend with it on a regular basis.”
“It can’t be that awful.”
The path they were on dipped closer to the Avon. The water rushed through the channel, swirling in greenish-white rapids.
“Yes, it can.” He took her elbow and guided her to the inside of the path. The gesture seemed almost sweet—as if she were a lady, and he a gentleman, protecting her from being splashed by puddles. He didn’t even seem to have noticed that he’d done it.
“I knew a man named Defatigus once,” she supplied. “He took the stage name of Robert Johns. He wasn’t a pleasant fellow. Your name can’t be much worse. I doubt you have any reason to mope about it.”
He sighed. “You’re indefatigable, did you know that? It’s Smite.”
“Smite? Your father named you Smite?”
“No. My mother named me. Also, she didn’t name me ‘Smite.’ That’s a short version of my real name, which is, ‘The Lord said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every living thing, as I have done.’”
She stared at him.
“It’s a verse from the Bible. Genesis. After Noah’s flood, when God is promising that he’ll never again punish all humankind by drowning them.” He huffed, and waved a hand at her. “Stop looking at me that way. My mother wasn’t well, and my father wasn’t present. I trust you won’t spread that about.”
“Your mother named you after the rainbow?”
He winced. Around the corner, she could see the cold stones of New Gaol rising up.
“Oh, that’s sweet. It makes me think of doves and olive branches and peace. I can’t see why you don’t use the name.”
“For the love of all that is holy.” His words would have been harsh, but his cheek twitched, ruining the delivery.
“I suspect,” Miranda said, “that it has been a long time since anybody dared tease you.”
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t tell her to stop. A few more steps. They reached the dripping front gate of the gaol. He stopped just outside the entrance. “Miranda Darling,” he said in repressive tones that would brook no argument.
So why was it that she heard “Miranda, darling,” instead? Maybe he paused for emphasis. Maybe he paused to indicate a comma. Never had one little punctuation mark mattered so much.
; “Yes?” she answered breathlessly.
“We’re looking for the records of George Patten, due to be released three days before. He was committed the twelfth of August. Yes?”
Ah. That had definitely not been a comma, then. “I told you all that?”
“No. You mentioned his name was George Patten. The rest I determined from our records, and interpolated as to the release date.”
She swallowed. The conversation they’d just shared had verged on the intimate—she had thought. But perhaps he’d not felt the same.
He closed his umbrella. A shower of droplets spun out from it, and the warm cocoon of heat that had enveloped her disappeared. No sun was visible, and the rain had robbed the sky of most of the light. He rapped once on the wooden door, turning from her. The door swung open; he leaned forward and murmured something to the man behind it.
The fellow narrowed his eyes, casting Miranda a sullen glower. Still, he stepped aside and let them through. The heavy door closed behind them. It had seemed dark outside, with the rain clouds hiding the sun. But when the door shut, all the light seemed to vanish. Only a trickle of fitful illumination fell from the gaoler’s lamp—not enough to light the way even ten feet in the damp corridor where they stood.
“Is there not more light than this?” Turner asked.
“No.” The gaoler adjusted the hood on his lamp to demonstrate.
“I see.”
Likely he couldn’t see much. But no doubt he could smell. The gaol smelled of old things—sour sweat, years of mold that had never been scrubbed away, buckets of waste left to sit for weeks. It made her faintly ill.
Turner’s nose twitched, but he showed no other sign of distress.
“Well?” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
The records were in a dank room off the main hall. They were brought there by one of the gaolers, who stood in the corner. Turner ignored the man and took a dingy book from a shelf. “This,” he said to Miranda, “is the record of arrivals and departures. If anything happened to your friend, it’ll be listed here.”