Unraveled (7 page)

Long ago, they’d sworn to treat each other as brothers. That obviously hadn’t lasted. Dalrymple had no doubt decided that it was in his best interests to try to mend their old friendship.

Alas. Smite knew him rather too well to be taken in.

He shook his head, signaling the end of the conversation, and gathered up the lead.

That was when a woman turned the corner into the records room. She stopped at the sight of him.

Not just any woman. It was Miss Darling. She was dressed as herself—no wig, no fashionable gown, just a frock of faded blue cotton and her own too-bright hair.

She stared into his eyes in shock.

“Ma’am.” The clerk rose behind Smite. “Might I help you?”

She turned on her heel and disappeared.

Smite handed Ghost’s lead to the puzzled clerk. “Hold him,” he said. “Hold him fast. He’ll track me otherwise.”

“What?”

No time for explanation. Smite started after her. She was nearly to the front entrance, walking so swiftly she was almost running.

“Hold there,” he called. “Ahoy,
you.”

She broke into a run, slapping open the front doors of the Council House. And he pursued. He was yards behind her when he came down the front steps. He could hear Ghost, yelping behind him, before the doors swung shut on his dog’s protest.

She’d turned down Corn Street. He followed. Running outright, she wasn’t a match for him. He was taller and swifter. But she didn’t realize the inevitability of her capture. She kept running, dodging down one street, and then another, scarcely staying ahead of him.

His lungs burned, but she was only two strides in front of him. He was almost close enough to grab her. A few seconds and—

And she turned right, so abruptly that he stumbled trying to follow her. He brought his hands up just in time to keep himself from careening face-first into a wall.

His hands skittered across rough granite. He swiveled to track his quarry—and he swore. She’d turned onto Queen Street. It was scarcely a street; instead, it was closer to a narrow alley. It rose at an angle so sharp that the paving stones had been set as steps, not as a smooth incline. The public house on the corner was serving, and a crowd had gathered for the midday meal. Because carts could not negotiate the steps, the merchants along either side had partially spilled into the street, hawking their wares from tables and stools. They’d half blocked the way through, and what little space remained was crowded with customers. The air was thick with the scent of boiled fish and bread and fresh-brewed beer.

She was ten feet away now, but it might as well have been ten yards. She was darting and ducking through the crowd, and here his size was a curse, not a benefit. She squeezed between two passersby, finding gaps where he would never fit. By the time she got to the top of the steps, he wouldn’t be able to see her. In the warren of streets on the hill above, she’d escape.

If he yelled, “Stop, thief!” now, the crowd might catch hold of her.

But she wasn’t a thief, and he wasn’t a liar. “Stop, attempted perjurer!” didn’t have the same ring. He stared after her. But the baleful frustration didn’t last long.

It didn’t matter. If his legs wouldn’t do the trick, he’d have to use his mind.

B
Y THE TIME
M
IRANDA
found her way back to the tilted bell tower of Temple Church, she’d managed to catch her breath. Her pulse, on the other hand, was still racing.

She stormed into the building—empty, still, as it was hours before evensong—and pushed aside the curtain that shielded the closet-cum-confessional.

She was too outraged to sit. Instead she paced—two steps forward, a turn, two steps back, over and over, back and forth, and then forth and back once more. She wasn’t sure when she became aware that she wasn’t alone. The fury of her exercise had masked any of the usual betraying sounds. Only the slow prickle at the back of her neck informed her that someone had arrived.

“I didn’t get the list,” she said. “And in case you were wondering, Lord Justice saw me. He took one look at me and said, ‘You there—what do you think you’re doing?’ He chased me over half of Bristol. I scarcely escaped.”

“And yet you did.” The voice that came out of the darkness was the same as the one she’d heard yesterday—dark and raspy, and more than slightly forbidding. “Why was it that he chased you?”

Miranda remembered belatedly that she’d not recounted her entire history with Lord Justice. “He recognized me. From yesterday.”

“Useful,” the representative remarked, “that he should have paid so marked attention. It might be advantageous to have someone who’s caught the eye of a man like Lord Justice.”

“No. If he had some sort of lustful interest in me, I should think he’d have tried a more gentle tactic than shouting ‘Ahoy, you!’ Not unless he’s particularly inept with women.”

He had many faults, she was sure, but somehow over the course of their short, dismal acquaintance, she’d gleaned enough to guess that ineptitude with women was not one of them.

“So there it is,” she said. “No papers. I doubt I’ll be of further use to you. I don’t dare go near the Council House again.” And how she was to keep Robbie safe, if she had nothing to bargain with, she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure if she should weep at what would become of them or rejoice at her freedom.

“The Patron didn’t want the list,” the voice said.

Miranda stared at the curtain, her fists balling. “Pardon?”

“It would have been convenient if you had been able to wield some influence over Lord Justice as well, but the Patron has no real interest in him, either.”

Miranda stared at the rosewood screen. “Then…then why have me take so large a risk? I might have been caught. Arrested.” She tried to keep all hint of anger from her voice. She didn’t succeed.

“The Patron wanted information,” the voice said. “And now he has received it. You will be informed when you are required again.”

“What? What did he want to know? I haven’t told you anything!”

She waited, but only silence met her. She sat on the stool and peered as best as she could through the grate, but she could see nothing. She waited until she was ready to poke the broom through the holes in the screen, just so she could have some kind of response.
Any
kind of response.

But there was nothing. The audience was over.

What had the Patron learned? She pondered the question as she left the church and crept back down the alley. He’d learned that she could outrun Lord Justice—or at least, out-dodge him, with a little luck. But what use was that?

He’d learned that Lord Justice would give chase. She glanced to either side when she reached the main thoroughfare, waited until a brewer’s dray passed by, and then zagged across the street to the alley on the other side. This one was scarcely wide enough for her, little more than a gap between buildings, but at the moment, she didn’t want to talk to people. She didn’t have much friendliness in her.

None of the things she came up with seemed the sort of information that would justify the smug tone the voice had used.

Perhaps it was simply that. If you were a shadowy, anonymous figure, it made sense to pretend everything had gone according to some diabolical plan. Never mind if it hadn’t. Maybe it was all just for show. Miranda understood
show
.

Thomas Street was clotted with slow-moving carts. It took her a few minutes to jog down to her alley.

She might have negotiated Temple Parish by scent alone. The wealthy might choose their abodes by view—did one want a panorama that included the cathedral, or a look at Brandon Hill?

The poor chose by smell. At Miranda’s home, the scent of the coal burned by the glassblowers predominated during the day. At night, the breeze off the Floating Harbour brought in the smell from the starch works a few buildings over—a scent that put her in mind of clean laundry and boiling wheat. Far better than what she’d have endured with the stockyard as neighbor.

She shut her eyes and inhaled. And just as she did so, it came to her—the information the Patron had received.

“He wanted to know if I was willing to put myself in real danger after all this time being careful.” She spoke aloud. “And I let him know I was. I’m
such
a fool.”

Before she could do anything more, though, an arm snaked around her from behind—a strong, solid arm. She opened her eyes and tried to turn, tried to fight, but whoever had her took hold of her wrist and held it in such a way that she could scarcely wriggle without pain shooting down her arm. She hadn’t a chance to feel fear—not until she looked down and saw that the arm holding her was clothed in unwrinkled superfine wool.

Of course. Lord Justice knew where she lived.

“I’m
such
a fool,” she repeated.

“Would you know,” a familiar voice said in her ear, “I quite agree.”

W
ITH HIS ARM AROUND
Miss Darling and his hand on her wrist, Smite could tell how thin she was. He could feel her pulse hammering against his grip.

“I’m going to turn you to face me,” he said, “as this is no way to conduct a conversation, but I’m not about to let go. I’ve chased you three miles already, and I’m not interested in starting over.”

“I didn’t offer false testimony today.” She struggled against him, but he held fast. “Ask anyone you like. Check the records if you wish. The clerk can tell you.”

He already knew that. He’d been there, after all. He took his arm from around her, but did not let go of her wrist.

She turned to face him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Then why did you run?”

“You said you’d have me arrested if you saw me again.”

His eyes narrowed. “I never said any such thing.”

“You did.”

He stared at her, searched his memory. And then—“I said, ‘If ever I see you before me again, dressed as someone else and spouting falsehoods, I will have you arrested on the spot.’ I can’t have you arrested merely because I catch sight of you in a public building.”

She yanked her hand from his grasp. “Begging your pardon, Your Worship, but you could have me arrested for breathing. Who would gainsay you?”

“If you wouldn’t
act
guilty, I wouldn’t—”

“
Act
guilty?” she cried. “I’m poor. My mother was an actress; my father the manager of a traveling troupe of players. I sew some for a living, and when I’ve got the wherewithal, I make wigs. I don’t have to do anything to be guilty. I’m guilty the instant a constable lays eyes on me and decides I appear out of place.” Her hands balled into fists at her side. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done or what I say. Who would listen to me?”

“I would.” He glared at her. “I do listen to people like you. Every day.” He took a step closer, and she shrank against the wall. “If you’re so innocent,” he pressed, “why were you there?”

But her gaze fixed on something just beyond him. Her mouth rounded. “Look out,” she called. “Behind you.”

He didn’t take his eyes from her. “A feeble attempt. There’s nobody there. You won’t be evading me so easily.”

And that was when something struck him from behind. He experienced a sharp, splintering pain in his head—a savage sense of disbelief—and then, the sure knowledge that his knees were giving way beneath him.

Darkness flooded his vision before he hit the ground.

Chapter Five