in disgrace, and so gave him a delighted bark, beating the air enthusiastically with his tail.
Turner shook his head. “What did you do with yourself? Drag yourself through a tour of the middens of Bristol?”
Ghost made an abortive attempt to leap onto him—the better to share the smell of those middens—and Smite made a sharp gesture, sending the dog to his haunches.
“You’re a disgusting animal,” Smite said, “and I’ll most likely rid myself of you in the morning. Now behave yourself. I’ve got someone I need to talk to.” He pushed himself up to a sit. His head spun dizzily, but so long as he balanced himself on his arms, he could hold himself upright and look over at Miss Darling.
Ghost danced around again, spinning in circles—
“You’re making me dizzy,” Smite told him. “Lie down and wait.”
There were a great many complaints one could make about Ghost. Palter, in fact, had made most of them. But when the animal was given a direct command, he obeyed. On that, he lowered himself to the floor and fixed his gaze on Smite.
Miss Darling was watching him, too, and unlike Ghost, she did not seem overjoyed to see him. Her eyes were red but dry.
“Are you going to arrest me, Your Worship?” she asked directly.
“No.” He rubbed his head and looked up. “My head is pounding too much to consider it.”
She walked to him. As she came closer, Ghost stood up and crossed to investigate her, gray head lifted, sniffing gently. She didn’t seem to notice the dog; instead, she sat on the straw tick beside him.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up, you know. You’ve had a head injury, and they can be quite perilous.” She was inches from him.
“I’m perfectly well,” he said.
She frowned dubiously at that. “You can never be sure. I knew someone who hit his head and then dropped dead the next day.”
She reached to touch his cheek, and he grabbed her hand.
“I said, I’m perfectly well.”
But he wasn’t. A flutter of…of something passed through him. Something barely recognizable. His hand fit around hers. She was warm, and he could feel calluses on her fingertips. She wasn’t a lady, no matter how exalted her accent at the moment; he could feel the evidence against his palm. Her rough hands should have reminded him of the gulf between them.
There were too many differences: he was wealthy; she was not. She’d appeared in his courtroom; he might have to see her again.
But when he took hold of her hand, he was most aware of the other sharp distinction between them. He was a man. And she was, undoubtedly, a woman.
She looked down at him, at his grip on her, and slowly, he let her fingers loose.
She pulled away. “Well. My apologies for interfering.”
His hand still tingled where he’d touched her; he made a fist of it. “If I’m going to drop dead, I’ll do so regardless of whether you prod at me.”
“Yes, but if you drop dead here, I’ll be stuck disposing of your body.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have enough to worry about.”
It hurt to smile, so much so that he winced when he tried. “Well, then. I’ll do my best to drag my sorry carcass away if I feel the sudden urge to keel over.” He ran his hand over his face. “Why did you go to the records room?”
“Looking for records,” she muttered evasively.
“What sort of records?”
She paused and looked up to her right. “I have a friend,” she said slowly. “George Patten. He was put away two months ago, and due to be released yesterday, yet he’s disappeared entirely. He wasn’t let go. He’s not in gaol. I don’t know where he is.” There was a twitch in her cheek.
“Those records would be kept at the gaol,” Smite said. “You don’t imagine that the records of daily dealings at the gaol would find their way to the Council House a mere day after the events in question. Tell me the truth, Miss Darling.”
She raised her eyes and let out a long exhale. “Someone asked me to get a list of
Turner shook his head. “What did you do with yourself? Drag yourself through a tour of the middens of Bristol?”
Ghost made an abortive attempt to leap onto him—the better to share the smell of those middens—and Smite made a sharp gesture, sending the dog to his haunches.
“You’re a disgusting animal,” Smite said, “and I’ll most likely rid myself of you in the morning. Now behave yourself. I’ve got someone I need to talk to.” He pushed himself up to a sit. His head spun dizzily, but so long as he balanced himself on his arms, he could hold himself upright and look over at Miss Darling.
Ghost danced around again, spinning in circles—
“You’re making me dizzy,” Smite told him. “Lie down and wait.”
There were a great many complaints one could make about Ghost. Palter, in fact, had made most of them. But when the animal was given a direct command, he obeyed. On that, he lowered himself to the floor and fixed his gaze on Smite.
Miss Darling was watching him, too, and unlike Ghost, she did not seem overjoyed to see him. Her eyes were red but dry.
“Are you going to arrest me, Your Worship?” she asked directly.
“No.” He rubbed his head and looked up. “My head is pounding too much to consider it.”
She walked to him. As she came closer, Ghost stood up and crossed to investigate her, gray head lifted, sniffing gently. She didn’t seem to notice the dog; instead, she sat on the straw tick beside him.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up, you know. You’ve had a head injury, and they can be quite perilous.” She was inches from him.
“I’m perfectly well,” he said.
She frowned dubiously at that. “You can never be sure. I knew someone who hit his head and then dropped dead the next day.”
She reached to touch his cheek, and he grabbed her hand.
“I said, I’m perfectly well.”
But he wasn’t. A flutter of…of something passed through him. Something barely recognizable. His hand fit around hers. She was warm, and he could feel calluses on her fingertips. She wasn’t a lady, no matter how exalted her accent at the moment; he could feel the evidence against his palm. Her rough hands should have reminded him of the gulf between them.
There were too many differences: he was wealthy; she was not. She’d appeared in his courtroom; he might have to see her again.
But when he took hold of her hand, he was most aware of the other sharp distinction between them. He was a man. And she was, undoubtedly, a woman.
She looked down at him, at his grip on her, and slowly, he let her fingers loose.
She pulled away. “Well. My apologies for interfering.”
His hand still tingled where he’d touched her; he made a fist of it. “If I’m going to drop dead, I’ll do so regardless of whether you prod at me.”
“Yes, but if you drop dead here, I’ll be stuck disposing of your body.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have enough to worry about.”
It hurt to smile, so much so that he winced when he tried. “Well, then. I’ll do my best to drag my sorry carcass away if I feel the sudden urge to keel over.” He ran his hand over his face. “Why did you go to the records room?”
“Looking for records,” she muttered evasively.
“What sort of records?”
She paused and looked up to her right. “I have a friend,” she said slowly. “George Patten. He was put away two months ago, and due to be released yesterday, yet he’s disappeared entirely. He wasn’t let go. He’s not in gaol. I don’t know where he is.” There was a twitch in her cheek.
“Those records would be kept at the gaol,” Smite said. “You don’t imagine that the records of daily dealings at the gaol would find their way to the Council House a mere day after the events in question. Tell me the truth, Miss Darling.”
She raised her eyes and let out a long exhale. “Someone asked me to get a list of
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