The Lady Risks All (19 page)
He headed straight up the steep rise to the copse. As she drew alongside, he caught her eye and tipped his head forward. “Go ahead.” Carrying Roderick’s dead weight, he was going to be much slower.
Her lips set in a mulish line. “Don’t be idiotic. And don’t waste breath arguing!”
Clamping his lips shut, he swore mentally instead.
And, of course, fate proved her right. Several branches snagged on Roderick’s coat. She quickly pulled them free, but if she hadn’t been there . . .
Grim-faced, he slogged on through the copse, then across to where the sheep track they’d followed from the curricle curved over the shoulder of the hill.
Angry voices reached them. Their would-be pursuers had come out of the cottage and were casting about, trying to determine which way they’d gone.
Still hidden by the copse, he paused to resettle Roderick’s body over his shoulder. He glanced at Miranda as he set off again. “They’re going to see us as we go over the hill. From there, we’ll need to run.”
She looked at the open stretch of track ahead, then glanced back at the cottage, gradually coming into view as they emerged from the copse, and nodded.
Sure enough, as they rushed along the unscreened section, howls went up from the men milling behind the cottage.
“There they be!” someone entirely unnecessarily shouted.
And the chase was on.
The men came after them, baying like hounds. Roscoe blocked out the sound, intended to instill fear, and concentrated on where he was placing his feet. He couldn’t afford to stumble. With Miranda immediately behind, he hurried down the track as fast as he dared.
He needed her ahead of him. Needed to be able to see she was safe.
The instant the curricle came into sight, he called to her. “Run ahead, get in, and untie the reins. Leave the brake on and hold the reins in your hands.” He caught her eye as she drew level. “Go!”
He put every ounce of command he possessed into the word.
Her lips compressed—he thought she was going to argue—but then she nodded, lifted her skirts higher and ran ahead.
He forged on as fast as he could, but Roderick was no lightweight. By the time he reached the cart track and had to slow to drop from the raised bank to the rutted surface, the Kempseys and Doles were pounding down the hill hot on his trail.
Landing in the track, jaw clenched, he pushed up and on.
Reaching the curricle, he shrugged Roderick from his shoulder and manhandled him onto the curricle’s seat, shoving his limp body against Miranda. Grabbing the reins from her, leaving her to seize and hold Roderick, he pulled out his pistol, turned, took fleeting aim, and put a ball into the earth just in front of their pursuers’ feet.
The report and the sudden eruption of earth had the pack backpedaling, scrabbling and falling over each other.
Then they realized, untangled themselves, and came raging on.
By then he’d leapt onto the curricle’s seat, wedging Roderick between Miranda’s body and his. Dropping the spent pistol to the floor, he released the brake. “Hold on!”
His horses weren’t known for their easy manners, and they hadn’t had a real run in days. Given their heads, already spooked by the shot, they took off.
The curricle swayed and rocked, hit ruts and bounced, but his carriage-maker was the best in England; the carriage held up under the rough treatment, and with the horses almost bolting, they rocketed along the track, leaving the Kempseys and Doles howling in their wake.
Only when Roscoe finally reached a decently surfaced lane and deftly turned his horses—the devil beasts—onto the smoother surface did Miranda succeed in swallowing, and dislodging her heart from where it had wedged high in her throat.
As that organ settled into its accustomed place, into beating at its usual pace, the vise about her lungs released and she could finally draw a decent breath. She glanced across Roderick—who she was holding between them, both her hands locked in his coat—at Roscoe. And couldn’t think of what to say.
Thank you
didn’t come close to expressing her feelings.
She studied his face. His expression looked entirely normal. More or less impassive, relatively unreadable.
As if feeling her gaze, he briefly met her eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. You?”
“No damage.” He cast an assessing glance at Roderick, slumped and still very much unconscious between them. “We need to get him to a doctor.”
“Yes. But where?” She looked around, trying to gain some clue as to where they were; in the panic of their escape she hadn’t paid attention to their direction, so now had no idea.
The countryside about them was verdant and green with low rolling hills and no sign of any town. They were, she thought, heading roughly north, which meant away from Birmingham and, if she recalled aright, into an area where there were no towns, only tiny hamlets. “Do you know where we are?”
“Yes.” After a moment, Roscoe went on, “Kempsey and Dole will try to follow us—we have to assume they’ll do everything they can to hunt us, and Roderick, down. We need a place where we can get Roderick the treatment he needs, and at the same time be safe from attack.”
He knew of such a safe haven. He would have thought the decision to take her and Roderick there would have been fraught, a step he would have found difficult to take, to accept . . . instead, even before he’d realized what he was doing he’d turned into the familiar lanes. “I know where we can go.”
She was pushing and tugging Roderick into a more secure position. “Where?”
He didn’t answer until, satisfied with her efforts, she looked his way demandingly.
“Somewhere safe.” And that, he realized, was the deciding factor. He needed—beyond question or argument or reason needed—somewhere he could be sure
she
was safe. He kept his gaze on his horses. “I’m taking you to a relative’s house. It’s not far.”
“I
’m taking you to a relative’s house
.
”
Miranda replayed Roscoe’s words yet again, faintly stupefied as he tooled the curricle around the wide, circular drive of a massive country house. They’d driven onto the estate via the rear drive; recalling her suspicion that he was the illegitimate scion of some noble house, she’d initially assumed that his relative was, perhaps, a manager at one of the farms. The further he’d driven she’d successively revised her assumption, first to the manager of the Home Farm, then, when they’d approached the huge house’s outbuildings, perhaps the coachman or stableman. But he’d continued driving toward the house itself, so she’d amended his relative’s status to the butler or housekeeper at the great house itself, but he’d confounded her by taking the loop of the drive that circled one wing of the three-storied Palladian magnificence, and continued on . . . not to the gatehouse, her final possibility, but around the sweep to the gravel forecourt before the imposing front steps.
When he drew his horses to a halt before said steps, she turned to stare uncomprehendingly at him.
Roscoe felt her gaze but didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t glance her way. Two grooms were already running up, wide—welcoming—grins on their faces.
Stepping out of the curricle, bracing Roderick with one hand, he held up the other—before the grooms could utter their customary welcome. “Jenks, go and tell Cater we have a wounded man. Tell him to send for Doctor Entwhistle immediately, and we’ll need a few footmen to carry Mr. Clifford indoors.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Jenks snapped off a salute and raced up the steps to the front door.
“Here.” Roscoe handed the reins to the younger groom. “Hold them steady.”
Then he returned his attention to the occupants of the curricle, Roderick still unconscious, Miranda still staring. Disbelievingly.
He met her gaze. “You’ll be safe here. Both of you.”
She blinked, frowned. “What about you?”
Before he could clarify even that much confusion, people came streaming out of the house. Not just Cater and the footmen, as Roscoe had hoped, although they were in the vanguard; in their wake, an array of skirts came sweeping over the porch to pour down the steps.
“Julian! You’re home!”
“How wonderful!”
“We didn’t expect you!”
“How long will you be staying?”
“Who are your friends?”
“How badly is the gentleman injured?”
His mother, his three sisters, his sister-in-law, and his nephew—wisely bringing up the rear—gathered around him and the curricle, the females all pulling his head down to kiss his cheek, before lining up to smile delightedly at Miranda, then peer with concern at Roderick.
He remembered, too late, that his mother had written that his sisters were gathering at Ridgware to plan Edwina’s wedding. Glancing at Henry, who’d gallantly offered his hand to Miranda to assist her down, he met his nephew’s laughing gaze and very nearly groaned. But . . .
By the time he’d managed to rein in his female relatives’ understandable curiosity and perform the required minimal introductions, dusk was falling.
Luckily, Roderick’s state precluded further socializing. Two footmen lifted him from the curricle with all due care, then carried him indoors. Cater and the housekeeper, Mrs. Viner, had already conferred; under Cater’s direction the footmen carried Roderick up the wide stairs to a room in the west wing.
Despite being utterly distracted by being suddenly dropped into the middle of his family, a family she could have had no notion he had, Miranda had managed the requisite greetings with aplomb, and to give them their due, his mother, sisters, and sister-in-law were understanding and supportive when she excused herself and followed her still unconscious brother up the stairs.
Somewhat cravenly, he used Roderick as an excuse to follow at her heels, leaving his family standing in a group in the hall, watching him and Miranda climb the stairs, intrigued and frankly delighted expressions on their faces.
He wasn’t sure what had provoked such delight—his unexpected appearance, the anticipation of entertainment and insight into his other life that Miranda and Roderick promised, or something else? Shaking aside the suspicion that all three causes were, in fact, actively contributing, he followed Miranda, who was in turn following the footmen and Roderick, to the large bedchamber a pair of maids and Mrs. Viner had just finished making ready.
“The poor lad.” From the opposite side of the four-poster bed, Mrs. Viner helped Miranda direct the footmen in just how to lay their burden down, then, when the footmen retreated, Mrs. Viner helped settle Roderick more comfortably. She tutted. “Collarbone, and his foot, too.” She glanced at Miranda. “Doctor Entwhistle’ll be here in two shakes—he lives not far away. While we’re waiting, if you’d like I can fetch my shears, and we could cut your poor brother out of those clothes and make him more comfortable.”
Miranda met the housekeeper’s earnest brown eyes. “Thank you. That would help, I suspect.”
The motherly woman beamed. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll fetch my shears and be back in a jiffy. If you need anything else”—she pointed to the bellpull hanging by the mantelpiece—“just ring, and someone will be up straightaway.”
Shooing the maids out of the room, the housekeeper left. The footmen had already gone, leaving her alone with Roscoe and a still unconscious Roderick. She honestly couldn’t say who was the bigger distraction.
Roscoe had halted at the foot of the bed. “In case you didn’t catch it, the housekeeper’s name is Mrs. Viner.”
He shifted, then prowled around the bed toward her. She turned to face him.
Halting before her, he searched her eyes, then his impassive mask fractured and his lips twisted ruefully. “I apologize. I’d forgotten my sisters and nephew would be here. Normally this is a much . . . quieter household.”
She glanced at the bed, then at the room, thought of all she’d seen—and understood what he’d meant about them being safe. “That doesn’t matter.”
“I know it’s a shock, a lot to absorb and deal with, but . . .” He waited until she looked at him, then captured her gaze. “Will you trust me?”
Always
. The word leapt to her mind, and she realized it was the truth. She’d trusted him since their first meeting; over the last days, she’d trusted him implicitly again and again.
She’d taken him as her lover without the slightest concern.
Eyes locked with his, she nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
“Good.” His lips quirked again, more in resignation this time. “I’ll do what I can to keep the curious at bay.”
With an inclination of his head, he started to turn away.
She reached out and caught his sleeve. When he glanced back, she met his gaze. “Who are you?”
He held her gaze for several moments, then said, “I’m Roscoe. You, more than most, know who, and what, I am.”
When she didn’t reply, either to accept or further question, he lifted her hand from his sleeve, lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them and stepped back. She let him go.
But on the point of turning away, he hesitated, then met her eyes again, and quietly said, “In my earlier life, I used to be Lord Julian Delbraith.”
She had no idea what he saw in her eyes; she had no idea what she felt.
With a slight nod, he turned and walked to the open doorway; without glancing back, he went out, drawing the door closed behind him.
She stared at the door, her thoughts churning, but to no real effect. Of all the revelations of the past half hour, all incomplete, tantalizing yet still nebulous, only one stood as immutable fact.
London’s gambling king, the man she’d taken as her lover, was the legitimate scion of a ducal house.
A tap on the door heralded Mrs. Viner. The housekeeper brandished two pairs of dressmaker’s shears and a man’s nightshirt. “I found this, although I daresay we’ll have to wait until the doctor bandages him up, but we’ll manage somehow.” Mrs. Viner smiled. “Shall we get started, then?”
Shaking off her lingering, possibly deepening stupefaction, Miranda nodded. “Yes, by all means.”
Dealing with Roderick, at least, was something she knew how to do.
D
octor Entwhistle proved to be kindly and competent. Miranda felt immeasurably relieved when, after setting and tightly binding Roderick’s shoulder and arm, and his foot, the doctor assured her that with due care he expected his patient to recover completely.
“He was lucky—they’re both simple breaks. Nevertheless, it will take several months before the bones are fully healed.”
She brushed a lock of hair from her brother’s brow. “And the fever?”
“That’s a symptom, not a cause for concern in and of itself. Now his bones are aligned and healing can commence, the fever should subside.” Entwhistle smiled reassuringly. “It may take a few days, but I expect some improvement by tomorrow. I’ll call again to check on his progress tomorrow afternoon, but bear in mind that I’ve dosed him, sleep being the best balm for broken bones. I doubt he’ll wake before then, and even when he does, he’ll be weak, and you’ll need to discourage unnecessary movement or excitement of any kind for the next several days.”
She nodded, then asked the most pertinent question. “We live in London. How soon will he be able to travel?”
Lips pursing, Entwhistle considered Roderick, then said, “I’ll be able to be more definite after I see him tomorrow, but I doubt he’ll be fit enough to manage that distance this side of ten days. I would advise doing all possible not to jar or put much weight on his foot during that time. Even then, he’ll need to stay off it and keep his shoulder and arm strapped for several more weeks.”
“Thank you. We’ll do whatever you recommend.”
Following the doctor to the door, she saw him out—into Roscoe’s hands; he’d apparently been waiting in the corridor to walk the doctor out.
Returning to the bed, she looked down at Roderick. He was still terribly pale, his brown hair lank, and there were lines bracketing his mouth that hadn’t been there when she’d last seen him a week ago. Yet seeing him sleeping . . . relief flooded her, so intense that she closed her eyes and simply let the wave wash through her.
As the emotion receded, she opened her eyes. Looking around, spotting a straight-backed chair by the wall, she went to it, lifted it and set it beside the bed, then sat, took one of Roderick’s limp hands in hers, and settled to wait.
She was recalling various other times when she’d kept vigil by Roderick’s bedside when the door opened and Roscoe walked in.
As he closed the door, she met his eyes. “Thank you again for all your help.”
He shook his head dismissively. “I didn’t question Entwhistle. What did he say?”
While she told him, he strolled to the end of the bed, sank his hands in his pockets, leaned a shoulder against the carved post, and studied her brother. Watching him, she concluded, “So it appears we’ll be imposing on your . . . sister-in-law’s hospitality for the next ten days at least.”
She’d couched a subtle question in the statement; she wasn’t sure of the relationship, but she’d been introduced to Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Ridgware, who was clearly Roscoe’s mother, and also to Caroline, who was the present duchess. The lanky youth who bore a striking resemblance to Caroline as well as Lucasta and Roscoe had been introduced as the duke, so . . . she thought she had it right. Caroline, presumably a widow, was presently lady of this ducal sprawl.
Apparently oblivious to her uncertainty, Roscoe merely nodded. “We can use the time to see what we can learn about who hired Kempsey and Dole. It would be best to know that before Roderick returns to town.”
She wondered how . . . but she had another issue to address. “We’re in your debt—”
“No, you’re not.” He met her eyes. “At least not monetarily.”
“But the doctor—”
“Is the estate’s local man. We have him on retainer.”
She studied his face, then said, “You’re not going to allow me, or Roderick, to pay for this, are you?”
“No.” After a moment, his lips curved. “I am, after all, London’s gambling king, and as such, one of the wealthiest men in the realm. And, as I believe I mentioned, I consider Roderick an ally and a friend, and I take care of my allies and friends.” He paused, then added, “You could consider this, and all else, as merely me shoring up my reputation.”
She humphed, but she might as well leave arguing until later, or even leave it to Roderick. As she sat looking up at Roscoe, lounging with his customary grace against the bedpost, she recalled her earlier assumption—that all about him that screamed of an aristocratic lineage had come via the wrong side of the blanket. Observing him here, in this setting, she could only wonder how she could have thought that; there was nothing diluted about him. He was the genuine article, through and through.
But she was still at sea, adrift as to how and why and . . . so many things. And as he seemed disinclined to explain, she was, apparently, going to have to ask. “The others in the Philanthropy Guild.” She waved at him, then around. “Do they know?”
He studied her for a moment, then said, “They don’t know, but the older ones might suspect.” Pushing away from the bedpost, he drew his hands from his pockets and resettled his coat. “They’re all younger than I am by a few years at least, so none of them rubbed shoulders with me as I was before.” He met her gaze. “Lord Julian Delbraith disappeared twelve years ago.”
Before she could assimilate that, let alone respond, a light tap fell on the door.
Roscoe—Julian, whichever he was while there—turned and went to the door. Opening it, he looked out; she heard female voices. His voice was too low for her to make out his words, but a lady replied. He paused; she could feel his resignation from across the room, then he stepped back and held the door wide.
The dowager swept in, followed by the duchess.
Earlier in the forecourt, Miranda had absorbed no more than fleeting impressions. Now she registered that the dowager, while no longer young, still possessed both physical and mental energy; she was fashionably turned out, her features fine, her steel gray hair becomingly dressed. Strength of character and an indomitable will were etched in the lines of her face and underscored by her posture; Miranda sensed that the dark blue of her eyes was not the only characteristic the dowager had passed on to her son. In contrast, the duchess was both younger and visually less forceful; blond, indisputably elegant even in a plain day gown, there was nevertheless a hint of inner resolve in a face that seemed somehow older than it should have been.
Rising, Miranda started to curtsy, but the dowager waved her up.
“No need for that, dear, not while it’s just us.” The dowager peered at Roderick. “So how is your brother? What did Entwhistle say?”
Deeming they had a right to know—they were giving her and Roderick refuge, after all—Miranda told them. Both the dowager and the duchess asked pertinent questions; subsequent comments suggested both had a passing acquaintance with nursing young gentlemen. From the corner of her eye she saw Roscoe hovering by the open door, as if considering escaping . . . but he shut the door and remained where he was, distanced from the gathering about the bed.
Eventually, her report concluded, she drew a deeper breath and focused on the two ladies. “I can’t thank you both enough for permitting us to stay, let alone assisting us—”
“Great heavens, dear—of course we would.” The dowager smiled with real warmth. “We’re only too happy to have a chance to do so.”
The duchess smiled warmly, reassuringly, too. “Please believe, Miss Clifford, that we’re only too glad to have you to stay.” The duchess glanced at Roscoe. “We’re delighted that Julian had the sense to bring you here.”
Why?
Miranda kept her puzzlement from her face, but inwardly she wondered. Both the dowager and duchess struck her as sincere, openly and honestly pleased at her and Roderick’s unexpected arrival.
Another tap fell on the door.
“Ah—that will be Nurse.” The dowager waved at Roscoe. “Do let her in, dear.”
Roscoe obeyed.
The duchess volunteered, “Nurse is very experienced in watching over patients—she’ll watch over your brother and take excellent care of him. Meanwhile, what with the distraction, we haven’t had a chance to change for dinner, but as it’s just us—
en famille
—we’ve decided we won’t bother with the formalities this evening.”
“Indeed.” The dowager swept up to Miranda and laid gentle fingers on her arm. “And as Entwhistle has dosed your brother so he won’t wake until tomorrow, you, my dear, can leave Nurse to manage here and join us at table.”
Miranda knew when she was being herded. She looked into the dowager’s dark and surprisingly alert eyes, and sensed that the old lady was rarely gainsaid. Like her son, she expected to get her way.
Miranda looked across the room at Roscoe. Hands clasped behind his back, he was looking down; if a man such as he could ever look self-effacing, as if he wished to fade into the paneling, that was how he was looking now.
Curiosity rose, surprisingly intense.
And Roderick was unlikely to wake.
She looked at the dowager, then at the duchess, and inclined her head. “Thank you. I would be pleased to join you for dinner.” She glanced at Nurse, who had come in and now stood quietly waiting; a middle-aged woman in a starched white apron over a gray gown, with iron gray hair, strong hands, and a square face, she appeared rather formidable. “Let me explain my brother’s condition to Nurse, and then, perhaps”—Julian? Or Roscoe?—“your son could show me the way.”
“Excellent.” With an approving pat on her arm, the dowager swung to the door. “Come, Caroline—I believe that’s the gong sounding now. The others will be wondering where we’ve got to.”
The two ladies departed, charging Roscoe to bring Miss Clifford along directly. Already engaged with Nurse, she didn’t hear his reply.
Nurse proved to be every bit as experienced and rock-steady as the duchess had intimated; she asked numerous questions about the injuries before declaring herself sufficiently advised to assume Roderick’s care. “I doubt he’ll even stir, not after one of doctor’s sleeping drafts, but if he shows any signs of waking, I’ll send for you immediately.”
Having already surmised that while Nurse approved of her concern for Roderick, the woman did not consider Miranda’s input or presence as necessary to her brother’s recovery, she accepted the olive branch for what it was. “Thank you.”
Turning from the bed, she walked to where Roscoe waited. He met her eyes but made no comment. Opening the door, he waved her through, then followed her into the corridor.
She waited while he closed the door. Joining her, he waved her on, and she fell in beside him as he led her through the corridors. After a moment, she murmured, “I would have been perfectly happy with a tray in the room. You could have rescued me, but you didn’t.”
A moment ticked by, then he replied, his voice low, “I could have, but they’re right—you need to eat a proper meal. We haven’t had anything since breakfast, and that was early.” Through the shadows in the gallery, he met her eyes. “You’ll be no help to Roderick if you faint or wilt away.”
She humphed and looked ahead. Internally, the house was not as overwhelming as she’d expected; although the furniture and furnishings were beautiful, luxurious and elegant, the overall ambience was of a house in use, a home, not a showcase.
“Besides,” Roscoe went on, “you need time to get to know them, at least well enough to be comfortable over the next few weeks.” With a wave, he directed her to the head of the main stairs. “And they need time to get to know you. I know they’ll do all they can to help you over the coming days.”
They started down the stairs. “Your sisters. Do they live here, too?”
“Only Edwina, the youngest. Millicent, the eldest, and Cassie, the middle one, are both married and not normally here. I gather they’re visiting to plot and plan Edwina’s wedding. She’s engaged to one of the Frobishers.”
She didn’t move in tonnish circles, but she’d heard the name. “One of the adventurers?”
He nodded. His lips quirked upward as they reached the front hall. “I imagine that will suit Edwina to the ground. Frobisher might not know it, but I’d wager she’s planning to accompany him on his next expedition.”
He led her not to the main dining hall, which, she felt sure, would be cavernous, but to a nice-sized dining parlor, a more intimate room with a table that sat only twelve. It was presently set for eight. The family had gathered before the long windows at the end of the room; they turned as she entered, Roscoe at her shoulder.
The duchess smiled and came forward. “I know you met fleetingly before, but allow me to introduce the rest of the family in greater depth.” She proceeded to introduce Millicent and Cassandra—“Cassie, please”—both stylish young matrons, and Edwina, a delightful young lady of twenty-two summers who was clearly thrilled over her upcoming wedding, but, like her sisters, was agog to learn more about Miranda and Roderick. Each sister volunteered a trifle more about themselves—who the elder two had married, and where in the country their respective homes were, what children each had, and that they’d sent their husbands to Scotland for some hunting, along with Frobisher, Edwina’s fiancé, in order to congregate and plan Edwina’s wedding without distraction.
Extracting Miranda from the sisters, the duchess continued, “My mama-in-law needs no further introduction.” The duchess turned to the youth who stood dutifully at her elbow. She smiled and the love of a mother lit her face. “Which leaves me to present my son, Henry, Duke of Ridgware.”
Smiling, Miranda curtsied, and was charmed by Henry’s smile as he took the hand she offered and very correctly bowed over it. She judged him to be in his midteens, all long limbs and as yet evolving grace, but he made a commendable job of the courtesy.
“A pleasure, Miss Clifford. I look forward to making yours and your brother’s acquaintance over the coming days. I take it he’s not in any serious straits?”
“Nothing dire, or so your good doctor assured me. Just broken bones.” She turned as Henry, mimicking his uncle’s elegance, waved her to a chair; preempting Roscoe, he held it for her.
