The Lady Risks All (34 page)

“Just leaving Uxbridge. We’ll be in London soon.”

He closed his eyes again. “Good.”

Miranda glanced out but couldn’t see Roscoe or his curricle. Inwardly frowning, she wrestled the window back into place. She hadn’t expected to part so abruptly, but Roderick had been there, and doubtless she would see Roscoe once they were home again.

She settled back as the carriage turned out of the yard and picked up speed.

From the shadows of the inn’s porch, Roscoe watched the coach roll away. He’d spent most of the hours driving down from Oxford trying to decide on the right words to say. Deciding was one thing; saying quite another. He’d wanted to make a clean break, quick, straightforward, and clear, an acknowledgment of their inevitable reality. Instead, he hadn’t even managed a simple “good-bye.” Just the thought of speaking the word had made his throat constrict.

Spending last night with her had been a mistake. If he’d known . . . he would have made do with the memories he’d already garnered rather than learn, as he had, exactly what he might have had had he not become Roscoe. Exactly what he most truly, almost desperately wanted from life, what he wanted in his life for the rest of his days.

No need.

His words had been honest enough. No need to extend the exchange. Certainly no need for any thanks. And no need to say anything else because there wasn’t anything he or she could say or do that would alter the situation.

For the first time in his life, he’d woken resenting the choices he’d made, actually regretting the long-ago decisions that meant he now had to let her go, had to accept that their time together was over.

Had to let her walk away . . .

Pulling on his driving gloves, he frowned.
He
couldn’t walk away, not yet; they still had Roderick’s would-be killer to catch. Kirkwell was still out there somewhere. Until Kirkwell was no longer a threat to Roderick or his sister, he would continue to watch over them and wait.

He’d already given orders to have the Claverton Street house kept under surveillance at all times. Given Kirkwell’s apparent lack of funds, it was possible he would make a try for Roderick himself. If Kirkwell did, the villain would walk into Roscoe’s net. Regardless, directly or indirectly he would find Kirkwell, but while he did, he would keep his distance from Miranda.

Stepping down to the yard, with a curt nod accepting the reins from the ostler who’d readied his curricle, he stepped up to the box seat, sat, flicked the reins, and set the pair of freshly harnessed grays pacing neatly out onto the highway.

For his sake as well as hers, keeping all contact between them to a minimum would unquestionably be the wisest course.

Chapter Seventeen

“I
still can barely believe it.” Gladys crunched her morning toast, liberally slathered with marmalade, and stared down the breakfast table at Miranda, then at Roderick, seated at the table’s end. “The Duke of Ridgware’s house, and the family treated the pair of you as if you were guests.”

“Hmm.” Miranda didn’t look up from her lists.

Roderick remained immersed in today’s news sheets.

They’d arrived in Claverton Street at four o’clock the previous afternoon, and every minute of the rest of the evening had gone in answering Gladys’s myriad questions and relating all that had happened at Ridgware, leaving Miranda no time to pick up the reins of the household and deal with its various demands.

During the fortnight and more she’d been away, Gladys had dealt only with issues too urgent to wait, so she had two weeks’ worth of accounts, wages, and details to resolve, as well as the usual mundane decisions required to keep the household functioning. She was determined to catch up with as much as she could that day, so she would be free to turn her mind to the personal issues that, somewhat to her surprise, had kept her wide awake and wondering far into the night.

“It just seems strange,” Gladys mused. “I would have expected great ladies like the dowager duchess and the duchess to hold to a much more reserved and superior line.”

Miranda’s memory supplied visions of Lucasta and Caroline. She glanced at Roderick, determinedly buried in the news sheets, then looked back at her lists. “Despite their station, they’re human. They have much the same concerns as ladies everywhere.”

Gladys frowned, then snorted and fell mercifully silent. Despite accepting all they’d told her as true, Gladys continued to exclaim and wonder over their stay at Ridgware, rubbing shoulders freely with the ducal family.

Miranda had explained that the friend of Roderick’s who’d helped her locate and rescue him from the kidnappers had been a close connection of the Delbraiths’, a fact that had instantly rendered said friend entirely above reproach in Gladys’s eyes. When Gladys had asked reluctantly, trepidatiously—clearly not truly wishing to hear the answer but unable not to ask—whether she had avoided any scandal while traveling with a gentleman who was not a relative, Miranda had pointed to the weeds she’d still been wearing and had flourished her bonnet and veil. No one, she’d assured her aunt, had known who she was, and with their tale of a gentleman escorting her, a widow, to a country estate, not even a whisper of scandal had been provoked, nor was any likely.

Eyes on her lists, she reflected that that was another thing the journey had taught her; as long as her actions did not become widely known, scandal would never be an issue.

Setting down her pencil, she picked up her teacup and sipped as she scanned the list of tasks she simply had to do. She wanted to stop and think about Roscoe, about her and him and what might be, but first she had to meet with Mrs. Flannery and then talk to Hughes.

Roderick tossed the news sheets on the table. She glanced his way, saw him grimace as he shifted his leg.

Sensing her gaze, he looked up and met it. His lips twisted. “M’leg’s still too weak to risk even a turn about the garden.” Disappointed disgust laced his voice. Grabbing the crutch propped against his chair, he used it to haul himself to his feet. “I’m going to go and sit in the drawing room.”

“Yes. Of course.” Miranda watched him make his way from the room. He’d insisted on making his own way up and down the stairs, but the effort had cost him. Once he was out of sight, she murmured, “Hughes?”

The butler was hovering by the sideboard. “Yes, miss?”

“Perhaps, once Mr. Roderick has had time to settle in the drawing room, you might check to see if he wants anything brought to him.”

“Indeed, miss.”

And she would make time to write a letter to Caroline, and another to the address Caroline had given her. While Roderick might no longer be her primary concern, keeping him amused while he convalesced was nevertheless one of the items on her list.

A
fter so many days once again free of the distracting presence of Miss Miranda Clifford, Roscoe devoted his morning to catching up with his various businesses. An hours-long meeting with Jordan dealt with all urgent financial matters, then he settled at the desk in his study to review the accumulated weekly reports from the forty-three hells and gaming clubs he owned and operated throughout the capital.

Rundle looked in. “Will you be lunching in the dining room, sir?”

Tipped back in his admiral’s chair, Roscoe glanced up, then shook his head. “No—back to normal. Just bring me a plate here.”

Returning his gaze to the report he was perusing, he was aware that Rundle hesitated—presumably debating whether to press the issue—before wisely bowing and retreating.

He remembered very clearly the luncheons he’d shared with Miranda downstairs, but prior to those instances he’d always eaten at his desk while continuing to work. As she was no longer in his life, it would be wise to reestablish his routine.

Her presence had been . . . a fleeting ripple across the mill pond of his life. And, God knew, those waters ran deep.

Amused by his lapse into poetic vein, he refocused on the report; such weekly reports were his proven method of keeping abreast of all that happened in his now extensive empire.

There had been a time when he, flanked by Mudd and Rawlins, had visited every club and hell each week, a time when the threat of his personal involvement had been the only effective way to keep a rein on the vices and ingrained criminal leanings of those then engaged in running his businesses. But over the years he’d learned how to draw a line in the sand and hold to it; the line he’d chosen was that all activities undertaken on premises he owned, and by those in his employ, had to pass legal scrutiny.

Solicitors would be, and often were, impressed by how acute the sensibilities of the underworld were when it came to what was legal and what was not. Those reared in the slums or the shadows of less respectable neighborhoods had a fine appreciation of the nuances of the law. But even beyond the moral and legal implications of his stance, simply having a line and sticking to it had been critically important in and of itself. It had given him a platform from which to operate, one that distinguished him from his peers.

One that had allowed him metaphorically to stand above them.

And in many ways that had been to his advantage.

The second thing he’d learned, or rather had extended his innate abilities in, was how to judge others. As a successful inveterate gambler, he’d always had a knack for knowing who was truthful and open, and who was not. Who was guileful and who was guileless. He’d focused that ability on his employees, rewarding those he could trust, discarding those he could not.

With a string of businesses as large as his, oversight was a continual, never-ending task, yet it was one in which success bred success; these days he rarely needed to intervene in the day-to-day running of any of his enterprises.

At least not with respect to his employees.

He’d finished the plate of cold meats, bread, and cheese, had drained the mug of ale Rundle had supplied, and had laid aside the last of the reports from his gambling hells and was reaching for the first from the more sophisticated clubs when Rundle tapped on the door and entered.

Seeing the empty plate and mug, Rundle came to fetch them. “Mrs. Keller and Mr. Masters are downstairs, sir. If you have a moment, they’d like to consult you about one of their regulars.”

Keller and Masters jointly managed one of his quieter, more exclusive, and long-established clubs, one that catered to the older, more conservative gentlemen of the ton. He nodded. “Show them up.”

He glanced at the report in his hand; it was for another of his clubs. Setting it aside, he leafed through the pile until he found Keller and Masters’s latest report. He swiftly scanned it, but there was no mention of any looming difficulty; leaving it atop the pile, he sat back and waited.

When Mrs. Keller, a statuesque blond, and Masters, her brother, entered, he waved them to the chairs facing the desk. “What’s the name of our problem?”

Masters winced as he settled, otherwise relaxed and at ease.

Sitting very upright, Joyce Keller faintly smiled. “Lord Cathcart.”

He took a moment to place the aging peer. His gaze on Keller and Masters, he nodded. “A vicious old bastard who believes he and his ilk are the sort the rest of the world should bow down to, and quick to turn violent at any perceived slight.”

Joyce and Masters were the illegitimate offspring of just such a man, in their case an earl. In company with most of the world, the pair thought his background was similar to theirs, an assumption he’d never sought to correct; it conveniently explained so much about him.

Roscoe glanced from Joyce to Masters. They’d worked for him for over five years; they knew the business and also knew his ways. “So what’s happened?”

Joyce sighed. “Lisette—the young Flemish woman you sent to us. She’s proved every bit as excellent at piquet as you told us she was.”

“And as you also suggested,” Masters put in, “most of our stodgy old souls like playing with her, even if they lose.” He huffed out a short laugh. “In fact, she’s so good, the rest of them seem quite happy to lose to her, and truth be told she gives them a damned good education in the game.”

“Indeed. She’s been a huge success all around, until Cathcart heard about her.” Joyce grimaced.

“Let me guess,” Roscoe said. “Cathcart fancies himself a past-master at piquet, and Lisette trumped him.”

Masters nodded. “Comprehensively. That would have been bad enough, but the idiot—Cathcart—had insisted on a thousand a point. Lisette asked for permission, of course, and fool that I was I didn’t think—well, I did, but only about how much we were going to take Cathcart for. And fleece him she did.”

“And then?”

“Cathcart paid up, but he was quivering with rage,” Masters said.

“Not just rage,” Joyce said. “He was incandescent with fury that she’d shown him up for the windbag he was.”

“I should mention this took place on Thursday evening—our busiest.” Masters’s face hardened. “Cathcart organized that deliberately—he’d wanted to have the biggest audience for his match, to show the others that he could prevail against the little foreign woman who had so easily beaten all of them.”

“Instead . . .” Joyce held up her palms in a helpless gesture. “And, of course, it being one of your establishments, Cathcart doesn’t dare claim she was cheating.”

“Not when none of the others have so much as suggested it,” Masters said, “and, of course, everyone knows your rules.”

Joyce sighed. “You’ve warned us that there are times it pays not to win, and this might have been one of them, but it’s done now and we can’t undo it. And, unfortunately, Cathcart’s not the sort to let it go.” She met Roscoe’s eyes. “Cathcart was waiting for Lisette when she left the club. He raised his cane and would have beaten her, but we’d sent Hugo, one of our men, out with her. He caught Cathcart’s cane before it connected.”

Roscoe moved not a muscle. “But Cathcart actually tried to strike her?”

Joyce nodded. “And that wasn’t the end of it. He returned the next day and offered Lisette a very large bribe to play with him again, for five thousand a point, and allow him to win.”

His gaze on Joyce, Roscoe let a moment pass, then murmured, “Please tell me she didn’t take it.”

Joyce smiled tightly. “She didn’t.”

He let his lips ease. “Excellent. So why are you here?”

“Because Cathcart then made a lot of noise about losing to the house, but the house being unwilling to give him the chance to win his losses back.” Joyce met his gaze. “So we’ve come for advice.”

“And help,” Masters added, “if you have any you feel inclined to give.”

Roscoe leaned back in his chair and let his gaze grow distant while he considered his options; dealing with Cathcart needed a different approach than dealing with hotheads like Lord Treloar. Eventually, he refocused on Joyce, then glanced at Masters. “Lisette pricked Cathcart’s pride, clearly a vulnerability, so we’ll use his pride against him to shut him up. To make him take his losses like a man.”

Sitting up, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, then his pen. “I’m going to offer to meet Lord Cathcart’s challenge and allow him to win back his losses. Against me. I, after all, am the ‘house’ in question.” He wrote while he spoke. “I will allow him to set the wager anywhere between five and ten thousand pounds a point, as he wishes. As with any challenge, should he accept it, it will be entered into the wagers’ book. The game will be played at the club, and he may bring two observers of his choice to ensure that all is aboveboard. The offer will remain open for . . . a month, shall we say?” He paused to read what he’d written, then, lips curving, he signed the missive and added a note. “And in case this letter of offer should go astray, I’ll leave a notarized copy with you at the club and retain one in my files.”

Masters laughed. Joyce grinned. Both knew that Cathcart would never dare accept the counter-challenge. No gambler in his right mind went up against Roscoe and expected to win.

Roscoe blotted the missive, then handed it to Masters. “Take it to Jordan when you leave—he’ll get the copies made and have the original delivered to Cathcart.” He held up a finger to keep both his visitors in their chairs. “However, as you’re both here”—he picked up the latest report from the club—“who the devil has been losing so heavily at your hazard table?”

H
alf an hour later, the siblings departed, and he settled down to wade through the other clubs’ reports, marking any point he wished to question, such as the unexpectedly large takings at the Keller Club’s hazard table. He’d long made it a point to know who was going to the dogs before they got too deeply indebted. Sometimes a quiet word in the right ear kept everyone healthy.

He’d just finished reviewing the clubs when Jordan entered with a sheaf of documents and a reminder that Roscoe was due at a meeting of the board of Argyle Investments, a charitable foundation in which he held a sizeable stake.