The Lady Risks All (39 page)

After seeing Lady Mickleham into her carriage and confirming that Sarah would be delivered to her ladyship’s house in Berkeley Square by five o’clock, Miranda waved the carriage off, then turned and walked back through the gate. Shutting it, she strolled toward the house, her ladyship’s words circling in her mind.

“To make her way in life, every lady needs to develop backbone, and to exercise it.”

As Miranda now viewed things, that was sound advice.

W
raxby had said he would call that afternoon, and she had, more or less, agreed to give him his answer. Or at least indicate her willingness or otherwise to agree to his offer when he made it.

Shaking her head at such convolution, she sat in the morning room finishing the last of the mending while rehearsing the best words in which to couch her rejection. She’d been surprised when he’d called the previous day to take her driving in the park in a curricle he’d hired expressly for the outing. From her reading of him, combined with Roscoe’s revelations, Wraxby’s unexpected attention had strengthened her suspicion that, despite what had appeared to be his caution and diffidence over offering for her hand, Wraxby was, in fact, quite keen to have her agree to be his wife.

Given the weeks over which he’d dragged out his peculiar courtship, his sudden attentiveness was, in her eyes, simply confirmation of her reasons to refuse him; there was an element of duplicity in his entire approach, and that was something she had no time for.

She was reaching for the last piece of mending, one of Roderick’s shirts with a ripped seam, when the knocker on the front door rapped imperiously.

Not Wraxby’s usual, rigid
rat-tat,
but perhaps he was nervous. Inwardly sighing, she set aside the mending basket, rose, settled her gown, neatened her hair, and went out to depress Wraxby and Gladys both.

Hughes had already opened the front door and conducted their visitor to the drawing room. She met the butler as he returned toward the rear of the house. Hughes smiled. “Ah—there you are, miss. Gentleman asking to see you and Mr. Roderick. He’s in the drawing room with Mr. Roderick now.”

“Thank you, Hughes.” Wraxby, of course, would want to ask Roderick’s permission before formally offering for her hand. Composing her features, mentally girding her loins, she walked to the drawing room, opened the door, and went in.

She halted with her hand on the doorknob. The gentleman bowing over Gladys’s hand wasn’t Wraxby.

Straightening, he turned to her. The smile on his face deepened as he met her gaze.

She blinked, stared, then blinked again. “
Lucius
?”

His smile dissolved into a grin, one she remembered. Releasing Gladys’s hand, with a nod and a soft laugh he came toward her. “I wondered if you would remember me, cuz.”

Amazed, she returned his smile and held out both hands. “Of course.”

Taking one hand in each of his, he squeezed gently, then raised one, briefly brushing his lips over her knuckles in an easy, nonchalant fashion.

Distracted, confused, she let her gaze roam his face, the familiar features, his cropped dark hair, then looked past him to Roderick, sitting in his armchair and grinning delightedly with Sarah, standing alongside, smiling sweetly. Hauling in a breath, she swung her gaze back to Lucius. “But . . . we’d heard you were dead. That you died at Waterloo years ago.”

His lips quirked in a rueful grimace. “I know.” Releasing her, he reached past her and closed the door, then waved to the sofa. “Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you all my sad tale.”

Still stunned, she subsided onto the end of the sofa closer to Roderick, swiveling to face Lucius as he sat at the other end.

“Obviously,” he said, “the reports of my death were in error. During the battle, my troop was in the thick of things and I took a hellish knock to my head. I remember nothing of the battle after that. I didn’t come to my senses until days later. I was being cared for by an old farmer and his wife, well away from the battlefield. One of my legs was broken, one of my arms, and I had a raging fever. It was literally weeks before I was strong enough even to think straight. And then, when I could, I discovered I couldn’t remember who I was.”

“Oh,” Sarah breathed. “I’ve heard about that—about soldiers not remembering who they are.”

His expression sober, Lucius nodded. “Indeed. I knew from what little remained of my uniform that I was English, but I didn’t have any insignia left, and the troops were long gone by then. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea even what part of England I hailed from, and with my injuries it was months more before I was able to move around on my own, let alone travel.

“Once I’d recovered enough to consider returning to England to learn who I was, it was winter. That winter was very hard in the areas south of the battlefield. I felt I owed a debt to the old couple who had taken me in and cared for me for all those months, so I stayed and helped them through the winter, and then to sow their fields the next spring, and then there was the harvest . . .” Lips twisting wryly, he met Miranda’s gaze, then Roderick’s. “Whenever I thought of leaving and making my way back to England, well, as I had no idea where to start to discover who I was, I also had no idea if I had any family, or . . . as the years rolled on there seemed less and less point.”

“So you stayed in France?” Miranda asked.

Lucius nodded. “I helped on the farm and there was a school nearby—I taught there to make ends meet. I daresay I would still be working on the farm and teaching children their letters except that I got hit on the head again—not as badly as the first time, but enough to jar my memory back into place.”

“And you remembered who you were?” Roderick looked fascinated.

Lucius gestured expansively. “It was as if some connection hadn’t been there, then suddenly it was and I remembered everything. Well, I still can’t remember much of the battle itself, but I remember everything up to that morning.” He glanced at Gladys and smiled. “Most importantly, of course, I remembered my name.” He looked at Miranda. “I remembered about the family, and knew I had to come home.” He spread his hands. “So here I am.”

“Have you been to Macclesfield already?” she asked.

“No—I only arrived in London a few days ago. You’re the first of the family I’ve tracked down.” Lucius looked from her to Roderick. “I contacted the old man’s solicitor in Grey’s Inn. I knew he’d have the latest news and directions for the family. He suggested, what with everyone thinking me long dead, that me appearing out of the blue might be too great a shock, and that he should write first, and I agreed. So he’s busy doing that—warning them—then once he’s heard back, I’ll head north. But he knew you two were here in town, and”—Lucius glanced at Miranda—“as I felt fairly certain you at least would remember who used to pull your pigtails, I thought I’d chance my hand and call on you directly.” His smile deepened. “I have to say, it’s good to be back.”

“That’s a rousing story,” Gladys said. “Mark my words, some angel was watching over you on that battlefield. But now you’re back safe and sound after all these years, we should have a celebration—you must stay to dine.”

“Indeed!” Beaming, Miranda rose. “I’ll tell Cook. You will stay, won’t you?”

Lucius returned her smile. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”

She rang and spoke with Hughes, then returned to her seat and the animated conversation. Settling on the sofa, she listened to Lucius describe the farm where he’d lived, then Roderick told him of the changes within the family. Although they called each other cousin, the connection was distant; Lucius was the son of one of their grandfather’s brother’s sons, so a cousin of sorts, several times removed. But as children they’d met often enough for her, at least, to be certain of his identity; his face still held the same shape, although age had sharpened the angles, and his eyes, the color and set of them, and their wicked gleam, were exactly as she recalled.

Then Roderick was recounting the deaths of the older generation, and Lucius’s expression grew somber. Only then did Miranda notice the scar marring his left cheek; when he smiled, it vanished into the lines of his face.

As if sensing her gaze, Lucius turned his head and grinned at her. “Do you remember that time we all went to that house with the huge pond?”

She pulled a laughing face. “And you pushed me in.”

He nodded, but she saw the sudden sobering in his gaze as he recalled he’d also pushed her sister Rosalind in. Rosalind who was no more. His eyes met hers, and he tipped his head slightly, then glibly turned the talk to a silly memory of Roderick as a baby.

The front door knocker fell in a rigidly precise
rat-tat
. She heard it over the conversation and very nearly swore. She’d forgotten about Wraxby. “Excuse me.” She rose and went to greet him.

Hughes opened the drawing room door before she reached it. “Mr. Wraxby, miss.”

Wraxby walked past Hughes, his gaze raking the room.

She inwardly sighed. “Thank you, Hughes. Sir.” She offered Wraxby her hand.

With a swift assessing glance down the room, Wraxby bowed over her fingers. “Your servant, Miss Clifford. I hope I’m not intruding.”

She smiled politely; he’d told her he would call, so he knew he’d been expected. “An unexpected visit from a long-thought-lost relative.” An evil impulse prompted her to add, “But it’s an amazing tale, sir—you must come and hear it.” To Hughes, hovering by the door, she said, “Perhaps we might have the tea tray now.”

“Of course, miss.” Hughes bowed and departed.

Turning, she led Wraxby to the gathering before the fireplace. Lucius rose as they neared. Even as she performed the introductions, she sensed Wraxby’s suspicions, his immediate disapproval, nay dislike, of Lucius.

They shook hands, Lucius pleasantly urbane, Wraxby stiffly civil.

“Waterloo was eight years ago.” Wraxby’s eyes had narrowed. “That’s a long time to simply not remember.”

Smiling amiably, Lucius inclined his head. “Indeed. I assure you it was exceedingly wearying not knowing even my first name.”

The courtesies exchanged, they resumed their seats. Wraxby drew up a chair and set it by her elbow. He sat, all but hovering over her, and commenced a less than subtle interrogation. “What brigade were you in, sir?”

Lucius smiled easily and answered, that and all Wraxby’s questions.

Miranda’s temper simmered, then boiled. From his pointed comments in defense of Lucius, it was clear that Roderick’s temper was even further advanced. She shot her brother a warning glance and gave thanks when Hughes appeared with the tea tray and she could distract everyone with the cups and cakes.

She gulped her tea, waited only until Wraxby set his cup and saucer down to lay a hand on his sleeve. “If you would care for a turn in the garden, sir?”

Wraxby blinked; she got the distinct impression he’d only just remembered why he’d called. Once he had, however, his attention was all hers; inclining his head, he rose and nodded to the company. “If you’ll excuse us?”

That should have been her line, but she conjured a smile, swept it over the others, and, taking Wraxby’s arm, steered him out of the door, out of the house via the front door, and into the garden to one side of the front path.

As soon as they were sufficiently distant from the house to ensure privacy, she drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to face him. He halted, and waited, looking down at her.

“Mr. Wraxby, I have thought long and hard about all we’ve discussed.” She drew herself up, pressed her hands, palms together, before her. “I have weighed the pros and cons, sir, and have concluded that I cannot agree to accept your proposal.”

Wraxby blinked again. He looked as blankly stunned as she’d ever seen him. “But . . . you’re twenty-nine and unwed.”

“Indeed. But I am in control of my life and may pursue whatever path I wish.” She shut her lips and calmly held his gaze.

Incredulity flashed through his eyes, but was rapidly superseded by chagrin, and then by an emotion rather uglier. “I see it now.” He swung to look back at the house. “Your handsome relative appears and you imagine—”

“Mr. Wraxby!” Somewhat to her own surprise, her voice cracked like a whip and cut him off most effectively. Feeling increasingly belligerent, she trapped his gaze. “My cousin literally arrived back from the dead two hours ago. With respect to your proposal, proposition, however you wish to style it, my mind was largely made up days ago. I extended you the courtesy of giving your suggestion further consideration, but I found nothing, no reason, to alter my decision. In short, sir, the particulars of the position you are offering will not meet my requirements. By any definition we simply would not suit, and that has nothing whatever to do with my cousin’s reappearance.”

Wraxby had paled; his lips were tightly compressed. After a moment, he nodded stiffly. “My apologies, Miss Clifford. You are correct—this has nothing to do with your cousin. If what we have discussed does not satisfy you, then I would not wish to further press my suit.” He nodded curtly.

She expected him to step back and walk away, but although poised to do so, he hesitated, his gaze on her face.

Again his lips tightened, then he said, “Despite your decision I feel compelled to sound a warning before I depart.” He tipped his head toward the house. “About your cousin. Waterloo was eight years ago, yet despite miraculously remembering who he is, your cousin hasn’t, as I understand it, sought to return home to his immediate family but has instead called on you and your brother. ’Ware, Miss Clifford. I’ve dealt with enough shady characters to recognize one when I meet him, but in deference to your loyalty toward your cousin, I will say no more.”

With that, Wraxby swept her a stiff, rigidly correct bow, straightened, turned on his heel, and strode down the path to the front gate.

Miranda stayed where she was and watched him go. Watched the gate close behind him.

Thought of what he’d said.

Now that she was no longer in Lucius’s charming presence—and, yes, he’d always been charming—she could view his arrival and the details of his story with greater distance, greater detachment.