The Lady Risks All (41 page)

She glared into his dark eyes; she felt like heat, steam—even sparks—were coming out of her ears. She held his gaze mercilessly and hammered her finger into his chest. “
Stop
being a dog in the manger.” She’d lowered her voice—it was just him and her—but the precision of her diction magnified the force behind each word. “You had your chance, and you turned it down. I understand why you did, but you made the choice. You metaphorically made our bed, and we both have to lie in it.”

She eased back a fraction. Her eyes still locked with his, she said, “At least Wraxby and, according to you, Lucius, are interested in having a relationship with me. Even if I don’t want a relationship with them, at least they’re
interested
!”

With that, she spun on her heel, stamped up the steps, and stormed into the house.

She met Gladys in the corridor at the top of the stairs.

Her aunt frowned at her. “I thought I heard you arguing. Who were you arguing with?”

Miranda didn’t slow, didn’t even cast her aunt a glance. “Someone who should have known better.”

R
oscoe strode into his front hall in the grip of a fury unlike any he could recall. He shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it at Rundle as the butler came hurrying from the rear of the house. “Tell Jordan I need to see him now. In my study. And send Mudd and Rawlins up, too.”

Not even waiting to hear Rundle’s reply, he took the stairs three at a time, then strode to his study at the end of the wing.

The windows were uncurtained, letting moonlight wash in. He lit a lamp, then fell to pacing—something he almost never did—striding back and forth before his desk as if he could thus rid himself of the tumult of reaction her words had evoked.

His
choice
?

“Huh!”

Did she truly think he wasn’t
interested
?

Beneath his breath, he swore—in words and even languages she wouldn’t have understood, any more than she had, apparently, understood him.

No matter. He didn’t care. What she thought of him wasn’t important.

Hell, if he could turn his back on all of society and not give a fig for what it thought, he wouldn’t have any real problem ignoring Miss Miranda Clifford’s opinions.

Of course, she wouldn’t thank him. She’d just demonstrated that, and it shouldn’t have surprised him. Disturbed him.

All the more disturbing that it had.

But he didn’t care—wouldn’t care—about what she thought. About what she felt. He protected those close to him and always had. That was how he was made, and he couldn’t be any different, not for her, not for his mother.

He was Roscoe, and this was him. Come within his orbit—let alone become his lover, take him as her lover in the true sense of the word—and this was the inevitable consequence. “She’ll just have to live with it.”

The reverberations of his growl had barely faded when a sharp rap on the door heralded Rawlins and Mudd.

“You wanted us?”

“Go and arrange a meeting with Gallagher. Tonight. As soon as possible.”

Both men stared at him for a second, then nodded and left.

Jordan arrived as the pair departed. Jordan took one look at him, then shut the door. “What’s happened?”

Roscoe halted, drew in a breath, and focused. “I need you to learn everything you can about one Lucius Clifford. He’s a distant relative of Roderick’s—they refer to each other as cousins. I judge the man to be of similar age to Miss Clifford. They were children together.”

Jordan had pulled a notebook from his pocket and was scribbling. “What else do you know?”

“Lucius Clifford was in the army . . . no, wait, she didn’t specify army, but he was on the field at Waterloo, so most likely some arm of the army. I’d say infantry, not cavalry—he didn’t have the look. After Waterloo his family was notified that he’d died in the battle, but he has just miraculously reappeared in London with a tale of having lost his memory through an injury sustained in the fighting, and having only recently remembered who he is.”

“When did he reach England?”

“I’m not sure—the implication was recently. According to our watchers he first called on the Cliffords four days ago. His tale is that he spent the interval since Waterloo on the Continent.”

Jordan looked at what he’d written. “On what evidence do the Cliffords believe this man is in fact their long-lost cousin?”

“They recognize him, or at least Miss Clifford does, and she’s quite sure of it. In addition, he knows tales from their childhood that she assures me no one else could know.”

Jordan paused in his writing and glanced up at him. “But . . . ?”

Roscoe set his teeth. “But my instincts are screaming that it’s too coincidental to be accepted at face value. Clifford may be entirely aboveboard, but . . . and aside from all else, he has a scar on his face.”

Jordan’s hand froze; pencil poised over his notebook, he stared at him. “Scar on face. Distant cousin. Back from the dead. Just now?”

Grim-faced, Roscoe nodded. “Just so.”

A tap on the door and Mudd walked in. “I had a chat with Gallagher’s man in the square. He says Gallagher’s at home, but if you want to meet somewhere else, it won’t be tonight. On the other hand, if you’re willing to go to Gallagher’s, his man’s fairly certain the old joker will see you immediately.”

Roscoe grunted. He’d made it a habit never to meet with Gallagher or any of the numerous underworld figures with whom he occasionally had reason to consult on their home turf. It was a subtle but telling declaration that he wasn’t part of their world and never would be. In this case, however, he needed information urgently—why urgently he didn’t know, only that said urgency was pounding through him—and of all the underworld czars, Gallagher already understood to a tee exactly where he stood.

He nodded. “All right.” It was time to make an exception—which, sadly, would also tell Gallagher how much he wanted the information, but, again, he didn’t truly care. Gallagher hadn’t risen to his present preeminence because he pushed his luck in unwise ways. “We’ll go and call on Gallagher. Order the carriage, tell Rawlins, and you may as well fetch Gallagher’s man, too.” He bared his teeth. “He can be our scout.”

Mudd rumbled out a dark chuckle and departed.

Jordan had been rereading his notes. He glanced up as Roscoe strode for the door. “Anything more you can tell me?”

“Not that I can remember at the moment.”

Jordan frowned. “Why Gallagher, and why the rush?”

“Because I want Gallagher, or more specifically his men, scouring this town for Lucius Clifford as well as Kirkwell, and the sooner the better.”

Jordan’s expression cleared. “Ah—I see.” He waved his notebook. “I’ll get on with this and let you know what I find.”

With a curt nod, Roscoe left the room and strode for the stairs.

H
is interview with Gallagher went more or less as he’d anticipated, except that, after searching his face, Gallagher decided to be even more circumspect than he’d expected.

When, after outlining his requirements in crisp, precise tones, he asked Gallagher what he wanted in return, Gallagher stared at him for several long seconds, then harrumphed and stroked his chin. “Well . . . perhaps, as you do have me nevvy under tutelage, so to speak, we could leave the precise terms until later—let’s just say that you’ll owe me a favor, sometime in the future.”

Roscoe considered, then stipulated, “I’ll agree to owe you a single favor as long as it’s one I can deliver within the scope of the laws applying at the time.”

Gallagher grimaced, but his eyes were laughing. “Cautious beggar, you are, but that’ll do. So I’m to have m’lads find out everything about this Lucius Clifford, as well as Kirkwell.”

Roscoe nodded. “Look especially for any connection—of any kind, no matter how slight or apparently innocuous—between Kirkwell and Clifford. If their paths have crossed in the last year, I want to know.”

Gallagher nodded. “If they met in London, m’lads will find out.”

“Excellent.” Roscoe rose. “One thing—time is of the essence, so send word the instant you learn anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.” Gallagher met his eye and grinned widely. “Hope she’s worth all the fuss.”

Roscoe met Gallagher’s eyes and said nothing.

Gallagher’s grin quickly faded.

A heartbeat after the grin vanished altogether, Roscoe slowly inclined his head, then turned and, flanked by Mudd and Rawlins, left Gallagher’s study in the heart of Gallagher’s empire, deep in the warrens of the slums.

M
iranda lay on her back in her bed, the covers to her chin, and stared at the play of moonlight and shadow on the ceiling.

Her temper had finally cooled enough for her to remember why she’d long ago taught herself so comprehensively to rein it in—because no good ever came of letting it out to rage.

“At least they’re interested!”

Her words resonated in her head, replaying with the regularity of a tolling bell, and each and every repetition made her squirm. How . . . depressingly revealing. As if she’d ripped off her emotional clothes and danced naked in front of him.

Still, perhaps he wouldn’t see, or wouldn’t remember, given he’d been angry, too, or perhaps he simply wouldn’t guess what had made her—impelled her—to blurt out those words.

She hoped he wouldn’t . . . but suspected he would.

“Ugh.” If she could have sunk lower, deeper into the bed, she would have. For uncounted minutes, her mind went around and around, fixated on those far-too-revealing words.

But, eventually, her focus shifted to him. To what had brought him to their garden and had driven him to prod her temper. To what had possessed him to imagine a nonexistent connection between herself and Lucius.

She snorted. His intervention had been as misguided as her sneaking into his house that first night, intent on rescuing Roderick from the “orgy” that had proved to be a meeting of the Philanthropy Guild. The similarities were obvious . . .

Her thoughts stuttered to a stop. Then shifted and swung to a new angle, a different perspective. She looked at both incidents from that novel viewpoint, compared them. They were, indeed, very alike—the time she’d gone to the Chichester Street house to rescue Roderick from him, and the time he’d come to Claverton Street to rescue her from Lucius.

She’d been driven by her overwhelming need to protect Roderick—someone she loved. That need, or more specifically the drive behind it, had been strong enough to cloud her judgment to the extent she’d crept into Roscoe’s house.

So what had driven him to the point that he’d unwisely tried to take control of her life?

Protectiveness, certainly, but what drove it?

It was tempting to draw the obvious correlation, but he was a complex man, and that might be equally unwise.

The minutes ticked past; night drifted on. Eventually, she yawned, turned on her side, and closed her eyes.

As she’d made the same mistake, and he had oh-so-graciously forgiven her, she supposed she would have to forgive him in return, but there was no denying that the thought of a man like him, London’s all-powerful gambling king, caring enough about her welfare to lose his perspective . . .

Lips curving gently, she slid into sleep.

Chapter Twenty

A
t an unfashionably early hour the following morning, Roscoe’s name gained him admittance to Rafe Carstairs’s house in Wigmore Street. A minute later, he was shown to Rafe’s study.

As the door closed behind him, Roscoe wasn’t entirely surprised to find not only Rafe but Rafe’s wife, Loretta, waiting to greet him.

“Mr. Roscoe, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Coming forward with a smile, Loretta offered her hand. As he bowed over it, she said, “I’ve long wished to thank you in person for your help with that fiend, Manning, and for being such a stalwart supporter of my aunt Esme and the other directors of Argyle Investments.”

“As to the latter,” he replied, “it’s been an educational experience, one from which I’ve benefited greatly. Your aunt is a remarkable woman.”

Loretta’s smile deepened. “I’ve always wondered what the board meetings must be like.”

He tried to return her smile. “Suffice it to say they’re never boring.”

Rafe joined Loretta and held out his hand; as Roscoe shook it, Rafe’s gaze searched his face. “But what brings you our way at such an early hour? Is there something we can help you with?”

Roscoe met Rafe’s blue eyes. “As it happens, there is.”

Rafe spread his hands. “We’re in your debt—you have only to ask.”

“Can you check a man’s army record?”

Rafe blinked. “Yes, most likely.” He tipped his head. “Whose?”

Briefly, Roscoe outlined Lucius Clifford’s story.

Rafe shrugged. “That should be straightforward.”

“There’s another man who might be connected—John Kirkwell. I’ve no idea if he was in the army, but there’s possibly a connection between the two, and it might be there.”

“I’ll check for Kirkwell, too.” Rafe studied Roscoe’s face. “I take it this is urgent.”

Roscoe hesitated, then admitted, “I’m not sure, but I’m operating on the assumption that there’s something seriously nefarious in train, and that the matter is therefore urgent.”

The last vestiges of Rafe’s easygoing manner vanished. He nodded decisively. “I’ll start this morning. I can’t say how long it will take, but I’ll get it done as soon as I can. Where should I send word?”

“Chichester Street, number eleven.” Roscoe bowed to Loretta, then saluted Rafe. “Thank you.”

With protestations of their support, both saw him to the door.

He walked down Wigmore Street toward where he’d left his carriage. The need to learn more about Lucius Clifford, to expose the man—although where the conviction that there was something to expose came from he couldn’t explain—still rode him, a compelling weight. He’d done everything he could think of, called in every useful favor, thrown all the men at his disposal into action. Was there anything more he could do?

He didn’t think so.

Could he—should he—approach Miranda and reiterate his warning?

His lips twisted. If he did, if he tried . . . courtesy of his “dog in the manger” attitude, as she’d perfectly accurately termed it, reinforced by his earlier reaction to Wraxby, he would be lucky if she listened, and regardless of what he said, without proof she wouldn’t believe him.

And as yet he had nothing to advance by way of solid evidence that her dear cousin Lucius Clifford wasn’t exactly as he purported to be. Family loyalty would trump the warnings of any “secret acquaintance” or however she now viewed him.

Yet his instincts, instincts that had saved his life more than once and had rarely, if ever, proved wrong, were screaming that Lucius Clifford posed a very real threat to Miranda, to her well-being. Unfortunately, given his feelings toward her, even he couldn’t be certain that his instincts weren’t simply reacting to the fact that Clifford had his eye on her—her, who, despite all his words, decisions, and resolutions to the contrary, his instincts still saw as his.

Not even he knew whether his instincts were detecting anything truly villainous in Clifford.

Halting beside his carriage, he reviewed his options but still came to the same conclusion. He was an expert in evaluating risk, and ignoring his instincts wasn’t a risk he was prepared to take.

Reaching for the carriage door, he glanced up at his coachman. “Back to Chichester Street.”

“Aye, sir.”

Climbing into the carriage, he dropped onto the seat. Given all the inquiries he’d set afoot, he should soon know whether Lucius Clifford was a blameless victim of the war and a perfectly respectable gentleman for Miranda to associate with, even to wed if she chose.

Or whether Clifford was a villain.

If the latter proved true, he knew how he would react. Dogs guarding mangers were expected to be vicious.

“M
y dear Miranda, can I tempt you to join me for a drive in the park?” Lucius bent an easy smile on Miranda. “I’m trialing a curricle and a pair of bays I’m thinking of purchasing, and I want to see how they perform in such surrounds.”

After her contretemps with Roscoe the previous night, she’d been surreptitiously observing Lucius ever since he’d arrived on the dot of three o’clock to charm Gladys and chat with Roderick, Sarah, and her in the drawing room. She might have dismissed outright Roscoe’s assertion that Lucius had any matrimonial interest in her, but then she hadn’t anticipated any such regard from him; it was possible Roscoe had seen something she hadn’t.

And now here was Lucius inviting her on an outing for two. She smiled with the same easy grace as he. “Thank you. The rain’s held off and looks set to stay away—a drive would be pleasant.”

Ten minutes later, they were bowling north along the road that led past the walls of Buckingham House to the green swathes of Hyde Park beyond. Her bonnet tied beneath her chin against the tugs of the brisk breeze, she held her tongue as Lucius guided the unfamiliar team through the always congested traffic at the crossroads where Piccadilly met Park Lane. They entered the park via the corner gate; once the curricle was bowling smoothly along the less-crowded avenue, outwardly relaxed, she looked around with feigned interest and waited to see what the interlude might bring.

“I spoke with the family’s solicitor this morning. Apparently the family are agog to see me, so I expect I’ll be heading north in a few days.”

She studied Lucius’s face. “You must be just as keen to see them.”

They spent several minutes discussing the likely reaction of various family members, then Lucius sobered. After a moment, his gaze on his horses, he said, “I want to go home, yet it’s only going to highlight that I’ve lost the last eight years of my life to my cursed injury.” He sighed, glanced briefly at her. “I’ve got nothing to show for it. I’m no further forward than I was when I left Macclesfield more than eight years ago.”

The bitterness in his voice sounded entirely genuine. Before she could formulate any suitable response, he went on, “I’m thirty-one years old. I had hoped by now to have married—all my sisters have, and have families. It’s what people in our sort of families do, but”—he shrugged—“I haven’t had a chance. Not yet.”

She hadn’t either. Not yet.

That unvoiced observation lay between them. She seriously doubted Lucius had missed the similarity, but perhaps he hadn’t intended to touch on the point and was embarrassed to have done so. Regardless, he promptly changed the subject by pointing out a flotilla of ducks on the Serpentine.

Subsequently, they chatted easily about things they saw and the topics those brought to mind, smiling and occasionally sharing a laugh while Lucius tooled the curricle down the gravel avenues and tried out the paces of the bays. She waited and watched, but not by word or sign did he return to the subject of raising a family, and therefore marriage.

Not until they were back in Pimlico. Nearing Claverton Street, he grew pensive. Finally, he glanced at her.

She met his gaze but could read nothing beyond the mildest glimmer of speculation in his brown eyes.

“I wonder . . .” His lips twisted wryly, and he faced forward. “I know you well enough to be sure you’ll tell me to go to the devil if you wish, so . . . as I mentioned, I would like to marry and start my own family. Being in a war brings home how short life truly is—I don’t want to wait, but I’ve yet to find any suitable lady, and, frankly, I doubt I’m cut out for any wild romance, let alone a love-match. Against that, I know you’re twenty-nine, and clearly you, too, haven’t had any luck in finding the right gentleman or having him find you.” He glanced at her again, met her eyes for a moment longer before returning his gaze to his horses. “We share a history, you and I. I’m fond of you, and although it makes me sound like a coxcomb, I’m inclined to believe you reciprocate the sentiment. I know you want what I do—a home of your own and a family.” He didn’t look her way again but drew in a deeper breath and let it out with, “So I wondered if perhaps you and I should . . . explore the notion, let us say, of making a go of things together.”

Before she could think of her response—what she wanted to say, let alone how to say it—he continued, “Don’t say anything now—we’re almost back to the house. Just think about it, sleep on the concept, and we can talk tomorrow. I have a few unexpected matters to deal with in town before I head north. We have time to decide if our future paths might coincide.”

He smiled at her, his usual easy, charming smile. She met his eyes and found herself nodding. “All right.”

When he pulled up outside the house, she invited him in to take tea, but he shook his head. “I have to get these horses back—I’m not convinced they’re right for me.”

Relieved not to have to wrestle with further conversation immediately, she waved him off, then, head down, mind awhirl, she walked slowly up the path and into the house.

Pausing in the hall, she heard the rumble of Roderick’s voice and Sarah’s lighter, laughing tones. Hanging up her cloak, she headed for the stairs. She needed time to think, to consider and analyze and see things clearly—to make sure she was seeing things as they truly were.

On the landing, she ran into Gladys on her way down; her aunt would never leave Roderick and Sarah alone for any length of time, but at sight of her, Gladys’s features lit and she slowed. “Well, then—how did your drive go? While I thought you unwise to dismiss Wraxby, if you have Mr. Clifford dangling after you . . . well, although he’s not as well established as I could wish, he’s very personable, and he is connected, after all.”

“I pray you, Aunt, don’t start speculating about any such thing.” Sliding past Gladys, Miranda continued up the next flight.

Behind her, Gladys humphed and raised her voice. “You’re not getting any younger, my girl. There’s not many men who’d want to take an ape-leader to wife, not when they can get much younger girls who, what’s more, know to hang on their every word.”

Miranda didn’t respond. Reaching the top of the stairs, she went straight to her room. Shutting the door, she felt a certain relief as peace and quiet—and most especially privacy—engulfed her. Untying her bonnet, she laid it aside, then walked to stand before the window. Her room overlooked the stretch of lawn outside the morning room, the same stretch she crossed every time she returned to the house via the alley gate.

She hadn’t taken that route since Roscoe had last walked her home. And said good-bye.

Staring down at the trees that hid the gate from view, she couldn’t help register the irony of the three men she’d recently had cause to consider as potential husbands. The man she wanted to marry couldn’t and wouldn’t marry her, while the men she didn’t want kept lining up to not propose but to discuss the possibility. Wraxby had been cold and passionless, while Lucius was at best lukewarm, a friend, no true lover.

In contrast, Roscoe burned like a flame in her mind, dominant, passionate, powerful, and, it seemed, unattainable.

She stood looking out and down, refusing to lift her gaze toward the trees to her left that screened his house from sight.

Wallowing. She was, quite simply, wallowing, and she had no time for that.

Backbone
. That was what she needed. To focus on her wants and needs, on what was possible, and then exercise her backbone and act to make her life, shape her life, into the life she wanted to live.

Resolve returned to her, an invigorating tide flowing through her veins. Swinging to sit on the window seat, she stared unseeing over her brother’s garden and mentally inventoried her position. She was twenty-nine and, despite what Gladys and the late Corinne had taught her, she was
not
overly constrained by society’s expectations. Society would accept whatever she did as long as she created no outright scandal. That left her with significant scope to create her future life.

She had money, more than enough to buy a town house of her own, and even a cottage in the country as well, and employ a companion and a small staff. She could live as she chose and do whatever she willed with the rest of her not-inconsiderable funds.

That scenario held a certain appeal, but . . .

Lucasta’s wise words rang in her head.
“To secure happiness in her life, it is imperative for a lady to know her own mind.”
To know what she wanted, what would make her content, and then to wrest from life what she needed. Lucasta’s advice had been echoed by Lady Mickleham, but the dowager had also made it clear that defining the right aim, the right goal—the elements of life a lady
most
wanted—was as crucial as any resolve to achieve them.

Living the rest of her days alone wasn’t what she most wanted. It wouldn’t make her happy, not even mildly content. It would be an existence, not a life.

What she wanted . . . was a husband and a family of her own. From her youngest days that had always been her aim, her never-changing holy grail. She wanted a home, not a house. She wanted a family, not just a household.

She drew in a breath and refocused again on the three men lately in her life. Roscoe wasn’t going to revert to being Julian, the only act that might possibly make him an eligible husband for her. More, he’d made it clear that she shouldn’t even think, let alone dream, of him anymore.

Wraxby she’d dismissed, and she had no wish at all to rethink that decision; it had been the right one.