The Lady Risks All (23 page)

Studying the portrait, the face that had grown more austerely masculine with the years, she longed to ask why. Why he’d left this younger man and his life of hedonistic pleasure—something the artist had captured in the luxurious and sensual setting—behind. Why he’d turned his back on that—the epitome of a wealthy young man’s aspiration—to become London’s gambling king.

She wanted to know, but she couldn’t ask. Couldn’t pry. If he wished to tell her, he would, but if he deemed it something she didn’t need to know, she would have to be content with never knowing.

Roscoe waited beside her with what patience he could muster.
Stop looking at him, he’s dead. Look at me instead—I’m here and he isn’t. Not anymore.
The words burned the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them.

Eventually, she glanced at him. “I don’t know what to call you—how to address you. Lord Julian or Roscoe?”

The answer required a little thought. “Dispense with the ‘lord,’ but here, from you, either will do.”

For an instant she held his gaze, then glanced back at the portrait. After a moment, she turned back to him. Brusquely, not bothering to disguise his impatience—his dislike of her studying his former self—he waved her along the gallery. Without another word, she strolled on.

They walked side by side down the stairs at the gallery’s end, then he led her through the corridors to the garden hall and out onto the south lawn. She was tall enough, had legs long enough, that he didn’t have to adjust his stride much but could amble easily. As they strolled, the peace of the place reached for him, sank into him and eased him.

It always had. Even after so many years, he was unable to comprehend how George had come to risk it all. To lose it all.

The gardens were large; although he had a destination in mind, he saw no reason to rush. Even though he wasn’t touching her, having her close somehow soothed him; with no one else around to distract either of them, her nearness felt comfortable, a new, different, yet desirable evolution.

He ambled on without speaking, and she did the same.

And unexpected contentment prevailed.

Miranda was fascinated by the fresh views of the house, and even more by the gardens. The manicured lawns, the gravel paths freshly raked, the beds and borders closer to the house, the shrubberies further back beyond the large trees, with narrow paths disappearing into them. Everywhere she looked, lush order held sway.
“It takes a great deal of money to run an estate like Ridgware
.
”
It wasn’t hard to see that it would require a small fortune to keep house and gardens in such pristine state, let alone the rest of the estate. All she’d seen of it during their drive to the house had been groomed to the same high standard.

Ridgware was beautiful, and cherished.

Quite aside from the money, it was the care lavished on the place that made it not just a house but a home, not just an estate but a living community. A glimpse of a gardener raking leaves, of a maid tripping down to the woods with a trug, underscored that what she was viewing wasn’t just a mansion but something more.

And, she suspected, expensive though it might be, it would be, and was, very much worth it. Certainly to Roscoe and his family. Family, permanence, continuity; to the older families, those meant a great deal.

Was this—the money it took to run Ridgware—behind the transformation of the man walking beside her?

“This way.” With a wave, he steered her beneath an arch and down two stone steps—into a walled rose garden.

“Oh, my!” Even though the season was all but spent, late blooms still bobbed on the dozens of huge bushes, many taller than she was and equally wide. “This is glorious.”

“
This
is relatively muted. You should see it in high summer when everything’s in bloom.” Roscoe followed her down the central path. “Then you can barely breathe.”

Cupping one large pink bloom, she buried her nose in the scent. “Mmm. So lovely.”

He watched her and had to agree.

Finally releasing the bloom, she looked at him. “What was it you wanted to speak with me about?”

It took a moment to recall his excuse. He waved her on, down the rose walk, and fell into step alongside her. “Through Henry I’ve lodged a complaint against Kempsey and Dole with the local magistrate—that needed to be done, a formality that might prove necessary later. I’ve also set men on Kempsey and Dole’s trail. They may have gone to ground in Birmingham with their families.” Equally, the pair might be tracking them, hounds on Roderick’s scent, but he didn’t see any need to belabor that possibility at this point.

She frowned. “But surely now they’ve lost Roderick, Kempsey and Dole will draw back. It’s this man Kirkwell who was behind the attack—he’s the one who, mystifyingly, wants Roderick dead.”

“I’ve sent word to London. My men will see what they can learn about Kirkwell, but there’s always the chance that’s not his real name.” He glanced at her. “I take it you still haven’t recalled anyone of that name—an acquaintance of Roderick’s, a long-ago suitor of yours?”

“No. I’ve been wracking my brains, but I can’t recall that name at all. Not in any context.”

“Which increases the likelihood Kirkwell’s not his real name. People are rarely killed by strangers, especially not through an elaborate plot.”

“So how can we unmask this villain?”

“The name might be false, but the man is real enough. I’ve set my men trawling the areas in which Kirkwell was seen—the tavern in which he met Kempsey and Dole and the surrounding streets. Someone must have seen him. Someone should be able to point him out.” He glanced at her. “We’ll find him.”
Preferably before you and Roderick return to London
.

“Thank you.” Miranda glanced up and met his eyes. “For everything. Your help rescuing Roderick, your assistance in finding Kirkwell. Neither Roderick nor I could have managed without you.”

His eyes held hers, then he inclined his head and faced forward. “It’s been some time since I was actively involved in such endeavors.” Fleetingly he met her eyes again. “I enjoyed it.”

She wasn’t sure
enjoyed
was the right word, not for her, but she’d certainly felt very much alive. Quite aside from the excitement of the chase, and the even greater thrill of escape, just being in his company . . . she forced her mind to the question she had to ask. “Will you be remaining at Ridgware for much longer? I imagine your business dealings will draw you back to town.” She—and Roderick—couldn’t expect him to remain with them, a guardian of sorts, a friend, a support.

“I have no immediate plans to return to the capital.” He paced beside her; she glanced at his face, but, as ever, his expression told her nothing. “I haven’t visited for a while, and it’s not often all three of my sisters are here at the same time, and Henry, too. A short absence from town won’t impinge on my businesses. The people I employ are well able to manage without me for a time.”

“I see.” The leap of her heart was nonsensical. The effervescent happiness tinged with relief that coursed through her simply from knowing he would remain near might have been uncalled for; it was nevertheless real. “I was hoping to send word to my aunt. Now I have certain and favorable news of Roderick, I should let her know he’s well, or at least will be.”

“Write a note and I’ll have it sent down.” Roscoe glanced at her mourning gown, let his gaze slide from the prim neckline to the heavy skirts. “As you and Roderick will be here for a few weeks, you might ask her to pack some clothes—I’ll have my men fetch the trunks and send them here.”

She dipped her head. “Thank you.”

There wasn’t anything more he needed to tell her, but he didn’t want the interlude to end. A simple pleasure, walking in the old rose garden with her. “Quite aside from spending time with Henry and the others, I’ll be using this unexpected visit to catch up with Ridgware, too.” He glanced at her, caught her gaze as she glanced at him. “It’s not just a large estate—it’s made up of many interconnecting elements, many smaller enterprises.” Lifting the guard he habitually placed on his tongue, he let himself ramble—set himself to entertain and distract her from the principal reason he was remaining by her side.

The threat to Roderick was far from over. Kempsey and Dole remained a real and local menace, while the mysterious John Kirkwell hovered in the background. Any man who had gone to the extent of hiring Kempsey and Dole wasn’t going to simply give up and walk away.

Until all three, Kempsey, Dole, and Kirkwell, had been located and removed, he didn’t intend moving far from Miranda or her brother. And remaining near her, in close proximity, was no hardship. None at all—the one thing anchoring him most strongly at Ridgware was, quite simply, her.

N
ight fell, and with Roderick recovered enough to order all his would-be nurses from his chamber, Miranda found herself restlessly drifting before the uncurtained window in her room. The household had retired; all the others were no doubt seeking their beds, yet she felt too unsettled to sit, let alone sleep.

Together with Roscoe she’d explored more of the gardens, returning to the house as the dressing gong had sounded. Other than her black day gown, she had only one other with her, also black and severe, but at least it was more suitable for evening wear; retreating to her room, she’d changed, then brushed and re-coiled her hair, for some reason eschewing her habitual chignon and instead fashioning the heavy tresses into a plaited bun on the top of her head.

Pleased with the result, feeling acceptably fashionable, she’d gone down to the drawing room and fallen in with the family as if she’d been a longtime acquaintance rather than someone they’d first set eyes on only the evening before. Dinner had passed pleasantly; afterward, once the ritual of the tea trolley had been observed, she and Sarah had come upstairs to relieve Nurse. They’d sat on either side of Roderick’s bed and entertained him, but then he’d ordered them out, and she’d carried her candlestick into her room and shut the door.

Halting before the window, she looked out, and in the faint but steady moonlight saw the walls of the rose garden across the lawn.

Ten minutes later, her cloak over her shoulders, she stepped down to the rose garden’s paved central walk. The day had been fine; the enclosing walls trapped the lingering warmth along with the heady fragrance of the blooms still nodding on the long, arching canes.

For the past week, she’d been living on her nerves in a state of heightened anticipation and uncertainty. Now she was safe and secure, and Roderick was, too, and Ridgware had enveloped them in its serenity. Hardly surprising she was taking a little time to adjust.

“But,” she murmured, starting slowly along the path, “that’s not the only thing that’s changed.”

She
had changed. In setting out to rescue Roderick, in appealing to Roscoe for aid, she’d stepped out of her prescribed and rigidly respectable world. She’d done it knowingly, and if the situation were the same, she would do the same again. She didn’t regret her decision—quite the opposite—but in acting as she had, something fundamental had shifted inside her, a change she hadn’t expected or foreseen.

And then she’d compounded that change and taken Roscoe as her lover.

She didn’t regret that either, but that, too, contributed to her present uncertainty, her unsettled state. She was a novice in such matters; she had no real concept of what might come next.

She was the sort of woman who liked to know where she stood. Uncertainty didn’t suit her; it ruffled her senses and stretched her nerves.  . . .

Three more slow steps, and she realized it wasn’t inner uncertainty that was ruffling her senses and affecting her nerves.

Halting, she turned and looked back up the walk.

Roscoe stood in the archway, one shoulder negligently propped against the stone. Hands in his pockets, he was watching her. Even over the distance, his dark gaze touched her, caressed her.

Awakened her.

Lifting her head, she met that gaze and waited.

The moonlight lit his face; she saw his lips curve, wry, almost resigned, then he pushed away from the stone, stepped down to the walk, and prowled toward her.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” Halting before her, Roscoe looked down into her wide eyes, watched them smile up at him.

“But, clearly, I’m not alone.” She studied his face, then tipped her head in invitation as she turned and resumed her stroll. As he accepted and matched his stride to hers, she said, “I couldn’t settle to sleep.”

He hadn’t been able to either. Certainly not once he’d seen her crossing the lawn. “It’s a lovely night.”

That comment set the tone for the resulting conversation. Neither he nor she had any agenda other than passing the time, and, perhaps, hearing the other’s voice. Certainly their mundane, innocuous exchanges held neither secrets nor ulterior intent. It seemed all either cared about was being in each other’s company.

That amused him; he’d never been one for making polite conversation, and, he suspected, she wasn’t an exponent of that idle art either, yet here they were, doing just that, in his case contentedly.

He wanted to be with her. Wanted to learn more of her. She enthralled and enticed him, and engaged him at a level different from anyone he’d previously encountered, a connection broader in scope, richer, more intense. He told himself it was only human nature that he sought to understand her . . . and inwardly scoffed. His interest ran much deeper than mere curiosity.

He wanted to explore, to savor, to possess, yet confoundingly it wasn’t only the physical effect she had on him that focused him so effortlessly on her.

He’d grown to be a connoisseur of human nature, and in that respect she was unique, at least to him. She wasn’t the sort of person who followed, as most women were, yet she wasn’t a leader, either. She took her own road, and intriguingly that seemed to be a facet of herself she was only just discovering.

He was a quick study when it came to people, a talent he’d always had, a talent that as Roscoe, London’s gambling king, he exercised daily. While at first she’d been a conundrum, he was starting, at last, to unravel her complexities. For much of her life she’d set aside her own nature, suppressing it, making it subservient to her need to protect Roderick. That, he understood, none better. Ironic, then, that it was her very devotion to protecting Roderick that had led her to where she now was.