The Lady Risks All (38 page)

H
e couldn’t fault his men for doing as he’d asked.

The following afternoon, having been informed by a blank-faced Mudd that the same gent from yesterday had called at the Clifford residence again, and had this time taken Miss Clifford out driving, and having also received a detailed report from Jordan earlier in the day, Roscoe found himself lurking in the alley alongside the Clifford garden, close to Claverton Street.

He’d sent the men he’d had on watch back to his house for a break; no sense them watching as well, and better still if they weren’t about to see how Miranda Clifford reacted. He had no idea how she would take the news of what he’d uncovered about her gentleman caller.

Lounging against the alley wall, he looked out along the street to where a plain gig stood, the horse somnolent between the shafts, the reins held by one of the local urchins always ready to earn a copper or two. Wraxby and Miranda had returned more than twenty minutes ago; if Wraxby and Miranda’s aunt adhered strictly to society’s rules, then Wraxby would be leaving soon.

All in all, he wasn’t best pleased to discover himself there, but the thought of
not
being there—of not ensuring that Miranda knew the truth before she made any irrevocable decision—was inconceivable. Wraxby might not pose any danger in the physical sense, at least not directly, and at least not yet, not before she’d married him, but there was more than one sort of danger that could threaten a vulnerable not-so-young lady.

The sun was low in the sky, the shafts of weak light striking almost horizontally, when he heard voices, then the front gate opened. Straightening, he stepped across the alley, putting his back to the Cliffords’ garden wall.

The chill breeze carried the voices of the two people who emerged from the gate and halted on the pavement to him—Miranda and her gentleman caller. He listened, and was honest enough to own to relief when he detected no loverlike tones in the strictly conventional exchanges. Wraxby might have offered, but she hadn’t yet accepted him.

He waited until he heard the jingle of harness and the clop of hooves, then looked around the corner.

Turning back to the gate, Miranda saw him. Beyond her, Wraxby was driving away up the street. She paused, frowned, then walked briskly to the front gate, went through, and shut it. He heard the latch fall home.

Now what?

Drawing back into the alley, he debated waiting until Wraxby was out of sight, then walking up to the front gate and approaching the house like any normal caller—

The side gate, further along the alley, the one she used to come and go unseen, opened. She stepped out of the gate, looked at him, and waited.

Pushing away from the wall, he walked down the alley.

“Have you learned something about Kirkwell?”

He halted before her. “No.”

She frowned more definitely. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Watching out for you.” Her frown just grew more puzzled. He glanced around, then waved her back into the garden. “No sense taking chances.”

She looked around, then retreated over the stone step and into the shade of the trees beyond. He followed, closing the gate behind him.

She was studying his face. “Your men are supposed to be watching for any sign of Kirkwell or his hirelings. There’s no reason to, as you put it, watch out for me.”

He felt his jaw tighten. “Yes, there is, as it appears you’re incapable of distinguishing a coldhearted exploiter from an eligible gentleman.”

She stiffened. Her head rose. “
If
you recall, our liaison is at an end—there’s no reason, no justification, for you to be acting like some sort of guard.”

“
If
you recall, my association with your brother continues. I consider him a friend, and therefore his family’s welfare is of at least passing concern to me. If I see danger threatening a member of his family, as his friend I would of course warn him—that’s what friends do. Furthermore, anyone seeking to kill him and lay hands on his fortune could most easily accomplish the latter via you. In this case . . . I thought you would rather I spoke directly to you.”

Her eyes narrowed; lips compressed, she held his gaze for several moments, then very evenly said, “I assume you’re talking about Wraxby.”

He nodded.

Without taking her eyes from his, she drew in a long breath, then asked, “What have you learned?”

“Wraxby’s vices are not those of commission but omission. He’s devoted to his three sons, but in his eyes they can do no wrong, and his neighbors openly state that the three boys literally drove their mother to an early grave. Wraxby’s principal motive in taking a second wife is to find someone to nurture his sons—of whom devils, fiends, and demon-spawn were the most repeatable descriptions given by those who know them. Wraxby is also ambitious, both monetarily and socially, and is rigidly conservative. He believes his wife should devote herself utterly to supporting him in his aspirations, running his household and social affairs as he dictates, with blatant respectability and glowing success. At the same time, he’s incapable of believing any ill of his sons, much less acting to rein in their behavior, nor yet allowing anyone else to do so. The household has not kept a governess or tutor longer than a month, and the rest of the staff are in constant flux, and now have to be hired from London as no locals will work in that house.” He paused, holding her wide eyes. “For any woman, that’s a recipe for disaster. For you . . . you would be foolish beyond permission to accept Wraxby’s suit.”

Miranda bit her tongue against a near-overwhelming urge to crisply inform him that she did not need him to tell her what she should and should not do. For several moments she stood with lips pressed tight while she fought the words back, then she nodded haughtily. “That matches my own observations.”

More, it gave her a context, a framework to make sense of said observations and of all she’d learned from Wraxby. He wasn’t a bad man, but the position he was offering, especially as it came with not a shred of even the mildest affection, was simply and definitely not for her.

If not for the irritation bubbling up inside her, she might have felt grateful for his succinct summary of Wraxby’s situation. Instead . . . irritation was compounded by aggravation; simply being within two feet of him was, apparently, enough for her senses to vividly recall what it felt like to be enfolded in his arms, to lean into the solid warmth of him and feel his arms close around her, to yearn to feel that again, only to remember that, thanks to his decision to end their liaison, that wasn’t going to happen ever again.

Raising her head, she dismissively stated, “I didn’t need you to elucidate Wraxby’s shortcomings—I’d already seen them. I’m hardly a ninnyhammer.” No—she was the woman who, when she rejected Wraxby, was going to have to bear with Gladys’s moaning while simultaneously coping with her own disappointment and still confused feelings over the end of her relationship with . . . the very man who thought it appropriate to lecture her about Wraxby. Tipping her chin higher, she all but snapped, “In future I would appreciate it if you refrained from taking any interest in my life—I’m perfectly capable of dealing with my potential suitors myself.”

Something flashed in the dark sapphire of his eyes. “Really? In that case it might help you to know that by and large gentlemen do not appreciate being strung along. If you intend dismissing Wraxby, then do it—don’t go walking alone with him, don’t go driving with him, and don’t continue smiling at him.” He clamped his lips shut. His jaw clenched, then he all but growled, “
He
won’t appreciate
that
.”

I
won’t appreciate that.

She blinked. He might have said one thing, but his real meaning resonated with bell-like clarity. Her confusion deepened.

He searched her eyes, her face. His features were set, even more implacably unreadable than usual. “Never mind.” He ground out the words, turned, and jerked open the gate. About to stride out, he paused; the look he cast her was all heated darkness. “Just get rid of Wraxby—he’s not for you.”

Before she could respond, he stepped into the alley and rather forcefully shut the gate.

She hauled in a huge breath—then glared at the gate. With a frustrated growl of her own, she swung around and marched toward the house.

What the devil did he think he was doing, extrapolating his friendship with Roderick, presuming upon it to pass judgment on her behavior? On how she chose to live her life? To telling her what she should do?

Damn him! How
dare
he?

As for the nonsense of Roderick’s would-be killer seeking to gain Roderick’s fortune through marrying her . . . “Rubbish!” The would-be murderer would have to show himself to do that. “As if I wouldn’t notice!”

Muttering imprecations fueled by a roiling mix of emotions, she stalked onto the terrace and through the morning room. She was halfway up the stairs before her whirling emotions flung up an alternative scenario. Pausing on the landing, she considered it. “
He
was the one who ended our liaison.”

True, but given the sort of man he was, given they had been
that
close, perhaps his attitude was simply an expression of lingering protectiveness.

Minutes ticked by as she stood on the landing, wondering . . . abruptly, she shook her head, mentally shook free of the haunting memories, the now never-to-be-realized hopes, drew in a deep, fortifying breath, and continued up the stairs.

T
he following morning brought good news and relief in the person of Sarah, who arrived accompanied by her eldest sister, Lady Mickleham, a tall, rather large, fashionably handsome matron considerably older than Sarah.

Gladys, predictably, was flustered, but after consorting with the dowager and duchess, Miranda confidently greeted her ladyship, smiled and warmly embraced Sarah, then escorted the two ladies to where Roderick had hauled himself out of the armchair and to his feet the better to make his bow.

They sat, and Lady Mickleham consented to take tea. While she poured and passed around the cups and the plate of delicate tea cakes Cook had provided, Miranda was pleased to see Sarah and Roderick with their heads already together, exchanging news of the days they’d spent apart.

Sarah had pulled up a straight-backed chair and placed it beside the armchair Roderick perforce occupied, his bandaged foot propped on a footstool, his crutch leaning against the back of the chair. Gladys remained in the other armchair, while Miranda and her ladyship sat on the sofa opposite. The arrangement allowed the three of them to chat freely while Sarah and Roderick talked quietly of other things.

Taking in Roderick’s smile and the alertness and absorption now lighting his expression, Miranda turned to Lady Mickleham. “Dare I hope you can spare Sarah to us for the day? We would be happy to send her home in the carriage at whatever time you wish to specify.”

Lady Mickleham, too, had been viewing the young couple with something approaching august approval. Her gaze on them, she nodded, then looked at Miranda. “I must thank you for your invitation. Caroline wrote and told me of the occurrence that left your brother injured and at Ridgware. I and the rest of the family were happy to learn that Sarah had proved so useful. As, clearly, she wishes to remain, and as you are agreeable, I see no reason she shouldn’t. If you could send her home by five o’clock?”

The arrangements were made. Fifteen minutes later, tea and cakes consumed, Lady Mickleham rose and took leave of Roderick and a still nervous Gladys, then Miranda escorted her ladyship out of the house.

On the path leading to the front gate, Lady Mickleham halted and swung to face Miranda.

Halting too, Miranda waited, her expression encouraging.

“Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Miss Clifford”—Lady Mickleham held her gaze—“but from what I’ve already seen, Caroline’s suggestion that there could well be a tendre forming between Sarah and your brother appears well founded. Consequently, I feel I must ask if you and your aunt foresee any difficulty should that tendre develop further?”

Miranda wished Gladys had been there to hear her ladyship’s question, to understand that it was Sarah’s tonnish family who felt that the Cliffords might have reservations as to any prospective match. However . . . she arched her brows. “As we are speaking bluntly, if it should transpire that Roderick and Sarah wish to marry, my aunt and I would be happy to welcome Sarah as Roderick’s bride.”

Lady Mickleham hesitated. “I understand that Caroline explained the . . . ah, difficulties with Sarah over the last season.”

“Indeed, but with regard to that, in the time I’ve known Sarah I’ve seen no evidence of any flightiness or inconstancy of character.” Miranda paused, then went on, “She and Roderick seemed to develop a bond, almost from the first. She has been nothing but devoted in her care and support. In fact, when Roderick was attacked—albeit as part of a staged trap, but neither Sarah nor I knew that—she flew to his defense without hesitation.” She met her ladyship’s eyes. “I know because I was there, too.”

Lady Mickleham nodded. “From our family’s perspective, Sarah’s reaction to and continuing interest in your brother had been both a blessing and a relief. That her interest is reciprocated is even more reassuring. When Caroline first wrote of it, I was skeptical, but from all I’ve seen of Sarah since her return to town, and”—she tipped her head toward the house—“just now, it does indeed seem that my sister has finally found her backbone.”

Miranda smiled and together with her ladyship walked on toward the gate.

“That, to my mind,” Lady Mickleham continued, “was what she always lacked. Backbone, and a defined purpose, something she could strive for, with which she could align her will.” Her ladyship flicked a smiling glance Miranda’s way. “I’m known as something of a plain-speaker, Miss Clifford, but in my experience, to make her way in life, every lady needs to develop backbone, and to exercise it, too.”

Opening the gate, Miranda inclined her head in acknowledgment and followed her ladyship through.