The Lady Risks All (42 page)
Which left her with Lucius, and the lowering realization that, if she wanted a husband and family, a home rather than a house, then accepting Lucius—assuming he made an offer—might very well be her last chance to secure anything like the life she sought.
But Lucius wasn’t offering love, only affection.
What she might have had with Roscoe, extrapolating from what had, over their short liaison, grown between them, might have been love, might have grown to be love, but there was no way she would ever know that now.
Which left her to decide if affection would be enough.
If affection and nothing more
could
yield the closeness, the strength, the relationship with her prospective husband that, she now realized, lay at the core of her needs. Marriage, family, home—none would be what she wanted them to be . . . “Without love.”
She sat on the window seat and let the realization sink in.
As to where her new insight into her own needs left her . . . when the gong to change for dinner sounded, she still had no firm idea.
I
nstead of sitting reading a book by his library fire, as he usually did in the evening, Roscoe paced before the fireplace, restless and impatient. He shot a glance at Mudd, who had brought in reports from various clubs—reports that at that moment he did not wish to read; he’d tossed them on a side table. “Still nothing from Gallagher?”
“No, sir.”
Mudd left it at that. Earlier in the day, Mudd had been the bearer of the tidings that Lucius Clifford had called and taken Miss Clifford out for a drive. Roscoe had actually snarled—a fact he was not happy about, although in the same situation he would do it again.
He never lost his temper, at least not in ways anyone could see. Yet since his interview with Miranda the previous night, his temper, along with his patience, had been riding on a fraying rein. He continued to prowl, waiting, waiting, and hating every minute of inactivity. He’d never felt so caged in his life, so impelled to act while simultaneously being so thoroughly stymied. His instincts continued to insist that she was in danger, and that danger emanated from her long-lost cousin, but as yet he had no proof.
And until he had proof, he was helpless to act.
Footsteps in the corridor leading to the library heralded the arrival of Jordan, who took one look at him and waved his notebook to stay his growled question. “I managed to run the solicitor who handles that arm of the Clifford family’s affairs to ground. As far as he’s aware, the family—all Lucius’s nearest relatives—still believe Lucius to be dead. They and the solicitor were told he’d died on the battlefield at Waterloo and have received no information to the contrary.”
“Aha!” His fist clenched, but immediately he reined in his enthusiasm; he needed to play devil’s advocate with everything he and his people uncovered, because Miranda surely would. “Clifford could explain that by claiming that due to his memory loss he didn’t know who to contact—or for whatever reason hasn’t yet had the time.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s not enough.” He looked at Jordan. “What of the family itself? Are there any members in London who Clifford would have been expected to contact?”
“No. The entire clan—his part of it anyway—live near Manchester.”
He frowned. “What’s the exact connection between Lucius Clifford and Roderick and Miranda?”
“That”—Jordan consulted his notebook—“is where things get interesting. The connection is via Roderick’s paternal grandfather, Malcolm Clifford. Lucius Clifford is the second and sole surviving son of Morecombe Clifford, deceased, who was himself the son of Malcolm’s older brother, Melrose Clifford, also deceased.”
Roscoe studied Jordan. “From your delivery I deduce that those gentlemen being deceased is pertinent. Why?”
Jordan flashed him a grin. “Because as far as I can tell—and as I was passing, I stopped in at Montague’s and he concurs—if Roderick Clifford were to die, even if his will stipulates that his fortune pass to his sister, Lucius Clifford, as the nearest male in line, could make a very-likely-to-be-successful claim to a portion of the estate. He wouldn’t get it all, but Montague believes that, in the circumstances, Lucius could push for half, and depending on the judge presiding, might even be awarded more than that. The critical point is that Roderick’s wealth derives solely from his grandfather’s fortune. Neither Roderick nor his father have added to the capital but only lived off the income. So depending on the wording of not Roderick’s will but that of his grandfather’s, Lucius, via his grandfather and father, could make a claim to some of the old man’s wealth, now Roderick’s wealth. If Roderick had a brother or a son, the claim would be harder to bring, but with only an unmarried spinster to inherit, the courts often take the view that such wealth would be better in what they regard as safer hands.”
Roscoe snorted.
“Indeed,” Jordan said, “but in the present legal climate, that’s a very real scenario.”
Rosoce thought, then shook his head. “It’ll never go to court. That’s not Lucius Clifford’s intention—he’s thought of a simpler way. If he marries Miranda, and later kills Roderick, he’ll end controlling the whole.”
He tensed with the compulsion to hurry to Claverton Street and speak with Miranda, to warn her again . . . he clenched his jaw. “That’s all conjecture. I need more.” He fixed his gaze on Jordan. “I need something unequivocal that connects Lucius Clifford with Kirkwell. Something that cannot be readily explained away, and that at the very least suggests Kirkwell is working with Lucius Clifford to kill Roderick.” If he had that, Miranda would believe him. She’d be much quicker to question Lucius Clifford’s bona fides if she suspected he was the source of the threat to her brother.
Jordan shifted. “The Cliffords’ solicitor didn’t recognize Kirkwell’s name.”
Roscoe looked at Mudd, who had stood silently listening to the exchange. “Still no word from Gallagher?”
On the words, Rawlins arrived. Roscoe repeated his question. Rawlins shook his head. “No more than he sent earlier—that Kirkwell hasn’t just scarpered, he’s outright vanished.”
Mudd rumbled, “If I was this Lucius Clifford and had changed my mind about killing Mr. Roderick, at least for the nonce, I’d have ‘vanished’ Kirkwell, too.”
Grimly, Rawlins nodded.
Roscoe fought not to grind his teeth. His instincts kept insisting he was running out of time. That Miranda was running out of time. But if he went to her with what he had now . . . there was, he estimated, a fifty percent chance she would turn from him even more definitely than she had. She might even refuse to see him again, and that wouldn’t help either her or him.
Carstairs had yet to get back to him, and Gallagher was still searching in those ways only Gallagher could. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, he counseled himself to patience.
In gambling, knowing when to exercise patience was a massive advantage, one he generally enjoyed over his opponents. Indeed, patience was a virtue he’d traded on for much of his life, child and man.
And he knew to his bones that his wisest course was to wait—wait for the vital, crucial, critical piece of information that would tip Miranda’s scales definitively his way. Away from Lucius Clifford.
So he’d wait.
And hope and pray that was the right decision.
He glanced at Jordan and nodded. “Good work. It’s got us significantly further. You’d better get some rest.”
Jordan flicked him a salute and headed for the door.
He turned to Rawlins and Mudd, both patiently waiting for whatever orders he chose to give. “Make sure the watch on the Claverton Street house continues unbroken, with at least two men at all times. If Lucius Clifford visits, I want to know immediately, but make sure the men know to always leave someone on point at all times. If anything at all happens there and he’s involved, I’ll want witnesses.”
Mudd and Rawlins grunted, nodded, and left.
Leaving Roscoe to prowl before his fireplace, nursing a glass of cognac and remembering the brush of silk over his bare chest and the sounds of passion in the night.
“I
regret, Mr. Clifford, that as matters stand I am unable to advance you any further sums.” Abrahams, one of the wealthiest moneylenders in Mile End, folded his hands atop his scarred desk and calmly regarded Lucius Clifford, seated in the rickety chair on the other side of the desk.
Lucius stared back, unable to believe what he was hearing. “But . . . I told you. I’m about to contract an engagement with a lady more than wealthy enough to enable me to pay my debts, all of them. In a few weeks, I’ll be able to clear my slate.”
“Indeed.” Abrahams appeared unimpressed. “I fear I have heard such protestations before, Mr. Clifford. Oh, not from you, but from too many of your peers to be moved by such speeches.” Abrahams met Lucius’s gaze. “Evidence would be more convincing. Show me the announcement of this so felicitous betrothal in the news sheets, and I will reconsider. I daresay, with such proof before me, that I will be able to extend further monies on credit. Until then, however”—the squat little man raised his hands palms up—“I am unable to fulfill your request.”
Lucius sat and stared at Abrahams as the implications of his words sank in. There was no point arguing and, Lucius knew, even less value in approaching another moneylender. They all knew each other, and such an act would only serve to convince Abrahams, who held all his larger debts, that he was in fact unable to meet them . . . which could prove hazardous. Personally Abrahams might pose no physical threat, but he had bruisers waiting just behind the curtain at the rear of his office, and two more lounged outside.
Yet he was so
close
to laying his hands on old Malcolm’s fortune, or at least on Miranda’s share, which would be more than sufficient to tide him over until he could arrange the next step and claim it all. But at that moment he had no chance of winkling any more cash out of Abrahams. Swallowing his chagrin, he nodded curtly. “I’ll be back with that proof in a few days at most.”
He didn’t think his bravado was misplaced. He knew he’d played his cards perfectly with Miranda; Sarah and Roderick had let fall enough about the recently dismissed Wraxby to give him a fair idea of how to approach her, and he’d made good use of the intelligence.
Abrahams merely inclined his head, an action that screamed
we’ll see
even though he said not a word.
Suppressing his curses, Lucius rose and left the small office.
Stepping out onto the darkened street, he started walking.
He would be back with the proof, and then he’d have enough cash to see him through, but what the devil was he to do until then? He would have a roof over his head tonight, but after that? After his recent expenses—better clothes, hiring the curricle and pair, let alone the ruinous cost of the carriage and driver to take them to Richmond—he had no more coins with which to hire even a donkey, let alone an equipage suitable to be seen in Claverton Street.
“I’ll have to get her to agree as soon as possible.” Eyes narrowing, he considered the ways. “As soon as she agrees, I can have a notice in the
Gazette
and money in my pocket by the following morning. If necessary, once she agrees I can go to ground for a few days—I can concoct a tale of illness to cover that. They’ll feel sympathetic, so that won’t hurt.”
Which left him with the question of how to get Miranda to accept the proposal he hadn’t yet made.
After a moment of assessing, he snorted. “The first step, at least, is obvious.”
I
ncreasingly restless, increasingly tense, Roscoe forced himself to attend to business; there were too many people on his payroll for him to simply stop paying attention. He’d just settled in his study to review various accounts with Jordan when Mudd tapped on the door and entered.
One glance and Roscoe forgot the accounts. “What have we learned?”
Mudd grinned ferociously. “Gallagher’s man just reported. Seems a Mr. Lucius Clifford is deep in debt to Mr. Abrahams in Mile End. Apparently Mr. Clifford called on Abrahams last night, seeking to extend his credit. When Abrahams declined, Clifford told him that he, Clifford, was about to be betrothed to a lady wealthy enough to pay off all his already sizeable debts.”
“And?” Roscoe prompted.
“Abrahams still declined but agreed to reconsider if presented with a formal announcement of the engagement. Abrahams said Clifford wasn’t best pleased—well, he wouldn’t be, would he?—but according to Abrahams, Clifford seemed confident he would be back very soon with the announcement in hand.”
“Indeed?” Roscoe looked at Jordan. “Is Miss Clifford’s portion large enough for her to qualify as Lucius Clifford’s unwitting savior?”
Jordan grimaced. “I couldn’t extract such specifics from their solicitor—he’s a sound man—but from the funds we know Roderick Clifford commands, then I would say very likely, and as she’s twenty-nine years old, then her wealth is almost certainly in her hands, hers to do with as she pleases.”
Roscoe frowned. “What happens to the money if she marries?”
Jordan waggled his head. “Difficult to say absolutely—it would depend on how her father’s will was written, but the most likely case is that all the wealth she inherited will pass into her husband’s hands on her marriage. The only way it wouldn’t is if there was a specific clause in her father’s will stipulating that it remained in her hands.”
“So her wealth will most likely shift to her husband?”
Jordan nodded. “That would be my best guess.”
Roscoe slumped back in his chair. Staring unseeing at the papers littering his desk, he reviewed all the information he thus far had, juggling the pieces, putting each in place to create a whole; he forced himself to view the incomplete result dispassionately, with detachment, as Miranda would.
He had proof that Lucius Clifford was in dire need of money, enough to make it plain that her wealth was a major factor driving Lucius’s attentions and his pending offer for her hand. But did that prove Clifford was
only
marrying her for her money?
Features hardening, he shook his head. “It’s
still
not enough.” There were many questions about Lucius Clifford that remained unanswered, such as his surreptitious return from the dead—in such circumstances, what man didn’t inform his closest family that he wasn’t dead but alive? And the scar on his face . . . could he possibly
be
Kirkwell, or was that simply reaching for straws? Yet if they did find evidence that Clifford was Kirkwell, Miranda would be first in line to hand Clifford, distant cousin or not, to the authorities.
However, as yet, Roscoe had no such evidence.
He exhaled; his lungs felt tight. He’d never felt so torn in his life. On the one hand, his instincts were all but pummeling him to act, and act now, to protect her, to do whatever was needed to keep her safe—even to abduct her and hold her prisoner. Against that, experience cautioned that acting prematurely wouldn’t yield the result he sought, and, worse, would carry a real risk of estrangement.
He’d faced fraught situations before, but never had the frustration been this bad.
Never had the stakes been this high
.
The words rang in his mind. He was tempted to push them aside, to deny and bury them, but they were true, a truth he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. It had been beyond foolish to imagine he could ever turn away from her and put her out of his mind as if she’d been no more than a passing fancy.
She’d taken up residence in his heart—at times it felt as if she
was
his heart, the way that organ responded to her, especially to her being in danger. Protecting her wasn’t a duty, it was a compulsion, one he knew would never leave him.
Keeping her safe wasn’t, for him, an option; it was a necessity. And while the more reckless, rebellious part of his mind toyed with the notion of kidnapping her and keeping her there, he reluctantly accepted that, despite being able to, he couldn’t simply step in and take over her life.
She wouldn’t stand for it, and, in this, he had to play by her rules.
He glanced across the desk at Jordan, then raised his gaze to Mudd. “If what we’re thinking is correct, then Clifford now has a looming deadline—he’s low on funds and can’t get more until he has Miss Clifford’s agreement to a betrothal. That also means we’re running out of time to expose him, or to at least gather sufficient evidence to demonstrate his true colors, before matters get even more complicated.”
Jordan shifted. “If we could find evidence of Clifford doing something—even something unrelated to Miss Clifford or her brother—that was itself villainous, would that do?”
“Yes. What do you have in mind?”
Jordan grimaced. “I don’t know, but that whole ‘back from the dead’ business—while it might be possible, why has he returned now?”
Roscoe considered, then said, “What I need is some irrefutable evidence that Lucius Clifford and Kirkwell are connected, or that Lucius Clifford has engaged in some illegal or unsavory act.”
“Or,” Mudd rumbled, “for Clifford to do something nefarious now, so we can catch him in the act.”
“True,” Roscoe allowed, “but I would prefer to avoid any situation that could put Miss Clifford, or Sarah, or anyone in the Clifford household in danger.”
“So what do we do?” Mudd asked.
Roscoe paused, then said, “The watch on the Clifford house?”
“In place—at least two at all times, like you wanted,” Mudd replied.
Roscoe sighed. “In that case”—he picked up the document on the top of the pile on his blotter—“we wait.”
Patience, patience.
Luck, as he well knew, favored the brave, but favored even more those who waited for the right moment.
M
iranda was contemplating the empty patches left after the gardener had cleared the withered summer annuals from the beds bordering the side lawn when she heard the snick of the front gate latch.
It was barely midmorning, rather early for callers. Puzzled, she walked across the lawn to where she could look up the front path, and saw Lucius striding toward the front steps, a bouquet of late blooms in one hand.
“Oh, blast!” She flirted with the notion of sliding back into the shadows, but that would only postpone the inevitable. If Lucius was bringing her flowers . . . assuming, of course, it was her he intended the flowers for, but assuming he did, better she deal with him, with this, now. Privately, between the two of them. Summoning a smile, she raised her voice. “Lucius.”
He glanced her way. His expression was deathly serious; if she’d been closer she would have been able to see the scar his smile normally hid.
The memory of Roscoe asking if Lucius had a scar, the implications of that, flashed through her mind, but she quashed the recollection, buried it, and continued to smile.
The instant he’d seen her, Lucius’s expression had altered to one of delight. Leaving the path, he crossed the lawn to her. “Miranda.” Reaching her, he bowed and presented the bouquet with a flourish. “For you, my dear.”
“Thank you.” She took the bouquet in both hands, raised the blooms to her face, and sniffed. “How thoughtful. But I’m not aware of having done anything to warrant such a pretty gift.” There were roses mixed with lilies and various other blooms. “These must have been difficult to get in this season.”
“It was entirely my pleasure to hunt them down, just to see the pleasure on your face.” Lucius smiled, transparently satisfied.
She studied his eyes, his expression—not quite besotted but willing to be so. Or as he’d put it the previous afternoon, willing to explore the notion of them making a go of things together.
He’d surprised her yesterday, but today she knew her own mind.
“The others are in the drawing room, but I would be glad of a chance to speak with you privately about the prospect you raised yesterday afternoon.” Turning, she waved to the terrace and the door to the morning room. Better she end any speculation on his part now, and preferably without Gladys, Roderick, and Sarah looking on. “We can talk in the morning room.”
“Of course.” Lucius readily fell into step beside her.
She glanced at him. His features looked a trifle peaked, but his expression looked . . . eager was the word her mind supplied.
Facing forward, she led him to the terrace, cynically wondering at the curse that had afflicted her, condemning her to refuse gentlemen’s offers before they’d made them.
B
y midmorning, Roscoe was fighting an uphill battle to keep his mind focused on the business of being London’s gambling king. Jordan was doing his best to assist by insisting he pay proper attention to the structural reports on a house in Mayfair he was considering buying to convert into an even more exclusive club than the Pall Mall when Rundle tapped on the door and entered.
Roscoe looked up, and knew hope shone in his eyes. “Yes?”
“A Mr. Carstairs to see you, sir.”
“Thank God!” Roscoe pushed back his chair. “Show him up.”
Jordan started gathering the papers. “I’ll tell the owner we’ll get back to him next week.”
Eyes on the door, Roscoe nodded. “Do. The property looks suitable, but given how much we’ll have to plow into the refurbishing, the price is too high—but the haggling can wait.”
Rundle opened the door and Rafe Carstairs strolled in.
Roscoe came to his feet; Rafe might have been strolling, but his expression was grim. Roscoe held out a hand, shook Rafe’s, then waved him to the chair facing the desk.
Jordan had drawn his chair to the desk’s side; he stood beside it, hovering, unsure.
Roscoe waved Jordan to sit again. “You might need to hear this.”
They all sat. Roscoe noted the restless tension in Rafe—a minor variant of what thrummed insistently through him. “What have you learned?”
“That there’s something very strange going on with Lucius Clifford.” Rafe met his eyes. “He was listed as dead on the battlefield at Waterloo. His diary and an inscribed pocket-watch were found on a body, and the body was therefore presumed to be his. Both items were returned to his family, who confirmed that said items had indeed belonged to Lucius Clifford.”
Roscoe arched his brows. “But, of course, the family never saw the body.”
“No. And as it happened, neither did anyone who knew Clifford, but in the aftermath of that hellish day that wasn’t unusual. Sadly, however, no one who knew John Kirkwell saw the body either. Clifford and Kirkwell were in the same infantry platoon. They fought alongside each other. Their platoon came under heavy fire relatively early in the day, and took massive casualties. Several men deserted.” Rafe shrugged. “It happens, especially in circumstances like that, with their officers gone and panic and mayhem all around. Kirkwell was thought to be one such deserter. The others were all captured within a few days, but Kirkwell never was.”
Drumming his fingers on the desk, Roscoe slipped the last pieces of the jigsaw into place. “It wasn’t Clifford who died—it was Kirkwell. Clifford put his diary and his watch on Kirkwell’s body, then deserted.”
Rafe nodded, slow and definite. “That’s the way it looks, and if you’re sure that Clifford is alive—”
“He’s been identified by members of his family who knew him from childhood well enough to recognize him, and he knows all the expected family tales.”
Rafe inclined his head. “Then Clifford is, indeed, a deserter.” Rafe’s lips curved, but not in a smile. “The army will want him.”
Roscoe nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind.” He rose and rounded the desk, extending his hand to grip Rafe’s as he, too, came to his feet. “Thank you.”
Rafe’s lips twisted in a half grimace. “If this ends by bringing a deserter to justice, believe me, it was entirely my pleasure.”
Roscoe glanced at Jordan. “Mr. Draper will see you out. If you’ll excuse me, I need to visit someone immediately.”
“Of course.” Rafe, a veteran of Waterloo as well as a much decorated hero of the Indian campaigns, tipped him a salute and followed Jordan to the door. Reaching it, Rafe glanced back. “Incidentally, depending on how matters play out, you might be interested to know that both Allardyce and Wolverstone are presently in town. I’m dining with them tonight—Wolverstone’s place.”
It took Roscoe a moment to work through the implications, then he met Rafe’s eyes and nodded again. “Thank you—that might be useful.”
Rafe and Jordan left. Crossing to the bellpull, Roscoe tugged twice, then turned and strode for the door.
Two minutes later, with Mudd and Rawlins a pace behind, he strode across his rear garden to the back gate and the shortest, most direct route to Miranda.
His instincts’ screams had reached fever-pitch—was there anything a deserter like Clifford would balk at?—but at least, at last, he could act.
He was three paces from the gate when the latch lifted and the gate swung open. A man in the cap and cape of a street-sweeper stepped through, and nearly stepped back on seeing the three of them bearing down on him.
Roscoe slowed; Mudd and Rawlins did as well.
The man recognized them; spine stiffening, he raised a hand in salute. “Just coming to report, sir. Mr. Lucius Clifford arrived on foot at Mr. Roderick Clifford’s house a few minutes ago.”
Roscoe swore and charged through the gate.
M
iranda was forced to deal with the flowers first. Given Lucius had gone to such lengths to obtain them, she couldn’t simply leave the bouquet to wilt on a side table. So she tugged the bellpull, then waited until Milly, the parlormaid, arrived and took the bouquet away to arrange the flowers in a vase.
Miranda filled the following minutes with the usual pleasantries, relieved when Lucius, elegantly relaxed on the other end of the sofa, did his part to keep the meaningless conversation flowing. Eventually Milly returned with the vase. Miranda directed her to set it atop the wall table that stood beneath a mirror. Vase bestowed, Milly bobbed and retreated, closing the door behind her.
