The Lady Risks All (45 page)

With Roscoe, Miranda went out onto the terrace. Roderick hobbled after them. They were watching the small procession—the two men Roscoe had had watching the house had been summoned to assist Mudd and Rawlins—when a startled gasp from above, followed by a wail and an exclamation, drew their eyes to an attic window high above.

Three maids—Milly, the housemaid, Ginger, and the scullery maid—were hanging out of the window, pointing and exclaiming. Milly and the scullery maid were doing the exclaiming, while Ginger looked stricken.

Roderick stepped to the edge of the terrace and turned to look up. “Here, you three—what is it?”

Ten minutes and a great deal of reassuring later, and they’d discovered how Lucius had learned about Roderick’s plans to “give away his fortune.” Lucius had taken to walking out with Ginger over the course of several months. He’d been planning and plotting for at least that long.

Miranda shook her head but patted Ginger’s shoulder. “Let this be a lesson to you all—don’t trust gentlemen who seem to be too good to be true. They’re all but guaranteed to be villains. But how did you learn about Mr. Roderick’s plans?”

The maids looked sheepish, but Milly admitted, “We all hear things, miss. Bits and pieces, never all that much—and then there’s the things Mr. Roderick asks Hughes for, or about, the pieces in the news sheets that Mr. Roderick likes to read. The philly-stuff. When we put it all together, well, it seemed as plain as pie.” Milly looked at Roderick. “We’ve been expecting to hear you’ll be closing up the house any day.”

“Yes, well.” Looking faintly stunned, Roderick blew out a breath. “I expect we should reassure everyone that I’m not doing anything so daft as giving away my fortune. Just using a bit of it for schools, and that sort of thing. Nothing to get anxious over. I certainly don’t plan on shutting up this house.”

“Oh.” Milly brightened. “Them below stairs will be so pleased to hear that, sir.”

With Roderick’s blessing, the maids were dispatched to spread the good news.

Roderick exchanged a look with both Miranda and Sarah.

From the armchair, Gladys narrowed her eyes at him. “Remind me to ask Milly next time I want to know what you’re about.” Gladys tipped up her chin. “Seems the staff know more than I do.”

Roderick looked at Gladys; Miranda wondered what he would say. Then he smiled. “It’s really of no importance, Aunt. It’s just an interest I have.”

Gladys humphed. Her gaze shifted to Roscoe. “I’m afraid, sir, that I don’t know you, and no one has thought to introduce us.”

Roscoe smiled what Miranda imagined was a Lord Julian smile, one of easy, effortless, truly graceful charm. He took Gladys’s hand and bowed over it. “I’m Neville Roscoe, ma’am. I live nearby.”

Gladys nodded. “Ah, yes—you’re the gambling king. You live in the big white house on Chichester Street.” When both Miranda and Roderick blinked in surprise, Gladys sniffed. “I do talk to Mrs. Flannery, you know.”

Miranda was left wondering what else her aunt had heard.

Gladys, however, nodded with gracious approval at Roscoe. “Regardless, I have to thank you, Mr. Roscoe, for all your help today. And as it’s already time for luncheon, and after all that effort and drama I daresay we’re all ravenous, I would take it very kindly if you would join us at table.”

Roscoe glanced at Miranda, saw her stunned surprise. He looked back at Gladys, then inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am. I’d be delighted.”

He shouldn’t accept; there was no hope of any future between him and Miranda, and with Roderick’s would-be killer laid by the heels, no longer any reason to continue any degree of association, but he wanted, for the last time, for just a few more hours, to bask in the warmth of Miranda’s presence, in the delight of her company, in the joy of her smiles.

Chapter Twenty-two

R
oscoe sent word to Wolverstone House. At six o’clock, the Duke of Wolverstone, together with his guests for the evening, Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, and Rafe Carstairs, arrived in Chichester Street. Rundle conducted them to the library, where Roscoe and Roderick waited.

Roscoe performed the introductions. Once they were all seated and supplied with glasses of the very best cognac, he explained all he and Roderick now knew of Lucius Clifford and his military service. He said nothing about the attempt on Roderick’s life, or Lucius’s subsequent interest in Miranda.

At the end of his recitation, Wolverstone fixed him with a faintly questioning look. “And how, pray tell, did you stumble on Clifford’s secret?”

Roscoe had anticipated the question. “Roderick and I were pursuing Kirkwell on another matter entirely, and through that stumbled on his true identity.”

Wolverstone shifted his dark gaze to Roderick. “You’re related to the man. Are you here to plead for leniency?”

Roderick shook his head. “No—if anything the opposite.”

“Oh?” Wolverstone sipped. “How so?”

Roscoe watched with approval as Roderick paused to order his thoughts, always a sound idea when it was Wolverstone with whom one was conversing.

“I’m here representing the family’s interests. Although the relationship isn’t close, we—my sister and I—have known Lucius and his immediate family, our cousins, all our lives. Lucius has been dead to us all since Waterloo. There’s no more grieving to be done on that score. At present, none of the family other than my sister and I know that Lucius survived, or that he was a deserter. His mother is still alive, and he has three sisters, all married with children.” Roderick met Wolverstone’s gaze. “The area in which they live, around Macclesfield, is country and very parochial. Any whisper of Lucius’s infamy, and his family—totally innocent of any crime though they are—will assuredly suffer.” Roderick paused, then glanced at Allardyce and Rafe, before returning his gaze to Wolverstone. “Gentlemen, if there is any way to deal appropriately with Lucius while shielding his unsuspecting family from harm, then if at all possible I would urge that that course be adopted.”

“Ah.” Wolverstone’s lips curved approvingly. “In that case . . .” He cast a glance at Allardyce, who nodded, then cocked a brow at Rafe, who nodded even more definitely. Smiling faintly, Wolverstone looked again at Roderick. “I believe we can arrange to have Lucius Clifford appropriately dealt with in camera.” Wolverstone turned to Rafe. “You’re acquainted with the current head of the army, aren’t you?”

Rafe nodded. “He’s an old friend. I’ll take a detour via the barracks on the way to your house.” Rafe looked at Roscoe. “If you’ll lend me a few of your men, I’ll take our prisoner with me—best we deliver him to the barracks as soon as possible and set the process in motion.”

“Indeed.” Wolverstone’s expression grew cynical. “And just to be sure there are no sudden impulses to bruit abroad the story of the capture of a lingering deserter in pursuit of some glimmer of political glory, I’ll have a word with the minister tomorrow, just to indicate my interest and impress on him the desirability of keeping the entire sorry tale out of the public’s gaze.”

Christian Allardyce snorted. “Remind him that the war’s long over, and people don’t like to be reminded of it, not in any way.”

“Good idea.” Wolverstone drained his glass, as did the other men, then all set the tumblers down and rose.

“I’ll do better than just the men, I’ll lend you a carriage.” Roscoe met Rafe’s gaze. “I think it’s wise to remove Clifford from my care—I wouldn’t want him to meet with an accident before he got to his court-martial.”

Rafe grunted. “You never know—he still might. I’m not fond of deserters myself, and as for those at the barracks . . . well, we’ll see.”

Turning to Wolverstone, Roscoe held out his hand. “Thank you.” They all shook hands.

Wolverstone turned to the door. “I have to say that, in aiding us to bring a deserter who deliberately left another man to bear the stigma to face his court-martial, it’s I and mine who should thank you.”

With a gracious dip of his head, Wolverstone led the other men out of the library.

“S
o it’s all arranged? All taken care of?” Seated on the drawing room sofa, with Sarah alongside her and Gladys in her usual chair, Miranda looked at Roderick as he stood before the fireplace; he’d just finished relating the details of the meeting at Roscoe’s house.

Roderick spread his hands. “It was amazingly straightforward. They all know each other, but it was more than that. They think in the same way. It’s as if they recognize they’re all similar, and that breeds trust, so it was merely a matter of us describing the issue with Lucius, and them seeing our point and agreeing it would be best to proceed as we wished.”

“So it’s done.” She steadfastly put Lucius from her mind; to her and their wider family, he had died at Waterloo, albeit by his own act. After a moment, she smiled up at Roderick. “No more adventures for you.”

“No, thank heaven.” Roderick looked down at his injured foot. “I’m still recovering from the last, but at least I no longer have to hobble with a crutch.”

“We must remember to return that to Ridgware.” Miranda glanced at Sarah. “Whoever next goes to visit should take it back.”

Sarah smiled, nodded, and looked at Roderick.

Gladys claimed Miranda’s attention, then Hughes came in to announce that dinner was served. They all rose and went in.

Dinner proved a lighthearted, rather joyous gathering. While Roderick and Sarah, with the resilience of youth, had already left the past behind and were looking forward to shaping their future, Miranda judged that for herself and Gladys, their principal emotion was more in the nature of euphoric relief, although in her case her euphoria welled from multiple sources.

The threat to Roderick, and to her, had all stemmed from Lucius, and Lucius was no more.

That left her with issues to face and matters to decide, but although she now saw her direction clearly, the dinner table was not the place to dwell on her next step. Instead, she focused on what was before her—Roderick and Sarah, and the acquaintance that had become friendship, and was now so much more.

A soft smile on her lips, she watched her brother discussing his project for the Philanthropy Guild, something he wished to actively pursue now he was free to move around again. After her time at Ridgware, Sarah understood the concept and was quick to lend her support, discussing the next steps Roderick thought he should take, and the best ways to achieve them. Gladys listened, not entirely sure what Roderick was about, but willing to listen, to learn, to accept.

There was no doubt in Miranda’s mind that Roderick would soon ask Sarah to marry him, and that Sarah would accept. No one who saw the two together could fail to see the glowing connection between them, the mutual awareness and regard that shone in their faces and warmed their eyes.

Love. It was there in front of her, demonstrated, given life in a thousand little things.

Now her eyes had been opened, she saw it clearly.

Dessert had come and gone; the others were disposed to linger.

Easing back her chair, she stood. When Roderick and Sarah broke off their animated discussion and looked at her, she waved them to remain seated. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve some . . . unfinished business to attend to.”

Sarah smiled sweetly, but Roderick studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated, then added, “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

She let her smile deepen. “If there is, I’ll let you know.”

Quitting the dining room, she turned to the stairs. On gaining her room, she shut the door, then walked to the window seat and sat. She looked down at the side lawn, silvered by the light of a nearly full moon, at the trees whose almost-bare branches nevertheless largely blocked her view of the side gate.

Raising her gaze, she looked to the left, to where, between the various intervening trees, she could glimpse glimmers of white.

He was there, and she was here. How best to bridge that gap?

She sat and pondered, let her mind sweep back over the last weeks, over the days since she’d first met him.

Thought of all she’d learned—of him, and even more of herself.

Thought of what had grown between them, of what she now knew it to be.

Thought of what she most truly wanted of life.

Thought of backbone and the exercising of it.

Her conclusion was there, solid and sure in the center of her soul; she knew what she wanted. The only question remaining was how much she was willing to risk, and possibly to sacrifice, to secure it.

She studied her goal, evaluated her options, then rose and crossed to the bellpull.

Lady Mickleham was right. For a lady, exercising backbone was what life was truly about.

R
oscoe sat before the fire in his library. A book lay open on his lap—the same book he’d been reading more than a month ago when Miranda had arrived to ask him to help find Roderick. A glass of brandy sat on the table by his elbow, but both the printed page and the brandy remained ignored as he stared into the fire’s golden flames.

And remembered the warmth of different flames, the flames that leapt in Miranda’s eyes, that flared and flowed over him whenever they were close, when they touched, when they loved. The flames that had truly warmed him.

That had, for a short time, made his life complete, made him whole.

But it was over, their brief liaison at an end. And for a man as powerful as he, it was galling indeed to be forced to admit that there was nothing he could do to change that, no matter how much he might wish it.

He was who he was—Neville Roscoe—and he couldn’t turn back the clock. Couldn’t wipe the slate of the past twelve years clean, nor did he wish to. But because of that, there was no hope for them, no way . . .

She was who she was, too, and that meant there was no future for them.

He forced his gaze to the book, tried to focus on the words. Failed.

Tried again; he
had
to put her out of his mind and get on with his life, his earlier life which previously had seemed full to the brim with work and achievement, but somehow now felt like a hollow shell.

Leaving a man on guard watching the Claverton Street house wasn’t exactly letting go, but over the next weeks, he would probably get there. When the watchers grew bored and complained.

The front doorbell pealed, the sound faint, muted by distance and the thick walls of the library. Rundle would deal with whoever it was, yet he waited expectantly for several minutes before looking again at the book.

He tried to read but continued to hear sounds drifting from the front hall. Not a commotion, but there was something going on. He wondered if Rafe had encountered some difficulty and had brought Lucius Clifford back for safekeeping, but a glance at the clock confirmed it was past ten o’clock—too late for that, surely.

Besides, Rundle would have alerted him by now, or shown any visitor to him, but no one had appeared.

Gradually, the distant sounds faded, and silence returned.

He looked back at the book, then, jaw firming, closed it and set it aside, alongside his barely touched drink. Restlessness, curiosity, and an unsettled, distracted feeling combined to push him to his feet.

Footsteps. Straightening, facing the door, he strained his ears and heard the steps increasingly clearly as whoever it was came down the long corridor toward the library doors.

A light swinging stride. A female stride.

One he recognized.

He froze.

He vaguely registered that Rundle’s heavier tread was not in evidence, then the footsteps reached the door, it opened, and Miranda walked in.

Miranda saw him, smiled, then turned and shut the door.

He’d looked stunned—as stunned as she’d ever seen him—but when she turned back, he had his impassive expression in place, the impenetrable mask he used to face the world. She didn’t allow that to dim her smile as she crossed the room to him.

“What are you doing here?”

The growled, slightly rough question suggested he wasn’t happy to see her. She wasn’t about to let that turn her from her path either; she knew what she knew. Halting before him, she tipped up her head and met his eyes. “I’m here because . . . well, I suppose you could say I’m taking up residence. Here, in your house.”

For a moment, he didn’t react, then he blinked. Slowly. “What?”

She waved over her shoulder, toward the rest of the house. “Rundle and the others are taking my trunks upstairs. We decided to put them in the room next to yours. It seemed the most appropriate place.”

He dragged in a breath; when he met her eyes again his impassive mask was gone. Completely gone. Raw emotion filled his face. “Miranda . . . no. You can’t do this.”

She arched her brows. “Can’t I?”

“You’re not thinking clearly.” His eyes searched hers, saw the determination and resolution she made no effort to hide. He raked a hand through his hair and swung away to face the fire. “I can’t let you do this.”

She closed the distance; from behind him, she slipped her arms around his chest, laid her temple against his collar. “Yes, you can. I want a family, I always have, and I want to create that family with you. I know you want a family of your own as much as I do—I’ve seen you with your family, and with the family you’ve built here, but it’s not the same, is it? I want a family and a home of my own, and you want one, too.” She tightened her arms, hugged him. “All you have to do is say yes.”

For a moment he stood within her hold, one hand rising to rest over hers, then he sighed and let his head fall forward. After a moment, he gently pried her hands loose and, holding one, turned to face her. He met her eyes. “I can’t stop being Roscoe.”

“Yes, I know, and I’m not asking you to.” Moving closer, she raised her free hand and laid it on his chest, held his gaze. “I love you as you are, for who you are, not for who you were, or who you might be.”

He stilled. His eyes almost desperately searched hers. A heartbeat ticked past. “You love me?”