The Lady Risks All (10 page)

Rawlins grinned. “Yes, sir.” Taking the letter, he left, a distinct spring in his step.

The door closed behind Rawlins and silence descended. Roscoe sat in his chair and considered Miranda Clifford’s down-bent head. Waited . . .

When she finally glanced sideways up the room at him, he caught her gaze. “I do not permit prostitution, or soliciting for same, to be practiced in my establishments. I have a large number of female staff, but I ensure they make an excellent living at their trade—dealing cards and managing the social aspects of said establishments.”

She returned his gaze steadily, then said, “I hadn’t really thought of it, but if I had . . . I suspect I would have made the same mistake as all of society and assumed such practices were an integral part of gambling establishments.”

“Which shows how much society knows.” He hesitated, then said, “My establishments are specifically designed to attract hardened, inveterate gamblers—they’re the ones who lose the most money—and the truth is that all hardened gamblers are essentially blind to feminine company while gambling.”

Her lips quirked. She looked down. “I can imagine that’s true—in my experience, men, all men, tend to focus on only one thing at a time.” Settling on the sofa, she raised her book and fixed her gaze on the page.

He studied her for an instant, then, inwardly shaking his head, returned to the letter he’d been writing.

W
hy he’d felt the need to defend himself—and the women who worked for him—he didn’t know, but he had felt not just an impulse but a compulsion to do so.

While he escorted Miranda Clifford downstairs to the smaller dining room, where, Rundle had informed him, luncheon was awaiting them, he wrestled with the realization that, for some reason, her opinion of him and his people mattered.

Given his history, that made little sense; he’d long ago turned his back on the opinion of polite society.

Then again, as he ushered her into the dining parlor and saw the linen cloth on the table, the dishes, silverware, and crystal laid out, it seemed he wasn’t the only one trying to show his best face to Roderick’s sister.

After settling her in the chair to the right of his carver, he sat, and wondered if his staff’s reactions, their insistence on providing the sort of service they considered her due—morning tea on a tray, luncheon in the dining parlor—had arisen because she was the only lady he had ever permitted inside this house, much less inside his study, his inner sanctum.

That was, he had to admit, excuse enough for their actions. He wasn’t entirely sure what had moved him to acquiesce, but he was and doubtless always would be an easy mark for anyone devoted to protecting family.

Miranda looked about her with keen interest, drinking in all she saw. Far from being bored, she’d spent her morning being . . . educated. She hadn’t expected to be waited on, to be served morning tea from a Sèvres service, then escorted to a luncheon table so elegantly laid. Nothing jarred; nothing was too ornate or heavy. Or too extravagant.

The food followed a similar principle; a light soup, followed by platters of cold meats and seafood patties, with various vegetable garnishes. Cheeses followed, along with a fruit platter. The wine was light and fruity, too.

On entering the room and sinking into the chair Roscoe had held for her, her gaze had fallen on the wide painting adorning the opposite wall—a Scottish scene complete with stag. It had looked vaguely familiar, so she’d asked him about it, then extended the conversation to the other artwork she’d seen—the paintings on the walls, the busts, figurines, and sculpted bowls placed here and there, the fabulous tapestries.

While they ate, he answered her questions; his eye for art was one subject they both, apparently, felt was safe. Regardless, his answers and the appreciation and knowledge they revealed only underscored her increasingly definite conclusion.

Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king, wasn’t who, much less what, society thought him.

“I have to ask.” Leaning back in his chair, long fingers idly stroking the stem of his crystal goblet, he fixed her with a direct blue glance. “Won’t your aunt be missing you by now?”

“No. I told her at breakfast that I was going out to visit someone I hoped would help me find Roderick.”

“From all I’ve gathered, she would be horrified to learn that you’re here, under this particular roof.”

Miranda quelled a shudder at the thought of Gladys’s reaction. “I daresay she would, but I’m twenty-nine years old and very much my own person—and at this point my first and only aim is to find and rescue Roderick.” She considered, then added, “Gladys is, in all probability, frantic with worry as we speak. However, her obsession with avoiding scandal is such that she will not lift a finger to find out where Roderick is, which leaves finding help and rescuing him up to me.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Roscoe caught her gaze. “As you’ve yet to receive any demand, I think we can rule out ransom as a motive. Which leads me to ask if, to your knowledge, Roderick had any enemies.”

She thought, after a moment shook her head. “I honestly can’t think of anyone with whom he’s had even a significant disagreement.”

Roscoe inwardly grimaced, unsurprised by her answer. Her brother was quiet, earnest, kind and generous, personable, but not stupid, the sort of person who created very few ripples while walking through the pond of life. But . . . he considered her. “I know a little of Roderick’s background—that he was born in Cheshire, at Oakgrove Manor, which he inherited from your father and continues to own. But I need to know more—there might be something in your joint pasts that might connect with this, so give me a potted history.”

His reason was real enough, but he also wanted to learn more about her, and it would keep her occupied while they waited for his men to find some sign.

“Well . . . Roderick is the youngest of the three of us—Rosalind, me, then him. We were all born at Oakgrove. Our parents were alive, then, of course, but when Roderick was an infant and I was six, and Rosalind seven, our parents died in a boating accident.” She sat back in her chair, her gaze on her plate, then fleetingly arched her brows. “Truth be told, even I can’t remember much of our parents. Our aunts—Corrine and Gladys Cuthbert—our mother’s older unmarried sisters, came to live with us, and—”

He listened, and with a question here, a query there, teased out a far more detailed history than the one in his file. A history of Roderick, but equally, indeed even more so, a history of her.

It took a little probing to make sense of the basis of her aunt’s belief in Miranda’s and Roderick’s social vulnerability—the reason they had to live by a rigidly respectable code. He’d known that Roderick’s money, and therefore hers, too, derived from the mills, but they hadn’t themselves engaged in trade, nor had their parents. At least in the circle to which he’d been born, that absolved them of any implied taint. Money—as the aristocracy well understood—was money; where it came from only mattered if the connection was still fresh enough, as someone had once put it, to be smelled.

That said, in the lower gentry, the circle in which her aunt moved, the rules might well be different; for all he knew, her aunt’s view might be entirely valid in that sphere.

But as he’d hoped, Miranda’s revelations took him further. Her position in Roderick’s life, largely standing between her brother and her aunts, explained her habit of toeing the line her aunts had drawn regardless of whether it suited her or not. It wasn’t so much what she said in describing Roderick’s life as the minor asides, and what she didn’t say, that told the tale; especially after her elder sister’s sad death, she had, over and again, bowed to her aunts’ dictates in order to keep the peace, in order to protect Roderick.

By the time they rose from the luncheon table and he agreed that he could see nothing in all she’d told him to suggest any enemies who might have kidnapped Roderick, he’d also solved the conundrum she herself posed. The trenchant respectability she clung to wasn’t natural but had been imposed, constantly, over many years, on her.

She had never embraced the doctrine but had accepted the imposition because that had been the best way to protect Roderick. However, now that clinging to respectability was no longer a viable way to protect Roderick, she’d forsaken that path, stepped away from it, and, even though the move had meant walking into an arena in which she was out of her depth, had come to him for help.

As he climbed the stairs by her side, he wondered where her new path would lead her, whether she would step back to respectability once Roderick was safe, or . . .

Regardless, his compulsion to help her find and rescue her brother had grown even more impossible to defy.

L
ate that afternoon, when Miranda had set aside her novel and had been standing, restlessly, by the window looking out over his rear gardens for over half an hour, playing havoc with his concentration, a tap fell on the door, then it opened and Mudd looked in.

Mudd saw him, glanced at Miranda, ducked his head in a bobbing bow, then entered. Shutting the door, Mudd faced him—but had to battle the urge to look at her.

“Well?” Setting down his pen, Roscoe put his henchman out of his misery. “What have we found?”

“Located the coach.” Mudd seemed relieved to know which of them to address. “Or leastways, we know where it hails from. A jarvey dropping off a fare in Claverton Street saw it roll away—it passed him so he got a good look. He recognized it—swears it belongs to the owner of the Blue Jug, a tavern down by the docks. He—the jarvey—says the owner hires the coach out.”

He glanced at the ormolu clock on one corner of his desk; it was after five o’clock. “Best we arrive at the tavern when it’s most crowded.” He looked at Mudd. “Tell Rawlins the three of us will leave at half past seven. We’ll take one of the carriages.”

“Yessir.” Mudd grinned, turned, nodded politely to Miranda, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Rising, he walked down the room to where Miranda stood, frowning. “I’ll go and question the owner and see what he can tell us.”

Her head snapped up; she stared at him. “I’m coming, too.”

He felt his face set. “No. You’re not. I—”

“Mr. Roscoe.” She straightened to her full height, tipped up her chin. “I—”

“Just Roscoe,” he growled.

“Regardless!” Her eyes flashed. “I will not sit tamely—”

“
Miss
Clifford
.” He had extensive experience in using his voice to command obedience; he used every ounce of both experience and will to shut her up.

Lips compressing to a thin line, she glared.

He ignored the glare. Only just stopped himself from returning it. “I have allowed you to sit in my house, in my study, all day, and wait so you could hear the news firsthand. That, in case you hadn’t noticed, was a boon—something I didn’t have to grant but elected to extend to you. However, you cannot expect me to step over the line of what I can in all conscience condone and allow you to accompany me to a dockside tavern. Even were you to agree to remain in my carriage, protected by my coachman, the area is too rough and dangerous for me to countenance taking you into it. To say it’s no place for a lady, let alone a respectable one, would be a massive understatement.” His impassivity teetered. “Great heavens, woman—even
I
will be taking two bodyguards with me.”

She frowned, rebellion still roiling in her eyes.

“Don’t make me regret allowing you to stay.”

Her lips pressed tight again, holding back whatever rash words she might have uttered.

Deeming that a victory a wise man would seize with all speed, he stepped back and waved to the door. “Come. I’ll walk you home.” Even as he turned to the door, he sensed her drawing in a breath. “And for the Lord’s sake, don’t try to tell me that’s not necessary!”

They left the house in stiff silence, this time taking the route through the rear gardens and out into the alley.

Irritated, but accepting she would get no further concessions from her erstwhile host, Miranda glanced at the gate as he shut it. “Is that never locked?” When he shook his head, she frowned and started down the alley. “Given the wealth of artworks in your house, many of which would be easy to carry out, aren’t you worried about burglars?”

He looked at her until she met his gaze. “I’m Neville Roscoe.”

She blinked. “And that’s enough?”

He shrugged and faced forward. “Even the most idiotic of burglars is going to find out whose house they plan to burgle, especially a house that looks like mine. Once they learn I own it, they look elsewhere.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t, in her view, that frightening; from all she’d learned today, the bogeyman Neville Roscoe was largely an illusion created by a man with a subtle mind and a remarkable understanding of human foibles.

But she wasn’t short of understanding herself, which was why she hadn’t bothered continuing their earlier argument. She allowed him to walk her to Roderick’s garden gate, bade him a civil farewell, coolly received his promise to tell her tomorrow of all he learned on the docks tonight, then inclined her head and shut the gate.

She waited until she heard his footsteps fade away down the alley, then snorted, turned, and marched to the house. Reaching the terrace, she opened the door and went into the morning room. Crossing to the escritoire, she plunked her reticule down on the desk, then planted her hands on her hips, glared at the innocuous wall, and told it what she hadn’t told him. “If you imagine I’m going to sit quietly by the fire and wait until tomorrow to learn what’s happened to Roderick, you, sir, need to think again.”

T
hree hours later, from the darkness inside a hackney drawn up under the heavy shadows of the trees at one corner of Dolphin Square, Miranda watched a sleek black town carriage turn out of the drive that led to the portico at the side of Roscoe’s house. The carriage headed down the street toward the city. With the head of her grandfather’s walking cane, she raised the trapdoor in the hackney’s roof. “That’s the one.” She kept her voice unnaturally low, her tone gruff. “Follow, but don’t get so close they notice you.”