The Lady Risks All (37 page)

She frowned. “Caroline said gambling was the family addiction, yet I’ve never seen you gamble.”

He shrugged. “I run forty-three businesses, all based on gambling. I feel no need to sit down at a table to add to that.” He paused, then said, “It’s not the gambling per se that we’re addicted to, it’s the thrill of success.”

A piece of the puzzle of him slid into place. “That’s why you push Henry to try all sorts of novel things on the estate—why you insist he takes an active role in running almost everything.”

He glanced at her as if surprised she’d seen it, then nodded. “There are challenges in life other than those found over gaming tables that can give us the same satisfaction. We just have to find them.”

And he’d found his in becoming Roscoe.

His refusal to revert to Lord Julian did, indeed, now make sense. Much better sense than it had before. He was Roscoe, and for many many reasons, that was who he needed to be.

The moon was waning. Through the deepening darkness, she met his gaze. “Thank you for telling me.”

Now to get out of there and home to her room without allowing herself to think about this being the last time she would see him. She turned away and pushed back the covers. “And now it’s time for me to leave.”

They dressed in silence, then he fetched her cloak and they left the house and walked through the rear garden to the alley beyond. The night was cold; the moon had set, leaving the alley drenched in darkness. They walked side by side without touching, without speaking, leaving her concentrating on not thinking, on not allowing her mind to dwell on what had happened, what was happening, and what it meant—not yet.

From the instant he’d told her their liaison was at an end, she’d felt compelled to keep her emotions, her feelings, in check, compelled to project a cool, composed façade—to behave as she assumed a sophisticated lady of the ton would in such a situation.

But inside, behind that façade, something was tearing, ripping, but she couldn’t look to see what, or how badly. Not yet.

It wasn’t far to the garden gate of the Claverton Street house. He reached for the latch but didn’t immediately open it. He looked at her. Raising her head, shoulders back, spine straight, she forced herself to meet his gaze without letting any of her inner tumult show. Liaisons by their very nature were short-lived. They ended. She had to accept that theirs just had.

The shadows were too dense for her to see his face, to make out his expression. His eyes were pools of impenetrable darkness. “If I learn anything more about Kirkwell, I’ll send word.” He hesitated, then somewhat diffidently added, “If you should ever need the sort of help I can give, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask.”

It was all she could do to dip her head in acknowledgment.

He hesitated a moment more, then the latch clicked and he sent the gate swinging wide. “Good-bye, Miranda.”

It was her turn to hesitate, caught by a wild and desperate urge to throw caution to the wind, to throw herself into his arms and demand . . .

She drew in a tight breath and, head high, stepped through the gate. “Good night, Roscoe.”

Reaching out, she shut the gate behind her. And waited. Waited, all thought ruthlessly suppressed, suspended, until several long moments later she heard his footsteps moving slowly away from the gate and down the alley.

Once the sound had faded, she dropped her head back, closed her eyes, forced herself to draw a long, deep breath.

And let her thoughts free. Let her emotions and feelings erupt and roil through her, clashing, straining, raking, scouring.

The torrent was so turbulent that she could find no firm ground, no certainty, only confusion.

Only a nebulous all-encompassing hurt, an amorphous, deadening pain.

For which there was no one to blame. She’d instigated the liaison and had never planned for it to last beyond one night, then a few, then beyond the convenient opportunity provided by their sojourn at Ridgware.

Yes, Lucasta’s suggestion that he might revert to being Lord Julian had raised possibilities in her mind, but he wasn’t able to take that road, and after all she’d learned of his life as Roscoe . . .

So she’d asked for one more night, and he’d granted it, and they’d indulged for one last time, but clearly he’d been right to draw a line and say
No more.
There was nothing in his stance that she could argue with.
She
might know him as an honorable and worthy man—and that he wouldn’t turn his back on all those who now depended on him underscored that—but society wouldn’t see him in the same light, and ultimately society and its expectations still ruled her life.

The cold penetrated her cloak and she shivered. Gathering the folds more tightly about her, she looked down and started toward the house.

Why was she so emotionally wracked? She had no right that she could see to feel so.

Frowning, she climbed the steps to the terrace and let herself in through the morning room door.

She didn’t know what to think. Worse, she didn’t know what she felt. Or why. Could it be that what she felt for him was love? Was that why this hurt so much—so very very much?

Regardless, what had grown between her and him—the connection, the closeness, the violently passionate glory—was over. Ended. No more.

Chapter Eighteen

T
wo mornings later, Miranda sat alone in the morning room mending the hem of one of her gowns and ruthlessly keeping her mind on the simple task.

The previous day had vanished in a miasma of doubts, stunned helplessness, and utterly useless, senseless maunderings; this morning she’d woken firmly resolved to put her liaison with Roscoe behind her and get on.

Get on with living her life, with working out what she most wanted her life henceforth to be, and making the right decisions to secure precisely that. Courtesy of her time at Ridgware, she now knew what was possible and what she had to do; she just had to do it.

The household, however, hadn’t ceased to be. Even though it was obvious that sometime soon Roderick would marry and thereafter this house would be his wife’s to run, at present that task fell to her; she was still catching up with the myriad decisions her absence had left unresolved.

On top of that, Roderick was finding his convalescence every bit as difficult to bear as she’d guessed he would. She’d left him slouched in an armchair in the drawing room, supplied with the day’s news sheets and with Gladys watching over him; although he hadn’t made any complaint, the set of his lips, the darkness in his eyes, had spoken loudly enough. She fervently hoped the appeal she’d sent to Sarah’s family would solicit a favorable response, and soon; she couldn’t think of anything else she might do to alleviate her brother’s endurance vile.

She’d just tied off her thread and was reaching for her shears when the knocker on the front door was plied in a rigidly precise cadence, one she recognized. Hughes’s footsteps marched to the front door; quickly folding her sewing away, she set the basket aside, rose, and smoothed down her skirts.

Glancing at the mirror on the wall beside the door, she tucked several loose strands of hair back into her chignon, then drew in a breath, plastered on an appropriately welcoming smile, and sallied forth to learn what possibilities Mr. Wraxby might hold vis-à-vis her future life.

She entered the drawing room to see Wraxby bowing over Gladys’s hand. He turned and smiled at her, a cool gesture.

“Sir.” She gave him her hand, watching critically as he bowed over it. He really was a very
stiff
sort of person. Retrieving her fingers, she waved him to the sofa. He’d been away in the country, she recalled. “Have you just returned to the capital?”

“I returned two days ago.” Wraxby waited until she sat, then flipped up his coattails and sat rigidly upright on the sofa’s other end. “Business claims my time, but as I had a few hours free I thought to see how you all are faring.” He looked at Roderick’s foot. “How did you come by that, Clifford?”

Roderick smiled tightly. “Dashed inconvenient. I fell down the stairs.”

Because he was drunk?
She all but heard Wraxby’s thought.

A glance showed Gladys had sensed the same unvoiced reaction. Her aunt hurriedly said, “I’ve told him time and again that a gentleman shouldn’t go rushing up and down as if he were still a boy. But . . .” Gladys spread her hands in a what-would-you gesture.

Wraxby gravely inclined his head. “High spirits and an overabundance of energy. I face the same issues with my sons.”

Miranda shot a warning glance at Roderick. Wraxby’s sons were children; by the comparison he’d reduced Roderick to the same status. Turning to Wraxby, she asked, “How has the weather been in Suffolk, sir?”

For the next several minutes, Wraxby, Gladys, and she engaged in a stilted conversation revolving about the unseasonable warmth. Other than a pointed comment or two, Roderick contributed little, but she noted the deepening lines bracketing his mouth, his increasing tension.

So when Wraxby asked if she would care to accompany him on a walk around the square, she was perfectly ready to smile and accept, and get him out of the house.

Allowing him to help her into her coat, she reflected that, aside from all else, she needed to evaluate his still-pending offer, and decide whether the position of his wife might align with her newly evolving requirements of life.

Now the uncertainty and distraction of Roscoe was behind her, she would go forward and evaluate the chances fate consented to send her way.

Of course, in reaching the square they had to pass within sight of the big white house on Chichester Street. She fought to keep her gaze averted and her mind from dwelling on any of the occupants.

“Miss Clifford, I wonder if you have given the subject of our previous conversation any further thought?”

By which Wraxby meant his still-pending offer, the offer he was waiting for her to agree to accept before he made it. Strolling by his side, her hand on his sleeve, she inclined her head. “Indeed, sir, I have, but as I’m sure you will appreciate, Roderick’s accident has been something of a distraction.”

“Of course.”

“However,” she continued, “I’m glad to have this opportunity to further clarify matters between us. If I understood you correctly . . .” She led Wraxby through the elements of his proposal, encouraging him to further elaborate. He confirmed that his need for a wife was driven by practical considerations rather than any true desire on his part for even a partner, much less a lover.

In the end, she baldly asked, “Sir, I feel I must inquire as to why you believe we might suit.”

They’d reached the river and were strolling along the towpath. Wraxby frowned at the path ahead, then opened his mouth and reiterated all the unemotional assessments of her character he’d previously advanced, apparently not realizing that she’d given him a last chance to speak of any finer feelings.

Clearly finer feelings were not in Wraxby’s repertoire, at least not with respect to her. While that made his proposal somewhat depressing, at least he was honest.

She accepted his answer with a nod. “I have one final question, sir. What are your thoughts on philanthropy—meaning charitable projects of significant scope, such as the patronage of schools, orphanages, and the like?”

Wraxby didn’t immediately reply. They’d turned once more up Claverton Street and were pacing back toward the house when he finally said, “I have heard of such projects, of course. I understand there are several foundations actively engaged in such work. However, I myself see no reason to expend effort and money on matters I deem more correctly the authorities’ domain. If improvements to such institutions are truly necessary, they will doubtless be provided. I prefer to keep charity closer to home.” He glanced at her, a faint frown on his face. “I sincerely hope you have not become infected with any of this latest fashionable nonsense, my dear Miss Clifford. But then I’m certain your aunt would have guided you more carefully.”

Miranda managed a thin smile. “Indeed, sir. I wished for your opinion and must thank you for your candor.”

They’d reached the front gate of Roderick’s house. Wraxby halted. Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him.

Wraxby studied her expression. “I feel I must ask, Miss Clifford, whether you have reached any conclusion with regard to your willingness to entertain an offer from me.”

“I appreciate your patience, sir.” She paused, then raised her head. “While I’m almost certain of my decision, I would like a few more days to consider further.” She met his gaze. “I believe I will be able to give you an answer shortly.”

Wraxby inclined his head; from his self-satisfied expression, she suspected he assumed she would decide in his favor. “In that case, I will, if you’re agreeable, call on you in two days’ time. I have business to attend to until then, but will be free to visit in the afternoon. I will call on you then.”

Smiling politely, she gave him her hand, then watched as he walked to where a boy held his horse. After handing the lad a coin, Wraxby mounted. He raised a hand in farewell, then rode up the street.

She watched him go, eyes on his rigid, unbending back. She tried to imagine him as her husband, and failed. But she had to consider every option.

Turning, she went through the gate, shut it behind her, then walked slowly down the path. Would life as a glorified nursemaid with no compensating chance of enriching her life through philanthropic endeavors or any similar enterprises be enough to satisfy her?

The answer seemed obvious, yet given she had to make a new life for herself, she would do the sensible thing and sleep on her thoughts before she rejected Wraxby.

“N
o problems of any kind in the Fleet or the Strand. Covent Garden’s had its usual ructions, but nothing Kane or Higgens couldn’t handle.”

Seated behind the desk in his study, Roscoe nodded to Rawlins to continue. Together with Mudd, Rawlins had recently returned from accompanying Jordan on his weekly round reconciling the funds at a selection of the clubs. While Jordan counted the money, Rawlins and Mudd spoke with the staff. Although their conversations were passed off as idle chatting, the pair often picked up early signs of trouble on the floors of the clubs.

“We stopped at Holborn. My instincts shivered, so to speak, but I didn’t hear anything specific.” Rawlins glanced at the door. “Might do to ask Mudd when he gets back.”

Mudd had been called out by Rundle to receive a report from one of the watchers stationed nearby. As since Roderick’s kidnapping there’d been several groups positioned about the neighborhood, until Mudd returned, Roscoe couldn’t tell which area, or whose safety, the report concerned. Reining in his impatience, Roscoe asked, “Did you call at Bermondsey?”

“Not this time—Jordan said it’s on next week’s list. That’s where you’ve got that new gent running things?”

“Yes—Titchester.” Roscoe considered, then said, “Let’s send one of the other men around, someone Titchester won’t recognize. Just to make sure all’s continuing smoothly there.”

“I’ll send Stackpole. He hasn’t been out in the clubs for a while.”

Roscoe nodded and jotted a note.

The door opened and Mudd came in. For a very large man, Mudd moved silently, light on his very large feet.

Roscoe leaned back and arched a brow.

Mudd halted beside the chair he’d occupied earlier. “That was Coogan from the group watching the Clifford house. ’Parently a gent, tall, forty-ish, graying hair, well-dressed, riding a brown nag, arrived a little while ago, went inside, but about ten minutes later came walking out with Miss Clifford. They strolled through the square. Coogan passed them on to Wilkins there, and Wilkins followed them down to the river, then back up Claverton Street. According to Wilkins, Miss Clifford and the gent were talking the whole way, but not jolly-like—more like they were discussing something serious. Only smile he saw was at the end, when Miss Clifford saw the gent off at the front gate, then, looking like she was thinking hard, she went indoors.”

Roscoe nodded and waved Mudd to sit again. “Very well. To return to Holborn.” He looked at Mudd. “Rawlins says something’s off—did you pick up anything specific?”

Mudd blinked at him, then looked at Rawlins. The pair exchanged a glance, then both looked at Roscoe again.

Rawlins leaned forward. “Don’t you want us to find out who this gent who called in Claverton Street is?”

Roscoe met Rawlins’s gaze, then looked at Mudd. “Did Coogan or Wilkins see anything to suggest that Miss Clifford is in any danger from this gentleman, or that she fears him?”

Mudd hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Wilkins said they were just walking and discussing.”

“Well, then, there’s no reason for us to interfere, is there?”

The silence that ensued told Roscoe more clearly than if they’d spoken that neither of his bodyguards agreed.

He fixed Mudd with a pointed glance. “Holborn?”

Mudd shifted, frowned. “Not off, exactly, but . . .”

A
fter Mudd and Rawlins left, Roscoe debated for a full minute, then sighed, reached for a fresh sheet of paper, and picked up his pen.

Five minutes later, he rang for Rundle. When his butler materialized, he handed him the folded missive. “Have this delivered to Mr. Clifford immediately. Tell the footman to wait for an answer.”

Rundle bowed. “Yes, sir.”

A
n hour later, Roscoe made his way to Jordan’s office. As usual, the door stood open. Propping a shoulder against the frame, he studied the man, no longer as young as he’d been when Lord Julian Delbraith had first tapped him on the shoulder to become his man of business more than thirteen years ago, yet there were still three pencils stuck behind Jordan’s ears, he’d taken off his jacket and was working in his shirtsleeves, and his fingers were grimy from handling dozens of sovereigns.

The scritch of pen on paper and the clink of coins was familiar music in the room. Through association with him, Jordan had become a very wealthy man, yet he still loved counting money.

Hiding a smile, Roscoe pushed away from the door and strolled into the room. Aside from all aspects of managing money, there was one other skill at which Jordan excelled.

Finally realizing he was no longer alone, Jordan glanced up and grinned. “You should be pleased with the good weather—people have stayed in town longer, and we’re reaping the rewards.”

“Excellent.” Roscoe halted, fingers tapping lightly on the desk. “I have another job for you. Knowing you, it won’t take long.”

Instantly diverted, Jordan arched his brows.

“Wraxby—a gentleman from Hill’s End in Suffolk. I want to know everything about him.”

Jordan whipped a pencil from behind his right ear and jotted on a scrap of paper. “When do you need the information by?” Jordan looked up.

“As soon as you can get it.”

Jordan nodded, rose, and pulled his coat off the back of his chair. Shrugging into it, he glanced at the clock on the wall opposite his desk. “Let’s see what I can turn up this evening.”

With a dip of his head, Roscoe led the way out; in the corridor, he stood back as Jordan locked the door—a strong-room door masquerading as a normal door. Straightening, Jordan flicked him a salute and strode off.

Roscoe followed more slowly, doing everything he could
not
to think about why he’d done what he just had.