Woolgathering. Viewing the color in her cheeks, Roscoe could guess about what. Looking forward, he clenched his jaw against any unwise retort, reminded himself of the line to which wisdom dictated they both should hold, and after a moment managed to reply in a halfway reasonable tone, “I wanted to know if, as at Oxford, we should be wary of any neighbors from Cheshire who might be passing through.”
She grimaced. “We should. Most travel to London via other routes, but enough come through Birmingham for us to need to be on guard.”
“So we can’t use the major hotels.” He wasn’t keen on using the larger hotels either; the years might have aged him, but there were those in Birmingham who would still recognize him as the man he no longer was. His family didn’t need any unexpected sightings of a scion society hadn’t seen for twelve years. “Luckily, the town has several smaller establishments.”
He drove to a minor hotel with a tiny yard and rooms overlooking nothing more exciting than narrow streets and alleys. Catering to professional men traveling on business, the hotel nevertheless boasted several suites. After being shown around one, its sitting room and the two bedrooms on either side overlooking the rear alley, he left Miranda in the suite and descended to finalize the arrangements. After seeing their bags carried up the stairs by a footman, he walked out of the hotel and set off to learn what he could of Kempsey, Dole, and Roderick’s whereabouts.
He returned sooner than he’d expected. After barely an hour of wandering into taverns and chatting innocuously about mismatched carriage horses, the instincts honed by his years in London had started flickering.
He’d used Kempsey’s name only once, his description twice, and Dole’s name only once, all at different places, yet he’d caught enough arrested glances to grow wary; he might want to know where Kempsey, Dole, and Roderick were, but he didn’t want to attract attention, especially not that of Kempsey and Dole.
Accepting the outcome as confirmation that Gallagher had heard aright and Kempsey and Dole were indeed Birmingham born and bred, he’d stopped asking questions and, even though he hadn’t spotted anyone following him, had taken a roundabout route back to the hotel.
Climbing the main stairs, he paused on the landing on the first floor and, looking down into the narrow foyer, waited. After five minutes had elapsed and no one had sidled in to inquire about the gentleman who had just entered, he continued on to the second floor, and their suite.
Opening the door, he walked in.
Standing at the table between the two long windows, Miranda glanced up from some packages she was unwrapping. Hands stilling, her gaze searched his face. “What did you learn?”
Shutting the door, he shook his head. “I had to stop asking. My queries were attracting too much attention.” Shrugging off his greatcoat, he laid it over a chair.
She straightened. “If we can’t ask, how will we learn?”
“We have other options.” He crossed the room to her. “The Philanthropy Guild funds a large project here. Through that I have contacts who’ll be happy to help, and who are likely to be more successful than I. They’re locals, so information on other locals will be easier for them to get.”
Halting by the table, he studied the contents of various brown-paper-wrapped parcels. Bandages, ointments, gauze, a small pair of scissors, a set of small splints, several pills and powders. “Where did you get these?”
Miranda might not know him well, but she recognized the import of his too-quiet, too-even tone. However, having no idea why on earth he would disapprove, she ignored it. “From the apothecary’s a few streets away. If Roderick’s foot is broken and he’s in pain—and he may well be fevered by now, too—then I’ll need these to tend him once we rescue him. The sooner he gets help the better, and as we have no idea if there’ll be a doctor close—”
“You went out alone—you walked to the apothecary’s shop, and back, alone?”
She frowned. “Yes. I asked the clerk downstairs and—”
“Since when did walking the streets in a large city alone become acceptable practice for a respectable lady?”
She stiffened, straightened. “It was the middle of the afternoon and it was only a short distance—”
“How far away it was isn’t the point.”
Roscoe watched her hazel eyes ignite.
The carapace of rigid restraint behind which she’d retreated cracked and fell away, and she asked with heated intensity, “Then what is your point?”
Jaw set, he held her gaze and implacably stated the obvious. “You should have waited for me.”
Her eyes flew wide in wholly spurious shock. “Good gracious! If you imagine I’m going to ask your permission to fetch bandages for my injured brother, you can think again. Or is it that you believe me too weak to carry these parcels?” A haughty wave at the items on the table. “Or, no—wait. I have it. You believe that I’m too witless to know what to buy!”
“None of those things.” The sheer weight of reined temper in his voice should have made her back down; any of his men would have.
Instead, she leaned closer, her eyes boring into his. “Then what?”
The belligerent, stubborn, imperious demand rang in his ears. Eyes locked with hers, equally furious, he dragged in a breath, grimly held onto his temper. “Miss Clifford.”
Her eyes widened again. “What happened to Miranda?” She jabbed a finger at him. “You were quick enough to use my name when it suited you.”
His jaw felt as if it would crack. “Miranda, then. I—”
“For your information”—she tipped her chin higher—“I am not a child who needs to be watched over. I’m twenty-nine years old, I’ve managed a household for years, and I’m perfectly capable of walking several hundred yards in broad daylight without getting lost, or accosted, or whatever it is you’re imagining!”
She was a twenty-nine-year-old lady whose posture and glide evoked visions of a goddess, who dressed beyond conservatively yet succeeded in drawing male eyes wherever she went, but she lived too distanced from the wider world to have any notion of such visceral attraction.
Leashing his temper was what he needed to do; why it had escaped him, why the notion of her being potentially exposed to danger when he hadn’t been close enough to aid her had succeeded in so provoking it . . . eyes still locked with hers, he drew in a deep breath. Felt his temper quiver like a hound about to pounce. “It would,” he said, his tone deadly, low, precise, “have been better all around if you had waited until I returned—”
She threw her hands in the air. “I had no idea when you would come back!” Narrowing her eyes on his, she demanded, “And better for whom?”
His temper erupted. “Me, if you must know!”
She flung her arms wide. “Why?”
Involuntarily, he stepped closer.
Head tipping back, she held her ground, her adamantine gaze locked with his.
They stood toe to toe, temper to temper, will to steely will—while he battled the urge to sweep her into his arms and answer her question.
The heat of their tempers, and something else, licked like flames over them both.
This wasn’t wise. The effort it took to haul his impulses in and lash them down, then ease one small step back, away from the precipice on which they’d both stood teetering, left him inwardly trembling.
She blinked, seemed to realize only then how close to real danger she’d stood.
Breathing in enough to have her breasts rising, she edged back a step, too.
That made it easier for him to swing away, to swipe up his greatcoat, then stalk to the door before which his traveling bag sat. Bending, he hefted the bag, and with his hand on the doorknob glanced back. “What time’s dinner?”
She met his gaze levelly. “I arranged it for seven o’clock, in the dining room downstairs.”
“I’ll meet you here just before.” Not a question. Pushing the door open, he walked through.
Miranda watched the door close with careful precision.
She stared at the uninformative panels for a full minute, then, her heart still racing, lips firming, she turned back to sorting her supplies.
Nine o’clock the following morning saw her, garbed in her black mourning gown but without her hat and veil, standing beside Roscoe on the pavement outside a large church. A sign declared the massive edifice to be St. Philip’s, including St. Egbert’s Home for Boys. “The Philanthropy Guild supports the boys’ home?”
Starting up the steps, Roscoe glanced sideways to ensure she was following. “It was one of our first projects.” His first project, long before the Guild had been born. “And we don’t just support it. The Guild is the principal benefactor.”
Pushing open one of the heavy church doors, he held it for her. When she paused in the foyer, he waved down the nave. “There’s a corridor off the transept.”
He would have preferred not to have brought her with him, risking her learning more than he wished, but the thought of leaving her to spend her day alone, at liberty to wander wherever she took it into her head to go, had occurred only to be dismissed; the potential for calamity was too great.
Opening the door at the end of the transept, he stepped into the inner courtyard onto which the main building of St. Egbert’s faced. The clang of the school bell echoed off the stone façades; boys ranging in age from six years old to youths of fourteen were still racing across the cobbles, plunging into the various buildings in which their classes were held.
Waving toward the main entrance, he led Miranda on. “Reverend Nightingale’s in charge. With luck, he’ll be in and able to see us.”
The matron, Mrs. Swag, was hurrying across the front foyer; spotting him, her face creased in a wide smile. She bobbed, declared that Father Nightingale would be delighted to see them, and volunteered the information that the good reverend would be found in his study.
Roscoe let his rusty charm color his smile. “I know the way.”
“Of course you do, sir.” Mrs. Swag beamed. “I’d better get along.” With nods to them both, she hurried on.
Aware of Miranda’s gaze on his face, he took her arm as if to guide her, in reality to distract her. It worked; she allowed him to lead her down the long corridor to the study without posing further questions. After knocking and being bidden to enter, he opened the door, released her and waved her through, then followed.
Ensconced behind an ancient desk supporting a small mountain of papers, Reverend Nightingale glanced up. His eyes widened as they alighted on Miranda; setting down his pen, he rose, then he saw Roscoe and a broad smile lit his face. “Ah, my son—welcome. Welcome!” Shifting his bright blue gaze to Miranda, Nightingale beamed even more. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
After shaking hands, Roscoe performed the introductions, adding, “Miss Clifford and I are searching for her brother, Mr. Roderick Clifford. He’s a fellow member of the Guild and was kidnapped by two men while returning home after a recent Guild meeting.”
“Great heavens!” Nightingale looked from his face to Miranda’s, then waved them to the chairs before the desk. “But please, sit and tell me how I and St. Egbert’s can help.”
Roscoe explained about Kempsey and Dole, how he and Miranda had traced the pair to Birmingham, their home territory, and how he as an outsider couldn’t easily ascertain their whereabouts. “I know some of the lads here hail from similar areas as Kempsey and Dole. While I would normally hesitate to ask such a thing of youngsters, the truth is they could slip back and chat to their old friends and acquaintances and learn what I—or indeed anyone in authority—could not, namely whether Kempsey and Dole, and the sick and injured gentleman they have with them, are here, still in town, or if they’ve moved on, and if so, in which direction.”
Brow creased, Nightingale was nodding. “I see your point, and while I couldn’t, in all conscience, order the boys to help—and I know that’s not what you’re asking me to do—I agree that we should put the matter to them and ask if they’re willing to do what they can.” He glanced at Miranda. “I take it that finding Mr. Clifford is urgent?”
Her anxiety was so transparent that she hardly needed to say, “We believe so, sir.”
“If the boys agree to assist,” Roscoe said, “with your permission I’ll speak to them first, to stress that I don’t want any of them pressing their questions to the point of drawing attention.” He met Nightingale’s gaze. “I don’t doubt their abilities or their enthusiasm, but we want no heroics.”
“Indeed not.” Steepling his fingers, Nightingale retreated into thought.
Roscoe glanced at Miranda and found her gaze, every bit as pensive as Nightingale’s, studying him.
“I believe,” Nightingale said, “that I know just the lads to assist you.” Waving them to remain where they were, he rose. “I’ll ask one of the tutors to fetch them, and we can lay the matter before them and see what they think.”
Ten minutes later, after the boys had been summoned from their classes to the common room and addressed by Nightingale, then by Roscoe, it was apparent that all twelve were thrilled to be asked to assist the orphanage’s major patron—Miranda had heard enough to realize that Roscoe himself, Guild aside, was that—in such an exciting and adventurous way.
She was reassured by Roscoe’s lecture, by the weight of his will and the restrictions he imposed on the boys, including that they shouldn’t go “scouting” alone but remain in pairs at all times.
When he finished detailing exactly what they needed to know—stressing he wanted that and no more—Nightingale stepped forward and released the boys to their hunting, adding, “And remember, we want you back here by three o’clock at the latest, even if you’ve discovered nothing at all.”
Roscoe reinforced the edict with a look.
The boys nodded, grinned, saluted, and streamed out of the room.
“Well!” Nightingale turned to Miranda and Roscoe. “Why don’t I have the housekeeper bring us some tea, and over it I can bring you up to date with our achievements here?”
Roscoe nodded. “Thank you. As I’m here, if you have the time, I would appreciate a report.”
Miranda graciously accepted the offer of tea, and they repaired to the study.
The tea arrived, brought by a brisk housekeeper. Suitably supplied, Nightingale talked of his charges, reporting on their number, their achievements, and the orphanage’s board’s plans for the immediate future. Roscoe listened, his attention focused, his questions incisive and insightful.
Miranda sat back in her chair, sipped, and watched and learned. Her worry over Roderick was a living thing, roiling and surging inside her, but her curiosity over Roscoe was strong enough to distract her so that she could await the boys’ return with some semblance of patience.
Even while listening to Nightingale’s report, Roscoe was acutely aware of his silent companion, seated a little further back from the desk on his right. He suspected she’d eased her chair back deliberately so she wasn’t in his sight as he focused on Nightingale. So she would watch and listen without intruding, without him being conscious of it and therefore guarding his tongue.
He continued to guard his tongue and stood ready to guard Nightingale’s, too, if necessary. He’d first encountered the good reverend when he’d been in his late teens; a hellion from one of the local aristocratic families, he and his friends had occasionally stopped in Birmingham to carouse . . . Nightingale, then much younger, too, had stepped in to try and halt a fistfight between the well-heeled interlopers and a bunch of local lads.
In the end, Roscoe had felt compelled to cease his own contribution to the melee to help the—in those days—unworldly and severely outclassed reverend.
That had been the start of an unusual acquaintance; it had been through Nightingale and his supporters that he, wealthy enough even in his pre-Roscoe years to have been wondering what to do with all his winnings, had first been exposed to philanthropic ideals.
Although they’d never discussed it, and Nigh
tingale had never questioned his conversion to Roscoe, Nightingale nevertheless knew who he really was. Which family he belonged to, and what his real name was.
Roscoe saw no reason to allow Miranda Clifford access to that highly scandalous fact.
Luckily, Nightingale seemed to have no difficulty remembering he was now Roscoe. As their discussion wound down, Roscoe glanced at Miranda. She’d returned her cup to the tray. His and Nightingale’s closing comments had failed to hold her interest; he could almost see her anxiety rising like a tide to reclaim her.
He returned his gaze to Nightingale. “We’ve taken up a considerable amount of your morning, for which you have our sincere thanks, but we should leave you to your duties.” He rose, glanced at Miranda. “Perhaps we might walk in the grounds until the boys return.”
“Indeed, indeed!” Nightingale rose as Miranda came to her feet. “Please feel free to wander where you wish. We have no secrets here, and, frankly, your visit won’t go unremarked—both boys and staff will see the sincerity of your interest regardless of the reason that brought you here. And that does help.”
Walking them to the door, Nightingale continued, “I would be honored if you would join me for luncheon at the high table in the refectory—it will do the boys no harm to have to exercise their manners, and I suspect our intrepid questioners won’t return until the afternoon.”
They accepted with thanks, then, as Nightingale closed the study door behind them, Miranda turned to Roscoe. “So where can we stroll?”
He waved her down the corridor and fell into step beside her. “There are gardens, quite pleasant, on the other side of the church. They’re used to train the boys who show interest in becoming gardeners.”
“If I understood Reverend Nightingale correctly, the program here is structured to give the boys an occupation, rather than just an education.”
“That’s the board’s aim.”
“One you—and the Guild—clearly support.”
“None of us in the Guild can see the point of teaching such boys their letters and numbers and nothing else. There’s precious few jobs they might get with their reading and writing skills, and most don’t have an aptitude for such work anyway. The few who do can usually be found positions as clerks, printers’ apprentices, or the like, but the majority need something else.”