Her eyes narrowed; lips compressed, she held his gaze for several moments, then very evenly said, “I assume you’re talking about Wraxby.”
He nodded.
Without taking her eyes from his, she drew in a long breath, then asked, “What have you learned?”
“Wraxby’s vices are not those of commission but omission. He’s devoted to his three sons, but in his eyes they can do no wrong, and his neighbors openly state that the three boys literally drove their mother to an early grave. Wraxby’s principal motive in taking a second wife is to find someone to nurture his sons—of whom devils, fiends, and demon-spawn were the most repeatable descriptions given by those who know them. Wraxby is also ambitious, both monetarily and socially, and is rigidly conservative. He believes his wife should devote herself utterly to supporting him in his aspirations, running his household and social affairs as he dictates, with blatant respectability and glowing success. At the same time, he’s incapable of believing any ill of his sons, much less acting to rein in their behavior, nor yet allowing anyone else to do so. The household has not kept a governess or tutor longer than a month, and the rest of the staff are in constant flux, and now have to be hired from London as no locals will work in that house.” He paused, holding her wide eyes. “For any woman, that’s a recipe for disaster. For you . . . you would be foolish beyond permission to accept Wraxby’s suit.”
Miranda bit her tongue against a near-overwhelming urge to crisply inform him that she did not need him to tell her what she should and should not do. For several moments she stood with lips pressed tight while she fought the words back, then she nodded haughtily. “That matches my own observations.”
More, it gave her a context, a framework to make sense of said observations and of all she’d learned from Wraxby. He wasn’t a bad man, but the position he was offering, especially as it came with not a shred of even the mildest affection, was simply and definitely not for her.
If not for the irritation bubbling up inside her, she might have felt grateful for his succinct summary of Wraxby’s situation. Instead . . . irritation was compounded by aggravation; simply being within two feet of him was, apparently, enough for her senses to vividly recall what it felt like to be enfolded in his arms, to lean into the solid warmth of him and feel his arms close around her, to yearn to feel that again, only to remember that, thanks to his decision to end their liaison, that wasn’t going to happen ever again.
Raising her head, she dismissively stated, “I didn’t need you to elucidate Wraxby’s shortcomings—I’d already seen them. I’m hardly a ninnyhammer.” No—she was the woman who, when she rejected Wraxby, was going to have to bear with Gladys’s moaning while simultaneously coping with her own disappointment and still confused feelings over the end of her relationship with . . . the very man who thought it appropriate to lecture her about Wraxby. Tipping her chin higher, she all but snapped, “In future I would appreciate it if you refrained from taking any interest in my life—I’m perfectly capable of dealing with my potential suitors myself.”
Something flashed in the dark sapphire of his eyes. “Really? In that case it might help you to know that by and large gentlemen do not appreciate being strung along. If you intend dismissing Wraxby, then do it—don’t go walking alone with him, don’t go driving with him, and don’t continue smiling at him.” He clamped his lips shut. His jaw clenched, then he all but growled, “He won’t appreciate that.”
I won’t appreciate that.
She blinked. He might have said one thing, but his real meaning resonated with bell-like clarity. Her confusion deepened.
He searched her eyes, her face. His features were set, even more implacably unreadable than usual. “Never mind.” He ground out the words, turned, and jerked open the gate. About to stride out, he paused; the look he cast her was all heated darkness. “Just get rid of Wraxby—he’s not for you.”
Before she could respond, he stepped into the alley and rather forcefully shut the gate.
She hauled in a huge breath—then glared at the gate. With a frustrated growl of her own, she swung around and marched toward the house.
What the devil did he think he was doing, extrapolating his friendship with Roderick, presuming upon it to pass judgment on her behavior? On how she chose to live her life? To telling her what she should do?
Damn him! How dare he?
As for the nonsense of Roderick’s would-be killer seeking to gain Roderick’s fortune through marrying her . . . “Rubbish!” The would-be murderer would have to show himself to do that. “As if I wouldn’t notice!”
Muttering imprecations fueled by a roiling mix of emotions, she stalked onto the terrace and through the morning room. She was halfway up the stairs before her whirling emotions flung up an alternative scenario. Pausing on the landing, she considered it. “He was the one who ended our liaison.”
True, but given the sort of man he was, given they had been that close, perhaps his attitude was simply an expression of lingering protectiveness.
Minutes ticked by as she stood on the landing, wondering . . . abruptly, she shook her head, mentally shook free of the haunting memories, the now never-to-be-realized hopes, drew in a deep, fortifying breath, and continued up the stairs.
The following morning brought good news and relief in the person of Sarah, who arrived accompanied by her eldest sister, Lady Mickleham, a tall, rather large, fashionably handsome matron considerably older than Sarah.
Gladys, predictably, was flustered, but after consorting with the dowager and duchess, Miranda confidently greeted her ladyship, smiled and warmly embraced Sarah, then escorted the two ladies to where Roderick had hauled himself out of the armchair and to his feet the better to make his bow.
They sat, and Lady Mickleham consented to take tea. While she poured and passed around the cups and the plate of delicate tea cakes Cook had provided, Miranda was pleased to see Sarah and Roderick with their heads already together, exchanging news of the days they’d spent apart.
Sarah had pulled up a straight-backed chair and placed it beside the armchair Roderick perforce occupied, his bandaged foot propped on a footstool, his crutch leaning against the back of the chair. Gladys remained in the other armchair, while Miranda and her ladyship sat on the sofa opposite. The arrangement allowed the three of them to chat freely while Sarah and Roderick talked quietly of other things.
Taking in Roderick’s smile and the alertness and absorption now lighting his expression, Miranda turned to Lady Mickleham. “Dare I hope you can spare Sarah to us for the day? We would be happy to send her home in the carriage at whatever time you wish to specify.”
Lady Mickleham, too, had been viewing the young couple with something approaching august approval. Her gaze on them, she nodded, then looked at Miranda. “I must thank you for your invitation. Caroline wrote and told me of the occurrence that left your brother injured and at Ridgware. I and the rest of the family were happy to learn that Sarah had proved so useful. As, clearly, she wishes to remain, and as you are agreeable, I see no reason she shouldn’t. If you could send her home by five o’clock?”
The arrangements were made. Fifteen minutes later, tea and cakes consumed, Lady Mickleham rose and took leave of Roderick and a still nervous Gladys, then Miranda escorted her ladyship out of the house.
On the path leading to the front gate, Lady Mickleham halted and swung to face Miranda.
Halting too, Miranda waited, her expression encouraging.
“Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Miss Clifford”—Lady Mickleham held her gaze—“but from what I’ve already seen, Caroline’s suggestion that there could well be a tendre forming between Sarah and your brother appears well founded. Consequently, I feel I must ask if you and your aunt foresee any difficulty should that tendre develop further?”
Miranda wished Gladys had been there to hear her ladyship’s question, to understand that it was Sarah’s tonnish family who felt that the Cliffords might have reservations as to any prospective ma
tch. However . . . she arched her brows. “As we are speaking bluntly, if it should transpire that Roderick and Sarah wish to marry, my aunt and I would be happy to welcome Sarah as Roderick’s bride.”
Lady Mickleham hesitated. “I understand that Caroline explained the . . . ah, difficulties with Sarah over the last season.”
“Indeed, but with regard to that, in the time I’ve known Sarah I’ve seen no evidence of any flightiness or inconstancy of character.” Miranda paused, then went on, “She and Roderick seemed to develop a bond, almost from the first. She has been nothing but devoted in her care and support. In fact, when Roderick was attacked—albeit as part of a staged trap, but neither Sarah nor I knew that—she flew to his defense without hesitation.” She met her ladyship’s eyes. “I know because I was there, too.”
Lady Mickleham nodded. “From our family’s perspective, Sarah’s reaction to and continuing interest in your brother had been both a blessing and a relief. That her interest is reciprocated is even more reassuring. When Caroline first wrote of it, I was skeptical, but from all I’ve seen of Sarah since her return to town, and”—she tipped her head toward the house—“just now, it does indeed seem that my sister has finally found her backbone.”
Miranda smiled and together with her ladyship walked on toward the gate.
“That, to my mind,” Lady Mickleham continued, “was what she always lacked. Backbone, and a defined purpose, something she could strive for, with which she could align her will.” Her ladyship flicked a smiling glance Miranda’s way. “I’m known as something of a plain-speaker, Miss Clifford, but in my experience, to make her way in life, every lady needs to develop backbone, and to exercise it, too.”
Opening the gate, Miranda inclined her head in acknowledgment and followed her ladyship through.
After seeing Lady Mickleham into her carriage and confirming that Sarah would be delivered to her ladyship’s house in Berkeley Square by five o’clock, Miranda waved the carriage off, then turned and walked back through the gate. Shutting it, she strolled toward the house, her ladyship’s words circling in her mind.
“To make her way in life, every lady needs to develop backbone, and to exercise it.”
As Miranda now viewed things, that was sound advice.
Wraxby had said he would call that afternoon, and she had, more or less, agreed to give him his answer. Or at least indicate her willingness or otherwise to agree to his offer when he made it.
Shaking her head at such convolution, she sat in the morning room finishing the last of the mending while rehearsing the best words in which to couch her rejection. She’d been surprised when he’d called the previous day to take her driving in the park in a curricle he’d hired expressly for the outing. From her reading of him, combined with Roscoe’s revelations, Wraxby’s unexpected attention had strengthened her suspicion that, despite what had appeared to be his caution and diffidence over offering for her hand, Wraxby was, in fact, quite keen to have her agree to be his wife.
Given the weeks over which he’d dragged out his peculiar courtship, his sudden attentiveness was, in her eyes, simply confirmation of her reasons to refuse him; there was an element of duplicity in his entire approach, and that was something she had no time for.
She was reaching for the last piece of mending, one of Roderick’s shirts with a ripped seam, when the knocker on the front door rapped imperiously.
Not Wraxby’s usual, rigid rat-tat, but perhaps he was nervous. Inwardly sighing, she set aside the mending basket, rose, settled her gown, neatened her hair, and went out to depress Wraxby and Gladys both.
Hughes had already opened the front door and conducted their visitor to the drawing room. She met the butler as he returned toward the rear of the house. Hughes smiled. “Ah—there you are, miss. Gentleman asking to see you and Mr. Roderick. He’s in the drawing room with Mr. Roderick now.”
“Thank you, Hughes.” Wraxby, of course, would want to ask Roderick’s permission before formally offering for her hand. Composing her features, mentally girding her loins, she walked to the drawing room, opened the door, and went in.
She halted with her hand on the doorknob. The gentleman bowing over Gladys’s hand wasn’t Wraxby.
Straightening, he turned to her. The smile on his face deepened as he met her gaze.
She blinked, stared, then blinked again. “Lucius?”
His smile dissolved into a grin, one she remembered. Releasing Gladys’s hand, with a nod and a soft laugh he came toward her. “I wondered if you would remember me, cuz.”
Amazed, she returned his smile and held out both hands. “Of course.”
Taking one hand in each of his, he squeezed gently, then raised one, briefly brushing his lips over her knuckles in an easy, nonchalant fashion.
Distracted, confused, she let her gaze roam his face, the familiar features, his cropped dark hair, then looked past him to Roderick, sitting in his armchair and grinning delightedly with Sarah, standing alongside, smiling sweetly. Hauling in a breath, she swung her gaze back to Lucius. “But . . . we’d heard you were dead. That you died at Waterloo years ago.”
His lips quirked in a rueful grimace. “I know.” Releasing her, he reached past her and closed the door, then waved to the sofa. “Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you all my sad tale.”
Still stunned, she subsided onto the end of the sofa closer to Roderick, swiveling to face Lucius as he sat at the other end.
“Obviously,” he said, “the reports of my death were in error. During the battle, my troop was in the thick of things and I took a hellish knock to my head. I remember nothing of the battle after that. I didn’t come to my senses until days later. I was being cared for by an old farmer and his wife, well away from the battlefield. One of my legs was broken, one of my arms, and I had a raging fever. It was literally weeks before I was strong enough even to think straight. And then, when I could, I discovered I couldn’t remember who I was.”
“Oh,” Sarah breathed. “I’ve heard about that—about soldiers not remembering who they are.”
His expression sober, Lucius nodded. “Indeed. I knew from what little remained of my uniform that I was English, but I didn’t have any insignia left, and the troops were long gone by then. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea even what part of England I hailed from, and with my injuries it was months more before I was able to move around on my own, let alone travel.
“Once I’d recovered enough to consider returning to England to learn who I was, it was winter. That winter was very hard in the areas south of the battlefield. I felt I owed a debt to the old couple who had taken me in and cared for me for all those months, so I stayed and helped them through the winter, and then to sow their fields the next spring, and then there was the harvest . . .” Lips twisting wryly, he met Miranda’s gaze, then Roderick’s. “Whenever I thought of leaving and making my way back to England, well, as I had no idea where to start to discover who I was, I also had no idea if I had any family, or . . . as the years rolled on there seemed less and less point.”
“So you stayed in France?” Miranda asked.
Lucius nodded. “I helped on the farm and there was a school nearby—I taught there to make ends meet. I daresay I would still be working on the farm and teaching children their letters except that I got hit on the head again—not as badly as the first time, but enough to jar my memory back into place.”
“And you remembered who you were?” Roderick looked fascinated.
Lucius gestured expansively. “It was as if some connection hadn’t been there, then suddenly it was and I remembered everything. Well, I still can’t remember much of the battle itself, but I remember everything up to that morning.” He glanced at Gladys and smiled. “Most importantly, of course, I remembered my name.” He looked at Miranda. “I remembered about the family, and knew I had to come home.” He spread his hands. “So here I am.”
“Have you been to Macclesfield already?” she asked.
“No—I only arrived in
London a few days ago. You’re the first of the family I’ve tracked down.” Lucius looked from her to Roderick. “I contacted the old man’s solicitor in Grey’s Inn. I knew he’d have the latest news and directions for the family. He suggested, what with everyone thinking me long dead, that me appearing out of the blue might be too great a shock, and that he should write first, and I agreed. So he’s busy doing that—warning them—then once he’s heard back, I’ll head north. But he knew you two were here in town, and”—Lucius glanced at Miranda—“as I felt fairly certain you at least would remember who used to pull your pigtails, I thought I’d chance my hand and call on you directly.” His smile deepened. “I have to say, it’s good to be back.”
“That’s a rousing story,” Gladys said. “Mark my words, some angel was watching over you on that battlefield. But now you’re back safe and sound after all these years, we should have a celebration—you must stay to dine.”
“Indeed!” Beaming, Miranda rose. “I’ll tell Cook. You will stay, won’t you?”
Lucius returned her smile. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”
She rang and spoke with Hughes, then returned to her seat and the animated conversation. Settling on the sofa, she listened to Lucius describe the farm where he’d lived, then Roderick told him of the changes within the family. Although they called each other cousin, the connection was distant; Lucius was the son of one of their grandfather’s brother’s sons, so a cousin of sorts, several times removed. But as children they’d met often enough for her, at least, to be certain of his identity; his face still held the same shape, although age had sharpened the angles, and his eyes, the color and set of them, and their wicked gleam, were exactly as she recalled.
Then Roderick was recounting the deaths of the older generation, and Lucius’s expression grew somber. Only then did Miranda notice the scar marring his left cheek; when he smiled, it vanished into the lines of his face.