The Lady Risks All

  Again, she was left wishing she could read his mind, know what he was thinking as he stood looking down at her, but his expression was even more unhelpfully uninformative than usual, and the shadows were too dark to have any hope of reading his eyes.

  Eventually, he asked, his tone almost detached, as if the question was merely a final formality, “He doesn’t have a scar on his face, does he?”

  It was her turn to hesitate while she recalled the description they had had of Kirkwell and realized Lucius matched it well enough. She considered obfuscating, but no good would come of trying to hide the truth, and it was hardly conclusive. “He does, as it happens, but it’s not very visible, and as you mentioned yourself, many men—probably most who were on the battlefield at Waterloo—carry scars. It’s hardly significant.”

  His lips twisted. “Perhaps . . . perhaps not.” His gaze had grown distant, then he refocused on her face. “Regardless, don’t go anywhere with him—you or Roderick—until I’ve had a chance to verify his bona fides.”

  Her jaw fell slack. She stared at him. “No.” She was so shocked that the word was weak.

  He nodded and started to turn away. “Good.”

  She shook off her stunned stupor. “No! I mean ‘no, I won’t be dictated to,’ not ‘no, I won’t go anywhere with Lucius.’ ”

  He’d halted, stilled; turning back, he narrowed his eyes on hers. After a moment, he growled, “You’re not that foolish.”

  Silence fell, but it was in no way empty.

  Slowly, she drew in a breath. For years, she’d managed her temper quite well. No matter how trying Gladys, or even her late but more vituperative aunt Corrine had been, Miranda had not lost her temper. No matter the hurdles fate had strewn in her path, she’d almost always succeeded in restraining her ire, in keeping it leashed . . . but he seemed to have a knack for engaging it, for poking and prodding until it rose up and rode her.

  She narrowed her eyes on his. When she spoke, her voice vibrated with suppressed fury. “How dare you presume—by what right do you presume—to tell me what I, and Roderick, too, can and cannot do? You stood as a good friend to Roderick and helped me rescue him, for which we both owe you due thanks, but your influence ends there. While I and, I’m sure, Roderick, too, appreciate all you and your men are doing with respect to indentifying Kirkwell, you have no grounds on which to interfere with our lives, to lay claim to any more personal connection to the point of exercising any control over who we choose to associate with.”

  The look he cast her was all irritation, with just the hint of a cynical male sneer. “I see this cousin of yours has charmed you to his hand.”

  “What?” Her temper erupted—and suddenly she saw what this was truly about. Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower; stepping closer, she jabbed a finger into his coat, into his chest beneath the fine fabric. “By your own choice you’ve stepped back to being just a friend—an acquaintance, no more. That gives you no right whatever to order my life, and absolutely no right to make insinuations about the men I choose to allow to share it. You stepped back—yet here I am having to push you away!”

  She glared into his dark eyes; she felt like heat, steam—even sparks—were coming out of her ears. She held his gaze mercilessly and hammered her finger into his chest. “Stop being a dog in the manger.” She’d lowered her voice—it was just him and her—but the precision of her diction magnified the force behind each word. “You had your chance, and you turned it down. I understand why you did, but you made the choice. You metaphorically made our bed, and we both have to lie in it.”

  She eased back a fraction. Her eyes still locked with his, she said, “At least Wraxby and, according to you, Lucius, are interested in having a relationship with me. Even if I don’t want a relationship with them, at least they’re interested!”

  With that, she spun on her heel, stamped up the steps, and stormed into the house.

  She met Gladys in the corridor at the top of the stairs.

  Her aunt frowned at her. “I thought I heard you arguing. Who were you arguing with?”

  Miranda didn’t slow, didn’t even cast her aunt a glance. “Someone who should have known better.”

  Roscoe strode into his front hall in the grip of a fury unlike any he could recall. He shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it at Rundle as the butler came hurrying from the rear of the house. “Tell Jordan I need to see him now. In my study. And send Mudd and Rawlins up, too.”

  Not even waiting to hear Rundle’s reply, he took the stairs three at a time, then strode to his study at the end of the wing.

  The windows were uncurtained, letting moonlight wash in. He lit a lamp, then fell to pacing—something he almost never did—striding back and forth before his desk as if he could thus rid himself of the tumult of reaction her words had evoked.

  His choice?

  “Huh!”

  Did she truly think he wasn’t interested?

  Beneath his breath, he swore—in words and even languages she wouldn’t have understood, any more than she had, apparently, understood him.

  No matter. He didn’t care. What she thought of him wasn’t important.

  Hell, if he could turn his back on all of society and not give a fig for what it thought, he wouldn’t have any real problem ignoring Miss Miranda Clifford’s opinions.

  Of course, she wouldn’t thank him. She’d just demonstrated that, and it shouldn’t have surprised him. Disturbed him.

  All the more disturbing that it had.

  But he didn’t care—wouldn’t care—about what she thought. About what she felt. He protected those close to him and always had. That was how he was made, and he couldn’t be any different, not for her, not for his mother.

  He was Roscoe, and this was him. Come within his orbit—let alone become his lover, take him as her lover in the true sense of the word—and this was the inevitable consequence. “She’ll just have to live with it.”

  The reverberations of his growl had barely faded when a sharp rap on the door heralded Rawlins and Mudd.

  “You wanted us?”

  “Go and arrange a meeting with Gallagher. Tonight. As soon as possible.”

  Both men stared at him for a second, then nodded and left.

  Jordan arrived as the pair departed. Jordan took one look at him, then shut the door. “What’s happened?”

  Roscoe halted, drew in a breath, and focused. “I need you to learn everything you can about one Lucius Clifford. He’s a distant relative of Roderick’s—they refer to each other as cousins. I judge the man to be of similar age to Miss Clifford. They were children together.”

  Jordan had pulled a notebook from his pocket and was scribbling. “What else do you know?”

  “Lucius Clifford was in the army . . . no, wait, she didn’t specify army, but he was on the field at Waterloo, so most likely some arm of the army. I’d say infantry, not cavalry—he didn’t have the look. After Waterloo his family was notified that he’d died in the battle, but he has just miraculously reappeared in London with a tale of having lost his memory through an injury sustained in the fighting, and having only recently remembered who he is.”

  “When did he reach England?”

  “I’m not sure—the implication was recently. According to our watchers he first called on the Cliffords four days ago. His tale is that he spent the interval since Waterloo on the Continent.”

  Jordan looked at what he’d written. “On what evidence do the Cliffords believe this man is in fact their long-lost cousin?”

  “They recognize him, or at least Miss Clifford does, and she’s quite sure of it. In addition, he knows tales from their childhood that she assures me no one else could know.”

  Jordan paused in his writing and glanced up at him. “But . . . ?”

  Roscoe set his teeth. “But my instincts are screaming that it’s too coincidental to be accepted at face value. Clifford may be entirely aboveboard, but . . . and aside from all else, he has a scar on his face.”

&nbs
p; Jordan’s hand froze; pencil poised over his notebook, he stared at him. “Scar on face. Distant cousin. Back from the dead. Just now?”

  Grim-faced, Roscoe nodded. “Just so.”

  A tap on the door and Mudd walked in. “I had a chat with Gallagher’s man in the square. He says Gallagher’s at home, but if you want to meet somewhere else, it won’t be tonight. On the other hand, if you’re willing to go to Gallagher’s, his man’s fairly certain the old joker will see you immediately.”

  Roscoe grunted. He’d made it a habit never to meet with Gallagher or any of the numerous underworld figures with whom he occasionally had reason to consult on their home turf. It was a subtle but telling declaration that he wasn’t part of their world and never would be. In this case, however, he needed information urgently—why urgently he didn’t know, only that said urgency was pounding through him—and of all the underworld czars, Gallagher already understood to a tee exactly where he stood.

  He nodded. “All right.” It was time to make an exception—which, sadly, would also tell Gallagher how much he wanted the information, but, again, he didn’t truly care. Gallagher hadn’t risen to his present preeminence because he pushed his luck in unwise ways. “We’ll go and call on Gallagher. Order the carriage, tell Rawlins, and you may as well fetch Gallagher’s man, too.” He bared his teeth. “He can be our scout.”

  Mudd rumbled out a dark chuckle and departed.

  Jordan had been rereading his notes. He glanced up as Roscoe strode for the door. “Anything more you can tell me?”

  “Not that I can remember at the moment.”

  Jordan frowned. “Why Gallagher, and why the rush?”

  “Because I want Gallagher, or more specifically his men, scouring this town for Lucius Clifford as well as Kirkwell, and the sooner the better.”

  Jordan’s expression cleared. “Ah—I see.” He waved his notebook. “I’ll get on with this and let you know what I find.”

  With a curt nod, Roscoe left the room and strode for the stairs.

  His interview with Gallagher went more or less as he’d anticipated, except that, after searching his face, Gallagher decided to be even more circumspect than he’d expected.

  When, after outlining his requirements in crisp, precise tones, he asked Gallagher what he wanted in return, Gallagher stared at him for several long seconds, then harrumphed and stroked his chin. “Well . . . perhaps, as you do have me nevvy under tutelage, so to speak, we could leave the precise terms until later—let’s just say that you’ll owe me a favor, sometime in the future.”

  Roscoe considered, then stipulated, “I’ll agree to owe you a single favor as long as it’s one I can deliver within the scope of the laws applying at the time.”

  Gallagher grimaced, but his eyes were laughing. “Cautious beggar, you are, but that’ll do. So I’m to have m’lads find out everything about this Lucius Clifford, as well as Kirkwell.”

  Roscoe nodded. “Look especially for any connection—of any kind, no matter how slight or apparently innocuous—between Kirkwell and Clifford. If their paths have crossed in the last year, I want to know.”

  Gallagher nodded. “If they met in London, m’lads will find out.”

  “Excellent.” Roscoe rose. “One thing—time is of the essence, so send word the instant you learn anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that.” Gallagher met his eye and grinned widely. “Hope she’s worth all the fuss.”

  Roscoe met Gallagher’s eyes and said nothing.

  Gallagher’s grin quickly faded.

  A heartbeat after the grin vanished altogether, Roscoe slowly inclined his head, then turned and, flanked by Mudd and Rawlins, left Gallagher’s study in the heart of Gallagher’s empire, deep in the warrens of the slums.

  Miranda lay on her back in her bed, the covers to her chin, and stared at the play of moonlight and shadow on the ceiling.

  Her temper had finally cooled enough for her to remember why she’d long ago taught herself so comprehensively to rein it in—because no good ever came of letting it out to rage.

  “At least they’re interested!”

  Her words resonated in her head, replaying with the regularity of a tolling bell, and each and every repetition made her squirm. How . . . depressingly revealing. As if she’d ripped off her emotional clothes and danced naked in front of him.

  Still, perhaps he wouldn’t see, or wouldn’t remember, given he’d been angry, too, or perhaps he simply wouldn’t guess what had made her—impelled her—to blurt out those words.

  She hoped he wouldn’t . . . but suspected he would.

  “Ugh.” If she could have sunk lower, deeper into the bed, she would have. For uncounted minutes, her mind went around and around, fixated on those far-too-revealing words.

  But, eventually, her focus shifted to him. To what had brought him to their garden and had driven him to prod her temper. To what had possessed him to imagine a nonexistent connection between herself and Lucius.

  She snorted. His intervention had been as misguided as her sneaking into his house that first night, intent on rescuing Roderick from the “orgy” that had proved to be a meeting of the Philanthropy Guild. The similarities were obvious . . .

  Her thoughts stuttered to a stop. Then shifted and swung to a new angle, a different perspective. She looked at both incidents from that novel viewpoint, compared them. They were, indeed, very alike—the time she’d gone to the Chichester Street house to rescue Roderick from him, and the time he’d come to Claverton Street to rescue her from Lucius.

  She’d been driven by her overwhelming need to protect Roderick—someone she loved. That need, or more specifically the drive behind it, had been strong enough to cloud her judgment to the extent she’d crept into Roscoe’s house.

  So what had driven him to the point that he’d unwisely tried to take control of her life?

  Protectiveness, certainly, but what drove it?

  It was tempting to draw the obvious correlation, but he was a complex man, and that might be equally unwise.

  The minutes ticked past; night drifted on. Eventually, she yawned, turned on her side, and closed her eyes.

  As she’d made the same mistake, and he had oh-so-graciously forgiven her, she supposed she would have to forgive him in return, but there was no denying that the thought of a man like him, London’s all-powerful gambling king, caring enough about her welfare to lose his perspective . . .

  Lips curving gently, she slid into sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  At an unfashionably early hour the following morning, Roscoe’s name gained him admittance to Rafe Carstairs’s house in Wigmore Street. A minute later, he was shown to Rafe’s study.

  As the door closed behind him, Roscoe wasn’t entirely surprised to find not only Rafe but Rafe’s wife, Loretta, waiting to greet him.

  “Mr. Roscoe, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Coming forward with a smile, Loretta offered her hand. As he bowed over it, she said, “I’ve long wished to thank you in person for your help with that fiend, Manning, and for being such a stalwart supporter of my aunt Esme and the other directors of Argyle Investments.”

  “As to the latter,” he replied, “it’s been an educational experience, one from which I’ve benefited greatly. Your aunt is a remarkable woman.”

  Loretta’s smile deepened. “I’ve always wondered what the board meetings must be like.”

  He tried to return her smile. “Suffice it to say they’re never boring.”

  Rafe joined Loretta and held out his hand; as Roscoe shook it, Rafe’s gaze searched his face. “But what brings you our way at such an early hour? Is there something we can help you with?”

  Roscoe met Rafe’s blue eyes. “As it happens, there is.”

  Rafe spread his hands. “We’re in your debt—you have only to ask.”

  “Can you check a man’s army record?”

  Rafe blinked. “Yes, most likely.” He tipped his head. “Whose?”
r />   Briefly, Roscoe outlined Lucius Clifford’s story.

  Rafe shrugged. “That should be straightforward.”

  “There’s another man who might be connected—John Kirkwell. I’ve no idea if he was in the army, but there’s possibly a connection between the two, and it might be there.”

  “I’ll check for Kirkwell, too.” Rafe studied Roscoe’s face. “I take it this is urgent.”

  Roscoe hesitated, then admitted, “I’m not sure, but I’m operating on the assumption that there’s something seriously nefarious in train, and that the matter is therefore urgent.”

  The last vestiges of Rafe’s easygoing manner vanished. He nodded decisively. “I’ll start this morning. I can’t say how long it will take, but I’ll get it done as soon as I can. Where should I send word?”

  “Chichester Street, number eleven.” Roscoe bowed to Loretta, then saluted Rafe. “Thank you.”

  With protestations of their support, both saw him to the door.

  He walked down Wigmore Street toward where he’d left his carriage. The need to learn more about Lucius Clifford, to expose the man—although where the conviction that there was something to expose came from he couldn’t explain—still rode him, a compelling weight. He’d done everything he could think of, called in every useful favor, thrown all the men at his disposal into action. Was there anything more he could do?

  He didn’t think so.

  Could he—should he—approach Miranda and reiterate his warning?

  His lips twisted. If he did, if he tried . . . courtesy of his “dog in the manger” attitude, as she’d perfectly accurately termed it, reinforced by his earlier reaction to Wraxby, he would be lucky if she listened, and regardless of what he said, without proof she wouldn’t believe him.

  And as yet he had nothing to advance by way of solid evidence that her dear cousin Lucius Clifford wasn’t exactly as he purported to be. Family loyalty would trump the warnings of any “secret acquaintance” or however she now viewed him.