Yet his instincts, instincts that had saved his life more than once and had rarely, if ever, proved wrong, were screaming that Lucius Clifford posed a very real threat to Miranda, to her well-being. Unfortunately, given his feelings toward her, even he couldn’t be certain that his instincts weren’t simply reacting to the fact that Clifford had his eye on her—her, who, despite all his words, decisions, and resolutions to the contrary, his instincts still saw as his.
Not even he knew whether his instincts were detecting anything truly villainous in Clifford.
Halting beside his carriage, he reviewed his options but still came to the same conclusion. He was an expert in evaluating risk, and ignoring his instincts wasn’t a risk he was prepared to take.
Reaching for the carriage door, he glanced up at his coachman. “Back to Chichester Street.”
“Aye, sir.”
Climbing into the carriage, he dropped onto the seat. Given all the inquiries he’d set afoot, he should soon know whether Lucius Clifford was a blameless victim of the war and a perfectly respectable gentleman for Miranda to associate with, even to wed if she chose.
Or whether Clifford was a villain.
If the latter proved true, he knew how he would react. Dogs guarding mangers were expected to be vicious.
“My dear Miranda, can I tempt you to join me for a drive in the park?” Lucius bent an easy smile on Miranda. “I’m trialing a curricle and a pair of bays I’m thinking of purchasing, and I want to see how they perform in such surrounds.”
After her contretemps with Roscoe the previous night, she’d been surreptitiously observing Lucius ever since he’d arrived on the dot of three o’clock to charm Gladys and chat with Roderick, Sarah, and her in the drawing room. She might have dismissed outright Roscoe’s assertion that Lucius had any matrimonial interest in her, but then she hadn’t anticipated any such regard from him; it was possible Roscoe had seen something she hadn’t.
And now here was Lucius inviting her on an outing for two. She smiled with the same easy grace as he. “Thank you. The rain’s held off and looks set to stay away—a drive would be pleasant.”
Ten minutes later, they were bowling north along the road that led past the walls of Buckingham House to the green swathes of Hyde Park beyond. Her bonnet tied beneath her chin against the tugs of the brisk breeze, she held her tongue as Lucius guided the unfamiliar team through the always congested traffic at the crossroads where Piccadilly met Park Lane. They entered the park via the corner gate; once the curricle was bowling smoothly along the less-crowded avenue, outwardly relaxed, she looked around with feigned interest and waited to see what the interlude might bring.
“I spoke with the family’s solicitor this morning. Apparently the family are agog to see me, so I expect I’ll be heading north in a few days.”
She studied Lucius’s face. “You must be just as keen to see them.”
They spent several minutes discussing the likely reaction of various family members, then Lucius sobered. After a moment, his gaze on his horses, he said, “I want to go home, yet it’s only going to highlight that I’ve lost the last eight years of my life to my cursed injury.” He sighed, glanced briefly at her. “I’ve got nothing to show for it. I’m no further forward than I was when I left Macclesfield more than eight years ago.”
The bitterness in his voice sounded entirely genuine. Before she could formulate any suitable response, he went on, “I’m thirty-one years old. I had hoped by now to have married—all my sisters have, and have families. It’s what people in our sort of families do, but”—he shrugged—“I haven’t had a chance. Not yet.”
She hadn’t either. Not yet.
That unvoiced observation lay between them. She seriously doubted Lucius had missed the similarity, but perhaps he hadn’t intended to touch on the point and was embarrassed to have done so. Regardless, he promptly changed the subject by pointing out a flotilla of ducks on the Serpentine.
Subsequently, they chatted easily about things they saw and the topics those brought to mind, smiling and occasionally sharing a laugh while Lucius tooled the curricle down the gravel avenues and tried out the paces of the bays. She waited and watched, but not by word or sign did he return to the subject of raising a family, and therefore marriage.
Not until they were back in Pimlico. Nearing Claverton Street, he grew pensive. Finally, he glanced at her.
She met his gaze but could read nothing beyond the mildest glimmer of speculation in his brown eyes.
“I wonder . . .” His lips twisted wryly, and he faced forward. “I know you well enough to be sure you’ll tell me to go to the devil if you wish, so . . . as I mentioned, I would like to marry and start my own family. Being in a war brings home how short life truly is—I don’t want to wait, but I’ve yet to find any suitable lady, and, frankly, I doubt I’m cut out for any wild romance, let alone a love-match. Against that, I know you’re twenty-nine, and clearly you, too, haven’t had any luck in finding the right gentleman or having him find you.” He glanced at her again, met her eyes for a moment longer before returning his gaze to his horses. “We share a history, you and I. I’m fond of you, and although it makes me sound like a coxcomb, I’m inclined to believe you reciprocate the sentiment. I know you want what I do—a home of your own and a family.” He didn’t look her way again but drew in a deeper breath and let it out with, “So I wondered if perhaps you and I should . . . explore the notion, let us say, of making a go of things together.”
Before she could think of her response—what she wanted to say, let alone how to say it—he continued, “Don’t say anything now—we’re almost back to the house. Just think about it, sleep on the concept, and we can talk tomorrow. I have a few unexpected matters to deal with in town before I head north. We have time to decide if our future paths might coincide.”
He smiled at her, his usual easy, charming smile. She met his eyes and found herself nodding. “All right.”
When he pulled up outside the house, she invited him in to take tea, but he shook his head. “I have to get these horses back—I’m not convinced they’re right for me.”
Relieved not to have to wrestle with further conversation immediately, she waved him off, then, head down, mind awhirl, she walked slowly up the path and into the house.
Pausing in the hall, she heard the rumble of Roderick’s voice and Sarah’s lighter, laughing tones. Hanging up her cloak, she headed for the stairs. She needed time to think, to consider and analyze and see things clearly—to make sure she was seeing things as they truly were.
On the landing, she ran into Gladys on her way down; her aunt would never leave Roderick and Sarah alone for any length of time, but at sight of her, Gladys’s features lit and she slowed. “Well, then—how did your drive go? While I thought you unwise to dismiss Wraxby, if you have Mr. Clifford dangling after you . . . well, although he’s not as well established as I could wish, he’s very personable, and he is connected, after all.”
“I pray you, Aunt, don’t start speculating about any such thing.” Sliding past Gladys, Miranda continued up the next flight.
Behind her, Gladys humphed and raised her voice. “You’re not getting any younger, my girl. There’s not many men who’d want to take an ape-leader to wife, not when they can get much younger girls who, what’s more, know to hang on their every word.”
Miranda didn’t respond. Reaching the top of the stairs, she went straight to her room. Shutting the door, she felt a certain relief as peace and quiet—and most especially privacy—engulfed her. Untying her bonnet, she laid it aside, then walked to stand before the window. Her room overlooked the stretch of lawn outside the morning room, the same stretch she crossed every time she returned to the house via the alley gate.
She hadn’t taken that route since Roscoe had last walked her home. And said good-bye.
Staring down at the trees that hid the gate from view, she couldn’t help register the irony of the three men she’d recently had cause to consider as po
tential husbands. The man she wanted to marry couldn’t and wouldn’t marry her, while the men she didn’t want kept lining up to not propose but to discuss the possibility. Wraxby had been cold and passionless, while Lucius was at best lukewarm, a friend, no true lover.
In contrast, Roscoe burned like a flame in her mind, dominant, passionate, powerful, and, it seemed, unattainable.
She stood looking out and down, refusing to lift her gaze toward the trees to her left that screened his house from sight.
Wallowing. She was, quite simply, wallowing, and she had no time for that.
Backbone. That was what she needed. To focus on her wants and needs, on what was possible, and then exercise her backbone and act to make her life, shape her life, into the life she wanted to live.
Resolve returned to her, an invigorating tide flowing through her veins. Swinging to sit on the window seat, she stared unseeing over her brother’s garden and mentally inventoried her position. She was twenty-nine and, despite what Gladys and the late Corinne had taught her, she was not overly constrained by society’s expectations. Society would accept whatever she did as long as she created no outright scandal. That left her with significant scope to create her future life.
She had money, more than enough to buy a town house of her own, and even a cottage in the country as well, and employ a companion and a small staff. She could live as she chose and do whatever she willed with the rest of her not-inconsiderable funds.
That scenario held a certain appeal, but . . .
Lucasta’s wise words rang in her head. “To secure happiness in her life, it is imperative for a lady to know her own mind.” To know what she wanted, what would make her content, and then to wrest from life what she needed. Lucasta’s advice had been echoed by Lady Mickleham, but the dowager had also made it clear that defining the right aim, the right goal—the elements of life a lady most wanted—was as crucial as any resolve to achieve them.
Living the rest of her days alone wasn’t what she most wanted. It wouldn’t make her happy, not even mildly content. It would be an existence, not a life.
What she wanted . . . was a husband and a family of her own. From her youngest days that had always been her aim, her never-changing holy grail. She wanted a home, not a house. She wanted a family, not just a household.
She drew in a breath and refocused again on the three men lately in her life. Roscoe wasn’t going to revert to being Julian, the only act that might possibly make him an eligible husband for her. More, he’d made it clear that she shouldn’t even think, let alone dream, of him anymore.
Wraxby she’d dismissed, and she had no wish at all to rethink that decision; it had been the right one.
Which left her with Lucius, and the lowering realization that, if she wanted a husband and family, a home rather than a house, then accepting Lucius—assuming he made an offer—might very well be her last chance to secure anything like the life she sought.
But Lucius wasn’t offering love, only affection.
What she might have had with Roscoe, extrapolating from what had, over their short liaison, grown between them, might have been love, might have grown to be love, but there was no way she would ever know that now.
Which left her to decide if affection would be enough.
If affection and nothing more could yield the closeness, the strength, the relationship with her prospective husband that, she now realized, lay at the core of her needs. Marriage, family, home—none would be what she wanted them to be . . . “Without love.”
She sat on the window seat and let the realization sink in.
As to where her new insight into her own needs left her . . . when the gong to change for dinner sounded, she still had no firm idea.
Instead of sitting reading a book by his library fire, as he usually did in the evening, Roscoe paced before the fireplace, restless and impatient. He shot a glance at Mudd, who had brought in reports from various clubs—reports that at that moment he did not wish to read; he’d tossed them on a side table. “Still nothing from Gallagher?”
“No, sir.”
Mudd left it at that. Earlier in the day, Mudd had been the bearer of the tidings that Lucius Clifford had called and taken Miss Clifford out for a drive. Roscoe had actually snarled—a fact he was not happy about, although in the same situation he would do it again.
He never lost his temper, at least not in ways anyone could see. Yet since his interview with Miranda the previous night, his temper, along with his patience, had been riding on a fraying rein. He continued to prowl, waiting, waiting, and hating every minute of inactivity. He’d never felt so caged in his life, so impelled to act while simultaneously being so thoroughly stymied. His instincts continued to insist that she was in danger, and that danger emanated from her long-lost cousin, but as yet he had no proof.
And until he had proof, he was helpless to act.
Footsteps in the corridor leading to the library heralded the arrival of Jordan, who took one look at him and waved his notebook to stay his growled question. “I managed to run the solicitor who handles that arm of the Clifford family’s affairs to ground. As far as he’s aware, the family—all Lucius’s nearest relatives—still believe Lucius to be dead. They and the solicitor were told he’d died on the battlefield at Waterloo and have received no information to the contrary.”
“Aha!” His fist clenched, but immediately he reined in his enthusiasm; he needed to play devil’s advocate with everything he and his people uncovered, because Miranda surely would. “Clifford could explain that by claiming that due to his memory loss he didn’t know who to contact—or for whatever reason hasn’t yet had the time.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s not enough.” He looked at Jordan. “What of the family itself? Are there any members in London who Clifford would have been expected to contact?”
“No. The entire clan—his part of it anyway—live near Manchester.”
He frowned. “What’s the exact connection between Lucius Clifford and Roderick and Miranda?”
“That”—Jordan consulted his notebook—“is where things get interesting. The connection is via Roderick’s paternal grandfather, Malcolm Clifford. Lucius Clifford is the second and sole surviving son of Morecombe Clifford, deceased, who was himself the son of Malcolm’s older brother, Melrose Clifford, also deceased.”
Roscoe studied Jordan. “From your delivery I deduce that those gentlemen being deceased is pertinent. Why?”
Jordan flashed him a grin. “Because as far as I can tell—and as I was passing, I stopped in at Montague’s and he concurs—if Roderick Clifford were to die, even if his will stipulates that his fortune pass to his sister, Lucius Clifford, as the nearest male in line, could make a very-likely-to-be-successful claim to a portion of the estate. He wouldn’t get it all, but Montague believes that, in the circumstances, Lucius could push for half, and depending on the judge presiding, might even be awarded more than that. The critical point is that Roderick’s wealth derives solely from his grandfather’s fortune. Neither Roderick nor his father have added to the capital but only lived off the income. So depending on the wording of not Roderick’s will but that of his grandfather’s, Lucius, via his grandfather and father, could make a claim to some of the old man’s wealth, now Roderick’s wealth. If Roderick had a brother or a son, the claim would be harder to bring, but with only an unmarried spinster to inherit, the courts often take the view that such wealth would be better in what they regard as safer hands.”
Roscoe snorted.
“Indeed,” Jordan said, “but in the present legal climate, that’s a very real scenario.”
Rosoce thought, then shook his head. “It’ll never go to court. That’s not Lucius Clifford’s intention—he’s thought of a simpler way. If he marries Miranda, and later kills Roderick, he’ll end controlling the whole.”
He tensed with the compulsion to hurry to Claverton Street and speak with Miranda, to warn her again . . . he clenched his jaw. “That’s all conjecture. I need more.”
He fixed his gaze on Jordan. “I need something unequivocal that connects Lucius Clifford with Kirkwell. Something that cannot be readily explained away, and that at the very least suggests Kirkwell is working with Lucius Clifford to kill Roderick.” If he had that, Miranda would believe him. She’d be much quicker to question Lucius Clifford’s bona fides if she suspected he was the source of the threat to her brother.
Jordan shifted. “The Cliffords’ solicitor didn’t recognize Kirkwell’s name.”
Roscoe looked at Mudd, who had stood silently listening to the exchange. “Still no word from Gallagher?”
On the words, Rawlins arrived. Roscoe repeated his question. Rawlins shook his head. “No more than he sent earlier—that Kirkwell hasn’t just scarpered, he’s outright vanished.”
Mudd rumbled, “If I was this Lucius Clifford and had changed my mind about killing Mr. Roderick, at least for the nonce, I’d have ‘vanished’ Kirkwell, too.”
Grimly, Rawlins nodded.
Roscoe fought not to grind his teeth. His instincts kept insisting he was running out of time. That Miranda was running out of time. But if he went to her with what he had now . . . there was, he estimated, a fifty percent chance she would turn from him even more definitely than she had. She might even refuse to see him again, and that wouldn’t help either her or him.
Carstairs had yet to get back to him, and Gallagher was still searching in those ways only Gallagher could. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, he counseled himself to patience.
In gambling, knowing when to exercise patience was a massive advantage, one he generally enjoyed over his opponents. Indeed, patience was a virtue he’d traded on for much of his life, child and man.
And he knew to his bones that his wisest course was to wait—wait for the vital, crucial, critical piece of information that would tip Miranda’s scales definitively his way. Away from Lucius Clifford.