Miranda was forced to deal with the flowers first. Given Lucius had gone to such lengths to obtain them, she couldn’t simply leave the bouquet to wilt on a side table. So she tugged the bellpull, then waited until Milly, the parlormaid, arrived and took the bouquet away to arrange the flowers in a vase.
Miranda filled the following minutes with the usual pleasantries, relieved when Lucius, elegantly relaxed on the other end of the sofa, did his part to keep the meaningless conversation flowing. Eventually Milly returned with the vase. Miranda directed her to set it atop the wall table that stood beneath a mirror. Vase bestowed, Milly bobbed and retreated, closing the door behind her.
Finally. Drawing breath, Miranda turned to Lucius.
Smiling his most charming smile, leaning forward, he took one of her hands in his. “My dear Miranda, I hope you know that to me you are fairer than any bloom in the land, and are worth far more than a paltry bouquet can express.”
She blinked, then cleared her throat. “Yes, well.” She tried to ease her fingers free, but tipping his head quizzically, Lucius gripped them more tightly. Jaw firming, she left her digits trapped and forged on, “That’s what I wished to discuss with you.”
His lips curved, but his eyes . . . his eyes were now watching her with a predator’s coolness. A predator’s calculation.
Never had she seen the expression so clearly, but she had seen it, sensed it in him years ago. Why had she forgotten? Because she hadn’t seen it since. Drawing a determined breath, eyes locked with his, she raised her chin. “I appreciate your consideration in approaching me with the proposition you alluded to yesterday, on our way back from the park.”
“Of us marrying to our mutual advantage?” he said. “Now I’ve thought further, there are so many benefits for us both I’m surprised it took us so long to think of it. We both hail from the same region, and I daresay have similar aspirations, and—”
“Be that as it may”—she was not about to be told what she must want—“I’ve done as you requested and given the matter due thought, but, no doubt as an outcome of my advanced age, I find my true interests are no longer encompassed by matrimony. In short, I am no longer in the market for a husband, not you or any other.”
She might be in the market for a lover, a lover who loved her, but that was another matter, one she’d yet to resolve.
Lucius didn’t ease his grip on her fingers. His gaze rested on her face, on her eyes, then he softly said, “Do you expect me to believe that you no longer wish for a husband and a family?”
She drew in a tight breath, stiffened her spine. “Lucius, there’s no point pursuing this. I am not going to marry you.”
For an instant, his expression remained unreadable, then his face contorted and he snarled, “Yes, you are.”
Crushing her fingers, he hauled her to him.
She gasped and instinctively pulled back; the ugliness flaring in his eyes stunned her. Appalled her. She fought against his tugging; when he redoubled his effort, she strained away from him.
He let go of her hand.
She went sprawling back against the end of the sofa.
Lucius flung himself on her.
She shrieked, but the sound was cut off as Lucius landed on her and his weight drove the air from her lungs. She struggled, trying to heave him off, but his body pinned hers. Frantically wrestling, she fought to free her arms enough to strike him. He held her down, grappling to control her arms, her hands.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Making sure you marry me,” he snarled.
“I won’t—not after this!”
“You will—especially after this.”
She realized his intention; her mind momentarily froze.
He reached down and grabbed her skirts.
She hauled in a breath and kicked, bucked.
Nothing worked. They were both breathing heavily; she could hear panic in the jerky rhythm of her breaths. No one had come; no one had heard her earlier weak scream. But the longer they wrestled, the weaker she was growing, and there was only one way this would end.
She had to think. Had to find a way.
With his weight crushing her, she couldn’t get enough breath for a loud enough scream.
He was tugging up her skirts. Desperate, she twisted her head, searching for inspiration—from the corner of her eye glimpsed the brass statuette Gladys had placed on the table beside the sofa.
Lucius’s breathing was a heavy, rasping—increasingly aroused—pant.
Cool air flowed across her thigh above her garter.
Gritting her teeth, she arched up; lifting half of Lucius’s weight, as well as her own, she jammed her forearm across his throat, holding him off enough to reach up and back behind her head. Groping blindly, her fingers found the statuette; gripping it, she brought it swinging up and around at Lucius’s head.
He saw it coming, reared back, and caught the statuette in one hand.
She didn’t fight him for it; her chest freed of his weight, she filled her lungs and screamed. “Help! Help me!”
Lucius swore and slapped his other hand across her lips.
She twisted her head away, then quickly back, and bit his hand hard.
He cursed and yanked his hand away. She filled her lungs to scream again, but he grabbed a cushion and shoved it over her face.
Forcing her deeper into the sofa, he wrenched the statuette from her grasp.
She couldn’t see; she couldn’t breathe. Lucius’s weight returned, collapsing her lungs . . .
Something slammed. A heartbeat later, Lucius’s weight left her, rolling away. Thuds and grunts reached her. Someone pulled the cushion off her; she blinked up into Sarah’s shocked face.
She turned her head. Roderick and Lucius wove on their feet, wrestling in the room’s center.
Her chest heaving, she struggled up on one elbow. Gladys stood before the closed door, her eyes on stalks as she took in the scene. Miranda waited for her aunt to try to pretend the obvious hadn’t happened—so scandalous, after all—but instead Gladys’s old eyes fixed on Lucius and all but blazed. “You blackguard!”
Her aunt hobbled forward, hefted her cane, and brought it down on Lucius.
He saw the blow coming and with a roar swung Roderick across as a shield.
Gladys’s weak whack was swept aside by Roderick’s shoulder, but the unexpected shift in his weight sent Roderick, his balance uncertain because of his bad foot, toppling.
He crashed to the floor.
Gladys staggered back, collapsing into the armchair beside the sofa.
Hauling in a breath, lips set, Miranda swung her legs off the sofa and pushed to her feet.
With a cry, Sarah rushed around the sofa, apparently intending to interpose herself between Roderick and Lucius.
But Lucius had already stepped back several paces. Cursing, he pulled a pistol from his pocket.
Miranda stared at the small but powerful-looking pistol. Lucius’s hand shook slightly, but, she judged, more with temper than fear. She didn’t doubt he knew how to use the pistol. He held it pointed at Roderick.
They’d all frozen at the sight of the pistol. Sarah recovered first; she dragged in a breath to scream.
Lucius shot her a glance. “Don’t.” He kept the pistol trained on Roderick, on the floor before Miranda’s feet.
Sarah met Lucius’s gaze, then shut her lips, pressed them tightly together.
Lucius nodded. “That’s right.” His gaze flicked to Miranda. “No need for any heroics.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the door. No staff had come to investigate; they must all be below stairs getting ready to serve luncheon, unaware of the unfolding drama.
Lucius backed toward the door. “Everyone remain calm and we’ll all come out of this with whole skins.”
Miranda tracked his movements, as did Roderick, Sarah, and Gladys.
Without shifting his aim, even for a second, from Roderick, Lucius lifted the straight-backed chair tha
t stood by the wall near the door and wedged its back under the doorknob. “Just so we won’t be disturbed.” He tested the door; satisfied it wouldn’t easily open, he returned to the room’s center.
Roderick, his face white and strained, struggled into a sitting position. Knees bent, he laid his arms over them and stared at Lucius. “Why?”
Lucius arched his brows. “I would have thought that was obvious. I need money, I want yours, and you’re going to give it to me.”
Roderick snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“No, I haven’t.” Lucius paused, head tipping as if considering how much of his plan to reveal.
Miranda suspected that he’d had a plan, but now it was in disarray and he was having to retrench, to think of new ways.
“I heard,” Lucius said, his gaze on Roderick, his voice low and calm, “that you were planning to give the bulk of your fortune—the fortune you inherited from old Malcolm—to charity.”
She glanced at Roderick. He kept his gaze on Lucius’s face; she could only see his profile, but she sensed he was as surprised as she. How had Lucius learned of that? Not even Gladys knew of Roderick’s involvement in the Philanthropy Guild; Miranda only knew because she’d followed him to Roscoe’s all those nights ago.
Roderick didn’t respond to Lucius’s comment, effectively confirming it.
Lucius smiled. “I decided that, given that charity should begin at home, that you should, instead, give that money to me.”
Still, Roderick said nothing; she felt proud of him. She wondered if he’d learned the tactic from Roscoe.
“So what you’re going to do,” Lucius said, still addressing Roderick, “is write me a note of hand. An I.O.U. to the tune of . . . shall we say forty thousand pounds?”
Roderick laughed. “I don’t owe you anything. Why would I pay a debt extracted under duress?”
Lucius’s nasty smile deepened. “Because of the scandal if you don’t.” He glanced at Gladys, then at Sarah, and lastly at Miranda, before returning his gaze once more to Roderick. The pistol never wavered; Lucius kept it aimed squarely at Roderick’s chest.
“You see,” Lucius continued, “I won’t be presenting the note to you myself. No—the instant I leave here, I’ll sell the note on. Perhaps not for the full amount, but I’m sure I’ll be able to raise at least twenty thousand pounds against your good name.”
Roderick’s features had hardened.
Sarah touched a hand to Roderick’s shoulder. “But we”—with her other hand she waved to include Gladys and Miranda—“know the truth. We’ll tell.”
“Indeed?” Lucius arched a brow. “Three females all of whom have a connection to dear Roderick—the sort of connection that means you’d lie to save his reputation. Who do you think will believe you?” Lucius let that sink in, then sneered. “No—this will work. It’s simple and straightforward.” He shot a sharp glance at Miranda. “I should have tried it from the start, rather than wasting time with you.”
He’d meant the comment to cut, but the barb missed her completely.
But then he shifted the pistol and aimed it at her. He looked at Roderick and snarled, “There’s an escritoire over there. Get up and write the damned note.”
Miranda looked around, searching for some weapon, for some way to bring this to a better end. But Lucius was out of easy reach of any of them; even if she threw herself out of the current path of his pistol, even had Roderick been hale and whole, he wouldn’t be able to reach Lucius before Lucius turned the pistol on him—or re-aimed at her—and fired.
There was no way out but for Roderick to write the note.
Once written, once Lucius left with it in his possession, there’d be no way of stopping him laying his hands on the stipulated small fortune.
Roderick, his gaze locked with Lucius’s, appeared to reach the same conclusion. He glanced away, then, lips tight, looked up at Sarah, still standing protectively beside him. “Help me up.”
Sarah glanced at him, then at Lucius, then she bent and locked her hands beneath Roderick’s good arm and assisted him to his feet.
With Lucius’s attention on Roderick and Sarah, Miranda wondered if there was an opening, a chance; she tensed.
Lucius’s gaze flicked to her and she froze.
Then Lucius’s gaze went past her. He frowned.
A second later, his expression flooded with confusion and alarm.
She realized he was staring at the French door to the terrace. Then she heard a snick. The French door opened; she felt the faint stirring in the air as someone walked in, then the door clicked shut.
Lucius’s expression was a study in stunned disbelief. “Who the devil are you?”
She didn’t need to look to know who had entered, to know who had come to their aid; she glanced over her shoulder anyway and nearly fainted with giddy relief. Even though Lucius still held the pistol, still held the nasty thing aimed at her heart.
Roscoe came forward with his usual prowling stride. Focused on Lucius, he smiled a distinctly sharklike smile. His gaze deflected to meet hers as he drew level with her. “I’m known as Neville Roscoe.” Returning his gaze to Lucius, he kept walking.
Raising the pistol, Lucius backed a step. “Stop! Or I’ll shoot.”
Roscoe raised a languid hand, a fencer’s gesture of surrender, and took one final step—sideways, interposing his body between Miranda and Lucius’s pistol—then halted.
Miranda sucked in a breath, fisted her hands against the urge to shove him aside. What was he doing? He might get shot. Oh, God! Her heart surged into her throat and blocked it. What had possessed him?
Facing Lucius, he was calmly saying, “We can’t have that. As I recall, it’s considered terribly bad form to shoot a pistol in a lady’s morning room.”
The fashionably drawled words confused Lucius even more. Frowning, he shook his head. “Are you mad?”
Roscoe paused, then, his tone grown cold and made even more chilling by the terrifying precision of his diction, said, “No. But any underworld czar in London will tell you that you are. Pointing a gun at me is generally considered . . . ill-advised.”
Lucius attempted a sneer. “I can’t see anything ill-advised about it.”
“Can’t you?” Rosoce let the moment stretch, then said, “That’s because you haven’t thought further than pulling the trigger. You might be able to put a ball into me, but then what? How do you imagine getting out of this house alive? My men are all around it.” He glanced at the windows, then looked back at Lucius and tipped his head toward the terrace. “Take a look.”
Lucius looked.
Roscoe pounced.
Springing forward, he caught Lucius’s arm and drove the hand gripping the pistol upward as his body slammed into Lucius’s. The pistol discharged with a deafening retort. The ball tore into the ceiling; flakes of plaster showered down.
Roscoe pulled back, raised his fist, and smashed it into Lucius’s face.
Bone crunched, and Lucius dropped like a felled log.
“Thank God!” Stepping closer, her eyes raking Roscoe’s face, Miranda gripped his arm. Then she looked down at Lucius and confirmed he was unconscious.
Roscoe dragged his gaze from Miranda’s face, then kicked the pistol to Roderick; given what he’d deduced, he didn’t trust himself with the weapon. Lucius Clifford had laid hands on her, and even though she appeared physically unharmed, the compulsion to use the pistol to beat the man to death was strong.
Sarah, standing beside Roderick and gripping his arm, stooped, picked up the pistol, and handed it to Roderick.
In the chair nearby, Miranda’s aunt wheezed, struggling to take in air. Sarah murmured to Roderick, then patted his arm and went to help the aunt.
Shaking out his hand, massaging the bruised knuckles, Roscoe remained standing over Lucius Clifford. Given how much fury had been behind his blow, he doubted the man would wake any time soon, but he needed the moment to rein in said killing fury.
He glanced at the
terrace—just as someone started pounding on the room’s main door.
Standing beside Roscoe, Miranda had been staring at him as realization crashed through her, washing away all uncertainty, leaving everything—everything—startlingly clear. Following his gaze, she saw Mudd and Rawlins barreling across the lawn from the side gate; they must have been in the alley and heard the pistol discharge . . . Roscoe had bluffed about them being near enough for Lucius to see. She looked at Roscoe. “Shall I let them in?”
He nodded. “Please.”
Drawing her hand from his arm, she went to the French door.
Sliding the pistol into his pocket, Roderick had already limped across the room to open the main door and deal with the inevitable staff crisis. After admitting Rawlins and Mudd, leaving them to confer with Roscoe, Miranda went to help Roderick, but after confirming he was successfully reassuring Hughes, Mrs. Flannery, and the rest of the staff, who, brought running by the shot, had crowded into the corridor, she went to help Sarah with Gladys.
While instructing Mudd and Rawlins in how he wished Lucius Clifford restrained, Roscoe tracked Miranda with his eyes; hauling his gaze from her took too much effort, and he’d given up trying.
Her aunt had succumbed to full-blown hysterics. While Sarah and Miranda dealt with her, Roderick, having at Miranda’s request dispatched the staff to fetch water, smelling salts, and anything else that might help the hysterical woman, limped across to stand beside Roscoe.
Leaning on the aunt’s cane, which he’d appropriated, Roderick looked down at Lucius Clifford, then shook his head. Under cover of his aunt’s breathless shrieks, he said, “If he needed money, I would have lent him some—he only had to ask.”
Roscoe realized Roderick didn’t yet know the truth of Lucius Clifford. “I came to tell you and Miranda what I’ve discovered about Kirkwell.”
Alerted by his tone, Roderick glanced at his face, then looked down at Lucius Clifford with even greater revulsion. “Lucius was Kirkwell?”
“He switched identities with Kirkwell on the battlefield.”
Roderick took a moment to work it out. “So . . .” He dragged in a huge breath. “Lucius is a deserter?”