Chapter Eighteen
Two mornings later, Miranda sat alone in the morning room mending the hem of one of her gowns and ruthlessly keeping her mind on the simple task.
The previous day had vanished in a miasma of doubts, stunned helplessness, and utterly useless, senseless maunderings; this morning she’d woken firmly resolved to put her liaison with Roscoe behind her and get on.
Get on with living her life, with working out what she most wanted her life henceforth to be, and making the right decisions to secure precisely that. Courtesy of her time at Ridgware, she now knew what was possible and what she had to do; she just had to do it.
The household, however, hadn’t ceased to be. Even though it was obvious that sometime soon Roderick would marry and thereafter this house would be his wife’s to run, at present that task fell to her; she was still catching up with the myriad decisions her absence had left unresolved.
On top of that, Roderick was finding his convalescence every bit as difficult to bear as she’d guessed he would. She’d left him slouched in an armchair in the drawing room, supplied with the day’s news sheets and with Gladys watching over him; although he hadn’t made any complaint, the set of his lips, the darkness in his eyes, had spoken loudly enough. She fervently hoped the appeal she’d sent to Sarah’s family would solicit a favorable response, and soon; she couldn’t think of anything else she might do to alleviate her brother’s endurance vile.
She’d just tied off her thread and was reaching for her shears when the knocker on the front door was plied in a rigidly precise cadence, one she recognized. Hughes’s footsteps marched to the front door; quickly folding her sewing away, she set the basket aside, rose, and smoothed down her skirts.
Glancing at the mirror on the wall beside the door, she tucked several loose strands of hair back into her chignon, then drew in a breath, plastered on an appropriately welcoming smile, and sallied forth to learn what possibilities Mr. Wraxby might hold vis-à-vis her future life.
She entered the drawing room to see Wraxby bowing over Gladys’s hand. He turned and smiled at her, a cool gesture.
“Sir.” She gave him her hand, watching critically as he bowed over it. He really was a very stiff sort of person. Retrieving her fingers, she waved him to the sofa. He’d been away in the country, she recalled. “Have you just returned to the capital?”
“I returned two days ago.” Wraxby waited until she sat, then flipped up his coattails and sat rigidly upright on the sofa’s other end. “Business claims my time, but as I had a few hours free I thought to see how you all are faring.” He looked at Roderick’s foot. “How did you come by that, Clifford?”
Roderick smiled tightly. “Dashed inconvenient. I fell down the stairs.”
Because he was drunk? She all but heard Wraxby’s thought.
A glance showed Gladys had sensed the same unvoiced reaction. Her aunt hurriedly said, “I’ve told him time and again that a gentleman shouldn’t go rushing up and down as if he were still a boy. But . . .” Gladys spread her hands in a what-would-you gesture.
Wraxby gravely inclined his head. “High spirits and an overabundance of energy. I face the same issues with my sons.”
Miranda shot a warning glance at Roderick. Wraxby’s sons were children; by the comparison he’d reduced Roderick to the same status. Turning to Wraxby, she asked, “How has the weather been in Suffolk, sir?”
For the next several minutes, Wraxby, Gladys, and she engaged in a stilted conversation revolving about the unseasonable warmth. Other than a pointed comment or two, Roderick contributed little, but she noted the deepening lines bracketing his mouth, his increasing tension.
So when Wraxby asked if she would care to accompany him on a walk around the square, she was perfectly ready to smile and accept, and get him out of the house.
Allowing him to help her into her coat, she reflected that, aside from all else, she needed to evaluate his still-pending offer, and decide whether the position of his wife might align with her newly evolving requirements of life.
Now the uncertainty and distraction of Roscoe was behind her, she would go forward and evaluate the chances fate consented to send her way.
Of course, in reaching the square they had to pass within sight of the big white house on Chichester Street. She fought to keep her gaze averted and her mind from dwelling on any of the occupants.
“Miss Clifford, I wonder if you have given the subject of our previous conversation any further thought?”
By which Wraxby meant his still-pending offer, the offer he was waiting for her to agree to accept before he made it. Strolling by his side, her hand on his sleeve, she inclined her head. “Indeed, sir, I have, but as I’m sure you will appreciate, Roderick’s accident has been something of a distraction.”
“Of course.”
“However,” she continued, “I’m glad to have this opportunity to further clarify matters between us. If I understood you correctly . . .” She led Wraxby through the elements of his proposal, encouraging him to further elaborate. He confirmed that his need for a wife was driven by practical considerations rather than any true desire on his part for even a partner, much less a lover.
In the end, she baldly asked, “Sir, I feel I must inquire as to why you believe we might suit.”
They’d reached the river and were strolling along the towpath. Wraxby frowned at the path ahead, then opened his mouth and reiterated all the unemotional assessments of her character he’d previously advanced, apparently not realizing that she’d given him a last chance to speak of any finer feelings.
Clearly finer feelings were not in Wraxby’s repertoire, at least not with respect to her. While that made his proposal somewhat depressing, at least he was honest.
She accepted his answer with a nod. “I have one final question, sir. What are your thoughts on philanthropy—meaning charitable projects of significant scope, such as the patronage of schools, orphanages, and the like?”
Wraxby didn’t immediately reply. They’d turned once more up Claverton Street and were pacing back toward the house when he finally said, “I have heard of such projects, of course. I understand there are several foundations actively engaged in such work. However, I myself see no reason to expend effort and money on matters I deem more correctly the authorities’ domain. If improvements to such institutions are truly necessary, they will doubtless be provided. I prefer to keep charity closer to home.” He glanced at her, a faint frown on his face. “I sincerely hope you have not become infected with any of this latest fashionable nonsense, my dear Miss Clifford. But then I’m certain your aunt would have guided you more carefully.”
Miranda managed a thin smile. “Indeed, sir. I wished for your opinion and must thank you for your candor.”
They’d reached the front gate of Roderick’s house. Wraxby halted. Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him.
Wraxby studied her expression. “I feel I must ask, Miss Clifford, whether you have reached any conclusion with regard to your willingness to entertain an offer from me.”
“I appreciate your patience, sir.” She paused, then raised her head. “While I’m almost certain of my decision, I would like a few more days to consider further.” She met his gaze. “I believe I will be able to give you an answer shortly.”
Wraxby inclined his head; from his self-satisfied expression, she suspected he assumed she would decide in his favor. “In that case, I will, if you’re agreeable, call on you in two days’ time. I have business to attend to until then, but will be free to visit in the afternoon. I will call on you then.”
Smiling politely, she gave him her hand, then watched as he walked to where a boy held his horse. After handing the lad a coin, Wraxby mounted. He raised a hand in farewell, then rode up the street.
She watched him go, eyes on his rigid, unbending back. She tried to imagine him as her husband, and failed. But she had to consider every option.
Turning, she went through the gate, shut it behind her, th
en walked slowly down the path. Would life as a glorified nursemaid with no compensating chance of enriching her life through philanthropic endeavors or any similar enterprises be enough to satisfy her?
The answer seemed obvious, yet given she had to make a new life for herself, she would do the sensible thing and sleep on her thoughts before she rejected Wraxby.
“No problems of any kind in the Fleet or the Strand. Covent Garden’s had its usual ructions, but nothing Kane or Higgens couldn’t handle.”
Seated behind the desk in his study, Roscoe nodded to Rawlins to continue. Together with Mudd, Rawlins had recently returned from accompanying Jordan on his weekly round reconciling the funds at a selection of the clubs. While Jordan counted the money, Rawlins and Mudd spoke with the staff. Although their conversations were passed off as idle chatting, the pair often picked up early signs of trouble on the floors of the clubs.
“We stopped at Holborn. My instincts shivered, so to speak, but I didn’t hear anything specific.” Rawlins glanced at the door. “Might do to ask Mudd when he gets back.”
Mudd had been called out by Rundle to receive a report from one of the watchers stationed nearby. As since Roderick’s kidnapping there’d been several groups positioned about the neighborhood, until Mudd returned, Roscoe couldn’t tell which area, or whose safety, the report concerned. Reining in his impatience, Roscoe asked, “Did you call at Bermondsey?”
“Not this time—Jordan said it’s on next week’s list. That’s where you’ve got that new gent running things?”
“Yes—Titchester.” Roscoe considered, then said, “Let’s send one of the other men around, someone Titchester won’t recognize. Just to make sure all’s continuing smoothly there.”
“I’ll send Stackpole. He hasn’t been out in the clubs for a while.”
Roscoe nodded and jotted a note.
The door opened and Mudd came in. For a very large man, Mudd moved silently, light on his very large feet.
Roscoe leaned back and arched a brow.
Mudd halted beside the chair he’d occupied earlier. “That was Coogan from the group watching the Clifford house. ’Parently a gent, tall, forty-ish, graying hair, well-dressed, riding a brown nag, arrived a little while ago, went inside, but about ten minutes later came walking out with Miss Clifford. They strolled through the square. Coogan passed them on to Wilkins there, and Wilkins followed them down to the river, then back up Claverton Street. According to Wilkins, Miss Clifford and the gent were talking the whole way, but not jolly-like—more like they were discussing something serious. Only smile he saw was at the end, when Miss Clifford saw the gent off at the front gate, then, looking like she was thinking hard, she went indoors.”
Roscoe nodded and waved Mudd to sit again. “Very well. To return to Holborn.” He looked at Mudd. “Rawlins says something’s off—did you pick up anything specific?”
Mudd blinked at him, then looked at Rawlins. The pair exchanged a glance, then both looked at Roscoe again.
Rawlins leaned forward. “Don’t you want us to find out who this gent who called in Claverton Street is?”
Roscoe met Rawlins’s gaze, then looked at Mudd. “Did Coogan or Wilkins see anything to suggest that Miss Clifford is in any danger from this gentleman, or that she fears him?”
Mudd hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Wilkins said they were just walking and discussing.”
“Well, then, there’s no reason for us to interfere, is there?”
The silence that ensued told Roscoe more clearly than if they’d spoken that neither of his bodyguards agreed.
He fixed Mudd with a pointed glance. “Holborn?”
Mudd shifted, frowned. “Not off, exactly, but . . .”
After Mudd and Rawlins left, Roscoe debated for a full minute, then sighed, reached for a fresh sheet of paper, and picked up his pen.
Five minutes later, he rang for Rundle. When his butler materialized, he handed him the folded missive. “Have this delivered to Mr. Clifford immediately. Tell the footman to wait for an answer.”
Rundle bowed. “Yes, sir.”
An hour later, Roscoe made his way to Jordan’s office. As usual, the door stood open. Propping a shoulder against the frame, he studied the man, no longer as young as he’d been when Lord Julian Delbraith had first tapped him on the shoulder to become his man of business more than thirteen years ago, yet there were still three pencils stuck behind Jordan’s ears, he’d taken off his jacket and was working in his shirtsleeves, and his fingers were grimy from handling dozens of sovereigns.
The scritch of pen on paper and the clink of coins was familiar music in the room. Through association with him, Jordan had become a very wealthy man, yet he still loved counting money.
Hiding a smile, Roscoe pushed away from the door and strolled into the room. Aside from all aspects of managing money, there was one other skill at which Jordan excelled.
Finally realizing he was no longer alone, Jordan glanced up and grinned. “You should be pleased with the good weather—people have stayed in town longer, and we’re reaping the rewards.”
“Excellent.” Roscoe halted, fingers tapping lightly on the desk. “I have another job for you. Knowing you, it won’t take long.”
Instantly diverted, Jordan arched his brows.
“Wraxby—a gentleman from Hill’s End in Suffolk. I want to know everything about him.”
Jordan whipped a pencil from behind his right ear and jotted on a scrap of paper. “When do you need the information by?” Jordan looked up.
“As soon as you can get it.”
Jordan nodded, rose, and pulled his coat off the back of his chair. Shrugging into it, he glanced at the clock on the wall opposite his desk. “Let’s see what I can turn up this evening.”
With a dip of his head, Roscoe led the way out; in the corridor, he stood back as Jordan locked the door—a strong-room door masquerading as a normal door. Straightening, Jordan flicked him a salute and strode off.
Roscoe followed more slowly, doing everything he could not to think about why he’d done what he just had.
He couldn’t fault his men for doing as he’d asked.
The following afternoon, having been informed by a blank-faced Mudd that the same gent from yesterday had called at the Clifford residence again, and had this time taken Miss Clifford out driving, and having also received a detailed report from Jordan earlier in the day, Roscoe found himself lurking in the alley alongside the Clifford garden, close to Claverton Street.
He’d sent the men he’d had on watch back to his house for a break; no sense them watching as well, and better still if they weren’t about to see how Miranda Clifford reacted. He had no idea how she would take the news of what he’d uncovered about her gentleman caller.
Lounging against the alley wall, he looked out along the street to where a plain gig stood, the horse somnolent between the shafts, the reins held by one of the local urchins always ready to earn a copper or two. Wraxby and Miranda had returned more than twenty minutes ago; if Wraxby and Miranda’s aunt adhered strictly to society’s rules, then Wraxby would be leaving soon.
All in all, he wasn’t best pleased to discover himself there, but the thought of not being there—of not ensuring that Miranda knew the truth before she made any irrevocable decision—was inconceivable. Wraxby might not pose any danger in the physical sense, at least not directly, and at least not yet, not before she’d married him, but there was more than one sort of danger that could threaten a vulnerable not-so-young lady.
The sun was low in the sky, the shafts of weak light striking almost horizontally, when he heard voices, then the front gate opened. Straightening, he stepped across the alley, putting his back to the Cliffords’ garden wall.
The chill breeze carried the voices of the two people who emerged from the gate and halted on the pavement to him—Miranda and her gentleman caller. He listened, and was honest enough to own to relief when he detected no loverlike tones in the strictly conventional exchang
es. Wraxby might have offered, but she hadn’t yet accepted him.
He waited until he heard the jingle of harness and the clop of hooves, then looked around the corner.
Turning back to the gate, Miranda saw him. Beyond her, Wraxby was driving away up the street. She paused, frowned, then walked briskly to the front gate, went through, and shut it. He heard the latch fall home.
Now what?
Drawing back into the alley, he debated waiting until Wraxby was out of sight, then walking up to the front gate and approaching the house like any normal caller—
The side gate, further along the alley, the one she used to come and go unseen, opened. She stepped out of the gate, looked at him, and waited.
Pushing away from the wall, he walked down the alley.
“Have you learned something about Kirkwell?”
He halted before her. “No.”
She frowned more definitely. “Then what are you doing here?”
“Watching out for you.” Her frown just grew more puzzled. He glanced around, then waved her back into the garden. “No sense taking chances.”
She looked around, then retreated over the stone step and into the shade of the trees beyond. He followed, closing the gate behind him.
She was studying his face. “Your men are supposed to be watching for any sign of Kirkwell or his hirelings. There’s no reason to, as you put it, watch out for me.”
He felt his jaw tighten. “Yes, there is, as it appears you’re incapable of distinguishing a coldhearted exploiter from an eligible gentleman.”
She stiffened. Her head rose. “If you recall, our liaison is at an end—there’s no reason, no justification, for you to be acting like some sort of guard.”
“If you recall, my association with your brother continues. I consider him a friend, and therefore his family’s welfare is of at least passing concern to me. If I see danger threatening a member of his family, as his friend I would of course warn him—that’s what friends do. Furthermore, anyone seeking to kill him and lay hands on his fortune could most easily accomplish the latter via you. In this case . . . I thought you would rather I spoke directly to you.”