Miranda sucked in a breath, then let it out with, “But as we didn’t?”
“As we haven’t found a body yet, then . . .” Roscoe frowned. “I don’t know. The facts don’t fit with ransom, but they don’t fit a simple killing, either. Moving him out of London . . . I can’t see what would have prompted them to that.”
She seized on the implication. “But as they did move him, that suggests he’s still alive, doesn’t it?” She fixed her gaze on his face. “Why would they move an already dead body?”
He considered, then nodded. “You’re right—they wouldn’t. Or at least, I can’t see any reason hired killers like Kempsey and Dole would bother. The river was there at the end of the street. So . . . at the moment we have no reason to imagine that Roderick isn’t still alive.”
After a moment, he said, “One classic question—who profits from Roderick’s death?”
When she glanced at him, he arched a brow. She frowned. “As far as I’m aware— and as I am twenty-nine and in charge of my own fortune I know the terms of my parents’ wills—if Roderick dies, I’m the only one who stands to gain.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s what I thought. So no clues there.”
A minute ticked past. She felt as if her brain was only slowly absorbing the full implications of all they’d learned . . . she looked at Roscoe. “What about Kempsey and Dole? Can we learn more about them?”
His gaze distant, he nodded. “That’s our next step.”
She waited, but he didn’t say more, and a few minutes later the carriage slowed, then turned. Fine gravel crunched under the wheels; seconds later, the carriage halted.
Roscoe opened the door and climbed out, then turned to assist Miranda, in her male attire but with the scandalous sight concealed by her cloak, down to the flags in the portico of his house.
Mudd and Rawlins dropped down from the carriage’s roof.
He turned to them. “Go and tell Gallagher I want a meeting. He can choose where, but it has to be in the open.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded at the carriage. “You may as well take it—just make sure you bring it back.”
Mudd and Rawlins grinned. They opened the carriage door, calling the direction to Cummins on the box, laughed at Cummins’s predictably dour reply, then climbed quickly in.
Drawing Miranda into the shadows beneath the portico, Roscoe waited while Cummins drove the carriage forward and around the turning circle, then past them and back into the street.
“Who is Gallagher?” she asked.
“Someone you really don’t want to know.” He glanced at her, then waved down the drive to where marble steps led up to the rear gardens. “Come along, Miss Clifford—regardless of your attire, I’ll walk you home.”
Chapter Four
Miranda arrived at Roscoe’s house even earlier the next morning, but from Rundle’s smile she got the distinct impression that she’d been expected.
Anticipated.
Rundle showed her upstairs to the study, announced her, and left, closing the door behind him.
Roscoe, seated behind the desk and sipping from a mug as he looked over various documents and letters, glanced up as she neared.
His gaze fixed, arrested, on her, as if he hadn’t seen a lilac walking dress before, then he blinked and focused his dark blue gaze on her face. “I have a meeting scheduled with Gallagher at eleven o’clock.”
“Where?” Setting her reticule down on a side table, she remained standing. Slanting sunlight struck red glints from his richly dark hair.
“The museum. The main hall.”
The notion of the museum hosting meetings of underworld figures was rather eye-opening . . . she smiled. “Excellent! So I can attend, too.”
“Yes, and no.” His gaze skated down her figure again. “Gallagher doesn’t need to know you exist. He doesn’t even need to know it’s Roderick who’s been taken. No sane person ever gives Gallagher information of that sort. One can have no certainty what such information might subsequently be used for.” He met her eyes. “So you can attend the meeting, but—”
“I’ll need to be disguised again.”
“Yes.” He sat back in his chair, regarding her in what she now realized was a measuring way. “But not as a male. You’ll need bonnet, veil, gloves—things to cover as much of you as possible. I’ll have a maid and footman of mine go with you—you’ll travel to the museum with them in one of my town carriages.” He met her eyes. “Be back here at ten-thirty. We’ll leave then.”
With that, he returned his gaze to his papers.
She was not one of his men. She stood where she was, looking down on his dark head.
Eventually, he sighed, looked up at her, and arched a weary brow.
She smiled. “Thank you.”
With that, she whirled, swiped up her reticule, walked back to the door, and let herself out.
Roscoe watched the door close. When he was sure she was gone, he shook his head. “What the hell am I doing?”
No answer came.
With another shake of his head, he hauled his attention back to his desk, to the work he wanted to finish before she returned to distract him.
Superbly disguised in her mourning weeds from when her aunt Corrine had passed on, Miranda stood in the museum’s great hall, her veiled gaze fixed on a large painting of a crucifixion, and waited for the meeting to begin.
She even had a black-lace-edged handkerchief clutched in one hand.
The maid Roscoe had provided, also soberly dressed, stood a pace behind her, carrying her black shawl. Her footman, a strapping young man, suitably handsome, stood idle but attentive beside the maid.
Roscoe had told her which painting to stand near; now she was in position, she was growing impatient, but the large clock on the wall above the entrance showed that it still wanted a few minutes to eleven o’clock.
She was about to shift her gaze back to the painting when the entrance doors swung open, held open by two men to admit a third—a massive mountain of a man who, gripping two walking canes, one in each hand, shuffled his bulk, plainly garbed in a brown suit, into the hall. Halting inside the doors, the huge man glanced about; his face was a mass of fleshy jowls and puffy cheeks from which small beady eyes surveyed the world.
Sighting the bench facing the painting before which she stood angled, the massive man grunted and heaved himself toward it.
Gallagher. From behind the screen of her veil, she watched him reach the bench, then, with his henchmen hovering, lower himself onto it. With a wave, he dismissed his men; they retreated to stand by the walls, one to either side, keeping watch over their master.
Although the great hall wasn’t crowded, it wasn’t deserted, either. Aside from herself and her attendants, there were several other couples and small groups strolling and admiring the works on display, while a steady stream of patrons crossed the hall on their way to other rooms.
Before she had time to grow impatient again, Roscoe arrived. Striding into the hall with Mudd and Rawlins behind him, he paused, saw Gallagher, turned his head and spoke to Mudd and Rawlins, then walked unhurriedly to the bench. Without looking at or acknowledging Gallagher in any way, Roscoe sat on the bench, a few feet distant; leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, he looked at the painting.
Behind her veil, she sighed, then crossed to the other side of the painting, head tilting as if studying the work. The new position gave her a clearer view of Gallagher’s face.
His beady eyes flicked sideways to Roscoe. “So what can I do for you on this fine morning?”
Roscoe’s impassive expression didn’t change. “I’m sure the man you had watching my house has reported that two thugs, Kempsey and Dole, snatched an acquaintance of mine off the street near my house, which he’d just left. As I’m sure you can imagine, I’m unhappy about having my hospitality tainted by such an occurrence.”
Gallagher kept his gaze fixed on the painting. “Understandable.”
�
�Indeed. I want to know everything about Kempsey and Dole, and most importantly I want to know who hired them.”
“Not why?”
“Why would be nice, but in this case, once I know who, the why should be apparent.”
“Hmm.” Gallagher paused, then in quite a different tone asked, “How’s my great-nephew doing?”
“Well. You were right—he has a good head for figures and is quick to learn. If he keeps his eyes on the path and doesn’t stray, I expect he’ll be climbing several rungs shortly.”
“Good to know.” Gallagher’s tone became more brisk. “As for Kempsey and Dole, they’re not locals. Word is they hail from Birmingham, but they’ve been operating out of the Hood and Gable tavern in Mile End for the last several years, strictly for hire. My sources say they’re good at their business. Never had cause to use them myself, but that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Any notion who hired them?”
“I only know it wasn’t one of us.”
It was Roscoe’s turn to cast Gallagher a sideways glance. “You’re sure?”
“Like you said, I heard that it’d happened. Seemed downright reckless, shall we say. Sure as the sun rising you were going to come asking, so I asked first. None of the usual suspects hereabouts know anything about it, but Quirk—his lads sometimes use the Hood and Gable—let me know that a couple of his lads had seen Kempsey and Dole take a packet from some man. Looked like a deal had been struck, which is why his lads thought to mention it to Quirky. Naturally, Quirky asked after who the man doing the hiring was, but he was a stranger and entirely forgettable—brown hair, middling to tall, average otherwise, clothes not new, even a trifle shabby. Seems he sported a slashing scar down one cheek, but with all the men back from the wars, in terms of identification a scarred face isn’t what it used to be.”
“Sadly not.” After a moment, Roscoe said, “So it’s likely Kempsey and Dole are working for some man indistinguishable from untold others, and unconnected with any of the major operators.”
“Aye. And the only other tidbit I’ve got that might help is that Kempsey and Dole often use a coach from the stables behind the Hood and Gable. Seems they’ve currently got the coach out, along with the regular horses. Dole usually drives. The coach isn’t notable in any way, but the horses—one’s a dun with a pale mane and the other’s a muddy gray.”
Roscoe straightened. “That will help. What about Kempsey and Dole themselves?”
“Heavyset, the pair of them, but Kempsey’s the real bruiser. Dole’s a trifle taller and quicker on his feet. Kempsey’s the leader, the talker. Dole follows and keeps his tongue between his teeth. Kempsey’s got short brown hair, going salt-and-pepper. Dole has longer, dark brown hair and has a cauliflower ear. Both dress plain but neat enough, and speak with an accent, Birmingham-way, most like.”
Roscoe committed the sketchy descriptions to memory. “One last thing. Do they carry pistols?”
“Not generally. Both favor knives, or their fists or blunt weapons.” Gallagher paused, then added, “They’re that sort of thug.”
Escorted by his people back to Roscoe’s house, then shown into the dining parlor where the previous day they’d lunched, Miranda paced and wondered where the devil Roscoe was, and, more importantly, what he was doing. She’d remained in the great hall with her attendants, ostensibly viewing further paintings, while Roscoe, followed by the much slower Gallagher, had left the building; only then had she quit the scene.
Finally the door opened and Roscoe entered. Facing him, she halted. “So what now?”
Closing the door, he met her gaze. “Now, we eat.” Waving to the table, he strolled around it to hold her chair. “And then I’ll see you home.”
She sat, settled, restrained her impatience enough to let him sit in the carver to her left before asking, “But what about following Kempsey and Dole? What about Roderick?”
“I’ve sent men to hunt down that coach, or more specifically those horses.” He flicked out his napkin, glanced up as Rundle arrived with a platter of sliced meats. “No matter who’s paying them, those two won’t be silly enough to travel via the posting houses. They won’t change horses—they’ll roll slowly along and stop whenever they need to rest their mismatched pair.”
She used the minutes while Rundle served them to cogitate further. When the butler withdrew, she glanced at Roscoe, took in his entirely uninformative expression. But of course he had some plan. “Once you’ve located Kempsey and Dole—and hopefully that will mean Roderick as well—what then?”
Roscoe chewed, swallowed, and kept his gaze on his plate. “Once I learn where they’re heading, I’ll go after them and bring Roderick back.” Assuming Roderick is still alive.
A second passed. “Do you think he’s still alive?”
He inwardly sighed, then looked at her. “I think it’s likely. I can’t fathom what’s going on here—if they’d killed him, that coach would be back in the stables, but my men have already confirmed it’s not. So . . .” He ate another mouthful, then offered, “The next most likely option is that they’re taking him somewhere, possibly to deliver to someone, presumably whoever hired them.” He glanced at her, at the concentration in her face as she, too, ate; he felt irrationally pleased that she was at least eating. “I take it you’ve as yet had no revelation over who might be behind this?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“Nor I. Regardless, what we now know suggests that if we move quickly to follow Kempsey and Dole, we’ll have a reasonable chance of getting Roderick back alive.”
She sipped the water she’d had Rundle pour for her instead of the headier wine. “So once you know where they are, you’ll send some of your henchmen to deal with them and get Roderick back.”
A statement that was in fact a question.
“No. I’ll go myself.”
She looked at him, met his gaze. “You will?” When he nodded, she frowned. “But I’ve seen you’re constantly busy—”
“Miss Clifford.” Briefly he compressed his lips. “Why am I bothering?” The question was rhetorical; he went on, “Miranda—I may have described Roderick as an acquaintance to Gallagher, but I view your brother as a friend. He’s put his trust in me and followed my lead philanthropically, and I will do for him what I would for any friend—I’ll go after him myself, not leave his rescue to my men, no matter how trusted and able said men might be.”
She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She returned her attention to her plate.
He followed her lead, wondering . . .
“I’ll go with you, of course.”
He inwardly sighed. “No. You won’t.”
“We’re not having that argument again, are we?”
He shook his head. “You’re not coming with me.”
She shot him a narrow-eyed glance, one he pretended not to notice. “You do realize”—her tone was even, the soul of reasonableness shining through—“that I will follow you regardless, on my own if need be, and, of course, I’m much more likely to get into difficulties, into danger, while traveling on my own than if I travel with you.”
Setting down his knife and fork, he tossed his napkin down by his plate, then turned to her. “There’s no reason for you to further involve yourself—”
“Actually, there’s several.” Waving a fork to emphasize, she stated, “I’m Roderick’s sister—his nearest kin. If he’s badly injured, matters will go much more smoothly if I’m there to speak for him.”
He pressed his lips together; that, unfortunately, was unarguable, and a possibility.
“More, if he’s injured, it will be infinitely easier for him if I’m there—what if he’s taken a knock on the head and doesn’t recognize you?” Lowering the fork, she looked down at her plate, then set her cutlery down. “And furthermore, I can’t just sit here, safe in London, and wait. I’ll go mad with worry.”
About you both. Miranda kept that little snippet to herself. Fo
lding her napkin, she laid it alongside her plate and turned to face him.
Apparently recognizing that trying to argue her points would be futile, he was frowning. “I can’t see how—”
“It’s simple.” He wasn’t the only one who could plan, and she’d had plenty of time to think since leaving the museum. “We travel openly together, with me in my weeds.” She waved a hand at her dull black gown. “I’ll be a widow traveling to attend some relative’s sickbed, and you’ll be a friend of the family escorting me thither. That’s a perfectly acceptable scenario, and it will also provide you with an excellent disguise. When we find Kempsey and Dole, there’ll be no reason for them to be suspicious of you. It’s vital to give you a plausible reason for being there, otherwise you’ll put them on alert simply by appearing.
“And, of course, a lady can always have a bad day and feel too ill to travel, so if we need to dally nearby to spirit Roderick out of Kempsey and Dole’s clutches, we won’t need to invent anything else to excuse us lingering in the vicinity.” She paused, then added, “I also know how to care for injuries, at least minor ones.” Raising her gaze, she met his and stated categorically, “My plan will work perfectly well.”
Roscoe let his frown grow blacker. “I can just as well take Mudd and Rawlins—”
“No, you can’t. Gallagher said Kempsey and Dole were good at their business, which means that immediately they clap eyes on Mudd and Rawlins, they’ll recognize them for what they are—someone’s henchmen.”
“They prefer the term bodyguards.”
“Indeed. Men who guard someone powerful enough to need and pay for them, and who will very likely do violence at that someone’s behest.” She nodded. “Precisely.” She held his gaze. “If you go with Mudd and Rawlins, or on your own, you’ll stand out from the populace, no matter how you dress, and Kempsey and Dole will spot you and see you for the threat you are.” She broke off, caught her breath, then, her gaze now distant, her expression sober, said, “Who knows? If they sense a threat, they might even kill Roderick so he can’t be a witness against them.”
The Lady Risks All Page 11
