She glanced at the bed, then at the room, thought of all she’d seen—and understood what he’d meant about them being safe. “That doesn’t matter.”
“I know it’s a shock, a lot to absorb and deal with, but . . .” He waited until she looked at him, then captured her gaze. “Will you trust me?”
Always. The word leapt to her mind, and she realized it was the truth. She’d trusted him since their first meeting; over the last days, she’d trusted him implicitly again and again.
She’d taken him as her lover without the slightest concern.
Eyes locked with his, she nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
“Good.” His lips quirked again, more in resignation this time. “I’ll do what I can to keep the curious at bay.”
With an inclination of his head, he started to turn away.
She reached out and caught his sleeve. When he glanced back, she met his gaze. “Who are you?”
He held her gaze for several moments, then said, “I’m Roscoe. You, more than most, know who, and what, I am.”
When she didn’t reply, either to accept or further question, he lifted her hand from his sleeve, lightly squeezed her fingers, then released them and stepped back. She let him go.
But on the point of turning away, he hesitated, then met her eyes again, and quietly said, “In my earlier life, I used to be Lord Julian Delbraith.”
She had no idea what he saw in her eyes; she had no idea what she felt.
With a slight nod, he turned and walked to the open doorway; without glancing back, he went out, drawing the door closed behind him.
She stared at the door, her thoughts churning, but to no real effect. Of all the revelations of the past half hour, all incomplete, tantalizing yet still nebulous, only one stood as immutable fact.
London’s gambling king, the man she’d taken as her lover, was the legitimate scion of a ducal house.
A tap on the door heralded Mrs. Viner. The housekeeper brandished two pairs of dressmaker’s shears and a man’s nightshirt. “I found this, although I daresay we’ll have to wait until the doctor bandages him up, but we’ll manage somehow.” Mrs. Viner smiled. “Shall we get started, then?”
Shaking off her lingering, possibly deepening stupefaction, Miranda nodded. “Yes, by all means.”
Dealing with Roderick, at least, was something she knew how to do.
Chapter Nine
Doctor Entwhistle proved to be kindly and competent. Miranda felt immeasurably relieved when, after setting and tightly binding Roderick’s shoulder and arm, and his foot, the doctor assured her that with due care he expected his patient to recover completely.
“He was lucky—they’re both simple breaks. Nevertheless, it will take several months before the bones are fully healed.”
She brushed a lock of hair from her brother’s brow. “And the fever?”
“That’s a symptom, not a cause for concern in and of itself. Now his bones are aligned and healing can commence, the fever should subside.” Entwhistle smiled reassuringly. “It may take a few days, but I expect some improvement by tomorrow. I’ll call again to check on his progress tomorrow afternoon, but bear in mind that I’ve dosed him, sleep being the best balm for broken bones. I doubt he’ll wake before then, and even when he does, he’ll be weak, and you’ll need to discourage unnecessary movement or excitement of any kind for the next several days.”
She nodded, then asked the most pertinent question. “We live in London. How soon will he be able to travel?”
Lips pursing, Entwhistle considered Roderick, then said, “I’ll be able to be more definite after I see him tomorrow, but I doubt he’ll be fit enough to manage that distance this side of ten days. I would advise doing all possible not to jar or put much weight on his foot during that time. Even then, he’ll need to stay off it and keep his shoulder and arm strapped for several more weeks.”
“Thank you. We’ll do whatever you recommend.”
Following the doctor to the door, she saw him out—into Roscoe’s hands; he’d apparently been waiting in the corridor to walk the doctor out.
Returning to the bed, she looked down at Roderick. He was still terribly pale, his brown hair lank, and there were lines bracketing his mouth that hadn’t been there when she’d last seen him a week ago. Yet seeing him sleeping . . . relief flooded her, so intense that she closed her eyes and simply let the wave wash through her.
As the emotion receded, she opened her eyes. Looking around, spotting a straight-backed chair by the wall, she went to it, lifted it and set it beside the bed, then sat, took one of Roderick’s limp hands in hers, and settled to wait.
She was recalling various other times when she’d kept vigil by Roderick’s bedside when the door opened and Roscoe walked in.
As he closed the door, she met his eyes. “Thank you again for all your help.”
He shook his head dismissively. “I didn’t question Entwhistle. What did he say?”
While she told him, he strolled to the end of the bed, sank his hands in his pockets, leaned a shoulder against the carved post, and studied her brother. Watching him, she concluded, “So it appears we’ll be imposing on your . . . sister-in-law’s hospitality for the next ten days at least.”
She’d couched a subtle question in the statement; she wasn’t sure of the relationship, but she’d been introduced to Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Ridgware, who was clearly Roscoe’s mother, and also to Caroline, who was the present duchess. The lanky youth who bore a striking resemblance to Caroline as well as Lucasta and Roscoe had been introduced as the duke, so . . . she thought she had it right. Caroline, presumably a widow, was presently lady of this ducal sprawl.
Apparently oblivious to her uncertainty, Roscoe merely nodded. “We can use the time to see what we can learn about who hired Kempsey and Dole. It would be best to know that before Roderick returns to town.”
She wondered how . . . but she had another issue to address. “We’re in your debt—”
“No, you’re not.” He met her eyes. “At least not monetarily.”
“But the doctor—”
“Is the estate’s local man. We have him on retainer.”
She studied his face, then said, “You’re not going to allow me, or Roderick, to pay for this, are you?”
“No.” After a moment, his lips curved. “I am, after all, London’s gambling king, and as such, one of the wealthiest men in the realm. And, as I believe I mentioned, I consider Roderick an ally and a friend, and I take care of my allies and friends.” He paused, then added, “You could consider this, and all else, as merely me shoring up my reputation.”
She humphed, but she might as well leave arguing until later, or even leave it to Roderick. As she sat looking up at Roscoe, lounging with his customary grace against the bedpost, she recalled her earlier assumption—that all about him that screamed of an aristocratic lineage had come via the wrong side of the blanket. Observing him here, in this setting, she could only wonder how she could have thought that; there was nothing diluted about him. He was the genuine article, through and through.
But she was still at sea, adrift as to how and why and . . . so many things. And as he seemed disinclined to explain, she was, apparently, going to have to ask. “The others in the Philanthropy Guild.” She waved at him, then around. “Do they know?”
He studied her for a moment, then said, “They don’t know, but the older ones might suspect.” Pushing away from the bedpost, he drew his hands from his pockets and resettled his coat. “They’re all younger than I am by a few years at least, so none of them rubbed shoulders with me as I was before.” He met her gaze. “Lord Julian Delbraith disappeared twelve years ago.”
Before she could assimilate that, let alone respond, a light tap fell on the door.
Roscoe—Julian, whichever he was while there—turned and went to the door. Opening it, he looked out; she heard female voices. His voice was too low for her to make out his words, but a lady replied. He paused; she could feel hi
s resignation from across the room, then he stepped back and held the door wide.
The dowager swept in, followed by the duchess.
Earlier in the forecourt, Miranda had absorbed no more than fleeting impressions. Now she registered that the dowager, while no longer young, still possessed both physical and mental energy; she was fashionably turned out, her features fine, her steel gray hair becomingly dressed. Strength of character and an indomitable will were etched in the lines of her face and underscored by her posture; Miranda sensed that the dark blue of her eyes was not the only characteristic the dowager had passed on to her son. In contrast, the duchess was both younger and visually less forceful; blond, indisputably elegant even in a plain day gown, there was nevertheless a hint of inner resolve in a face that seemed somehow older than it should have been.
Rising, Miranda started to curtsy, but the dowager waved her up.
“No need for that, dear, not while it’s just us.” The dowager peered at Roderick. “So how is your brother? What did Entwhistle say?”
Deeming they had a right to know—they were giving her and Roderick refuge, after all—Miranda told them. Both the dowager and the duchess asked pertinent questions; subsequent comments suggested both had a passing acquaintance with nursing young gentlemen. From the corner of her eye she saw Roscoe hovering by the open door, as if considering escaping . . . but he shut the door and remained where he was, distanced from the gathering about the bed.
Eventually, her report concluded, she drew a deeper breath and focused on the two ladies. “I can’t thank you both enough for permitting us to stay, let alone assisting us—”
“Great heavens, dear—of course we would.” The dowager smiled with real warmth. “We’re only too happy to have a chance to do so.”
The duchess smiled warmly, reassuringly, too. “Please believe, Miss Clifford, that we’re only too glad to have you to stay.” The duchess glanced at Roscoe. “We’re delighted that Julian had the sense to bring you here.”
Why? Miranda kept her puzzlement from her face, but inwardly she wondered. Both the dowager and duchess struck her as sincere, openly and honestly pleased at her and Roderick’s unexpected arrival.
Another tap fell on the door.
“Ah—that will be Nurse.” The dowager waved at Roscoe. “Do let her in, dear.”
Roscoe obeyed.
The duchess volunteered, “Nurse is very experienced in watching over patients—she’ll watch over your brother and take excellent care of him. Meanwhile, what with the distraction, we haven’t had a chance to change for dinner, but as it’s just us—en famille—we’ve decided we won’t bother with the formalities this evening.”
“Indeed.” The dowager swept up to Miranda and laid gentle fingers on her arm. “And as Entwhistle has dosed your brother so he won’t wake until tomorrow, you, my dear, can leave Nurse to manage here and join us at table.”
Miranda knew when she was being herded. She looked into the dowager’s dark and surprisingly alert eyes, and sensed that the old lady was rarely gainsaid. Like her son, she expected to get her way.
Miranda looked across the room at Roscoe. Hands clasped behind his back, he was looking down; if a man such as he could ever look self-effacing, as if he wished to fade into the paneling, that was how he was looking now.
Curiosity rose, surprisingly intense.
And Roderick was unlikely to wake.
She looked at the dowager, then at the duchess, and inclined her head. “Thank you. I would be pleased to join you for dinner.” She glanced at Nurse, who had come in and now stood quietly waiting; a middle-aged woman in a starched white apron over a gray gown, with iron gray hair, strong hands, and a square face, she appeared rather formidable. “Let me explain my brother’s condition to Nurse, and then, perhaps”—Julian? Or Roscoe?—“your son could show me the way.”
“Excellent.” With an approving pat on her arm, the dowager swung to the door. “Come, Caroline—I believe that’s the gong sounding now. The others will be wondering where we’ve got to.”
The two ladies departed, charging Roscoe to bring Miss Clifford along directly. Already engaged with Nurse, she didn’t hear his reply.
Nurse proved to be every bit as experienced and rock-steady as the duchess had intimated; she asked numerous questions about the injuries before declaring herself sufficiently advised to assume Roderick’s care. “I doubt he’ll even stir, not after one of doctor’s sleeping drafts, but if he shows any signs of waking, I’ll send for you immediately.”
Having already surmised that while Nurse approved of her concern for Roderick, the woman did not consider Miranda’s input or presence as necessary to her brother’s recovery, she accepted the olive branch for what it was. “Thank you.”
Turning from the bed, she walked to where Roscoe waited. He met her eyes but made no comment. Opening the door, he waved her through, then followed her into the corridor.
She waited while he closed the door. Joining her, he waved her on, and she fell in beside him as he led her through the corridors. After a moment, she murmured, “I would have been perfectly happy with a tray in the room. You could have rescued me, but you didn’t.”
A moment ticked by, then he replied, his voice low, “I could have, but they’re right—you need to eat a proper meal. We haven’t had anything since breakfast, and that was early.” Through the shadows in the gallery, he met her eyes. “You’ll be no help to Roderick if you faint or wilt away.”
She humphed and looked ahead. Internally, the house was not as overwhelming as she’d expected; although the furniture and furnishings were beautiful, luxurious and elegant, the overall ambience was of a house in use, a home, not a showcase.
“Besides,” Roscoe went on, “you need time to get to know them, at least well enough to be comfortable over the next few weeks.” With a wave, he directed her to the head of the main stairs. “And they need time to get to know you. I know they’ll do all they can to help you over the coming days.”
They started down the stairs. “Your sisters. Do they live here, too?”
“Only Edwina, the youngest. Millicent, the eldest, and Cassie, the middle one, are both married and not normally here. I gather they’re visiting to plot and plan Edwina’s wedding. She’s engaged to one of the Frobishers.”
She didn’t move in tonnish circles, but she’d heard the name. “One of the adventurers?”
He nodded. His lips quirked upward as they reached the front hall. “I imagine that will suit Edwina to the ground. Frobisher might not know it, but I’d wager she’s planning to accompany him on his next expedition.”
He led her not to the main dining hall, which, she felt sure, would be cavernous, but to a nice-sized dining parlor, a more intimate room with a table that sat only twelve. It was presently set for eight. The family had gathered before the long windows at the end of the room; they turned as she entered, Roscoe at her shoulder.
The duchess smiled and came forward. “I know you met fleetingly before, but allow me to introduce the rest of the family in greater depth.” She proceeded to introduce Millicent and Cassandra—“Cassie, please”—both stylish young matrons, and Edwina, a delightful young lady of twenty-two summers who was clearly thrilled over her upcoming wedding, but, like her sisters, was agog to learn more about Miranda and Roderick. Each sister volunteered a trifle more about themselves—who the elder two had married, and where in the country their respective homes were, what children each had, and that they’d sent their husbands to Scotland for some hunting, along with Frobisher, Edwina’s fiancé, in order to congregate and plan Edwina’s wedding without distraction.
Extracting Miranda from the sisters, the duchess continued, “My mama-in-law needs no further introduction.” The duchess turned to the youth who stood dutifully at her elbow. She smiled and the love of a mother lit her face. “Which leaves me to present my son, Henry, Duke of Ridgware.”
Smiling, Miranda curtsied, and was charmed by Henry’s smile as he took the han
d she offered and very correctly bowed over it. She judged him to be in his midteens, all long limbs and as yet evolving grace, but he made a commendable job of the courtesy.
“A pleasure, Miss Clifford. I look forward to making yours and your brother’s acquaintance over the coming days. I take it he’s not in any serious straits?”
“Nothing dire, or so your good doctor assured me. Just broken bones.” She turned as Henry, mimicking his uncle’s elegance, waved her to a chair; preempting Roscoe, he held it for her.
Henry grinned as he settled her. “I get to claim the guest.”
She chuckled; she liked Henry. He’d sat her to the left of the great carver at the head of the table. After assisting his grandmother, the dowager, to the chair opposite hers, Henry claimed the carver, looked down the table, then glanced at the butler who’d come to stand by his shoulder. “Right then, Cater. Let’s have at it.”
Again she found herself hiding a smile; Henry’s youthful insouciance was infectious. Although serious questions remained over Roderick’s kidnapping, about who was behind it and why, in that moment, with relief mingling with curiosity, and a sense of calm security engulfing her, she felt justified in relaxing and learning what she could of the man seated alongside her—Neville Roscoe-Lord Julian Delbraith.
His eldest sister, Millicent, sat opposite him, with Cassie alongside her. The duchess sat in the smaller carver at the table’s foot, and Edwina sat to her right, opposite Cassie and on Roscoe’s other side.
As the first course—a delicious chicken and cucumber soup—was set before them, Millicent asked where in London Miranda and Roderick lived.
The ensuing discussion wasn’t so much an interrogation as an exchange. For every piece of information they asked of her, they offered something in return, some snippet that gave her a smidgen more insight into their own family’s mystery. Into the man of mystery who sat, not exactly silent but subdued, beside her.
At one point, she caught him bestowing a heavily resigned look on his mother, but the dowager merely smiled in reply.
The Lady Risks All Page 19
