Mudd stood behind Kempsey, Rawlins behind Dole. Behind Roscoe, Roderick leaned on one crutch, his weight off his broken foot, his arm still in a sling due to his broken collarbone, and looked down with passable dispassion at the men who had injured him.
Flanking Roderick, and looking a lot less dispassionate, were Miranda, her arms crossed, her expression severe, and Sarah, one hand tucked in the crook of Roderick’s arm.
Roscoe was pleased with his stage setting. The implication wasn’t lost on Kempsey and Dole. Kempsey in particular eyed the three behind Roscoe with wary understanding before finally transferring his gaze to Roscoe’s face.
Kempsey didn’t say anything, just waited. Dole kept his eyes down, his gaze on the straw-strewn floor.
Inwardly smiling, Roscoe tipped his head to Kempsey. “A hanging offense, but one I’m in a position to see converted to transportation should you tell me all I wish to know.”
Kempsey and Dole exchanged a glance, then Kempsey looked back at him. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything, every last little detail, you can tell me about Kirkwell.”
The pair exchanged another glance, then Kempsey said, “If we tell you all we know, you’ll guarantee we’ll be transported, not hanged?”
Roscoe nodded.
“How do we know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t. However, there’s really no reason for me to do otherwise. For all your talents, you are nothing more than tools. I want the man who hired you and have only a passing interest in you.”
Kempsey and Dole appeared to have a wordless discussion, then Kempsey looked at him. “All right, but we don’t know much.”
Roscoe was wagering they knew more than they thought. “Describe Kirkwell.”
The description Kempsey, with additional comments from Dole, gave was clearly of the same man Gallagher had described.
“Once you’d seized me, you sent word to him,” Roderick said. “Where?”
“To the Hood and Gable—same place he hired us,” Kempsey replied. “Cagey bastard, he was—we didn’t have any other way to get in touch, but he wanted us to meet him there the next day to tell him we’d done the deed. Confirmation, and then he said he’d pay us the rest of the fee.”
Roscoe let a moment go by, then smoothly asked, “Kirkwell paid you to seize and murder Mr. Clifford—do you have any notion, did you get any hints, as to why he wanted Mr. Clifford dead?”
Both men shook their heads. “We don’t ask,” Kempsey said. “It’s bad for business, and dangerous, too.”
“Indeed. Did Kirkwell specifically ask you to take Mr. Clifford out of London before you murdered him?”
“Nah—that was us covering our arses.” Kempsey nodded at Roderick. “Kirkwell told us where he lived. He wanted us to kill him and leave his body somewhere near, where it was sure to be found.”
“He specifically said he wanted the body found?” Roscoe asked.
Both men nodded. “Part of the instructions,” Dole said.
Roscoe filed the information away. “So why didn’t you follow Kirkwell’s instructions and leave Mr. Clifford dead in Chichester Street?”
“ ’Cause we were fairly sure Kirkwell didn’t have the rest of the fee,” Kempsey said. “Or if he did, he’d welch on the deal and not pay us anyway, just disappear. He could’ve been watching from that dark park for all we knew, or he could watch the tavern and see if we turned up the next day as arranged. If we did, chances were the deed was done—he could just leave and not pay us and we wouldn’t know where to find him. It weren’t like he was a local—someone others ’round about knew.”
They did, indeed, know more than they thought. “Why,” Roscoe asked, “did you think Kirkwell didn’t have the money?”
Kempsey frowned. “A feeling. His coat was old, worn, shabby at the sleeves, but he behaved like he didn’t notice—as if it were new out of Bond Street, if you know what I mean.”
“He was a toff.” Dole glanced at Roscoe. “Not a toff like you, but still a toff.” Dole’s dark eyes tracked to Roderick. “More like him, now I think of it.”
Kempsey, also looking at Roderick, nodded. “Aye—we thought Kirkwell was a gentry-toff down on his luck. That’s what he seemed like.”
“All right.” Roscoe reclaimed their attention. They might have been thugs, but they were thugs who’d lived to a decent age; he respected their instincts. They’d picked up the difference in station between him and Roderick quick enough. “How did you intend to ensure you got the rest of your fee?”
Kempsey shifted. “We figured that if Kirkwell wanted Clifford dead, then if Kirkwell didn’t pay we could ransom Clifford back to his family and get the rest of our fee that way. So we kidnapped him”—Kempsey nodded at Roderick—“and took him out of London, then sent word with my uncle. He was to go to the Hood and Gable the next day, meet Kirkwell and tell him we had Clifford and would kill him and leave his body in Pimlico once Kirkwell paid the rest of the fee.”
Roscoe nodded. “A reasonable plan. So what happened?”
“Don’t know, do we? If Kirkwell paid up, my uncle was to send word to my brother in Birmingham and he’d come to the cottage and tell us, but after you found us and took Clifford, we’ve been searching all over, so we haven’t heard a thing.”
“Howsoever,” Dole said, “if Kirkwell had paid up promptly, like an honest man, we’d’ve heard the day before you got to the cottage, and we’d’ve been on the road back to London with the body before you found us.”
Kempsey, head down, was nodding. “Aye—if I were a betting man, I’d say Kirkwell didn’t pay up.”
“Was your uncle going to tell Kirkwell where you’d taken his prize?”
“Nah—we’re not daft. He wasn’t even going to let on we’d gone out of London—that was just us being cautious and setting things up so we could ransom Clifford more easily.”
They’d been convinced Kirkwell didn’t have their money. Roscoe considered, then asked, “Where can I find your uncle?”
Kempsey grew wary.
Roscoe sighed. “I have no interest in your uncle, only in what he can tell me. Whether Kirkwell got your message, and if so, what he said. Perhaps your uncle managed to follow him back to his lodgings—who knows?”
Kempsey looked down and said nothing.
After a moment, Roscoe softly said, “Our deal was for all I wished to know.”
Kempsey’s lips compressed, but after a moment, he mumbled, “Goodman’s Yard, not far from the Tower.”
“His name?”
Kempsey gave it.
There was little more to be had from the pair. Roscoe rose. “The constables will be here later today to take you off. If you give us, or them, any further trouble, our deal will evaporate and the gallows will be your fate.”
Picking up the chair, he turned and, waving Roderick, Sarah, and Miranda before him, walked out.
Ten minutes later, they were all in the library, with Henry at the big desk penning a missive to the local magistrate, Lord Bramwell.
Standing before the fireplace, Roscoe spoke to Mudd and Rawlins. “You two start for London immediately. Find out what happened with Kempsey’s uncle—see what he knows.”
Mudd and Rawlins nodded.
Rawlins asked, “Will you be returning, too?”
“We’ll set out tomorrow. Jordan’s visiting his family today, but he’ll be heading to town from Derby tomorrow, too.”
“We’ll tell Rundle.” Mudd saluted and left with Rawlins.
Roderick caught Roscoe’s eye. “Back to town?”
Roscoe nodded. “Entwhistle said you should be up to it.” Walking to the sofa on which Miranda sat, facing the one on which Sarah and Roderick were seated, he sat and fixed his gaze on Roderick. “Consider this. Kirkwell hires Kempsey and Dole to kill you and leave your body where it’s sure to be found. He wants you dead, and pronounced dead immediately, but he pays them only half their fee. Everything they and we now know suggests that Kir
kwell didn’t have the cash to pay the second half of the fee—I think Kempsey and Dole were correct in suspecting that. So Kirkwell is almost certainly still in London, and he’s short of cash. So what was his most likely motive in arranging for your murder?”
Roderick frowned.
“Money,” Roscoe supplied. “His most likely motive is money. And that’s only made more likely by his stipulation that he wanted your body found. The only way anyone can profit from your death is for your estate to be passed to your heirs, and that will only happen with reasonable speed if your body is found and you are declared officially dead.”
“But . . .” Roderick glanced at Miranda.
“But I’m his heir.” Miranda looked at Roscoe. “We’ve been through this before.”
“I know,” he said. “But clearly we’re missing some pertinent point. Regardless”—he met her gaze—“we’ve learned all we can here. The answers to the questions of who Kirkwell really is, and why he thinks he’ll profit from Roderick’s death, lie in London.”
She searched his eyes, then nodded. “You’re right.” She looked at Roderick. “So tomorrow we set out.”
To hunt down Kirkwell and make sure her not-so-little brother remained safe.
Chapter Fifteen
Later that morning, having consulted with Nurse on the various means they might employ to make traveling to London easier on Roderick, Miranda stepped out onto the terrace and drew in a long breath of crisp country air.
“Are you storing it up for when you return to London?”
She turned to see Lucasta step out of the door behind her, and smiled. “Yes. The country air smells so much nicer. Sweeter and richer.”
“Indeed. I find the London air somewhat bitter.” Joining Miranda, Lucasta waved down the steps. “Walk with me. We have half an hour before the luncheon gong sounds, and I understand we’ll be losing your company tomorrow morning.”
“Now Roderick is sufficiently recovered, we should get back.” At the bottom of the steps, they set out, slowly strolling down the gravel path circling the wide lawn. “I must thank you again for your hospitality. Being able to take refuge here has been a godsend. Without the support of you and Caroline, and the household, Roderick’s recovery would not have been so swift.”
“As to that, my dear, it’s truly been our pleasure.” Lucasta smiled at her. “But if you wish to repay me, you may do so by indulging me. Are you and your aunt—and Roderick, too—fixed permanently in town?”
“At present, yes. Our intention is to remain until Roderick marries. Once he’s settled, my aunt and I . . . well, we always assumed we’d move back to Oakgrove.”
“And has your brother met any particular young lady in the capital?”
“No. Not yet.” Sarah might be more than a friend in Roderick’s eyes, but Miranda didn’t know how their acquaintance might evolve.
“And what of yourself?” Lucasta cast her a curious look. “Oh, I know you will tell me that you’re twenty-nine and growing quite dusty on your shelf, but I have eyes enough to see that for a certain type of more mature gentleman you would make an excellent wife.”
She was tempted to obfuscate but . . . “I have had suitors—indeed, have a potential suitor at present—but we’re both still considering if there’s any point in him making me an offer.” She was thinking of Wraxby, but as she said the words, she realized they might apply even more aptly to . . . Lucasta’s son.
“Is that so?” After a moment, Lucasta added, as if in real puzzlement, “How strange. I would have thought that situated as you are, with, if I understood matters correctly, a comfortable portion and no other restriction to hinder you, that you, at least, would allow passion and regard to guide you . . . but forgive me.” Lucasta placed a hand lightly on her arm. “I’m being insufferably nosy, a prerogative ladies of my age frequently exercise.”
Unperturbed, Miranda smiled back. Nosy she could deal with; dictatorial dictating such as her aunt was wont to offer was another matter entirely.
“This, my dear, is a conversation I’ve had with each of my daughters—I hope you won’t consider me overstepping the mark if I give you the same advice.” Without waiting for any permission, Lucasta went on, “To secure happiness in her life, it is imperative for a lady to know her own mind, to define clearly what she wants—what will make her content—and then to go forward and wrest from life all she wants and needs.” Lucasta waved dismissively. “Any notion that life will provide without you taking an active part is grossly misguided. You must decide what you want and set out to obtain it—only through that act do any of us find true happiness.”
They walked on for several paces, then Miranda murmured, “That’s very profound.”
“Indeed. It’s also immutable.” Lucasta removed her hand from Miranda’s sleeve. “As it happens, I was speaking with Julian on a related subject. Obviously you know him in his other guise, but you’ve also seen him here, where he is my son, Henry’s uncle, Edwina’s brother, Caroline’s brother-in-law. It’s not my story as to why he made the change, but as I pointed out to him, as matters now stand it may be possible for him to reverse what he did years ago and become Lord Julian Delbraith again.”
Miranda frowned. “Is that possible?”
Lucasta nodded, lips and chin firm. “I believe so. And if he could be persuaded to that course, it would make such a difference to his future—to the rest of his life.”
Why was Lucasta telling her that? The dowager wasn’t a garrulous woman who gossiped to no purpose.
The answer seemed obvious; if Roscoe reverted to being Lord Julian Delbraith . . . Miranda glanced at the dowager. Was his mother matchmaking? Or did Lucasta have some other purpose in mind—perhaps hoping she would encourage him to consider the option?
“Mama.”
They both swung to see the man himself approaching across the lawn.
Miranda glanced at the dowager and saw a smile of the utmost innocence wreathe Lucasta’s face.
“My dear, how delightful. We were just discussing your return to the capital—you’ll take the traveling carriage for poor Roderick, will you not?”
“Yes.” Roscoe’s—Julian’s—gaze shifted from his mother’s face to Miranda’s, then back again. “I was coming to ask if that would disrupt any plans you have. I’ll send it straight back, but it would help Roderick to keep his foot elevated.”
“Of course, dear.” The dowager patted his arm. “And no, I’m fixed here for the foreseeable future—until Christmas at least—so you may let the coachman take a short break in the capital before you send him back.”
“Thank you.”
From the house came the deep bong of the luncheon gong.
Roscoe offered the dowager his arm.
“Thank you, dear.” Lucasta took it, and with Miranda strolling on Roscoe’s other side, they returned to the house.
Over the luncheon table, one drawback of their departure was borne in on Miranda with painful clarity.
Roderick and Sarah did not want to part.
Given Sarah’s courage in flying to Roderick’s defense, and Roderick’s subsequent acceptance of her help, Miranda had wondered how far matters between the pair had gone, how deep the affection that had flowered.
Now both were clearly cast down by the prospect of no longer having the other near. Of no longer being able to enjoy each other’s company. Not that they protested, or pouted, or, indeed, said or did anything overt, yet it was patently obvious to all about the table that both were subdued.
Sarah had lost her appetite.
Roderick looked wan.
Both made the effort to respond to comments addressed to them politely and fully, but when they spoke to each other the closeness between them shone, and the look in their eyes . . . the distinct impression Miranda received was that both had determined to be brave.
Perhaps irrationally, for any definite connection between Roderick and Sarah would spell the final end to her role in Roderick’s life, she nevertheless
found herself searching for ways to allow them to further their romance.
She wasn’t a romantic—indeed she’d had a surfeit of romance courtesy of her debilitating long-ago betrothal—but if there was a chance, she wanted that happiness for Roderick.
Beside Miranda, Roscoe watched the interplay on the other side of the table where Roderick and Sarah sat side by side. Lucasta, Caroline, Edwina, and Henry kept the conversation rolling, drawing Miranda and himself in with easy comments and lighthearted banter, but another emotion held sway on the other side of the table.
An emotion with which, for once, he could empathize. He would feel subdued, too, if he faced being separated from Miranda.
As soon he would be.
Yet Roderick and Sarah’s prospects were straightforward; if they wished to pursue something deeper than friendship, they could. They simply had to make up their minds, and then make it happen.
He glanced at the woman alongside him, then looked at his plate. Would that his and Miranda’s way forward could be reduced to a similarly neat equation. As it was, when it came to him and her, he didn’t think any solution could be found.
Of course, in Roderick and Sarah’s case, it was Sarah whose reputation was less than favorable, but her family had protected her, and her potential fall from grace had never quite occurred. His case was quite different.
His descent into non-respectability was, at least in his view, irretrievable. Impossible to reverse, let alone erase.
Late that afternoon, packed and ready for their departure the following morning, Miranda walked to the rose garden to take a last stroll in that magical place and seize a quiet moment to think. To dwell on all she’d learned while at Ridgware.
Pacing along the central walk, eyes down, she stopped reining in her thoughts and let them fly where they would; Lucasta’s quite intentional words had set several hares running in her brain. The dowager’s admonition that the only route to happiness lay in defining what mattered most had rung so true that she’d felt the concept resonate like a tolling bell inside her.
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